Girl Unwrapped (23 page)

“Listen here, David Konig. I want the AdomDom Club and Dizen-goff Square.” Janet props herself up on one elbow, her brow puckered, her voice grown petulant. “I like the crowds at midnight, and there’s always a party at someone’s apartment, and then after the party, there’s the beach.”

“Fuck Tel Aviv,” David says as he plucks the roach from between Janet’s knuckles and grunts with disapproval that’s it’s gone out. “Tel Aviv’s all tar from the tankers, diesel smoke, tired, jaded, soulless rot under a manic mask, built on the dunes fifty years ago and an old whore already. Safed, man! Okay? Dig Safed! Layers of history, yet glows like a young bride. Twisty streets, mountain views, Galilee air, mystic caves, Kabbalists. Then just down the road, there’s Tiberias, Lake Kinneret, palm trees, fishing boats, Byzantine churches, groovy kibbutzim.”

“But I can’t go anywhere,” Toni wails. “I have to go to
ulpan
.”

There is a long, speechless, fan-buzzing moment as her companions take this in, followed by laughter, bone-shaking, knee-slapping, teary-eyed laughter. But they’re not being mean, their merriment embraces their little-big friend, so that now she too starts to giggle, starts to howl. The spark for the mirth no longer matters; it’s the contagion, the fire. Laughter is like energy that excites molecules, causing them to collide and form new bonds.

Arm in arm, bumping hips, they saunter down Jaffa Road. David holds them close—Janet on his right side, Toni on his left—to form a solid unit, commandeering the sidewalk. How good to belong to a tribe of three. They hoot at the offended looks of passersby. Their feet follow the steady stream of shoppers, worshippers, soldiers, tour groups, schoolchildren, families on outings, all in a holiday mood and heading for the same destination, the heart of Jerusalem, the ancient city that lives within the massive stone walls. At the arched portal of Jaffa Gate, the crowd bunches together as it presses through to the bustling flag-stoned plaza.

Saturday morning. In the Jewish part of town, metal shutters cover shop fronts and Sabbath stillness reigns, but here in the Arab city the markets boom. Delivery men trundle hand carts, vendors shout, barefoot boys balance trays of pita on their heads. Amid the swarm of tourists, black-hatted Hassidim rush toward the Wailing Wall and a group of pilgrims troops after a brown-robed monk.

“Dig this!” David shouts over the general commotion. “If I never see L.A. again, I’ll die a happy man.”

He pulls them into the stream of humanity squeezing itself through the narrow main street of the bazaar. “
Keef halak
,” he roars to the shopkeepers, pronouncing the Arab words of greeting deep in his throat with authentic flare. Dark-skinned faces break out in smiles.

There were times when Toni wondered about her welcome in the Old City. There were subtle, troubling signs—an aggressive tug at her sleeve, an old man’s deliberately aimed gob of spit, a veiled woman’s hard-eyed stare—but now she sees only the cheerful atmosphere of brisk commerce. Wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, granny sunglasses, and a dreamy smile, Janet trails her fingers over the profusion of goods that spills out of stores: baskets, blouses, rugs, trinkets, sheepskin jackets still smelling of sheep. Vendors erupt with eager offers, “Please, lady. Come in. Take a look. Twenty lira, but for you, lady, fifteen.”

As if called forth to demonstrate that all is peace and love in the Old City, a youth steps out of a doorway and throws himself at David with cries of joy. There are shouts and hand slaps. David presents Samir, the boy who has been giving him Arabic lessons. Samir has narrow hips and clear skin, with a ghost of a moustache on his adolescent upper lip and a smile like a neon sign. He wears a patterned short-sleeved shirt tucked neatly into tight black pants and battered plastic sandals, and he’s good looking in his way, though he reminds Toni of the
chakh-chakh
in Zion Square. She imagines neither youth would be pleased with the comparison.

“You are most welcome here,” Samir says, touching his forehead and his heart and nodding politely at Toni, then turning to Janet with a warm, worshipful gaze. His eyes linger on the red hair that billows from under Janet’s hat. Toni is suddenly aware of how Janet’s hair stands out in this world of covered-up women.

“
Walla!
You are a lucky man,” Samir says to David. “You have two beautiful women and I have none.”

He beats his chest with his fist. David laughs and Janet flashes a lovely, unself-conscious smile that makes Toni uneasy though she couldn’t say why.

