Shirley

When the plane touched down at Lod Airport near Tel-Aviv, Shirley was more excited than she expected to be. At thirty, she was seven years older than the country she was visiting. Shirley planned to stay for a while but had not decided what she wanted to do. She would discuss her plans with Hank and not think about it until then. A feeling of rising excitement took hold of her. She made no attempt to analyse it, content only to feel the emotion. With a roar of engines, the plane taxied toward its parking station. Through the windows one could see alert young soldiers in scruffy uniforms, patrolling in pairs, their short-barrelled guns hanging from shoulder straps. Too young for the key of the door but my, weren't they sweaty and sexy! Their eyes were cautious, too old for their faces. If she were ten years younger, she mused, she'd have gone for that tall one on the tarmac. There was Hank waving, and the small woman by his side must be Ruth. Hank and Shirley's brother had been friends in their home-town of Toronto. Shirley had liked Hank in an off-hand manner and, just as off-handedly, had taken his virginity. She had settled in Europe for a while to get away from Toronto's tight-arsed prudery, and there, she learned he had married Ruth, a girl she had never met, and the couple had immigrated to Israel six years ago.

"Hi there, Hank, you old fart!" she cried, tossing her cigarette on someone's leg. "And you must be Ruth," she said, turning to the dark petite girl beside the tall man. "I've been dying to meet you."

"Thanks," said Ruth, her lips primly and disapprovingly pressed together. The buxom blonde with tobacco stained teeth, blue shadowed eyes and too short dress cut low over her more than ample bosom, was not exactly what she had been expecting.

"What the eff did a gorgeous creature like you see in this bum, eh?" said Shirley thumping Hank on the back, her bracelets ajingle. In spite of herself, Ruth laughed.

"While you two get acquainted," said Hank, "I'll bring the car round. Get the trolley to the edge of the sidewalk here. I'll be right back."

"So, how are the little ones, eh? You have four now or did you sneak one in while I wasn't looking? I hope they like the gifts I've brought them."

"You shouldn't have," said Ruth.

"I wanted to." Shirley lit another cigarette. "Listen, Ruth, if you're gonna put up with me -- and I ain't sure you are -- you'll have to put up with my spoiling the kids outrageously. I adore kids."

"Excuse me, Miss..."

A young man with the slightest trace of an accent was addressing Shirley. She lifted a quizzical eyebrow.

"I wonder if you recognize me," he said. "I was sitting a few seats behind you on the plane and we exchanged a word or two. Yossi Lasher."

"Sure," said Shirley, brightening. "How could I forget a good-looking guy like you, eh?"

"And I could not help noticing how attractive you are."

"Gee, thanks an ocean," said Shirley.

"I was hoping," continued Yossi Lasher politely, "you would meet me tomorrow evening, Miss Shirley. I have something particular to discuss with you. We could have dinner. Perhaps a few drinks?"

"Hey, that's cute! Miss Shirley! Sure. Why not?" She deliberately dropped her cigarette between them and turned her foot on it, drawing attention to a great deal of flesh.

"I will pick you up at seven-thirty," said Yossi Lasher. "Where are you staying?"

"Why don't we meet?" suggested Shirley.

"Fine. Eight o'clock. The Hilton Hotel lobby."

"Great!" said Shirley.

Yossi Lasher left them with a gallant little bow in Ruth's direction. Ruth was appalled and it showed.

"Don't worry. I'm not going," said Shirley. "I just couldn't dash his hopes when he was paying me such a lovely compliment."

As the car sped toward Tel Aviv through orange orchards sprouting green embryo oranges, Shirley looked around with lively interest. Her questions, however, were more self-centred. "So, have you found me a place to stay? Should I hole up in Tel Aviv? I guess I'd better go to an Ulpan, to learn the lingo. I hate dead languages. What's dead should stay dead. But I guess in the Holy Land, we gotta work miracles, eh? If people rise from the dead here, why not the fuckin' language?"

"You're coming home with us," said Hank, overriding Ruth's disapproving silence. "We'll discuss your future over drinks."

"Gee, thanks," said Shirley. "Whatever you guys say..."

At the flat, Shirley pulled out a bottle of duty free whisky and presented it to Hank.

