New novel, new characters. meet Saleh, Amit, and Maya.
For my new readers, this is a fragment of my second novel, "Shai at the Checkpoint". It's a raw piece of writing still. Check out other segments of this novel under the label "Shai at the Checkpoint" on the left sidebar of the blog.
Enjoy reading. As always, feedback is welcome.
Saleh walked into the crammed
kitchenette, grabbed a tall glass from the shelf, put it up to the light and
wrinkled his forehead. Two yellowish lines were running down the side of it,
and the memory of a woman’s red lipstick was smudged across the edge in a
slightly distorted kiss. He looked at the other two glasses; they were in no
better shape. He turned on the tap water and scrubbed the glass clean. Clean as
it could get. He then turned to the mineral water cooler, spelled out the name
of the water company in his mind – Mey Eden, Waters of Eden – and poured
himself a glass of lukewarm tap water. As he was gulping down the water, he
heard a smirk behind him.
“Even in this mid-August heat?” It was
Amit, his colleague. He walked to the shelf, took a glass and, with complete
disregard to its cleanliness, poured himself a glass of ice cold water from the
cooler. “Mmmm, there’s nothing like cold Eden water in this heat.”
“Never. Not as long as they have a
contract with this supplier. I’d rather drink this warm water, even in this
impossible heat, so long as that,” pointing to the upside down
translucent blue monster of a water bottle on top of the cooler, “comes from
the Occupied Golan Heights.”
“Oh, you’re such a nationalist. Come on,
get over it!”
“I’m not a nationalist, Amit! I’m
just a man with principles.”
“Nobody will know that you drank it.
Here, take a glass of Paradise water.”
Saleh just shook his head slightly and
smiled under his thin mustache. Amit and he have been working together for almost
two years now, and they became friends. Not close friends, but still. As close
as a slightly leftish Jewish man and a Palestinian man can get. Although Amit
did define himself as moderate left, for Saleh he was never left enough. Amit
recognized the claim of Palestinians on parts of this land and their right to
live as equal citizens. But they always got stuck when the discussion reached
the refugee problem or the demographic “threat.” His biggest fear was to live
in a state where the Jews would no longer constitute a majority. Saleh could
only sympathize, but not understand rationally. Personally he had no problem
living as a national minority – if only he were treated as an equal citizen in
all respects.
Amit, on the other hand, couldn’t
understand Saleh’s claims of discrimination. For him, Palestinians citizens of
Israel had all the rights – within some undefined limits, of course. It seemed
only logical for him that people who served the army should have some merit
over those who didn’t.
After some heated discussions, raised
tones and animated body language, they settled into some sort of a routine.
They had a silent pact not to go deeper than the surface on these issues. Over time,
their political talks were replaced by friendly stings. When Saleh couldn’t get
the printer to work, he asked Amit for help. Amit only clicked on the printer
icon and the document printed out smoothly. “It’s because I’m Palestinian. The
printer knows it.”
“Yup, sure is. One racist printer we got
here.” And they would laugh it off.
***
After they had drunk water, Saleh
reached for his thermos and winked at Amit. “Kafe Aravi?”
“Only if you boiled it seven times,”
Amit was already reaching for two finjans and patting his pocket to make sure
he had his cigarettes. Saleh had explained to him that Arabic kahwa had to be
boiled seven times exactly to come out just right.
“I think it was seven. Hey, I made it at
five in the morning, so maybe it was six, or eight. But I’m sure your Jewish
taste-buds won’t even know the difference.”
They walked out to the narrow balcony,
Arabic coffee was on Saleh, cigarettes were provided by Amit. Amit slurped from
his finjan. “Hmm… yes, it’s seven.”
Saleh inhaled from him cigarette, then
he took a slow sip of his coffee. He let the hot, bitter liquid swirl inside
his mouth for several seconds before swallowing. “I think it’s closer to nine,”
he laughed, “but I told you that you would never taste the difference.”
Amit made a face as if offended and took
another sip. “You could boil it twice for all I care. Still it’s the best
coffee in Yerushalayim.” He pronounced the last word slowly and deliberately,
trying to hide a wicked smile.
