موقع المدار ينفرد في نشر مؤلّفات  منير موسى  باللّغات : العربية ، العبرية والإنجليزية ويصبح مصدرًا لها

 

Bitter Sweet Beloved                                 

 

(Novelette)

 

Dr. Muneer Moosa

 

 

     A farmers'I'm a poor orphan, yet I deem

     Myself fortunate, for I dream

     Of a gem or a golden gleam!

     The world is mine, that's my theme

     Seeking peace is my scheme    

 

This is one of the verses BSB used to sing to a melancholy tune, and I remember as a girl hearing him in the streets of Acre when I came to town with my mother, on weekends or holidays.   We would leave our village by the morning bus, and spend the day walking around my favourite city, shopping for clothes or gifts. Or I would go with my father to Nahariya, to visit someone in the hospital, or just to stroll around.  I always found Nahariya attractive, clean and pretty, and I liked it no less than Acre. BSB's song never disappeared from my memory, and I remember other songs as well.

 

I grew up under the amber yellow sky of  Najmat asSubh (Morning Star), my hillside village  amid olive trees and bushes, with a charming view to the sea.   I loved the green olive trees and the birds in their branches. I loved nature and I loved life.  

 

Books were my constant companions; so too was my cherished flute, on which I enjoyed playing would play a wistful air.  I loved my birthplace, the clear air and azure sky, the blue sea framed in my window -- far away, yet seeming near when its beauty  would hold my eyes while my mind soared on the wings of my dreams. I always looked ahead with optimism: little, insignificant me, in the blink of an eye become the cultured and educated young woman I am to-day.   I had to go through some hard times to achieve this, coming as I did from a modest background, not to say poor -- but I loved the whole world.

 

As I was growing up I used to help my parents work their plot of land, at the same time pursuing my studies.  

 

I would come to town with my mother, and there I would see BSB walking the streets.   Once he looked me straight in the eye, laughing behind his hand, and hurried past the bus stop.   When I looked back, I saw him running -- in his left hand a plastic bag decorated with coloured birds, on his right shoulder a black hold-all -- and heard him singing:

 

      Bitter Sweet am I

      My strength will never sink

      My dreams soar high

      Lucky my love, I think!

      My thoughts deep-buried lie

      From my mouth fledglings drink!

 

This image stayed in my mind: it was so special, and reminded me of characters in Gogol or AtTaib Saleh.

 

Once I asked my mother Rosaline "Who is this BS, and where is he from?"  When she replied "I don't know, but I've seen him at the village bus-stop, in modern dress," I continued "This rabbi, this priest, lives in our village?"  And mother said "Why not? People can live where they like. But I don't think he's a rabbi."

 

However, I persisted "Look at him, he dresses like a rabbi -- and people with beards like that you only see in town."   But mother repeated "I don't think so." So I went on "Once I saw him coming out of a house of prayer in the city." And mother answered "Well, maybe that was someone else who looked like him.  Anyway, why shouldn't a villager pray in town? Religion belongs to God." This time I had no answer, because I didn't really know what mother meant. I just yelled "There's our bus!" and she said affectionately "Yes, Jumana my dear, we have to hurry."

 

So our day out  ended with a race for the bus-stop, and in the rush I dropped a package with my new outfit.   I didn't realise what had happened until we got to the bus-stop, and then I burst into tears,  and when mother asked why I was crying I could only answer "My new suit! Where is it, mother?"  But she said "Don't cry, my dear -- let's just go back a little way." So that's what we did. I was rather confused,  even scared, but hopeful we would find my lost suit.

 

Imagine my surprise when I saw BSB standing beside our missing package and asking with a smile "Who does this belong to?"  Meantime a few wild unruly youngsters were playing by the bus-stop, running noisily and screaming at him:

 

    How do you feel

    Sweet, our chum?

    Teach us to spiel

    Don't stay dumb

    Keep an even keel

    Mind how you come

 

This surely must have annoyed BSB, but when I approached I saw he was laughing.   I heard mother say "Take your gift, child," and afterwards "Thank you BS," but I could only giggle, too scared to look him in the face. Then he corrected her "My name is BSB!" and mother bowed her head to hide her laughter, her hand clutched in mine.

 

So once again we ran for the bus, and before it left the station we heard the children shouting and chanting:

 

    Mr. Sweet come back

    To join the pack

    Any sweets in your sack?

