The Debt of Tamar (21 page)

“
Mon petit.
” She pulled Davide against her. “Don’t forget, you are always
my
boy.”

“
Maman
,” he tried to reassure her. “We
will
see each other again.”

She stepped back, took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders.

“Of course we will,” she said matter-of-factly. At that moment, she did what he knew she would, she pursed her lips and contorted her face into something that some people might call a smile.

“Go,” she shooed him. “Get on your boat…the world awaits you.”

It was as though she was shooing him off to bed, as though this was all a dream, as though lost treasures were awaiting him in Palestine, rather than the peeling scalp of sunburnt, desert days and the scorpion bites of cold lonely nights.

He looked up at her and smiled a smile that let her know, that he would always be
her
boy.

“Hurry,” she whispered. “You don’t want to miss it.”

In that moment, he almost dropped his suitcase. He almost turned back because the person on that dock was almost who he was,
almost
who he needed to be, but in his heart, he knew that when you were searching for your soul, almost doesn’t count.

Her husband stood by her side, beads of sweat pinning his shirt to his big round belly. He hugged Davide one last time, then shook the boy’s hand. “I will pray you find what you are looking for.” He kissed Davide. “Write often.” Then, with the Polaroid camera he’d purchased for the occasion, the baker took a photograph of his family, two boys that had once upon a dream been twins, and the brave woman who had risked her life to dare love a child marked for death. The boys stood side by side, Davide, tall and lanky, Edward, small but splendidly attired to bid farewell to his only brother.

Marie took the photo from her husband then shook it impatiently to speed the image to the marbleized surface. She handed it to Davide. “Keep it in a safe place.”

Edward embraced Davide and held him for a long moment. “This is your home,” he said in a hush so their parents wouldn’t hear.

“I need to go,” Davide whispered. “just like you need to fly.”

He shook his head before putting his arms around Davide for a long moment. “I almost forgot,” he said while pulling away hurriedly. “I’ve got something for you.” Rummaging through his jacket pocket, he pulled out what appeared to be a palm-size scroll.

“What’s this?” Davide asked.

“Open it.” Edward handed it over.

He unrolled the parchment and laughed heartily at what he discovered. Within the scholarly looking scroll was the saucy image of a French pin-up girl in a red and white polka-dot dress. She wore a bright red flower in chestnut-colored hair and smiled coquettishly while pulling back the hem of her dress exposing just the tiniest hint of the white knickers beneath it.

Edward’s eyes popped with excitement. “Doesn’t it look just like Justine?” He hovered over the poster with the spastic enthusiasm that teenage boys possess. “She even has the same polka-dot dress!” he said while tapping the glossy print. “It looks like her doesn’t it? I got it for you. Do you like it?”

“Justine?” Davide feigned ignorance.

“Ah, come on! I see you looking at her whenever we go into her father’s shop.”

“Right.” Davide smiled sheepishly.

“Of course she never looks back.” Edward’s voice trailed off into a hearty chuckle before his tone turned serious. “It’s just a reminder,” he said quietly.

“A reminder?”

Edward dug his fists into his pockets and looked out towards the sea. “Of everything you’ll be missing over here.” His lips spread into a line that could have been a smile but may have been a frown.

Davide rolled up the parchment and lowered his gaze. “I don’t need to be reminded,” he said while kicking up dust with his shoe.

They embraced each other for a long moment before Edward stepped away and took hold of Davide’s shoulder with tender camaraderie.

They each offered up their own apologetic glance before Edward turned without a word and headed back to town.

As Edward ascended the steep alley towards the family apartment, he encountered Jean-Pierre Prideux, along with his three cronies. They came with brass knuckles and blades, not soda bottles this time. At the first flash of the blade he knew that he didn’t stand a chance. It was one against four. “I will never forgive you,” he whispered to an empty space where Davide should have been. “
I
was there for
you
.”

He received a beating that shattered his leg and ruptured his spleen, but of all the blows he had suffered, there was just one that would leave him pain to last a lifetime. A fist to the face, brass knuckles to the eye.