"Put that away Shirl. We have Scotch."

"Don't be silly!" Shirley thrust it back into his hands. "There's always more where that came from. This was a present from the sucker sitting next to me on the plane. Him, I promised to meet at the Sheraton!"

It was decided that a kibbutz Ulpan, where she would study Hebrew and work half the day on the farm, would be the best way to acclimatise Shirley to the weather and the people. "Can't you just see me, a farm girl, eh?"

She was installed in a kibbutz in the Mount Tabor area in the north, not too far from the Sea of Galilee. Three months later, the kibbutz secretary asked her to leave. She was too promiscuous even for their open society, and they had suspicions she was pilfering. She returned to Tel Aviv with four blankets, a stock of saccharin tablets, six packets of sugar, cutlery and other odds and ends stuffed into her bags. She had acquired less than a smattering of Hebrew.

"Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, eh?" she grinned without the least trace of guilt. She handed Ruth the saccharin and sugar, pulling them up from deep down in her bag. "I'm sure you can make use of these, eh," she said.

Ruth shook her head. "I shouldn't be taking them," she said in amused surrender. "You're quite impossible!"

"You think so, eh?" returned Shirley. "Oh, I forgot to tell you... Hank! Come back in here! You gotta hear this. A strange thing happened at the kibbutz. I'm still not sure I wasn't being kidded." Shirley crossed one plump thigh over the other. She took a long drag on her cigarette. "About two weeks ago, as I was walking to the dining-room, a strange man stopped me. He was too well dressed for the kibbutz, even wore a tie. 'Miss Goldstein,' he said like he knew me. I said: 'Yes?' and he said: 'Yossi Lasher.' I said: 'Yes?' The name meant nothing to me and he said: 'Yossi Lasher. We travelled together.' Would you believe it? It was that guy from the plane, the one I stood up at the Hilton." She paused dramatically. "Well, he whips out this identity card -- at least, that's what I think it was -- and says: 'I'm from the Moustache.' I said: 'The what?' 'The Israeli Intelligence Service,' says he!"

"He must have said Mossad," said Hank.

"I was completely flummoxed - a word I learnt from my kibbutz room-mate - and I gave the card no more than a glance. 'You know where you can shove it?' I said. 'Would you be willing to work for us?' says he for God's sake without batting an eye. 'What!' I said. He threw me a smile and said a few nice things about my looks, adding that I'm a woman who can definitely handle herself, a quality essential to their work. 'You mean spying?' says I. 'Yes,' says he, cool as an ice cube. 'Look buster, if this is some kind of joke...' 'No joke,' says he. 'No dice,' says I. 'Find someone else for your fuckin' dirty work!' And I walked off."

"Did you tell anyone else about this?" asked Ruth.

"No. I wanted to go the Maskir - that's the correct word for Secretary, isn't it? - but I was already in the shits with him and I knew he wouldn't believe me." She took a long pull on her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. "I guess he unnerved me a bit. Did he think I'm here to risk my life, eh?" She gave a slight shudder and lit another cigarette.

Shirley moved into an apartment in Ramat Gan, a city suburb of Tel Aviv. A few days later, she telephoned her friends to say she had a night job, but was very mysterious about it. When Hank expressed his concern, she told him not to worry, that a taxi called for her and brought her home in the early hours, so please not to call her before noon as she would be sleeping.

Shirley would drop in to see Hank and Ruth on weekends, often spending Friday nights with them. She always brought gifts. One Friday, as she conjured out of her bag a litre of Cognac, a bottle of French perfume and packets upon packets of chocolates and sweets for the children, Ruth remonstrated.

"Poof!" said Shirley. "I'm earning well. I can afford it." She did not elaborate. Ruth's suspicions were plain on her face. Shirley frowned. Her eyes narrowed. She waved a jingly arm at Hank. "Go out and play with the kids. I want to talk to Ruth - girl talk."

Hank said: "I've always wondered what girl talk meant. If it's about sex," his eyes glinted with mock evil glee, "we men are just as sleazily salacious as you girls."

"Oh, go away, Hank. Leave us alone."

"I'm going! I'm going!" And the door closed behind him.

An embarrassed silence fell. Shirley lit a cigarette.