    We love you Jack

    Give us some slack

    You're unique There's no-one like you, alack

 

They were looking at the back window of the bus, waving and calling "Bye, Sweet, bye," as if someone was acknowledging their farewells.  I simply couldn't fathom what was happening -- until I looked towards the rear of the bus, and there was BS sitting on the back seat!

 

I came home happy; and that night my sleep was filled with vividly-imagined scenes from the day's events.

 

Later After a time I heard  some of my school friends talking about BS, scoffing and  jeering and calling him a no-good. But others argued that he was a wise and well-meaning man, who never harmed anyone;, and also that he knew many languages, even Yiddish!

 

"Yiddish?" said my friends.   "Where would he pick up a mongrel language like that, a language hardly anybody knows?"

 

Then Sonya said "Don't you know  he spends nearly all his time in town?  He comes home on the last bus, at midnight -- and he doesn't always pay."

 

Suha was shocked: "What? Do you mean  he lives here?"

 

So Rudi told her: "He comes from our village, Najmat asSubh; though I have heard it said that he is from Yasif, our neighbour."  And Sonya agreed "That's right, from the old district, the eastern or southern quarter."

 

"Well, I've never seen him in the village," said Miriam, "though they say he                                                                               watches over vineyards, and takes care of flocks in the woods. Apparently he has dogs and horses, and lots of birds, and that's his life-style."

 

But I said I'd heard that he leaves the village early every morning and comes back late at night.   Ah …all my friends laughed, with a sound like the tumbling of pebbles rolling in the rushing river water.

 

Then Sara came up with a plan: "Listen, my friends, all of you, let's go to pray one day, and maybe we'll meet him there among the congregants."  But I found the idea ridiculous, and offered a very different suggestion: "Come on now, we have no reason to sneer at BS. We should ignore him and all the stories about him, and get on with our school work."    (Still, I couldn't resist the temptation to write about this unusual character.)

 

But  Sonya said  "No, listen, I've read stories by Chekhov and Nagib Mahfuz with characters just like BS."    And I added "Yusef Idris too." Sonya laughed and said "All right, let's go!"

 

So we went to pray; but instead of praying and listening attentively, we found ourselves staring into each other's eyes and smiling, and suddenly all our friends were laughing, and then the boys simply ran off….    Ah….childhood memories, so long ago…

 

We didn't meet BSB.

 

Suha thought perhaps he prayed somewhere else.  "With his clothes and his beard he looks like a priest or even a rabbi."

 

Sara:  "Could he be an impostor?"

 

I could only say "Who knows?  We can't believe all these stories."

 

But she persisted: "What good is he to anyone?"

 

Rani:  "Of course he's an impostor, just like in the films!"

 

And I answered "Yes, I've heard he doesn't have any kind of job, but makes money any way he can."  

 

Miriam: "His family are farmers, that's what I heard.  People tell of seeing him in our village late at night, and others have seen him in Yasif, or in other nearby villages."

 

And I added "But I also heard that some people from farmers' families have left the village and moved to town."

 

Sonya: "Why would they do that?  Will they find peace and quiet there, or air as clean as ours?"

 

Then I told her what I heard from my mother, that they just don't want to work on the land; there are even a few idlers who don't want to work at all. They want a life with no worries, and they are willing to cheat if it will get them easy money -- and we  know there's no shortage of crooks in town. I also heard that BSB collects money in the city streets every day and spends it, nobody knows where. Some say at the Casino: apparently he dreams of being rich, and he's convinced that one day he'll strike it lucky and after that he'll be on easy street.

 

Sonya, doubtfully: "What, without working?  Didn't we learn 'By the sweat of your face shall you eat bread'!"  And Rudi supported her: "Just like that, without working! Is that supposed to be easier?"

 

Then Sara said she had heard that for years he dreamt of making a fortune,  but without any idea how. And the whole crowd began to chant "He couldn't win, he's out of luck, his luck is out !" But when I asked if they knew why, they fell into a guilty silence:

 

"He never earned a penny by working; for years he begged for charity from anyone and everyone, summer and winter.   But only people who are willing to make an effort can earn money -- perhaps a lot of money from one source or another, maybe even a  treasure!"

 

And all my friends said "Quite right!"

