“My parents were from the Upper Galilee. They were expelled to Syria in 1948 and eventually came here.” Hanifa lowered her voice and asked archly, “I hope that’s not a problem.”
The woman smiled.
Hanifa glanced at the empty chair. “Are you waiting for someone?”
“As a general proposition, yes. But not at the moment.”
“May I join you?”
“Please.”
Hanifa sat down and introduced herself.
“What a beautiful name,” said the woman. Then she extended her hand. “I’m Sarah Bancroft.”
For the next ninety minutes, alone in the safe flat on Kronenstrasse, Gabriel suffered through a discourse on the subject of Israel and the Jews, delivered by one Hanifa Khoury, journalist, exile, widow of the martyr Omar Nawwaf. She left no wound unopened: the Holocaust, the flight and expulsion of the Palestinian people, the horror of Sabra and Shatila, the Oslo peace process, which she declared a dangerous folly. On that much, at least, she and Gabriel were in complete agreement.
The source of the audio was the phone that Sarah had laid on the table immediately after sitting down at the café. Its camera was aimed toward the ceiling. Gabriel occasionally glimpsed Hanifa’s hands as she described her plan to bring peace to Palestine. She declared the idea of two states, one for Jews, the other for Arabs, a dead letter. The only just solution, she said, was a single binational state, with a full and irrevocable “right of return” for all five million registered Palestinian refugees.
“But wouldn’t that mean an end to the Jewish state?” asked Sarah.
“Yes, of course. But that’s the point.”
Hanifa then treated Gabriel to a reading of poetry by Mahmoud Darwish, the voice of Palestinian suffering and Israeli oppression, before finally asking her newfound American acquaintance why she had decided to take an extended holiday in Berlin, of all places. Sarah recited the story that Gabriel had composed that afternoon. It concerned the disastrous dissolution of a childless marriage. Humiliated and brokenhearted, Sarah had decided to spend a few months in a city where no one knew her. A friend had offered his Berlin pied-à-terre. It was around the corner from the café, she explained, on Kronenstrasse.
“And what about you?” asked Sarah. “Are you married?”
“Only to my work.”
“Your name is familiar.”
“It’s quite common, actually.”
“Your face is familiar, too. It’s almost as if we’ve met before.”
“I get that a lot.”
By then, it was half past nine. Hanifa announced she was famished. She suggested they order something to eat, but Sarah insisted they have dinner at her apartment instead. The cupboard was bare, but they could grab a couple of bottles at Planet Wein and some crunchy shrimp rolls from Sapa Sushi.
“I prefer Izumi,” said Hanifa.
“Izumi it is.”
Sarah paid for the two bottles of chilled Austrian Grüner Veltliner; Hanifa, for the sushi. A few minutes later, Gabriel glimpsed them walking side by side along Kronenstrasse. He closed his laptop computer, doused the lights, and sat down on the couch. “Don’t scream,” he said softly. “Whatever you do, Hanifa, please don’t scream.”
43
Berlin
Hanifa Khoury did notscream, but she dropped the bag of takeaway sushi and emitted a sharp gasp that the neighbors might well have heard had Mikhail not closed the door behind her. Startled by the sound, she glared at him for a moment before turning her gaze once more to Gabriel. A range of expressions passed like the shadow of a cloud over her face. The last was an unmistakable look of recognition.
“My God, it’s—”
“Yes,” said Gabriel, cutting her off. “It’s me.”
She reached for the door, but Mikhail was leaning against it in the manner of a man waiting for a bus. Then she dug a phone from her handbag and tried to dial a number.
“I wouldn’t bother,” said Gabriel. “The service is terrible in this building.”