"More coffee?" said Ruth, rising to retrieve the cups.

"Sit down, Ruth. Tell me what's the matter?"

Ruth did not answer.

"Shit! You don't have to pull any punches with me, eh?"

Ruth lowered her head.

"You're worried about the kid's teeth, eh? So, I won't bring any more junk food."

Ruth raised her eyes to Shirley's. "It's not their teeth I worry about."

"Then, what?"

"I don't want you to spend the night here."

"That's fine, honey," said Shirley brightly. "I wasn't staying anyway. I was going to tell you. I'm expecting my taxi-driver friend any minute now. I would never impose on you. You know that. Is that all?"

"No. That's not all."

"Oh!"

Ruth spoke with the firmness of decision. "I have four impressionable kids. Two of them are girls."

Silence. Shirley took a drag on her cigarette. Her face was pale.

"I'm sorry," said Ruth.

Shirley shook her head. She was finding it difficult to speak. "No. I'm the one that's sorry." She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and stood up. "Look at me. A fine example of womanhood! I've been a fool. You're right, Ruth. Must have been hard... I admire you for..." The sobs broke through the dam of her self-control. "Oh shit! What's the matter with me?" She sat down again. She held out one hand and covered her face with the other. "Give me a tissue, will you?" Ruth handed her the box. "Thanks," said Shirley and blew her nose. "God, I must look like shit. Can't remember when this last happened. Plays hell with mascara."

The insistent toot of a car horn made Shirley jump up from the sofa. "Good old Boaz. Right on cue."

"I really am sorry, Shirley," said Ruth, unhappy but determined. "No hard feelings?"

"No. No hard feelings."

Another impatient blast on the hooter.

"I'm coming! I'm coming!" said Shirley.

At the front door, she turned and impulsively kissed Ruth. "Bye now," she said. "See you around." And she was gone.

Until one night about three weeks later in the very early hours, the insistent ringing of the doorbell got Hank and Ruth reluctantly out of bed. They admitted a distraught Shirley. Her hair was in disarray, her clothes torn and one eye discoloured and swollen.

"Shirley!" they exclaimed. "What on earth has happened?"

Shirley stumbled distractedly to the couch. "Oh, my God! What a night!" With shaking hands, she delved into her bag for a packet of cigarettes. "Can one get a cup of coffee in this joint?"

"I'll put the kettle on," said Ruth, moving to the kitchen.

"I'll get some ice for that eye," said Hank.

"No! Don't leave me!" cried Shirley

"Won't take a minute," said Hank.

"No!" Shirley's voice was shrill.

Hank sat by her and held her hand until Ruth brought the coffee. "Got any brandy to lace it?" Hank went to his drinks cabinet, took out a bottle of the strong local brand and poured out a goodly measure. "That's better," said Shirley after sipping her drink. "I guess you better know - I'm a bar girl."

"A bar girl!" said Hank.

"What's a bar girl?" said Ruth.

"Gee Ruth, haven't you ever seen the line of saloons on Ha'Yarkon Street? They hire girls to entice passers-by to enter. Most of them are whores. Not me, though. I work behind the bar and I won't sleep with anyone I don't want to. The trick is to promise more than you offer and keep the customers believing in the promise for as long as possible. We encourage them to buy us drinks and we usually drink cold tea for whisky. Soon they're so tight, they don't know where they are, let alone what they wanted when they came in! It's a rough world with some pretty violent characters and the girls are a sullen lot, full of jealousy and petty intrigue."

She was a great success at her work. Her cheerful disposition, her charm, her droll attempts to converse in Hebrew, all contributed to her popularity. She loved people, 'kinky or not,' and she listened patiently to their problems, gently nudging them to drink glass after glass while she drank gallons of cold tea causing great strain to her bladder. A first-rate psychiatrist could do no more for her clients but then, she earned at least as much as any psychiatrist.

Ari, the owner of the establishment, who exposed a hairy chest by leaving undone the top buttons of his printed shirts, cast his eyes upon Shirley. His divorced wife lived in Eilat with miles of Negev desert between them. She had informants who kept her apprised of her husband's movements. Some of the girls warned Shirley that Ari's ex-wife was a paranoid shrew, fearful he would remarry and thus sharply reduce the income she enjoyed. His last affair ended with the girl on a hospital bed with six stitches. Her bruised head and heart had been assuaged with a substantial sum of money. Straight from the hospital, a taxi took her to the airport and she returned to her native Sweden.