 

Some weeks later, at  school, I thought of BSB, and  asked one of the teachers, Huda, if she knew anything about him.   When she said she had heard him mentioned in the teachers' room, I suggested she tell what she knew of the man and his exploits.   Here is what she told us:

 

"To the best of my knowledge BS comes from our beautiful Galilee village; but my friend Samah told me he is from Acre, and others say he is from one of the neighbouring villages , and it seems nobody really knows.  He is unemployed, and wears a honey-coloured coat which is falling to pieces, but he appears to be very attached to it."                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

                    

At this we all laughed.  We were on a tour of the village, and I felt I could speak freely with Huda, so I asked her to tell us more, explaining that I found these stories absorbing.

 

So our teacher went on: "As I have told you, his long overcoat was the colour of honey, his trousers were bordeaux, his ancient shoes black with a red pattern, and he used to change the style of his beard from time to time."

 

At this I had to ask if he really could be a rabbi or a priest, since we know that they always dress well and take care of their appearance.

 

And when her non-commital reply seemed not to satisfy me she asked "Jumana, why are you so interested in this man?"  To which I could only explain that sometimes I was afraid of him and sometimes I was sorry for him -- and sometimes I would forget all about him for ages.

 

I concentrate on my school-work, and think only of success and of  sweet times to come; my way is the way of knowledge and of humanitarianism; but whatever happens I shall always bless the Lord.  My parents were unassuming people, and that is how they raised me.

 

Finally my teacher said "Jumana, you are a sensible girl and you surely have a bright future.  May you know only happiness all your days !" And I replied, "You too."

 

The years slipped by.  I made good progress in my studies,  and always kept focussed on the brilliant life which was my goal; around me I saw only beauty.   Life was good to me, coming as I did from a conservative background and aspiring to scientific knowledge.   I drew on the sources of the University in the city I loved, spouse of the sea, under the spell of green Carmel .  

 

Once I was sitting with Yossi, one of my teachers from the department of Mathematics, my favourite subject; and  he introduced me to a new world, the world of law, for which I had hitherto shown no inclination. He had watched me, and decided that my approach to mathematics was legalistic!  I had never noticed this, and the idea was strange to me; but it opened new horizons which I may explore one day.

 

Yossi advised me to study something else and not to think only of the remuneration.  "There is more to life than just making a living," he said, "and support for you will always be available."   I was happy to hear this, and when I left him I felt the whole world was mine! I whispered to myself "Thank You, Lord, for turning barren ground into fertile soil, and for blessing me with brains and beauty in a well-built body.   But preserve me from pride and watch over me, for grace is Yours alone." At this time my dreams of the future man of my choice were not merely an illusion; my hope sprang from my faith in the blessed Lord's wisdom.

 

BSB never left my thoughts entirely, and    often when I came to town I would see him in the streets or at the bus station.   Once, in Haifa, I nearly met him: passing me in the street, he looked me straight in the eye, and smiled.  I had no way of knowing if he remembered me or not. At first I thought it was just a meaningless smile to a young woman, and I promised myself to find out later how good his  memory really was, this BSB!

 

Judging by his clothes, which were just as I remembered them, BS hadn't changed at all when I saw him one day standing at the corner of haNevi'im Street in the Hadar quarter of Haifa, eating falafel and singing softly to himself.  And a little later, as I and my friend were examining jewellery in a shop-window across the street, I suddenly saw him again with a good-looking girl. She had a yellow handbag on her shoulder and a book and a newspaper in her hand; he was speaking to her, but she seemed too shy to say anything.  After walking with her for a few metres he left her, and she turned her blond head to follow him with her eyes until he disappeared. He had accepted the invitation of the falafel-merchant to come in to his kiosk for a cold drink, making a dramatic entry and then chatting with the other customers as was his wont -- though the women  usually answered him only with a smile. BS couldn't see me observing him because of the crowds in the street.

 

How I love the Hadar in Haifa, with its shops,  its busy streets thronged with people, and its bright lights: Haifa the beautiful, always was  and always will be! BS was gone, with his fixed smile and beaming face.

 

My friend and classroom neighbour Carmella, a genuine native of  the Carmel, suddenly said to me one day: "I want to ask BS to pray for us; what do you think?"

 

I was taken aback.  "What, BS? You can't be serious!  You expect him to help us through our exams?  And how do you come to know him anyway, when you don't live anywhere near us?"   Carmella replied that she had heard of him only recently, but when I asked if she had ever actually seen him, she admitted: "The fact is, I read in the newspaper about somebody who is willing to pray for any good cause -- marriage, divorce, success in examinations, and so on."  "Great!" I said, "Let me think about it." But, to be honest, I didn't believe at all in the power of that sort of prayer.

