must have hired a teacher. Could he read and write Arabic too? Did he go out? How did he support himself? Maybe the money from the army was enough—things were cheaper there. What were his days like, day in, day out, alone in a Palestinian city? He had probably made some friends. But how did he get them to trust him?
He had vanished during the uprising— how had he managed to move in without being kil ed? And what about now? Everything he loved was here: going to shows and walking down the streets and the crazy people on television, laughing at them and cracking jokes and making al sorts of puns, and the sea … wel , he stil had the sea. I could have sent him a message in a bot le.
From the window of the dining hal I saw a man approach my building. He was carrying a large toolbox and walking very deliberately to the front door. I wondered who he was; it was way too early for Tanya to be prophesying. Maybe she or her mother had some sort of plumbing emergency. Then it hit me: this was probably the locksmith Ra had promised to send my way, to protect me from evil. I hurried out of the hotel and into the building.
The locksmith was standing at the door to my apartment, knocking loudly. Then he kicked the door. “Open up!” he yel ed.
“It’s me, I’m here,” I said.
“You Dana?”
“Yes.”
“Unlock.”
“It’s open,” I said.
He flung the door open and bel owed at me, “Out of my way!” Then he reconsidered. “Money up front or I’m going home.”
“Okay. Just tel me how much it is.”
“Okay. Just tel me how much it is.”
“Two hundred.”
I gave him the money and he stu ed the bil s in his back pocket. I was a lit le worried about him; I was afraid he was going to have a nervous breakdown in front of my eyes. I could imagine him picking up his hammer and smashing al the wal s in the building.
He began taking apart the lock on my door. He was a short, stocky man with a wide face, narrow eyes, and a pursed mouth. His eyes weren’t natural y narrow; he was just very tense. He began cursing the door and various other opponents.
“Fuck his fucking mother,” he said.
“Who?” I asked.
He looked up at me and tried to decide whether to swear at me or to answer. Final y he said, “Fucking son of a whore who at acked me, I’l rip his fucking heart out and throw it to the dogs. Look what he did—”
I saw that his arm was covered with blood and that in fact he was stil bleeding. I wondered how I’d failed to notice: maybe it was because he was hairy, or maybe his anger eclipsed everything else about him.
“I’l get something for that,” I said.
“Don’t bother.”
I went to the kitchen and ran a towel under warm water. I brought it to the locksmith and said, “Here, put this on it.”
“What are you, a fucking nurse?”
“You could get an infection. You should real y come in and wash your arm.”
He took the towel and threw it on the floor. “Screw this,” he said.
“What happened?”
“Fucking maniacs. Her husband wasn’t supposed to be anywhere around, and what’s it my business anyhow, I just do the locks, I’m not her fucking lover, I don’t know this person from a whore on the street. But I’m the one who gets at acked.”
“Why didn’t you cal the police?”
He guf awed. “Anyhow, I beat him up good. Gave him a run for his money, damned bastard.”
“I guess I’m out of my depth here.”
“That’s right, baby. Nice place you got here. Who you keeping out? I swear if I have any more crazy boyfriends today I’m not responsible for my actions.”
“I’m not keeping anyone out, and I don’t have a boyfriend. And I think everyone’s responsible for their actions.”
He looked up at me. I stepped back.
He returned to his work, let ing out his rage on the lock. I made co ee while he worked and when it was ready I handed him a mug. He seemed very surprised.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome. You know, you’re very good-looking, but your face is so strained.”
“Yeah, wel , life’s a bitch.”
“I guess you’re in a hard line of work.”