"Ari told me about the crazy woman," said Shirley, "but I was sure I could handle the bitch." Gingerly she touched the bruises around her eyes. "I was wrong. A couple of hours ago, she stormed into the bar. Before I knew where I was, we were rolling on the floor, pulling each other by the hair. I'm big," she declared, "but she's bigger. Ari came rushing in from his office and, while he and a waiter were trying to separate us, caught a terrific sock on the jaw. She picked up a bottle from the bar and threw it at me. She'd make a good pitcher for the New York Yankees. They hustled me out and into a taxi. I was scared to go to my apartment. She might have my address. I sure hope you guys don't mind, eh? Now, what the fuck did I do with my cigarettes?" She was rummaging in her bag again, found a pack but fell to sobbing.

"Can't you be a secretary or something?" said Ruth.

"Me?" Shirley made an effort to pull herself together. "Me, with a pencil and a pad? You can't be serious?" She lit her cigarette. "Besides I have to be among people, even if they are some of the weirdest characters you're ever likely to meet. I guess everyone's a bit crazy. If you're not, you're not sane. And what d'ya think I'd earn as a secretary, eh? The guys who come into the bar are willing to pay for my ears. The bigger their problems, the more they drink; the more they drink, the more I earn. And I earn one helluva lot!"

"Maybe you should find yourself a nice, rich young man and settle down," said Ruth.

"I almost did that once." Shirley pensively sipped her brandy-laced coffee. "Now, when I think of him, I wonder why! No. I guess I'm just not the one man type. Who knows, when I'm forty, forty five.... Right now, I'm having a marvellous time."

Hank and Ruth looked at each other, then at Shirley's bruised face and burst out laughing.

Shirley moved to another bar. Her potential for earning good money was well known so there was a tussle to obtain her services. Her new boss, aware of his good fortune, installed her in an exclusive flat on Ben Yehuda Street where she would accommodate him twice a week.

Having confided her dark secret to Ruth and Hank, Shirley would report her escapades to them. With her gift for broad humour, she transformed the pathetic, often violent lechers and drunks in her world into hilarious caricatures. Her cynicism was at odds with the loving-kindness that flowed from her every time she visited them. Ruth lifted the injunction against Shirley's visits and Shirley limited herself to once a week, never staying the night. She left them the telephone numbers of her apartment and of the bar. "If you call me at the bar," she said with a wink, "ask for Simha. That's what I'm known as at work."

And so it was they came to learn about David.

The moment he walked into the bar that cold, wet December night, Shirley's life, like a train that jumps its rails, was swept into turmoil. Hank saw him once and he commented to Ruth: "He's impossibly handsome - the type to make every other man jealous. I can understand why Shirley feels the way she does about him."

David was tall, swarthy, black-haired and blue-eyed. His disarming smile paraded a row of even, white teeth. Broad of shoulder, his short-sleeves displayed smooth round biceps and strong forearms. The black hair filling the V of his shirt enhanced his sensuality. A man's man. His mere presence put all around him, men and women, on the defence.

Shirley was annoyed her work behind the bar prevented her from joining David at his table. She was further annoyed when he ordered a round of drinks for the girls but did not suggest she have one too. Normally, she had no compunction demanding one for herself but somehow, with David, she could not bring herself to do it. He turned towards her, raised his glass in a mock toast and said in English: "To the gorgeous creature pouring the drinks." She flushed and it did not escape him.

"Where's your glass?" he said. "Don't you drink?"

"Oh!" said Shirley, all artlessness, "did you want me to have one too?"

"Of course," said he, his blue eyes twinkling. He watched her pour. "You're new here, aren't you?" Even his voice, revealing the trace of an accent, was as deep and warm as the brandy he was drinking.

Shirley shrugged. "Been here a month," she said, corking the tea bottle and returning it to the shelf.

