The Land Agent Page 14

  ‘What do you think, Chaim?’

  ‘It’s a very exciting proposition,’ Kalisher said as he snipped the end off his cigar. ‘As Gregory says – it will be for the great benefit of Jews and Arabs alike. As if the Arabs are going to take kindly to the Jews damming up their rivers and controlling the water. Are you sure that I cannot tempt you? These are specially made for our esteemed employer. All the way from the Dominican Republic. And who needs a humidor in this climate? Sammy?’

  ‘No, thank you. Tell me about Sverdlov.’

  ‘He showed me all the plans. You have to hand him that. He’s very well prepared. The Zionists are extremely interested, so he tells me. But I personally know money has dried up for them here. Ever since our Jewish friends in America began channelling most of their funds to our poverty-stricken communities in central Europe. As for the British, they would be delighted to see electricity in the north of the country. But they can’t be seen to favour a Jew over an Arab in this respect. They would prefer a joint venture. Which Sverdlov does not.’

  ‘What does he want from PICA?’

  Kalisher lit his cigar with a long match. The first wisps of smoke floated out of the window. Lev watched them go. ‘He wanted to know our land holdings in the area. And if we are prepared to invest.’

  ‘And are we?’

  ‘I need to speak to the great man himself. But I’m sure he will be interested. In theory, he loves these grand projects. The mills. The glass works. The wineries, of course. He is even talking of an airstrip. Putting them into practice is another matter. Sverdlov’s proposal could be years in the making. What are our land holdings in the Jordan Valley, around the rivers?’

  ‘We have just the one settlement. A young kibbutz. Kfar Ha’Emek.’

  ‘I thought there would be more.’

  ‘That is actually the reason for this visit. There is another area I want to bring to your attention.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘We have discovered a parcel of land, a few hundred dunams in total, that doesn’t exist on any map.’

  ‘Of course it must be on a map.’

  ‘We’ve checked. And checked again. There is definitely no official documentation. Lev, show him.’

  Lev got up from his chair, took out a hand-drawn map from his files, laid it on Kalisher’s desk. ‘This area here,’ he said, pointing to the segment shaded in red. ‘It borders the Yarmuk River. And it’s not on any map.’

  ‘So who owns it then?’ Kalisher asked, flicking away a block of ash that had fallen on the paper.

  ‘As far as we know,’ Lev said, ‘no-one.’

  ‘What about the British? Surely they could claim it as land captured from the Turks.’

  ‘They probably could,’ Sammy said. ‘If they knew it existed. That’s why we need to move quickly. Before they find out.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘There’s a Bedouin tribe living there. I want to register it in their name as Mewat.’

  ‘Mewat, Sammy. Are you sure it’s Mewat?’

  ‘We’ve done the distance test. All other conditions apply.’

  ‘The British won’t like it. You know what they think of Mewat. Why don’t we just take it for ourselves? If no-one owns it.’

  ‘Because we’ll end up in legal disputes with everyone else who thinks they have an interest. It could go on for years. It could be like Kabbara.’

  ‘Ah yes, Kabbara.’

  Lev noticed Kalisher visibly flinch at the mention of the name. Kabbara. The ten thousand acres of land only a few miles south from where they sat which the British had conceded to PICA almost ten years ago. The legal wrangling over its ownership with the local Arab population was still ongoing. The draining of the swamps was at a standstill, no development at all had taken place, huge sums of capital were in limbo.

  ‘Well, we don’t want that to happen, do we? So what’s your plan?’

  ‘Lev can explain.’

  ‘As Sammy said, we register the title with the Bedouin who have agreed to sell us on–’

  ‘…at a very fair price,’ Sammy added.

  ‘…that part of the land we need for our own settlement, Kfar Ha’Emek,’ Lev continued. ‘Swamps will need to be drained but in the end the kibbutz will have much-needed access to the river. And a few extra dunams for farming. The Bedouin meanwhile will have gained proper title under Mewat to their part of the land. Everyone is happy.’

  ‘What about Sverdlov? That area would be absolutely crucial to his power station. He could dam the river from there.’

