צבר

cmp.2009.07.21
ed.2009.08.30.01(Fifth Draft)

Sunlight bent and twisted in the sweltering heat above the desert city street. A cadence of voices coursed through the Bedouin market, punctuated by buses, cars and mopeds. An American man stopped in front of a small falafel stand. He looked at the man behind the counter, and to the walls inside; scripts, numbers, and certificates filled the empty spaces. The American gestured, pointing incomprehensibly, his words fumbling as he looked through the short glass partitions. He kept one hand low in front of his waist, holding a single red rose.

“Lo, Matbouka.” The man behind the stand corrected. He may have been a Bedouin, Arab, or Jew; the American had no way of knowing for sure. The man hoped that the American had some idea of what he wanted to eat. The American mumbled something in English and then something in what may have been Hebrew. Holding a stainless steel spoon, the man shook his head again, and a bubbling stream of Hebrew followed, and then after seeing the blank look on the American’s face, he tried Arabic; both languages poured with the fluidity of the ocean, black under the midnight stars, both cultures spiraling like burning galaxies in a brilliant dance.

“Shakshouka,” the girl behind him helped. Her voice rang in his heart, and he turned towards her, nervously hiding the rose so she couldn't see. The man with the spoon nodded and then turned in understanding, relieved to be over with the frustration; he wondered if the American knew how to count shekels. Her dark hair fluttered across her face in the desert breeze, and she smiled—trying to see what was behind his back.

Her dark eyes were ageless; God sculpted her cheekbones, her eyes—her lips—in perfect harmony with heaven, longing and mystery. Her eyes shattered everything she noticed, searching, always searching; her beauty raged against the piercing wisdom held in her gaze, her soul ensnared within brambles of passion and sorrow. The American had noticed—almost everything.

He had first seen her a month before, in another awkward moment; she helped him pick the right bus when he realized he had been going in circles. He had never spoken to her with any ease, and couldn’t hope to. And so he had found what he knew she would understand; he offered her the rose, her lips reflecting the delicate silk held captive within its petals. Hope, then fear flashed in her eyes. She looked away from the American and to the man behind the stand—he had seen everything.

She turned and ran into the market where the American would be hopelessly lost; she ran past the grocer stands, and then she turned. The man handed the American his order, a pita filled with two poached eggs and tomato sauce. To his surprise, the American correctly handed over twelve shekels without question. The American stared into the clutter of shops, into the knots of clothing racks where the girl had disappeared.

She ran through the Bedouin Market; she knew the American would be confused. A tear nearly fell from her eye before she caught it with the back of her hand. She kept running. Through the cacophony of little shops, then past a small parking lot, and finally she crossed the street. She leaned against the wall of an electronics shop, and looked back into the market; her fingers traced the stucco texture of a plastered wall.

Her first memories were of when she had started to go to school, when she was five. Her home in Morocco was like the home she shared in Israel, small, flat roofed, and painted in a sandy mud colored plaster. The inside floor was usually concrete covered with shiny white, lightly patterned linoleum, making it easy to sweep out the dirt that got tracked in. She would follow her mother around the house with a blue mop bucket; she always laughed when she got to throw water onto the floor without getting into trouble.

On every Friday before Shabbat, her mother would leave work early and pick her up at school. They would hurry to the store and then home to get everything ready. Her mother’s hair would be pulled back showing her face, her neck, her laughter. And when all of the cooking and cleaning were over, they would wait for sunset to light the candles and sing her favorite song.

She didn’t remember her baby sister or when she had died, only that at first her mother stopped coming home for Shabbat. But still, on Shabbat when she was alone, she would sing their song alone. Eventually, he mother had left altogether, and her father would have the neighbors keep an eye on her.

It was years later when she was fourteen that the men came and took her to Israel. She had never known if her father had even asked for money, he certainly hadn’t needed it. She knew that he could still find her and pay to have her back whenever he wanted.

She looked towards the market, and then to the voices coming down the street. She wiped her eyes, and stood straight, a cactus whose limbs were full of life, protected by hardened and forbidding leaves. She started towards a group of men coming down the street; one of the girls she knew was walking with them. The other girl held onto the upper arm of one of the men—evidently the wealthier of the group. When the girls reached each other, they gave each other a quick hug and kissed the other on the cheek.

The man behind the falafel stand set down his spoon and walked out to the American. He rubbed his fingers together; he wanted to sell something else. At first the American didn't understand. The man mentioned two numbers, the first the American understood—three hundred shekels. He took the rose from the American, threw it in the trash, and then mentioned the number again and smiled—that lurid smile that leaves no room for interpretation. The man looked at the American, and considered again. He proposed a different number, but the American didn’t understand; the man wrote it on a napkin—twenty-five thousand shekels: the price for the girl’s passport. Sure he was American, but he didn’t have that kind of money—she wouldn’t understand.

“Very good deal,” the man said in broken English, pointing to the rose. The American smiled politely, pointed to his wrist, at a watch that wasn’t there, and walked away as though he hadn't understood.

Laughing with her friend, the girl chose the gentler of the remaining men; she flinched when he wrapped his arm around her waist. With a quick smile, she moved his hand down to the middle of her back. Her ribs were still bruised when another girl had tried to run away three nights before.

As the two girls and the group of men turned off the busy road into a neighborhood, she saw the American again. She knew he couldn’t try to rescue her; there was no telling what would happen to the girls left behind—he wouldn’t understand. Though, he could afford to ransom her. She smiled. Anything would be better than this.