"I've been abroad. Six weeks. Europe. Just got back," he said by way of explanation. "Next time, perhaps you will accompany me." Shirley flashed him a dark look and met his smiling blue eyes. "Cheers!" he said, raising his glass. It was hopeless. She smiled back. "Cheers," she said.

For the rest of the evening, he ignored her. He laughed and drank with the others freely. Money seemed of no consequence.

"Not only fuckin' handsome, but fuckin' rich too," Shirley glowered. It was infuriating. The men who sat with Shirley at the bar found her attention meandering and moved away. That night she earned barely anything. She berated herself for a fool. Was she some silly teenager to be so distracted by a man? That's all he was, a man, nothing more! And there were millions of them! True, he was better looking than most but peel away the skin, they were all the same underneath. She found no consolation in the thought.

Two nights later, he came again. This time he took his seat at the bar and drank all evening with Shirley. The girls were furiously jealous. He had never before singled out any one of them to lavish his charm and money. He asked her out. "I don't know that I should," said Shirley.

"Why not?"

"For all I know you could be a criminal. I hardly know you."

"Can you think of a better way to alter that situation? What time do you finish?"

"Two," she said.

"Fine. We'll just be needing our morning coffee to clear our heads. I know a place open 24 hours. What do you say?"

Shirley shrugged, not daring to speak. She reached under the counter for a glass which she proceeded to wipe with the tea towel. Her heart was beating a tattoo. It was bewildering.

"Well?" he persisted.

"I suppose so," she shrugged.

"Fine." He pushed his empty glass toward her. "Let's have another. I like your accent," he said as she poured. "You are American, aren't you?"

"Canadian," said Shirley.

"From Canada," said David delightedly.

"Toronto," said Shirley.

"I've never been out with a Canadian before."

"Nor with an Eskimo, I'll bet," retorted Shirley.

David laughed.

It was raining and cold when they stepped out of the bar. He bundled her into his fairly new Pontiac. "Let's drive around for a bit, till it warms up inside. If I lived in Tel Aviv, I'd invite you to my apartment. It's centrally heated."

"So is mine," said Shirley.

"Great!" said David. "We go there."

"If you like."

Shirley felt her heart racing again. Why was she so gauche with him? She gave him the address and he turned the car toward Ben Yehuda Street.

"Where do you live?" she asked him.

"Jerusalem," he answered shortly as the car drew up in front of the expensive block of apartments.

They never did have coffee. The moment he took her arm in the elevator, she felt her limbs turn to liquid and she realized the futility of even the pretence of resistance. In the apartment, when he kissed her, she returned his kiss with a passion that made her absurdly shy. She insisted on darkness before undressing. When his naked body touched hers, she kissed him with fiery intensity, wanting to burn herself into his skin. The wild stirrings within her were so many fingers reaching out to touch every tingling nerve in her body.

"Oh my God!" she cried out. "Fuck me, my darling, fuck me!"

The next evening at the bar, the girls expressed their resentment by ill-natured teasing.

"Well, how was it?"

"How much did he pay?"

"Bet it wasn't worth what it cost him!"

"Was he big enough for you?"

"Is he as good as our Jewish boys?"

"What do you mean?" snapped Shirley.

"Oh, she didn't know! Shirley didn't know!" they mocked.

"Didn't know what?" demanded Shirley.

"He's an Arab."

"You could have knocked me down with a feather," commented Shirley to Hank and Ruth when she visited them the following weekend. "It's not that I'm prejudiced; it's just that I wasn't expecting it. I guess I had it at the back of my mind to marry him." She paused. "Who am I kidding, eh? I still do."

Ruth was shocked. "How can you?" She put her coffee cup firmly down on the saucer. "Think of your children."

"I don't want to think that far," said Shirley. "All I know is I have never felt like this before - doesn't that sound corny? But it's true."

"Has he discussed marriage?"

"He did say the problems of a mixed marriage can be overcome."

"Don't you believe it," said Ruth. "Marriage is a gamble at the best of times. Mixed marriages only increase the odds against success."

"Ruth is a born pessimist," interposed Hank. "If he's a nice guy and respects you, better marry him than chance it with a Jewish bastard like me!"

"Talking of Jewish bastards," said Shirley, "guess who was in the bar every night last week... Yossi, the spy."

"Who?" Both Hank and Ruth asked together.