“Come with me,” Samir urges. “I have something for you.”

He takes them downhill to the part of the market covered by vaulted roofs where the air is dark and cool, penetrated only by narrow slits of sunlight. At last they stop at a tiny record shop with Arabic music albums displayed in crates and racks in the store’s entrance. The album covers show musicians dressed in formal suits playing ouds, violins, flutes, accordions, and some instruments Toni has never seen before. Samir chooses a record with a photo of a matronly woman in a glittering gown. At his bidding, they sit on low stools in front of the shop, sipping cardamom-scented coffee in miniature cups while a throaty, passionate female voice wails from the shopkeeper’s record player. David listens intently, swaying in his seat. Samir sings along while gazing at Janet and holding the side of his head in an attitude of ecstasy. To Toni, the music sounds as if it’s on the wrong speed. Notes rise and dip and wobble. The strained look on Janet’s face shows she’s no fan either.

“You like?” Samir asks, when the song comes to an end.

“Not much,” Janet admits.

“But that’s Umm Kulthum!”

“The greatest female vocalist in the Arab world,” David says.

“The greatest in the whole world,” Samir corrects him. “You want to be a famous singer, Miss Janet, so you should learn from Umm Kulthum.”

Janet rolls her eyes and David winks, as if begging for her indulgence.

When they are ready to leave the café, David proposes a walk along the ramparts at the top of the Old City walls. He and Samir lead the way, their heads leaning toward each other as they engage in conversation. Janet and Toni follow several paces behind, making their way over cobblestones worn slippery by multitudes of feet.

“Is he going to be with us the rest of the day?” Toni asks irritably. The blissful symmetry of the three of them together has been broken.

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Janet laughs. “Samir’s in love with the West, you know, even though he makes a big deal about his own culture. He’s torn this way and that. Envies our freedom and prosperity, then overcompensates by lecturing me about Arabic music.”

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

“He means no harm. Looks are free. I wouldn’t let him ball me, though. I don’t like him enough for that.”

There is something in the matter-of-fact way Janet says these last words that shocks Toni into silence. As if a proposition has been made and rejected, but not, perhaps, with the finality one would hope for. And that harsh, crude phrase,
ball me
. She’s relieved when they arrive at the foot of a thick tower in the crenelated walls, and she can focus her attention on the flight of steep, narrow stairs that twist up the tower.

The views from the top are magnificent. A landscape of fawn-coloured terraced hills dotted with olive groves rolls out to the south and east. A fainter line of hills marking the Judean desert shimmers in the distance. Within the walls lies a jumble of rooftops, TV antennas, graceful domes and minarets. David tells them how Jerusalem’s walls had been breached many times until finally Suleiman the Magnificent built solidly enough to keep Christian invaders out. The defence held until the arrival of the British during the First World War.

“General Allenby got off easy. He never had to fight his way into the city, not like the Israelis did last year. By the time Allenby’s army got here, the Turks had high-tailed it.”

“The Jordanians, they abandoned us too,” Samir says. Everyone turns to him in surprise. “Yes, they fought, but they began too late. And then they left us to be conquered.” His tone is bitter, his eyes clouded.

“I thought you didn’t like Jordanian rule,” Janet says.

“The Jordanians, they neglect us, yes. But now is worse. Now we are under the rule of dogs.”

Silence falls over the group. He notices their shocked faces and lifts his hands in supplication. “I don’t mean you, of course. I mean the soldiers.”

“Israel is full of soldiers,” Janet says coldly. “It has to be.”

“Yes,” Toni spits. “Exactly.”

“Hey man, you’ve got to see the big picture.” David claps Samir on the back. “The Jews were meant to come back into their city. It’s part of the Big Guy’s plan.” He points heavenward. “Anyway, the soldiers won’t be around forever.”

He adds some words in Arabic, but Samir smiles ruefully.

“Your Arabic is not so good, my friend. Even not in my language and not in yours, are you making sense.”

Though he continues with them on the walk along the ramparts toward Dung Gate and the plaza in front of the Wailing Wall, he has become a brooding presence. When they reach the steps to the road filled with throngs heading for the plaza, Samir takes his leave and Toni isn’t sorry to see him go.