Davide began the voyage reading a French translation of Defoe’s
Adventures of Robinson Caruso,
and while he thoroughly enjoyed chapter one, it was at the beginning of the second chapter at which he began to feel queasy and his bones began to ache.

“…
The Ship was no sooner gotten out of the harbor, than the Wind began to blow, in a most frightful manner; and as I had never been at Sea before, I was most inexpressibly sick in Body, and terrify'd in my Mind: I began now seriously to reflect upon what I had done, and how justly I was overtaken by the Judgment of Heaven for my wickedness leaving my Father's House, and abandoning my Duty; all the good Counsel of my Parents, my Father's Tears and my Mother's Entreaties came now fresh into my Mind, and my Conscience…reproached me with the Contempt of Advice, and the Breach of my Duty to G-d and my Father
…”

At these words, he closed the book and made his way to the upper deck of the ship. He closed his eyes and began to pray. Then, not wanting to tempt fate and jinx the journey, he tossed the book overboard, along with guttural remnants of what had been a splendid breakfast of
jus d’orange
and
croissant au beurre
. He removed the Polaroid from his jacket pocket. Sure enough, the colors had converged and the image was apparent. He stood center, flanked by his loving mother and loyal brother, before an enormous steamship that filled the frame beneath a blazing white sun. Most apparent was the thick scar above Edward’s left eye. Davide felt a sudden chill. He returned to his tiny cabin and collapsed on his paper-thin mattress. While he slept, he could sense the metal springs poke him as they recoiled and bounced to the undulations of the rough seas. After a short, aggravated nap, he made his way to the ship’s kitchen for a cup of tea that he hoped would soothe his stomach and calm his nerves.

There, he befriended the head chef, a jolly drunk with happy little whiskers and a heart of gold. At his invitation, Davide spent the afternoons baking with the kitchen crew, teaching them the secrets of nutmeg and coco, as well as the key ingredients to his mother’s most coveted recipes. In the evenings, he lay up on deck, mapping the constellations and counting shooting stars. By the end of the journey, he was offered a job working with the kitchen crew. Not without some reluctance, he declined. He hadn’t come this far to turn around and go home.

His ship passed through the Mediterranean, landing at the bustling port city of Haifa in northern Israel. From there he wandered east, making his way to the fishing village of Tiberius, situated on the sea of the Galilee. He passed through the marketplace, a raucous mix of Arab and Jewish merchants, each boasting the superiority of his own fish, dates, or olives. He meandered through the streets like a ghost, a melancholy soul in search of a body. Scouring the faces of tan-faced Sabras and thick-skinned Arabs, he searched the eyes of passing pedestrians. He needed a place to stay. He was hoping to find someone, anyone really, and maybe, along the way, he would find himself.

Exhausted and thirsty, he reached a fishing harbor along the western shore of the sea. The tops of tall palms rustled in the warm summer winds, surrounded by low rolling hills and the crumbling remains of an ancient wall the Byzantine emperor Justinian had built centuries back.

A burly fisherman with red hair and a pink nose, struggling under the weight of a bursting fish net, stood knee-deep in the fresh waters. The man’s boat bobbed gently against smooth boulders, nestled deep in the sands and peeping out from the slender tentacles of the shoreline’s burgundy reeds. The veins in his forehead bulged as he strained to lift his nets from the water.

“A good omen,” Davide thought to himself. He dropped his suitcase and rolled up his sleeves. Then, he approached the man. They exchanged quiet nods. Davide grabbed hold of the net. Together, they heaved it out of the water and dropped it on the elevated wooden dock. The trapped fish wriggled feverishly, their bluish scales scintillating in the sunlight. His suit was drenched and he felt alive.

“Toda,” said the big man. His face was soft and thick. Perspiration gleamed over his fat, sweet face. He leaned over, trying to catch his breath.

“Do you speak French?” Davide asked.

“A little. Where are you from?” The man’s voice was wholesome, deep and husky.

“I just came from Paris. I am looking for a place to stay and for work too.”

“Well, I can use an extra hand here on the dock. I don’t pay a lot of money, but we have an empty room in our house. It’s just over there, on that hill— you can stay with us if you work.” Davide looked out to where the fisherman was pointing.