"You know - Yossi Lasher, the feller who tried to make a spy outa me, the one I travelled with on the plane to Israel?"

"I guess our agents are as human as the rest of us," commented Hank, "or is he still trying to recruit you?"

"Fat chance!"

"So what's he doing there?"

"Whadjya mean what's he doing there, eh? " Shirley was indignant. "Me's what he's doing there!" She stood up and posed with one hand on hip, the other behind her head. "He's crazy for Simha, the sultry bar girl." She shook her pelvis and batted her eyes in mock imitation of a siren. "By the way," she paused as she sat down again, "he's invited me to spend a weekend at his place."

"Yossi, the spy?" Hank was amused.

"No. David the A-rab."

A silence. It was no longer amusing.

"You mean in Jerusalem?" Hank asked presently.

"No. He has a house in East Jerusalem but he spends most of his time at his home in Ramallah."

"You have no intention of going, of course," said Ruth.

"Well..." drawled Shirley, "I..."

"You're not!" said Ruth. "Don't you realize the risk you'd be taking?"

"And, I may add, it's against the law," added Hank.

"Law, shmaw!" said Shirley in ire. "What law? Do we have some kind of apartheid here?"

"Of course not," said Hank. "Israelis are forbidden overnight stays in the territories to avoid giving the extremist element nasty ideas."

"I'm not Israeli. I'm Canadian. Besides, I trust David," said Shirley. She butted her cigarette to pulp in the ashtray.

On Thursday, Shirley telephoned and said to Hank, fast and breathless: "We're driving tonight when the bar closes at two. If you don't hear from me by three Saturday afternoon, phone the police and let them know where I am. If I phone, I'll ask if the books have come. You say: 'The green ones?' If I answer 'Yes' then everything's fine. If I say 'The red ones,' send the police to the address I'm giving you now. Take it down. Are you ready?" She gave the Ramallah address and added: "Sorry for the cloak and dagger. I'm sure it won't be necessary butI guess it's better to be safe than sorry, eh. Bye, now."

On Saturday afternoon, she telephoned at five minutes past three. "I've just managed to get to a phone. Did you get the green books?"

Hank burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"You stole my lines," he answered but he was conscious of a sense of great relief.

It was the first of many weekends in Ramallah for Shirley. The months that followed were the happiest she had ever known. The sweet music of those idyllic days was marred by one sour note. David's friends resented her intrusion into their circle.

"They're so fuckin' furious with him," she said to Hank and Ruth. "They jabber away in Arabic in front of me as though I don't exist. I'd recognize my mother's tone of voice in any language. 'Why do you have to pick on a Jewish girl? Aren't our Arab girls good enough for you?' Even while they tell me 'Welcome,' their eyes are saying 'Drop dead, girlie!' The ashtray, Hank, pass it over." She jiggled her braceleted hand at him. "I make myself scarce upstairs. David disappears into the basement and spends hours with them. If this is a sample of Arab hospitality, it's a myth!"

Insults ricocheted off Shirley but she could not bear being ignored. And being ignored by her lover was the most exquisite pain. Her passion for him had passed the bounds of control. With her, it could never be jealous ravings or hurtful recriminations. She was yielding and soft and gave herself to him in a total surrender of body and soul. The experience was frightening. She began to pray to a God she had given no thought to since she was a child, begging that David ask her to marry him.

"Has he said anything that can lead you to hope?" said Ruth.

Shirley was silent.

"And if he did, do you really think you could make a go of it? Do you know what an Arab expects of his wife? You come from a culture that allows you to express yourself as freely as any man. No Arab can accept that and hold his head up in his community. You could never be the docile creature he'd want."

Some days later, Ruth was shopping at a fruit-stall in Tel Aviv's Central Bus Station. An explosive device tucked inside a watermelon and placed on a pyramid of the fruit blew up, spewing nails in all directions. The full force of the explosion caught Ruth. Her body was torn into so many fragments, it was impossible to collect all the pieces. Six people, including an Arab from Jaffa and his child were killed. Eleven others, among whom were three children, suffered serious maiming injuries.