  ‘As you said, even if his plans get the go-ahead, it could take years to put into action,’ Sammy noted. ‘So let him deal with the Bedouin when the time comes. At least they will be the legal owners. If they want to sell it to him, that’s up to them.’

  Kalisher sat back in his chair, almost concealed by a large cloud of smoke. ‘But if we decide to invest in Sverdlov, we will be the ones buying this land from the Bedouin at a later date. At some exorbitant price, no doubt.’

  ‘Better that than another Kabarra.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Kalisher savoured the taste of yet another puff of his cigar. ‘Or we could just buy all of it now before anyone gets a sniff of any plans for power stations. Can’t we persuade the Bedouin to sell the whole lot, Lev?’

  ‘No, sir. I tried but they insisted. They’re not shifting.’

  ‘Do we have a comparable site to offer in exchange?’

  ‘Not in that part of Palestine. With both water and grazing.’

  ‘I see. And if we increased our offer?’

  ‘The elder of the tribe, Zayed, is determined to stay.’

  ‘Everyone has their price.’

  ‘It’s land they’ve used for generations, sir.’

  ‘You know how it is,’ Sammy added. ‘Land is land is land.’

  Kalisher ground his cigar into a large glass ashtray. ‘And when do you need the money for the section we want?’

  ‘As soon as possible. And no bank drafts. They want cash.’

  ‘I will need a few days then.’

  ‘It is a fine plan, Chaim,’ Sammy said. ‘I am sure of it.’

  Kalisher rose from his chair, walked to the window. He looked out at the sea, then turned his attention southwards. Towards Kabarra. ‘Well, I hope you’re right,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  Twenty-two

  LEV INVITED SAMMY for Friday night dinner. He thought Madame Blum had taken his request quite casually but he noticed she was wearing a pair of sparkling earrings when Sammy came to dine. An unfamiliar fragrance of rose and jasmine floated in the air.

  With or without Sammy, the Sabbath eve meal at Madame Blum’s was always a lavish affair. A white tablecloth freshly starched, a braided loaf from Koestler’s Bakery, warm, ready and waiting under cover of an embroidered silk cloth. Centre-stage, a pair of silver candlesticks gifted by Madame Blum’s late mother-in-law. There would be a freshly cooked chicken, not the tough old hen Lev had been reared on. And on special occasions like this one, a rack of roasted brisket soaked in a rich sauce which both Lev and Mickey guessed involved large spoonfuls of brandy. Sammy had brought a bottle of the finest kosher wine, courtesy of Chaim Kalisher and the cellars of the Anonymous Donor.

  Madame Blum fussed over her three men, the conversation was lively but did not erupt into argument. Mickey and Sammy might disagree on most things, but their opinions were not so entrenched as to prevent either of them from listening to the other. Lev sat in the middle, enjoying their entreaties to enlist him to their side of the discussion on the usual topics – the tensions in Jerusalem over the Western Wall, the visit of the Anonymous Donor, the immigration quotas, the difference in wage levels between the Arab and Jewish labourers working on the port project. But Lev didn’t really care for taking sides this evening – for his thoughts were with the letter from Celia tucked into his jacket pocket. He drank the last of the Anonymous Donor’s full-bodied wine, stretched his legs under the table, let the con
versation drift out of his consciousness. The windows were open to the warm night, the room shimmered with a wine-red candle-lit glow, the smell of coffee drifted in from the kitchen. He realized that for these few moments he was joyously happy.

  ‘Oil,’ Mickey said, pointing at Sammy. ‘That’s where the future lies.’

  ‘Mickey, Mickey, Mickey.’ Sammy burped, patted his belly. ‘You are dreaming. It’s all about the land. Isn’t that right, Lev?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Forget about Lev, Sammy. His head is in the clouds. And forget about the land too. Or even the water. It’s all about the oil. We need to push the British to build this pipeline from Iraq all the way to Haifa. And then we’ll be rich. Oil is the future. You’ll see. That’s what you need to tell your Anonymous Donor to invest in. Not your damn flour mills and pear trees. But oil tankers and refineries.’ Mickey rose from the table. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I am going for a walk.’

  Lev looked at him suspiciously. Mickey was not a man for exercise or a breath of fresh air. This was either a business meeting or a rendezvous with some girl from Kiev. Mickey grimaced back at him. ‘Tell Madame Blum for me,’ he said.

