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Authors: Masha Hamilton
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Ethiopia, traveling in the opposite direction on the Acre-Karmiel highway in the Galilee, lost control of his car. It traversed the centerline and rammed head-on into the rental driven by Anya’s husband. In three minutes, three, including the Ethiopian, were dead.
By the time the paramedics arrived, Anya, “miraculouslyunscathed,” as an Israeli newspaper would report, had dragged the bodies of her husband and her mother from their car. Both heads rested on her lap. With the fingers of one hand, she combed her mother’s hair. Her face was lit by the flames from the teenager’s burning, overturned car. The horn on the rental car was stuck, and when they finally got it off, instead of silence, they heard her moaning: deep, monotonous, inhuman.
Anya traveled with the bodies to the hospital and remained mute for a week. When she finally spoke, it was to say she would not return to Sweden or cash in on her hefty inheritance. She became, instead, wandering Anya of Jerusalem, Anya of visions, Anya of the street. It was in a way, now that Caddie thinks of it, Anya’s revenge.
Caddie remembers that the day before she and Marcus went to Lebanon, they ran into Anya near the corner. When she saw them, she clamped both hands over her eyes and began to howl, an eerie sound that came from somewhere deep. Then she turned and fled. Caddie and Marcus both shrugged it off. Psychotic episode, probably. A shame. Nothing more.
Now, though, Caddie wonders: Could Anya have had a premonition? Some vision that might hold a clue about who is responsible for what happened to Marcus, and what she, Caddie, should do about it? She starts to struggle into her jeans, tugging at the zipper, rushing so she can get downstairs before Anya moves on.
Then she halts, and plants cool fingers in the hollows of her closed eyelids. What next? She’ll be looking for signs inthe damned stars. What has happened to that practicality she always prided herself on? And to think she used to believe she had ideal traits to be a journalist.
Well, she still has. Some. She’s curious. Has a precise memory for dialogue and faces. A facility for grasping on-the-ground politics. Gifted with foreign languages. And she looks the part, with clipped hair and utilitarian wardrobe.
But she has handicaps now. Sweet Jesus, does she ever have handicaps.
Outside the window, a breeze shakes the trees as if giving them a scolding. She moves to the bathroom and stares at herself in the mirror. She runs a finger along the ashy skin under each eye. Then she sits on the toilet seat to pull on her boots, concentrating on yanking the shoelaces tight.
J ON IS ALERADY THERE when Caddie gets to the office. She should have expected him, yet she’d hoped to slip in unseen. She needs some time alone to warm up the seat again. Her office—too grand a term for this hovel—is cramped, grad-student style, with file cabinets, a bookshelf, her PC, a laptop, two phones with separate lines, an extra foldout chair. It’s infinitely worse when a second person is added to the mix. The slightest movement becomes a process of negotiation. Marcus, cameras swinging around his neck, never more than poked his head in: Let’s go to your place, or mine .
The only plus is its location, in a building where the AP,Reuters and a couple other foreign news organizations are based. Since Caddie works on her own, proximity serves as an early warning for breaking stories.
Jon hunches over her desk, so engrossed in the International Herald Tribune that he is oblivious to his surroundings. He’s tall, thin and neat in a corduroy jacket, his clean-shaven face as soft-looking as a boy’s. He mouths something to himself. Based in Cairo with useable Arabic, he struggles with Hebrew. He works at it conscientiously whenever he’s in town. He told her once it was insulting if he didn’t at least try to speak the language of the people he was interviewing. She’d laughed and replied that his greatest charm, an
By the time the paramedics arrived, Anya, “miraculouslyunscathed,” as an Israeli newspaper would report, had dragged the bodies of her husband and her mother from their car. Both heads rested on her lap. With the fingers of one hand, she combed her mother’s hair. Her face was lit by the flames from the teenager’s burning, overturned car. The horn on the rental car was stuck, and when they finally got it off, instead of silence, they heard her moaning: deep, monotonous, inhuman.
Anya traveled with the bodies to the hospital and remained mute for a week. When she finally spoke, it was to say she would not return to Sweden or cash in on her hefty inheritance. She became, instead, wandering Anya of Jerusalem, Anya of visions, Anya of the street. It was in a way, now that Caddie thinks of it, Anya’s revenge.
Caddie remembers that the day before she and Marcus went to Lebanon, they ran into Anya near the corner. When she saw them, she clamped both hands over her eyes and began to howl, an eerie sound that came from somewhere deep. Then she turned and fled. Caddie and Marcus both shrugged it off. Psychotic episode, probably. A shame. Nothing more.
Now, though, Caddie wonders: Could Anya have had a premonition? Some vision that might hold a clue about who is responsible for what happened to Marcus, and what she, Caddie, should do about it? She starts to struggle into her jeans, tugging at the zipper, rushing so she can get downstairs before Anya moves on.
Then she halts, and plants cool fingers in the hollows of her closed eyelids. What next? She’ll be looking for signs inthe damned stars. What has happened to that practicality she always prided herself on? And to think she used to believe she had ideal traits to be a journalist.
Well, she still has. Some. She’s curious. Has a precise memory for dialogue and faces. A facility for grasping on-the-ground politics. Gifted with foreign languages. And she looks the part, with clipped hair and utilitarian wardrobe.
But she has handicaps now. Sweet Jesus, does she ever have handicaps.
Outside the window, a breeze shakes the trees as if giving them a scolding. She moves to the bathroom and stares at herself in the mirror. She runs a finger along the ashy skin under each eye. Then she sits on the toilet seat to pull on her boots, concentrating on yanking the shoelaces tight.
J ON IS ALERADY THERE when Caddie gets to the office. She should have expected him, yet she’d hoped to slip in unseen. She needs some time alone to warm up the seat again. Her office—too grand a term for this hovel—is cramped, grad-student style, with file cabinets, a bookshelf, her PC, a laptop, two phones with separate lines, an extra foldout chair. It’s infinitely worse when a second person is added to the mix. The slightest movement becomes a process of negotiation. Marcus, cameras swinging around his neck, never more than poked his head in: Let’s go to your place, or mine .
The only plus is its location, in a building where the AP,Reuters and a couple other foreign news organizations are based. Since Caddie works on her own, proximity serves as an early warning for breaking stories.
Jon hunches over her desk, so engrossed in the International Herald Tribune that he is oblivious to his surroundings. He’s tall, thin and neat in a corduroy jacket, his clean-shaven face as soft-looking as a boy’s. He mouths something to himself. Based in Cairo with useable Arabic, he struggles with Hebrew. He works at it conscientiously whenever he’s in town. He told her once it was insulting if he didn’t at least try to speak the language of the people he was interviewing. She’d laughed and replied that his greatest charm, an
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