“I can’t make up my mind. Why don’t you give me, say, an hour?”
At a nearby café, Maisoon called Ziyad, who didn’t seem to understand that it was possible for her to lose this opportunity. He tried to soothe her by telling her that she was a great designer and that the old lady was just trying to intimidate her.
“I have to go. Talk to you later.” He was useless in calming her down, just like the lukewarm cappuccino she was sipping.
Back at the boutique, Amalia was on the phone, “Yes, darling, you’ll have that cheesecake waiting for you on Shabbat. Now I have to go. Kisses.” As she replaced the receiver with an elegant move Maisoon noticed the translucent moonstone on her ring finger.
“I just wanted to know how it feels,” Amalia said. She took it off and put it back near the set of moonstone earrings.
They stood side by side looking down at the jewellery, Maisoon waiting.
“They’re very unusual,” the older woman finally said, “I’d go as far as saying eccentric. I don’t like taking chances—I only go for solid, certain sale.”
“I understand, Giveret Amalia.”
“Really, now. Would you stop calling me Giveret? Please, just Amalia.”
Maisoon bent down to open her backpack.
“Wait, Misun.” It was the first time she had said Maisoon’s name; with no clients around, the name was unthreatening.
“It’s Maisoon,” her hand stopped halfway into her backpack.
“I’ll make a deal with you. You choose eight pieces—two of each. You can have that small shelf in the corner. That plant needs some fresh air anyway and I’ve been meaning to take it home for a while. You can arrange them by yourself.” Her voice was business-like, a tinge of pity in it. “If I sell anything, you get 70 percent. Oh, and you decide on the price. The lowest prices here are 350 shekels.”
If she weren’t so formal, Maisoon would have hugged her. She settled for a weak smile and a “thank you very much, Amalia,” and quickly began arranging the jewellery.
When she was finished, Amalia stood behind her, a smile brushing her lips.
“And the prices?”
“Oh, I really don’t know, 380 for each?”
“I hope you’re not that cheap with men,” Amalia didn’t try to conceal her smile now. “Call me in two weeks to see if I’ve sold anything.”
Maisoon was halfway out the door when Amalia added “Oh, and one more thing. You have one month. If nothing sells by then, we’re done doing business.”
The smell of Ziyad’s famously delicious shakshooka reached her nostrils as she took the steps in twos, realizing she was famished. For once, she was glad he’d invaded her apartment.
They ate lunch in silence, Ziyad wanting to avoid anything that had to do with checkpoints and little sick kids, while Maisoon was annoyed that he didn’t ask how her meeting had gone. Things were getting complicated between them. Something Maisoon had made every effort to avoid. She just wanted a lover. Nothing more. Not now. But Ziyad wanted a wife. Nothing less. To break the silence, Maisoon brought a bottle of cheap red wine from the kitchen.
“Mashallah! You made a deal with the Yahudiyya?” Ziyad’s face lit up.
“She let me have a shelf,” she said, not looking at his face, “You know, for display.”
Ziyad’s hand froze mid-air between the bottle and his glass. He thought of the long hours she spent glued to her worktable. “Walla? Mabrouk ya hayati!” He tried to sound excited, but Maisoon knew that inside, his sense of worthlessness was expanding.
Ziyad had finished his degree in architecture at the Technion two years ago but hadn’t found a proper job. Most Jewish companies didn’t want an Arab employee and in the Arab community, things were complicated. Strings had to be pulled, you had to have the right connections, the right family name and, sometimes even the right religion. For two years now, he’d been working at the customer service department of a cellular phone company, occasionally giving private lessons in maths and physics to high-school students.
“It’s just a small shelf, barely visible. And she’s giving me a month. But I know she didn’t really like my work.” Maisoon tried to soften the blow. “But hey! You want to see what I’m working on now?” Grabbing her glass of wine, she got up and started in the direction of the large wooden worktable.
Ziyad came up behind her, grabbing her around the waist, taking away her glass, whispering in her ear, “Later, hayati. We should first do something wild.”
Maisoon heard a tinge of sadness in his voice.
After making love, they fell asleep, exhausted. When they woke up, it was already dark outside. Another day almost gone. Um Tawfiq would be checking on her laundry. Abu Nidal would be making the last pot of kahwa for the day and Um Muhammad would be on her way home. And Maisoon and Ziyad would be …
Later that evening, when the suffocating heat subsided, they took a cool shower and left for a café. The souk was now only a ghost of faint scents—vegetables mingled with the bitterness of kahwa, wrapping loosely around Maisoon’s scarf. It was yet to produce the thick rotting smells that would rise later. They walked in silence. Not hand in hand. Not in Wadi Nisnas. Maisoon in one of her long summer skirts, a red scarf draped over her white tanktop. The crumbling two-storey buildings on each side of the narrow alley were leaning close to one another, the greying white cracks between the stones widening up just so, whispering almost-forgotten, bruised memories.
“So what’s the deal with this Yahudiyya? Why did you say before that she didn’t like your work?” Ziyad asked as they walked up the stairs marking the end of the souk.
“I don’t know. It’s just that … I felt she let me have that undusted shelf out of pity. And my work looked so out of sync with the rest of the jewellery. I mean, you should see what she’s got in there!” She adjusted her scarf, blown off her shoulders by a light naseem. “The jewellery she sells is so boring, it’s all the same, with clean sharp lines.”
“Think positive, Mais. That’s probably why she liked your work. Because it’s fresh and different.”
It was his logical mode of thinking, so simple yet so distanced from her. It’s what attracted her to him but also what frustrated her. He was very practical and rational. Not emotional like her. He had solid feet on the ground. An anchor. Blueprints ready for a whole lifetime.
At the café, they were interrupted by a phone call from Tamar. Maisoon excused herself and walked outside. These phone calls were all too familiar to Ziyad. Maisoon would sometimes be on the phone for more than an hour with her Jewish friends. ‘Sharing’ as Maisoon put it. After the phone call, and for the rest of their evening, Maisoon talked about Machsom Watch while Ziyad sipped his beer in silence, his calm face belying his annoyance. Can’t I have even one single night with you. You alone. Just give me one night without checkpoints, soldiers, permits, crossing borders, the chasm between this world and theirs. Is that too much to ask of you, Mais?
“I’ll walk you home, but I’m not coming up.”
She turned around, noticing only now that he was walking a few steps behind her. She looked away—knowing a lie was forming on his lips.
“I promised Basel to help him with this project he needs to submit at the end of the month. I have to be at his place early in the morning.”
Maisoon kept walking, increasing the distance between them.
“But I can