66. Ramallah, 1999 - Pesach problems

In which Wissam intervenes.

Bless Wissam. He has more sense than any of them.

Eleanor

I sit in my office exhausted and miserable.

It’s been misery this week, a tense silence over the office. None of us are talking to each other. I’m exhausted from sleepless nights. I’m feeling depressed and physically ill. Horse riding at the stables in Jericho, hanging out with the gang, the usual walk with Jerry, lifted my spirits somewhat over the weekend. But as the week has worn on it’s become a physical effort to get myself into the car to drive to the office.

I just want to stay home, in bed, and cry myself to sleep. I just want to sleep, and sleep, and sleep. I want it all to go away. To stop. I don’t want to have to carry on seeing Francois, pretending that him saying “I’m dealing with it,” is supposed to be enough for me. It isn’t.

So when Tariq said this morning that he didn’t want to come up from Gaza in a shared taxi tomorrow, and would I please come down and pick him up instead, I lost my temper entirely. Tariq’s been having computer problems, which Nagla hasn’t been able to resolve with him over the phone. And with the big five-year anniversary Freedom Day reception coming up, it’s critical that Tariq is able to get the invitations out.

Then Nagla came up with the brilliant idea for Tariq to bring the computer with him to Ramallah tomorrow. It’s a desktop, not a laptop, so it’s a bit bulky, but still totally transportable. But then Tariq said he wouldn’t do it and demanded that I come down and pick him up instead. I refused. He asked to speak to Francois. And I lost my temper. “I am your supervisor, not Francois. This is what you're going to do.” And I hung up.

He must have spoken to Wissam afterwards, because here is Wissam knocking on my door, a cup of tea in his hand as he comes diffidently into my office. He puts the tea down on my desk and slides it over towards me, not saying anything. I cradle its warmth in my hands, taking a sip, waiting. He seems to be being unusually cautious with his words.

“Miss Eleanor, I know you have a lot on your plate at the moment. Maybe you’ve forgotten that it’s Passover in Israel, and they’ve tightened the check-point at Erez?” He pauses, looking at me quizzically. And it hits me. Oh god yes, I have. I have completely forgotten that Erez, difficult at the best of times, is a likely nightmare for a Palestinian trying to bring a computer across the border during Passover, even if he works for a diplomatic mission. Irritation vies with remorse. Tariq could have reminded me about Passover, instead of just getting all obstinate and demanding I come to fetch him.

“Thank you, Wissam. I had forgotten.”

I lean back in my chair, blowing hair out of my face. “Ok, I get why he doesn’t want to come in a shared taxi. But we still need to get Tariq up to Ramallah with the computer. He has to be able to get the invitations out this week.” I lean my head into my left hand, closing my eyes while I rub my aching head. My brain is saying “You need to drive down and get him,” but my body is saying “Sleep, sleep, sleep.”

The exhaustion must show on my face, because next thing I know Wissam is reaching over my desk, gently squeezing my right hand, and saying “I’ll drive you, Miss Eleanor. Mr Francois, he can manage without me tomorrow. I’ll drive you, and we’ll pick Tariq up, and you don’t have to do anything except be in the car.”

I feel tears well up in my eyes. Wissam has said nothing at all about the mood in the office, the tense silence between Francois and me. Neither has Nagla. But his offer says everything. I just nod, too overcome to say anything. “I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow, then, from your apartment. And I’ll tell Mr Francois about the change in plan.” I just nod again, gratitude for Wissam mixing with my exhaustion.

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