 

I recalled what my mother had told me about BS and his daily forays after money; I myself knew that he begged in the streets and bus stations,  in hospitals and restaurants, changing his image to suit the venue. In a hospital he would pray for the patients, till someone would recognise him and suggest he go and find a job, and then he would disappear with a grimace.   When he went to pray in town he would sometimes adopt the guise of a devout believer, and then people used to take pity on him and offer him help, addressing him by his full name BSB. He has no qualms about asking for charity, without revealing anything of his intentions, and I am sure his prayers are wasted.  How can it be otherwise, when he is nothing but a mercenary swindler? But the wisdom of the Lord is above us all.

 

BS spends time in the markets, where he harangues people with his philosophy, but after gathering their donations  he leaves, and a long time will pass before he comes back to the same place again. He is tireless, covering large distances on foot and even walking from one city to another.  While resting from time to time in the shade of a tree he chases the birds, running after them, climbing and jumping among the branches, and singing:

 

   I trek and never resign

   For years, come rain or shine

   Looking for friends of mine

   My children will be fine

   For me the people pine

   And even the birds are mine

   Under shade-trees I recline

 

When he travels to town BS uses the bus, but between cities he prefers the train; he dozes off and forgets where he is going, and once or twice after reaching the end of the line the train has turned around and made the journey back, all without his waking up.

 

Many see him, but hardly anyone really knows him.  In the street he doesn't look right or left and avoids greeting people, like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand.

You would be surprised how many languages BS speaks.   One week-end, on my way home after a distressing absence of months, I saw him sitting on the pavement by a lottery booth and weeping!   I have no idea why he wept, but I remember some of his words:

 

   My lot is harsh as lye

   And none to question why

   Who rules my fate?  Not I

   My trade I love to ply

   But I never really try

   My dreams are in the sky

   And my morale is high

 

Occasionally you would be surprised to discover BS in the middle of some social activity, especially a wedding or a funeral; people always seemed to enjoy even a brief conversation with him, but he would never speak more than a hurried word or two, and never met anyone's gaze.   I myself was surprised to see him among the guests at my friend Dalia's wedding one week-end.

 

When he got up to dance with the bride she laughed in embarrassment; but her brother Danny wanted to get rid of him. After a difficult exchange in two or three languages Danny seemed to understand BSB, and treated him with the respect due to any guest; but as he unexpectedly made to leave people called after him "BS, when is your wedding?   Don't forget to invite us, SB!"  BS had a cold drink in his right hand, so he made a wide gesture with his left: "All of you are invited to Abu Cristo's Restaurant as soon as I can find a bride -- and that may happen even to-day! My wedding will be on a Tuesday, and remember, my name isn't SB, but BSB." At this everybody laughed.    

 

One Tuesday BS visited a nearby village to pay his condolences to the family of a wealthy landowner who had died there. When he entered their home that evening lamenting, he looked right and left in an attempt to identify the bereaved family, though without meeting anyone's gaze directly.  He ended up offering words of solace to almost everyone present, but not to the family, whom he simply didn't know. He did what local convention required, spoke a few traditional verses, and then sat in a corner. Later he rose and stood in the middle of the room, where he declaimed loudly what he intended to be words of wisdom.   However, when it turned out that no-one understood him, people were almost ready to laugh, and only the solemnity of the occasion deterred them…Then BS suddenly left the house gesticulating! I heard of this dramatic episode from my father Zaki.

 

Villagers who are acquainted with BS sometimes ask  "Where is his wife?" although they nearly all know he is a bachelor; however, some do claim to have seen him in town with a girl, a beautiful girl, and elegant!  But I thought to myself that he was probably praying for her, perhaps to recover a lost purse, to find a husband, or to improve her finances! Still, people saw him with her in Haifa, in Acre, in Nahariya, and it seemed  unbelievable that a girl like that would marry BSB; and then, after only a couple of months, the rumour was out that BS was getting married! Many scoffed; but the consensus was "Maybe he is serious. Why should we doubt him?  He may well be a man of wisdom and understanding."