  As soon as Mickey had left, Sammy leaned across the table. ‘How well do you know him?’

  ‘Mickey? We’ve been friends ever since I came here.’

  ‘What about his business interests?’

  ‘Take a look around. That’s four boxes of false teeth in the corner. There are sacks of rice in the kitchen. He’s got crates of watermelons in his bedroom, boxes of vodka in the hallway. There are three European-style toilets stacked behind the house. He deals in anything to make a quick profit.’

  ‘Has he ever said anything about guns?’

  ‘Guns? What are you suggesting?’

  Sammy tapped his ear with his index finger. ‘One hears things. Around the card clubs.’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Rumours Mickey has been trading in handguns and rifles.’

  ‘With the British?’

  ‘That’s one possibility. The other is he’s importing them from overseas. From Zionist supporters. You haven’t seen anything?’

  ‘Boxes come in and out of here all the time. I don’t know what’s in them. I think he has a small storehouse somewhere in the town. But I don’t think Mickey would get involved in guns.’

  ‘I thought he used to be in the British army. Here in Palestine.’

  ‘He also told me he liberated Jerusalem with Allenby. He was just a boy then, not even eighteen. The British had to release him in the end because he wasn’t old enough to enlist.’

  ‘He could still have good contacts with them.’

  ‘That’s without doubt. He uses these contacts to trade in all kinds of ex-Army goods. But guns? I would be very surprised.’

  ‘Let’s assume for a moment he is dealing in them. What are his political leanings?’

  ‘Mickey? Politics? His only interest is in himself.’

  ‘Well, it might be useful if you keep an eye on what he’s up to. I think PICA should be aware of these matters.’

  Madame Blum swung in from the kitchen with a tray full of coffee cups. ‘What are you both whispering about?’ She looked around. ‘Where’s Mickey?’

  ‘He had to go out,’ Lev told her.

  ‘On the Sabbath? Without a word of goodbye. I don’t know what’s going on with that man.’ She laid down the tray, returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Come,’ Sammy said. ‘Let’s take our coffee on the veranda.’

  It was a balmy evening, the cicadas had started to sing, the smell of frangipani and lemons scented the air. They sat in silence for a while, drinking coffee, cracking sunflower seeds with their teeth, spitting the shells out onto the tiny square of grass Madame Blum proudly called her garden. The crows would fight over the husks in the dawn. Lev took off his jacket, loosened his tie, slipped off his shoes, the stone floor of the veranda still warm underfoot. He could see sets of Sabbath candles burning in the windows of other houses in the neighbourhood. Then across the rooftops to the bobbing lanterns of the fishing boats anchored in the black water of the bay. Here it felt like it was always summer. When he thought back to his life in Poland, he only remembered the winters. Yet there had been glorious summers there too. But it was always the coldness and the bitterness that lingered in his memory.

  ‘What’s the progress with our non-existent piece of land?’ Sammy asked.

  ‘Everything is ready. As soon as Kalisher comes up with the money, I’ll register the documents, tie up our purchase from the Bedouin.’

  ‘It seems I’ll have to scour the docks for a new typist.’ Sammy leaned forward, patted Lev’s knee, looked at him with watery eyes. ‘I am proud of you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Ha!’ he said, drawing back. ‘I remember when I found you. A poor, skinny, heart-broken youth at Haifa docks. And now look at you. A man. A mensch. A land agent.’

  ‘You have been a good teacher.’

  ‘Perhaps. But a good pupil is like the soil. He needs to be prepared to suck up the nourishment to make things grow. You and me together, eh? A good team?’

  ‘A good team.’

  Sammy seemed to retreat into himself for a moment as if there was something else on his mind. ‘Yes, that is what we are. A good team. And of this transaction I am equally proud. It shows we can still be fair to everyone, Jews and Bedouin alike. This is the PICA way. Remember that.’

  ‘What about Sverdlov?’

