to the window. Maisoon sings softly along with Fairouz, her eyes transfixed on the slow, unconscious movements of the right hand of one of the soldiers as he caresses his machine gun, stroking its dull, metallic curves. These movements are repeated by the second soldier. Together, the two hands are performing a sacred dance, bowing to the power embodied in those pieces slung so indifferently across their shoulders.
The blonde woman turns sharply around and in a shrill voice demands that the boys turn the music off. The boys snicker and turn the music down a notch.
But that doesn’t satisfy her, “Don’t you understand Hebrew? This is public transport and I shouldn’t have to listen to this on my way to work!”
Maisoon shifts in her chair to speak up, but someone else beats her to it. Surprised, she hears the strong voice of the Russian woman, struggling with her heavily accented Hebrew, red cherries rising to her face.
“Why can’t you just let them be? They’re not disturbing anybody. Can’t you enjoy the beautiful music? I’m sure if it were Jewish boys listening to music in Hebrew you’d be sitting there quietly. It’s because they’re Arab, right?”
The red cherries now jump to the cheeks of the blonde woman, “Who asked for your opinion? And who asked you to come here in the first place? Go back to your Russia.”
Maisoon watches the Russian woman weigh her options before opting for a thin smile. The boys are now sitting in silence, looking straight ahead as if the conversation didn’t concern them. The music is turned down another notch, but still playing. Maisoon is glad they haven’t turned it off. The blonde woman is sitting with tightly drawn lips, upset that nobody came to her rescue. When the Russian woman makes to get up, Maisoon touches her hand and whispers thanks, “Toda.”
A smile flutters over the woman’s face and she shrugs her shoulders.
A few stops later, Maisoon stands and makes her way to the back door. People are pressed around her. She keeps her eyes on the weapons, making sure there is some distance between herself and them.
Ten minutes later she walks down a sleepy side street of Carmel Center and stops outside the number on the card. She takes a deep breath before entering the spacious boutique. The high ceilings, spotless walls and glass shelving tell Maisoon she won’t find anything cheap within. Amalia, her silver hair elegantly framing her thin face, is busy with two women showing them a variety of necklaces with gemstones.
“Shalom, Giveret Amalia,” Maisoon tries not to disturb them; from the bits of conversations reaching her she could tell these were regular customers.
“Shalom. I’ll be with you in a moment. You can start arranging your pieces on that table over there.”
Maisoon begins placing the jewellery on the table. Suddenly, they all look wrong. I shouldn’t have changed them. Should have trusted Shahd’s choice. Looking around her, she sees exquisite pieces. She’ll never take any of mine. She is tempted to shove everything back into her backpack and disappear. She takes a deep breath and begins to group the jewellery, earrings, followed by bracelets, necklaces and finally rings. Unsatisfied, she rearranges them again. The two women are now leaving, without having bought anything.
“They can’t make up their mind. It’s a wedding present.” Amalia now stands on the other side of the table, studying the jewellery, “Are you finished?” she smiles at no one in particular.
“Yes,” Maisoon is watching Amalia but she has no idea whether she likes the pieces or not.
After a long silence, the older woman lets out a thin slice of air through her nostrils, “I think I need some time to look at them more closely. They’re not what I expected.”
Maisoon holds her breath.
“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?”