Davide smiled for the first time since his arrival in Palestine. He had a good feeling about the man. He appeared to be in his late forties, with big white teeth and an even bigger smile.

“I’m Judah,” said the fisherman. The two exchanged a handshake. Davide’s hand sank deep into the sweaty warmth of the fisherman’s massive, bear-like paw. The boy felt safe in its embrace.

“Davide. Davide Herzikova.”

Judah’s home was a small one-story cottage at the east side of the hill overlooking the Sea of Galilee. The dirt path leading uphill to the home was steep and the well-trodden road was as smooth as the surface of a frozen lake. The engine roared as Judah pressed the gas hoisting the vehicle uphill while Davide grasped the dashboard with one hand and the door handle with the other.

Anxious that the worn tires of the windowless pickup would skid and send the old Ford careening downhill, Davide shut his eyes and pressed his long frame back up against the tattered canvas seat cushion.

Judah laughed gaily. At the top of the hill, he brought the vehicle to a halt beneath the shade of a low olive tree, then stepped out of the truck leaving the key in the ignition and the door ajar behind him. “Hose down the back of the truck!” Judah instructed as he walked away. “The pump’s over that way.” He dropped his fishing gear on the dry grass and left his boots at the door.

Davide obliged, uncoiling the thick rubber hose from its harness, then jacked the pump until a steady stream of cool water spouted out. He hosed down the back of the pickup, washing away the stench of bait and the day’s catch. When he’d finished, he returned the hose to the harness and let the rusty truck bake dry under the warm steady sunshine.

Removing his shoes as Judah had, he left them at the foot of the oak door beside the fisherman’s. His soft leather shoes looked so dainty— like lady’s slippers next to Judah’s thick lace-up boots. He carried them inside, leaving them just beyond the doorpost against the foyer wall and beneath the wooden console.

The house was small, the walls decorated with antique maps and bookshelves crammed with all the classics. The blue and white flag of the newly established Jewish state was tacked up over a fireplace that Judah used to store unused netting traps and tightly bound reams of fishing string. His wife, a slender woman with an olive complexion and a lean, angular face, led Davide to his room, a cozy nook just off the kitchen. The wrought-iron bed frame was fitted with a bare, twin mattress. There was no closet, just a tall dresser, with two stubborn shelves at its base. Davide didn’t mind. He hadn’t brought much with him anyhow. There was a wooden desk under a bare window that looked out onto the lush property.

“Judah removed them,” she explained when Davide’s eyes wandered to the bare curtain rod. “He says real men rise with the sun.” She shrugged, which Davide interpreted as an apology.

Davide gazed out into the garden. There were several sprawling banana trees, tall and green, surrounded by lavender thistle and wild berry patches.

“There are fresh linens in the closet, some soap under the sink. The laundry line is out back.” she said to Davide as he gazed out the window.

“Merci.”

“Supper at half past six.”

He thought she might be an austere woman, but just before she turned to leave, she smiled warmly, her teeth hidden but her eyes gentle. He thought to himself, she is not unkind.

That evening, Davide had dinner with Judah the fisherman and his family. The fisherman had one daughter who was named after a Russian starlet featured in the silent black and white films her mother adored. She was a tall girl, with olive skin and long, slender limbs. With her head slung low, she said little throughout the meal. Every so often, she’d look up and smile. Then, she’d let her shy eyes wander around Davide’s periphery, as though any further would be a trespass. He admired her delicate wrists and soft, youthful hands as she cut her meat into small bits.

“My family has resided in Tiberius since the late sixteenth century,” Judah explained to Davide, before taking a long sip of his
kiddish
wine. “We are descended from an Ottoman Jew. She arrived in Tiberius quite suddenly, with an entourage of maidservants and male guardians. They say she stepped off a ship hailing from Istanbul. She was a duchess, you know. Can you believe it?” Judah laughed, then rested his elbow on the table causing it to wobble momentarily. “We, descended from aristocracy.”

At that moment, a drop of rain came through the roof and landed on the tip of Judah’s nose. Everyone broke into laughter. His wife reached over with her bangle-clad wrist, took her husband’s hand and pressed gently.