  ‘Ah, Sverdlov,’ Sammy sighed. ‘Don’t worry about him. A power station is just another of his grand schemes. Next time we meet, he will probably be enthusing over oil and Mickey’s refineries.’ Sammy cracked a shell, spat it out over the veranda. ‘But Sverdlov was right about one matter.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Our Anonymous Donor is beginning to align himself more with Those Bloody Zionists. I had a long talk with Kalisher about it. All the usual reasons – the need to coordinate our policies, our capital and our security. I fear the days of PICA as an independent organization are over.’ Sammy stared out into the night. ‘It breaks my heart,’ he said wearily. ‘I could never work with the Zionists.’

  ‘So what will we do?’

  ‘I will do nothing. But you… you should give them a chance.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. You are young. You have more energy to resist their ways.’

  ‘They would walk all over me.’

  ‘I don’t think so. They need good land agents. You would be a great asset to them.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re giving up so easily.’

  ‘I’m getting old, Lev. Inside I am still young, but my body thinks otherwise. Everyday is such a struggle just to get up in the morning. I have no strength left to fight the Zionists as well. All my life I have helped others with their land. Now it is time for me to look after my own property. My roses are dying as we speak. As soon as there is any announcement of an official coordination of policies, I shall retire.’

  ‘I think there is something you are not telling me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your health?’

  ‘I am perfectly fine. I am just being realistic. If our Anonymous Donor is not on my side, what can I do? The Zionists are determined. They know exactly what they want. A Jewish state. And nothing is going to stop them. They will wait and push and wait and push for as long as it takes.’ Sammy spat the last of the sunflower husks into the garden. ‘Without any concern for those who get in their way.’

  Twenty-three

  ‘I CALL IT THE SHOPKEEPER’S LUNCH,’ Uncle Moustache told him, probably with a smile on his face although it was hard for Lev to see the man’s lips under the enormous moustache. But the eyes gave away the café owner’s amusement as he watched Lev eat his famous fava bean stew. It was the addition of a boiled egg sprinkled across the top that turned the standard dish into the renowned ‘shopkeeper’s lunch�
��.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all morning,’ Lev said between mouthfuls.

  ‘You came all the way from Haifa to eat this? That is nothing. Emir Abdullah rode in from Damascus for some of my ful madammas. General Allenby himself stopped by for a plate. He was told in Cairo – if you are ever in Jerusalem, you must have the ful madammas at Uncle Moustache’s. And so he came. I even gave some to his horse.’ Uncle Moustache slapped his towel over his shoulder, went back into his café, leaving Lev to the dust, the noise of the alleyways. And the tension.

  Lev could feel it in the brittle air. He could see it in the strain on people’s faces. The way they avoided his eyes as they trundled past with their donkeys and their push-carts. He could see it on the competing slogans painted on the ancient walls. On the half-ripped posters in Hebrew beseeching the Jews to unite. Over what? The cause had been torn away but Lev knew the reason. The Jews now wanted to bring chairs to the Western Wall so the aged and infirm could sit while they prayed. The Grand Mufti and Jerusalem’s Islamic Trust would not allow it. First there would be chairs, they said, then benches, then screens, then canopies and soon the Jews would take over the whole site. That was the Arab fear. It applied to Temple Mount. It applied to the whole of Palestine. Lev sipped at his mint tea, took out Celia’s letter from his pocket.

  He didn’t really need to read it, he knew what it said by heart. But it was good to have the sheet of paper spread out on the table, a distraction from the tight atmosphere around him. She would arrive in Haifa next week, for a couple of days of rest with the relatives of one of the kibbutz members. A Mr and Mrs Greenspan. He had gone round to take a look at the house already, it was not that far away from Madame Blum’s. He imagined himself walking up the pathway to the door. Should he bring flowers? For Celia? Or for her hosts? He would linger in the doorway to catch his breath, smooth down his hair, wait for his heartbeat to subside. There was a brass knocker, a ring grasped in the mouth of a lion. A British household. He would give it a good rat-tat-tat. Not too firm as to be aggressive, just enough to sound confident. His imagination grew hazy after that, he wasn’t sure if it would be Celia or which of her hosts – the man or woman of this couple – who answered the door. It didn’t matter. For she wanted to see him. It said so in the letter. It is important I use my time in Haifa to sleep, to rest, to regain my strength. I am so tired these days. But if you can find time for a short visit, I would be pleased to see you.