“You need a permit, and it’s very dangerous, I have no idea how you’l manage it. I don’t think they’l give you a permit.”
“Maybe El a can help me.”
“El a?”
“The journalist. She might be able to help me. Maybe I could go down there with her. Everyone knows her there. I think she even has a flat she rents in Qal’at al-Maraya for occasional use.”
“Please be careful.”
“I have such but erflies in my stomach now. Can I borrow your phone, please?”
Coby handed me his mobile phone and I cal ed Ra . I told him that I had Daniel’s address, but that I couldn’t leave right away. “Do you want me to come over?” he asked.
want me to come over?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m al jit ery,” I said.
Then I left a message at Odelia’s, asking her for El a’s phone number.
“I was there, in Qal’at al-Maraya,” I repeated. “And al I had to do was ask someone …”
“I hope I did the right thing,” Coby said.
“I don’t understand why they kept it from me in the first place! So he lives in Qal’at al-Maraya, so what!”
Coby’s eyes narrowed and he raised his eyebrows. He looked at me with a mixture of skepticism and reproach, the way he had when I’d said that Rafi had a good life.
“I can’t believe I know where he is and I have to wait. I don’t know how I’l manage. If only I could just hop in a taxi. People do get in.
People do get in and out.”
“Just don’t try anything stupid, Dana,” he said. “Don’t even think about trying to sneak in. No one wil know who you are, and we have some trigger-happy people in our army.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise. Promise not to try and sneak in.”
“Okay.”
“If our guys don’t shoot you, theirs wil .”
“Okay.”
“Do you know the word for ‘foreigner’?”
“No.”
“Ajnabi. If anything happens, speak English and say you’re a foreigner, and you’re there to support Palestine. Don’t take your ID with you.”
“You think everyone in Palestine is a terrorist!”
“No, of course not, but somehow it only takes one bul et to die, not three mil ion.”
“I won’t go in alone, I’l go with El a. I’m not going to lie to Palestinians about who I am. And everyone knows El a. I can’t believe I’m going to see my husband. I’m going to see him! Maybe in just a day or two, I don’t know how I’l make it through the next few hours. Do I look okay?”
Coby laughed. “Wel , you’re not as pale as you were earlier this morning.”
“I’m so nervous, you can’t imagine. Should I bring something? This is boring for you …”
“No, not at al . Though I should probably be get ing back to work.” He yawned and stretched his arms. “Never enough sleep. We had two busloads of tourists yesterday.”
“Tourists …” I said, barely listening.
“Yes, a Christian group. ‘Jesus Is the One,’ something like that. At least someone wants to visit the Holy Land.”
“Thanks, Coby. Thanks for the address. You don’t know what this means to me.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t have bet er news.”
“This is great news. He isn’t dead, he isn’t with another woman. I can’t wait!”
“I hope it works out. I hope you can convince him to come home.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“I have to get back to work. Let me know how things turn out. I’m not sure I did the right thing—if anything happens to you, it’s on my shoulders.”
“Nothing wil happen.”
“Help yourself to the breakfast buf et, by the way. There’s always a lot left over anyhow. Even with the Christians here.”
I sat at the table in the hotel dining room and tried to imagine my husband in Qal’at al-Maraya, living in a lit le flat there, or maybe renting a room in someone’s house. How wel did he know Arabic? Had he taught himself? He