“Alquds,” Saleh mumbled.
Suddenly, Amit became serious. “Listen,
forget Yerushalayim. Next week there’s a party for the staff.”
Saleh’s cigarette was halfway finished,
and he was hoping to get another one from Amit before they went back to work.
“Aha, I think I saw something in my email about it. Anyway, I’m not going.”
“Look, Saleh. I’m not going to try to
convince you.” His back was to Saleh and he was looking down at the street
below. “We both know it’s going to be a Jewish party. Usually only about three
or four Arab staff members attend them. But I was thinking that,” he took a
deep breath, turned around to face Saleh, and cleared his throat. He spoke
slowly, as if weighing the significance of each word, “you know, Maya… I mean…
it’s obvious to all there’s some attraction between the two of you. The only
two who are either ignoring it or denying its existence is you and Maya.”
“Maya is Jewish. I’m Palestinian. End of
discussion.” The vein on the left side of Saleh’s forehead became visible. His
left hand holding the cigarette shook ever so slightly. He drowned his
cigarette in the remains of the coffee and turned around to walk inside. “Coffee
break over. Back to work.” Amit mumbled to himself as he followed him in.
Saleh walked back to his office, passing
Maya’s desk on his way. Only her auburn curls were visible from behind the
large computer screen. But as he approached, she peeked out from behind the
screen. “Saleh! Just my man. Can you come take a look at this? I can’t get the
letters line up on this vector.” Saleh’s vein receded when he saw her. “Let’s
see what I can do. Move it, redhead,” and he scooted her chair with her in it
aside, grabbed another chair and took over the computer. After playing around
with the functions for several minutes, the letters were neatly lined up
exactly where Maya wanted them. “There you go, Mai. Did I tell you my
grandmother’s name was Mai?”
“How many times, Saleh! It’s Maya. For
you, M A Y A. Get it?”
“Aha… I see… well, my grandmother’s name
was…” and he got out of the way before she had the time to grab at his shirt.
“Maiiiiiiiii,” he screamed as he headed down the corridor, laughing. “And she
was a redhead, but not a real one like you, Mai. She hennaed her hair. All the
way up to the age of ninety eight!”
He sank down into his chair. He had two
designs to finish before the end of the week: an annual report for a human
rights organization and a poster for a book fair. Let’s get the poster out
of the way first. He looked at his watch. It was twelve forty seven. I’ll
work for an hour and then ask her for a cigarette.
Two hours later, Saleh was still at his
desk. He had finished four versions of the poster and was working on the fifth
when he finally realized he was just passing time. Three versions were more
than enough for the client. The fourth and fifth one were only very slightly
different in the fonts and shades of the background. He discarded them, pushed
his chair back and stretched his arms. Something was still missing from his
designs - they were all too cold. Uninviting. He closed his eyes and took
several deep breaths. Something was missing from his designs. They were too
cold. Uninviting.
Maya was fresh from Wizo. She finished
her degree in graphic design only several months earlier, and already was
accepted to work by one of the larger companies in Jerusalem. Her designs were
known for their playfulness. There was something clean yet fresh about them.
Different. Saleh looked at the poster on his computer screen. He was satisfied
with it, yet compared to Maya’s work, it seemed to him a bit on the dark side.
Maybe too serious for a book fair.
He opened his eyes, and rushed down the
corridor. “Maiiii, I’m sending you something in the mail. Open it and have it
ready. I’ll be right there.”
“Maya!” came an echo from the far end of
the corridor.
“You need some tola'ot in there.” They
were both staring at the poster on the screen.
“I need what?!”
“Worms… you know… bookworms?”
“Aha… I see..,” he leaned closer over
her shoulder, her curls just barely tickling his neck. He smelled the freshness
in them. And stopped breathing. “Right there, see?” she pointed at the image of
one of the books in the background. “Not too conspicuous. And make the worms in
earth tones.”
Earth tones… bookworms! How come I
didn’t think of it? Stupid. It’s so obvious you need some bookworms to go into
a poster for a book fair! YaRab! She’ll think I’m so stupid.
(c) khulud khamis, 2013