At the graveside, Shirley clung to Hank to support him in his grief. But as soon as his breaking voice chanted the first words of the mourner's Kaddish, her body began to tremble. In spite of all her resolutions, she could not contain her emotions and the sobs shook her with terrible force. It was Hank who supported her.

"Oh, Hank," she told him later, "why did it have to be Ruth? Oh God, Hank, tell me it isn't true! Tell me she's going to walk in that door any minute."

The children, unable as yet to grasp the concept of death, came in from the neighbours, delighted to see Shirley, demanding their presents, certain they would not be disappointed. But Shirley burst into tears and ran from the room. The children turned their bewildered faces to their father. He knelt before them, embraced them and wept.

After the week of Shiva, when the prayers were done and Hank was bathed, his torn clothes put aside, Shirley would not allow him to brood. His beard, which he grew for a month, was the last sign of mourning she permitted him. Neither would she indulge her own grief. "Ruth still lives in the children. She would not forgive us if we put them through greater trauma than necessary and caused them psychological damage."

"You've been reading Jung or Freud?" said Hank.

"Well, I won't allow it," said Shirley steadfastly.

Her effervescence was exactly what Hank needed. With the perfect combination of practicality and no-nonsense understanding, she steered him and the children on an even keel. When she was not with David, Shirley would come over and help the nanny Hank had engaged for the children. More often than not, she stayed on for an early supper before leaving in a taxi for the bar. Once, in gratitude, Hank offered to drive her.

"Are you crazy?" she laughed. "The taxi driver is an old friend. I don't pay him. He's dying to screw me. Yesterday, he left a huge basket of fruit at my door. Which reminds me, I must bring some peaches for the kids."

As soon as Hank shaved off his beard, she felt she could discuss her personal affairs again. "I don't know what to do about Yossi - you know, the Intelligence guy. He's pestering me to go out. I like him but I don't want to date him. The trouble is the more I refuse, the more he pesters. Perhaps if I did go out with him, he'd stop. What do you think?"

"Between David, Yossi, the taxi driver and me, how do you find the time to fit in Sugar Daddy Whatzizname - the bar owner?"

"Oh, him. He still comes twice a week. If I'm in, I'm in. If I'm out, tough! He's a nice fellow and I don't see any harm in letting him sweeten his stick now and then. His wife's an old acid drop, poor guy. He scratches my back. It's only fair I should scratch his, eh?"

Shirley did not hesitate to reproach David for condoning the terrorist outrage. "You have to be sick to justify a thing like this. A few hotheads make life difficult for everyone. I am sure the bulk of your people would be happy and just as relieved as we if all this terror were to stop. They suffer even more than we do and ordinarily, we get on very well together."

David's blue eyes flashed angrily in his swarthy face. "You Jews wanted your homeland," he said. "You used violence and terror to get it. We Palestinians want our homeland. We use violence and terror to obtain it. Why should there be one law for Jews and another for Palestinians?"

Shirley rounded on him. "Our targets were military. Your people are killing innocent civilians, including women and children."

"De'ir Yassin, I suppose that was a military base?"

"Oh God! How often is that to be trotted out to excuse indiscriminate terror?" Shirley could not stifle her indignation. "One mistake, one error of judgement in 1948, which incidentally was officially denounced, does not justify endless slaughter. How can you dare...?"

"I dare," said David defiantly. "What difference the means used if, in the end, justice is served?"

"Oh darling," cried Shirley, "I understand how you feel, but don't expect me to agree with you, eh? My friend is dead. Four children are left motherless. Babies are in hospital now, their little bodies mutilated. Even Arab families are mourning. You can't convince me this course is just, David."

"My name is Dahoud," he said, turning away from her.

"Now don't sulk," she said.

"You are a Jew. I am an Arab."

"You are a man. I am a woman." She turned his face to her. "On that we agree, eh?" She kissed him passionately on the mouth.

Not many days later, Hank had a caller. He stayed an hour. Immediately after he left, Hank dialled the number of the bar. He asked for Simha.

"Hank?"

"Yes. Now listen, Shirl, this is serious. Do not go to Ramallah this weekend. I can't speak over the phone but come for supper tomorrow and I'll explain."

"I can't, Hank. I've promised Sugar Daddy I'll see him tomorrow. It's been two weeks already and I can't put him off again. What's it all about?"

