“Who else knows that you’ve found me?”
“Just Alex and another friend. I didn’t tel your family.”
I watched his hands as he helped himself to salad. I took one of his hands in mine and kissed it. “I love your wrinkled hand.”
He pul ed away. “Don’t,” he said.
“Okay, that’s new, that’s not like you … But I’l get used to it. I dreamed I could only have you if I was blind. And I was wil ing to be blind, if that’s what it took … What’s it like teaching here?”
“It’s hard, of course. Sometimes it’s more about just making it through the day. Tension and ghting inside the classroom, incursion hel outside the classroom, more tension and fighting at home … the kids are under unimaginable stress. You have to get used to compromising.”
“That reminds me of something. I was at a checkpoint, and you know how these Palestinian men just hang around al day, hands in pockets, just trapped with nowhere to go. I went over to take some photographs of them. Then one guy came over to me and said, ‘We have nothing to do, so we start ghting with each other!’ He was so desperate to tel someone and he had no one to tel , so he chose me. He was pleading with me, as if I had the magic key. I felt helpless, as usual.”
“You’re doing a lot. Just being there and taking photographs and showing you understand is immensely important. It has a huge impact.
Palestinians are very in tune with who their friends are.”
“What about the Migdal kil ing last year? Those Migdal people were on their side.”
“Yes, that real y was horrible. There are lunatics in every society, unfortunately.”
“What wil you do with this house now?”
“I’m not coming back, Dana.”
“You are. Because I don’t want to live here, for a mil ion obvious reasons.”
“People depend on me here, too,” he said. “I can’t desert them. I live here now. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to see men looking at you with desire. I don’t want to feel that they have a right to you and I don’t.”
“I never knew you were so paranoid. A nurse told me you only had second-degree burns on most of your body. Those kind of burns don’t even leave scars. Is that true?”
“I do have scars on my body, but not everywhere.”
“How did you know what you looked like?”
“I saw my reflection in the cutlery.”
“Why did you tel them you didn’t want to see anyone?”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t tel the nurses you didn’t want visitors?”
“No.”
“How could the nurses lie to me?”
“They probably assumed you’d freak out.”
“That’s ridiculous. Maybe you said it while you were half-drugged.”
“Maybe.”
“You hurt me.”
“I know you see it that way.”
“I know you see it that way.”
“What other way is there?”
“Life hurt you. Bad luck hurt you. Not me.”
“I’m staying the night.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to sleep in your bed.”
“There’s only one bed.”
“Don’t force me to stay here forever. I don’t even speak the language. And it’s not like I can just come visit you three times a week. I’m lucky I made it in this once.”
“You are lucky. I was very worried.”
“Once I got past the checkpoints, I felt safe.”
“This isn’t a safe place for anyone. There’s constant shooting, people are get ing kil ed al the time. It never stops.”
“I saved up money so we could go on a vacation, just the two of us. You once said you wanted to see Ireland. We’l stay at the best hotels, we’l go sailing …”
“You saved money? How?”
“I write romance novels in English. It pays very wel .”