The Wall, the
Kotel,
rises high and wide, ancient and everlasting. Crowds dance, sing, bob in prayer before this last remnant of the ruined Temple, destroyed 2,000 years ago, but never abandoned or forgotten. The Wall is a mirror of the Jewish people itself, Toni can’t help thinking, a testimony to their endurance. Once, worshippers stood before the holy site in a garbage-strewn alley while shitting donkeys ambled past. Under Jordan’s rule, Jews were banned altogether. But a year ago, the victorious Israelis bulldozed all the houses that crowded up against the Wall and built a plaza. Now there is space for celebrations, for busloads of tourists. A space illuminated by spotlights and guarded by discretely placed soldiers on rooftops.

“Far out,” David yells, eyes shining, fist punching the air. His demeanour is unremarkable amid the general exaltation. A conga line of yeshiva boys dances by, earlocks flying. When they’ve passed, David pushes his way through the crowd to the section in front of the Wall, demarked by metal barriers, where the men pray. Toni and Janet see him greeted by a white-bearded fellow who hands him a prayer book and skull cap. Then he becomes one with the mass of bodies, jerking, swaying in prayer.

“Did you want to go up?” Janet asks.

“I’m not really religious.”

“Me neither. But it’s kind of cool to be there. Come with me?”

Janet, suddenly shy, glances up at Toni. It is a plea.
Oh
, a voice answers deep in Toni’s heart.

Together they enter the smaller area sectioned off for women worshippers and find themselves up against the massive limestone blocks, smoothed to a golden sheen by countless hands through the ages. Above them, grasses and shrubs sprout from crevices, doves coo, swallows swoop. The entire lower reaches of the Wall bristle with little bits of paper on which supplicants have written prayers and wishes and stuck them into the gaps between the stones. Every so often one of these notes flutters to the ground like a fat snowflake to join the litter at their feet. It is said that the
Shekhinah
, the feminine emanation of God, hovers eternally by the Wall.
What nonsense
, Toni can hear her father say.
God reads notes?
And yet something is happening here, a thrum of energy. There is something so sweet and touching in the way Janet places her palm against the block in front of them and bends her head in silent concentration, as do the dozens of women all around.

Out of the general hubbub, a divine voice emerges, high and fluid, a voice to melt stone. Janet’s eyes remain closed as she sways and sings softly to herself and the bit of Wall in front of her face. Toni inches closer until her arm almost touches Janet’s and then she recognizes the song—a big hit on Israeli radio, Biblical verses set to a peppy contemporary melody. Janet’s voice gathers strength. She starts to snap her fingers. Women around them begin to murmur in consternation. “Quiet! Unseemly!” A woman must not distract the men on the other side of the metal barrier. The hissed chastisements egg Janet on. She sings louder. The men’s section starts to rumble. David, who has edged closer to their side of the barrier, grins and gives a thumbs up. “Atta girl,” his lips say. Janet tilts her head upward and lets her voice soar.

“Shame! Shame! Get away, you whore. This is a place of worship, not a concert hall.”

Black-hatted men cover their ears. Others, with shaking fists, press against the barrier. Women swarm around Janet, who continues to sing, oblivious, it seems, while Toni pushes back with both hands at the crowd that would threaten Janet. Toni shoves and jabs and yells, enraged, trembling, and exalted because she’s protecting Janet: Captain Goldblatt at the ready. Over her shoulder she catches sight of David, holding his laughter-filled belly.

Afterward, they celebrate with glasses of arak and dishes of pistachio nuts in a quiet courtyard of the Armenian quarter. “But maybe we shouldn’t have, maybe one should …” Toni tries to collect her thoughts as her companions hoot and cackle while a sombre-faced waiter looks on.

“That moronic word again,” David sneers. “
Should!
”

chapter 17

Toni’s pocket holds the letter that came with her monthly allowance cheque. The page, filled with pointed questions in her mother’s steeply slanted hand, brings to mind Lisa’s manner of leaning forward with arms planted on the breakfast table, her strident voice.
Who are these
new friends you spend so much time with? Why haven’t you contacted
Mrs Lieberman? Why don’t you write more? Or call? Surely you can
get hold of a phone at the dormitory.
Of late, Toni’s letters home have indeed been sparse. Her mother has a knack for jumping to the wrong conclusions. At the bottom of the page, in the narrow space Lisa had left him, is the usual brief, courteous greeting from Toni’s father.
Work
hard. Watch out for the sun.
Etc. Toni skimmed the letter and cashed the cheque.