"No. Pitch him any line but you must come tomorrow. Unless you give me your word you'll not go with David on Friday."

A pause. "OK. I'll see you tomorrow."

Shirley flew into a rage as soon as Hank told her what he had heard. "That swine! That bastard! That fuckin' asshole!"

"Shirley! The kids!"

"Wait till I get my hands on him! How dare he make such an allegation! Do you think I wouldn't feel it in my bones? My flesh would crawl every time he touched me. Good God! Can't you see, Hank? It's the oldest story in the book - jealousy. Why the fu...hell didn't he come and tell me? I'll tell you why. I'd have torn him limb from limb! Oh!!! If that fart dares to set foot in the bar again...!!!!"

Hank let her rid herself of her venom. When she sank back on the couch, he said: "Yossi didn't spell it out. He said Intelligence have their suspicions. Precisely because he feared such an outburst from you, he came to me. Now, if David is a terrorist... don't interrupt! If David is a terrorist, your life is in danger every time you set foot in Ramallah. Shut up and listen!" Shirley threw herself sulkily against the back of the sofa. "Yossi is very fond of you. You cannot accuse him of ulterior motives. He has known for a long time that you sleep over in David's house and he has not reported the fact to his superiors. How can you accuse him of jealousy? With a word he could have stopped it."

"How?" Shirley was petulantly defiant.

"I told you it's forbidden. He could have stopped you."

"But..."

"But, he did not," Hank interrupted. "He was hoping you would tire of the man. Now grow up! You're not a little girl anymore. You could be involved with desperate, dangerous people who put no value on human life. In Ruth's name and mine, I beg you, do not go to Ramallah."

Shirley's face was a mask of misery. Tears rolled down her cheeks. "It's not true," she sobbed, rubbing her eyes and smudging the blue eye shadow and black mascara. "It's not true!"

"Shirley, please... for Ruth's sake, just this weekend, don't go."

Shirley nodded dumbly as blue-black teardrops stained her cheeks.

In the dark, early morning hours, the car sped on its way through Latrun. They drove in silence until he turned toward Ramallah by the sombre silhouette of the Trappist monastery in the valley. Shirley butted her cigarette in the ashtray. "You're not a terrorist, are you?" she said. The car swerved on to the dirt verge and back again.

"What did you say?" David's voice was tense.

"Nothing," said Shirley.

That evening, David's friends came over for a session in the basement.

"I promise we won't be long," he said. "Jordan has a good thriller on TV. We should be finished by ten."

Behind the innocuous words she could sense strain, fear and mistrust. No affection gleamed in his eyes. Had it ever? He smiled a meaningless smile and left her. Perhaps the demands of his profession precluded emotional ties. He liked her well enough. She would go so far as to say he was passionately fond of her. But love? No! And the dreadful, hopeless certainty was she still loved him, with every fibre of her being. A wave of self-hate engulfed her. It was unthinkable to live with this killer - and impossible to live without him. She knew he knew that she knew who he was. He would have to tell his friends. Would they... could they permit her to leave Ramallah alive? She simply didn't care. Life yawned emptily before her. What was the purpose in going on, eh?

Shirley rose, went into the kitchen and turned on all the gas taps. She opened the oven door to permit the gas to circulate more freely. Then she went around the house shutting the windows, pausing briefly to pick up a cigarette lighter from the coffee table. She stood facing the door to the basement. A while later, she heard footsteps clambering up the stairs. They had smelled the gas. The door opened. David stood there. For a single moment they stared at one another. He uttered one word: "No!" before she flicked the lighter.

A thorough investigation revealed the explosion was caused by a combination of household gas and a large quantity of explosives in the basement of the house. Among the pieces of human remains collected, a blackened female hand, subsequently identified as Shirley's, still clutched a charred cigarette lighter.

Yossi Lasher broke the news to Hank. "Too bad she had to die with those bastards," he said. "Had she been working for us, she may have lived to save other lives. I am recommending her for a citation. It's the least we can do to recognize her bravery and her service to the country."

"Her service to the country!" Hank laughed with the bitterness of sorrow. "Is that why you think she did it?"

"Why else?" asked Yossi.

"Why else, indeed?" said Hank.