“Hi, how are you?” a thin boy wearing black rubber boots asked me in English.
“Fine. How are you?”
“Where from?”
“South Africa.”
“Welcome, welcome. Stay with us in house?”
“I can’t. I’m on my way to see my husband.”
“You want almond?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I go bring,” the boy said. He gave the other children instructions, and dashed away.
“Brothers and sisters?” I asked.
The smal est girl nodded. She was a bright lit le thing, and I was not surprised that she already understood English.
The boy returned almost instantly with almonds wrapped in newspaper. “Thank you,” I said. I took out my wal et and gave them ve shekels, each. They were delighted, and began debating among themselves in Arabic; my guess was that they were trying to decide whether to ask for more, seeing as I was both a mil ionaire and generous.
“I have to go now,” I said. “Be careful,” I added. The boy burst out laughing. He translated what I’d said to the others, and they al laughed.
“Be careful, not die!” the boy echoed. “Be careful!” Then he led his troupe away.
I turned toward the road and an empty transit stopped immediately.
“I have to get to Qal’at al-Maraya.” I showed the driver the address.
“I take you,” he said. He was a lined, leathery man who looked as though he’d spent his entire life resisting the elements, with only partial success.
My heart began beating fast again as we drove. When we entered the city, I began to tremble.
“Qal’at al-Maraya,” the driver announced proudly.
I stared out of the window and tried to calm down. I remembered the rst time I saw the city, how surprised I was by its size. High-rises, wide streets, boulevards lined with palm trees, hundreds of new sun-bleached apartment and o ce buildings, wealthy suburbs that looked like country clubs. The poorer areas were lively and noisy, and seemed shielded by the powerful presence of the sea. At dusk, a soft mauve light enveloped the entire city like a veil.
“It’s changed a lit le since I was last here,” I told the transit driver.
He sighed and shook his head. “Yes, many change. Look.” He slowed down as we passed a scene of devastation: col apsed buildings, piles of rubble, broken glass everywhere. In big red let ers someone had scrawled on the remains of a wal , Gift from America. The wal was riddled with holes.
“Here fifteen dead. Four children, one baby.”
There were other signs of distress in the city. Stores were closed and there was graf iti everywhere. Lit er had accumulated on the sidewalks and several lampposts were bent out of shape. Skinny cats dashed behind cars; a garbage pail had rol ed into the middle of the road and the driver had to stop the car and move the pail to the sidewalk. Very few people were out on the streets.
“You visit friend?”
“Husband.”
“Yes? Good. Family good.”
He drove to the northern end of the city and stopped in front of an unusual house, oval instead of square or rectangular, with three nearly identical sections one on top of the other, a lit le like a wedding cake.
“This it,” the driver said.
“Thank you.”
“You want I wait?”
“No thanks, I’m staying for a while. Is twenty shekels okay?”
“God protect you,” he said. “You are brave, you help our people. Ma’ salame.”
I climbed the five stairs leading to the door of the house and knocked. I was barely breathing.
Daniel opened the door and let me in. His eyes had not changed, they were exactly the same. His face was unrecognizable, though. He looked like a wrinkled Martian.
I glanced around me. The room was oblong, with gently curving corners and a spiral wooden staircase at one end. It was l ed with sculptures, some life-size and others very smal . The large ones were white stone and the smal ones were painted clay. They were al of me.
Rage swept through my body like something blind that was looking for a way out. I had never felt such anger before. I began hit ing Daniel with my sts. I didn’t care where my sts landed. He put his arms up to protect himself, but I didn’t stop, and nal y he took my wrists in his hands. I pul ed away, turned my back to him. I walked over to the nearest table, picked up a brightly painted clay sculpture and wrists in his hands. I pul ed away, turned my back to him. I walked over to the nearest table, picked up a brightly painted clay sculpture and smashed it on the floor.
