72. Somewhere in the West Bank, 1999 - Last threads
In which Eleanor breaks a dry spell.
Eleanor has a fling. Who cares if he lives in a settlement and is the grandson of a Nazi?
Eleanor
I put out my arms and feel a surge of joy and happiness.
This. This is an entirely new experience. And I love it. Mum and Dad would be aghast, and warn of all the dangers, but flying through the backroads of the West Bank on Otto’s motorcycle, all I feel is alive and free and how much damn fun it is!
My arms are bare and as we dip into the valleys I feel the warmer air. And as we crest hills I feel the cooler air. I had no idea this is part of the experience of riding a motorbike. Up and down. Cool and warm. Bank and turn. Slow and surge. This is a full on sensory experience. The very illicitness of doing something I had always been warned against adding to the moment. I trust Otto to keep us safe, even as I sense he’s pushing the corners and his speed.
It’s just the two of us in the barren landscape. The West Bank’s dry hills roll underneath us, the Jordan Valley to our right, the sky a deep vivid blue with puffy clouds above us. Otto’s in leather, but he said I’d be fine without. And I am. Underneath me the throb and purr of the engine. Sensuous. Arousing. Otto’s back solid and reassuring in front of me, blocking the wind.
I wrap my arms around him, squeeze and put my chin on his shoulder. This is pure delight. We’re a convenient distraction for each other, just what I need. He guns the engine and we roar down into the next valley.
Later that evening Tlali and Themba come sniffing around us on the lounge floor. We never made it to the bed. Otto’s bemused. “What are they doing?” he asks with his soft Austrian voice.
“They’ve never seen me do this before,” I reply.
“Never?” he queries incredulously.
“Nope. It’s been a long time. Long story. You’re the first in, hmmm,” I count on fingers, “four years.”
“Well, that’s a shame. You’ve got some catching up to do then.”
“Umm hmm. So don’t stop now.”
He has to be at the Casino for 5am, so he doesn’t stay. After he’s gone I curl up on the sofa, and pull out my journal. My sitting down is Tlali’s invitation to hop into my lap. My hand automatically reaches down to scratch him. No matter how busy I am socially, no matter how late I come home, these two living creatures are always there to greet me, not an empty, silent apartment. It almost feels like betrayal to introduce a man to our cozy threesome. It almost feels like a betrayal to Mahdi too…but I let it go.
Perhaps it’s the utter foreignness of Otto that's helped. He’s the absolute antithesis of what I would ever have imagined for myself. We met at the stables in Jericho. He’s working security at the Casino. Gambling isn’t allowed in Israel, so the Casino is built just inside the checkpoint on Area A, PNA controlled land. And the Israelis come flocking. It’s genius really, this revenue transfer. Palestinians aren’t allowed in as guests—unless, of course, they’ve got connections. It’s been a windfall to Jericho—providing vital jobs and income just as the latest closure shuttered Jericho from the rest of the West Bank. Under the closure other Palestinians aren’t allowed into Jericho, but of course the Israelis can still come to the Casino. There’s a twisted logic in there somewhere.
There’re a lot of international staff at the Casino. They’re an entirely different crowd to the NGOs and diplomatic corps I’m used to. They could care less about the politics. They’re just here to make money and move on. A group of them have become regulars at the stables, Khalil welcoming them—and their euros and dollars—warmly. With the closure the stables are quiet, too quiet, and the stable hands are bored. The casino crowd comes at just the right time.
Otto’s muscular and classically Teutonic. His physical bulk is intimidating and he looks somewhat ridiculous on the back of a horse, but he’s at ease in the saddle and rides with effortless grace. He exudes masculinity. He’s clearly looking; and I need a distraction. We’re mutually convenient to each other. The fact that he lives in an Israeli settlement—a settlement, for god’s sake!—and that his grandfather was a Nazi, is irrelevant. We inhabit two different universes. We scrupulously don’t invite each other into our daily lives. But for a fling, our utter incompatibility is immaterial.
I stroke Tlali, bemused at myself and the situation. It’s ridiculous, really. But it seems like this is what I need to do. To cut the last dangling thread to Mahdi.
I sleep better that night than I have in weeks.
Well, this will test some comfort levels perhaps...but is very humanizing for Eleanor's character, along with a couple of other expose along the way...bits of knowingly risky behavior that most of us could confess to, if we dared. Danger and disapproval can be exhilarating and cathartic...