 

Sami, one of the neighbours, reported seeing BS whispering to a beautiful girl late at night, here in the village, in the old quarter; he  overheard the word 'bus'. Another neighbour told me she had seen him walking from the clinic to a house of prayer, and added "He seems to be more of a  believer than I am! I've heard that he prays everywhere and is well received by all, like a citizen of the world. He is surely a man of intellect, but society has branded him."

 

The girl BSB  met had grown up in Tel-Aviv, city of clamour and commerce, of dance and dreams, beautiful city that never sleeps , city without respite!   But that's not where he met her. One stormy winter's day, against his better judgement, he decided to go out in spite of the incessant downpour.  He ignored the inclement weather, and left the comfort of his home without an umbrella, as he does not own one; chatting briefly with some of the umbrella-carriers he encountered, and smiling a small, sly smile.  He went into the Penguin Café in Nahariya, and there he saw a beautiful girl sitting alone, her vine-green eyes filled with sadness. BS sat down beside her and started to talk to her in Yiddish, but she didn't answer.   He was wearing a dark green hat, something like the style popular in Eastern Europe, but not often seen in our sunny land.

 

"What's your name, honey?" he asked, and she answered shyly "My name is Haviva."  Surprised, he asked her to say her name again; but she replied in her low voice "My name is what you heard, don't you remember?"

 

Then he said "What a rare and wonderful name!  I feel an affinity between us, maybe even affection."

 

But she replied "This is the first time I've ever seen you.  I don't come from round here, I've no family here, I'm alone, and this is only the third time in my life I've come up North to breathe some clean air and enjoy your pretty hills and your smokeless blue skies."

 

BS complimented her on her good manners, and also praised her eloquence.  "Your Arabic is beautiful, your Hebrew fluent, your English good; maybe you know Yiddish too, and just haven't  had occasion to use it?"

 

When she explained quietly and unassumingly that she was well-educated, a university graduate, BS invited her to listen to a poem  dedicated to her:

 

   I am BS and I don't lament

   Within the law my life's well spent

   But henceforth I won't be silent

   I'll search no more on the continent

   I have sweet you,  I'm well content

 

Haviva laughed in embarrassment.  "Where did that come from? Are you a poet?"

 

"You have made me a poet, my love.  Your beauty, your warmth, have quite turned my head, and your green eyes, so like my own, (and also like this hat of mine, if you'll excuse the comparison), green as a verdant garden!

 

"BS, where did you get such a poetic imagination? Have you ever read Lorca?"

 

"Yes I have, and also Musset and P. and Lamartine, and my favourite, Pushkin!"

 

"You've read French and Spanish and Russian poetry ?   That's great!"

 

"And also classical Jahili, Umru alQays and Turfa ben ilAbd , if you have heard of them, and perhaps you know of Jamil Buthayna, the famous romancer from the Umayyad era." His eyes held hers, and at times glanced skywards, as he now sang:

 

   Not by chance I dispel the dark        

   Within my heart is a hidden spark

 

And BS wept as he continued:

 

   Give me back my childhood, please

 

But Haviva said to him "You are a man of culture, familiar with poets and writers from all over the world.  Do you also like Bialik and Tschernikhowski, as I do?"

 

This time BS didn't answer.   He was musing silently "Everything comes of itself, by chance.  Have I a chance? Maybe marriage?" And then he found himself contemplating  regretfully all the money he had wasted, always receiving and never giving, neither to any individual nor to society.   Grief and loneliness moved him to weep once more, and he let the tears flow, without attempting to dry them.

 

But soon he was thinking  "Perhaps she is my gift, my love, my beloved!   How lucky I was to find her! Why can't I have luck like that when it comes to making money?  There my luck is always out; with bad luck like mine there's no chance I'll ever be rich!"

 

Once, beside the lottery booth in Acre,  in the shade of a green tree like the green of his hat, BS sat and wept bitterly, stopping when there were no passers-by to see. "I have luck with the girls, and I don't care who is jealous, as long as Haviva is by my side.   I won't delude myself (that) everybody loves me, nobody envies me, I love them all and they all love me, I am BS, beloved of the whole world!"

 

BSB and his beloved Haviva strolled the city streets, visited the cinema, went to the beach; everywhere people wondered where he had found such an elegant young woman.

 

But BS didn't change his way of life, though he was careful not to beg or accept money when Haviva was with him.  To his relief she never asked him where he worked. He knew that she had a good job, but he always avoided asking her so that she wouldn't ask him; he had the good sense to remain silent on the subject.

 

BS celebrated his wedding on a fine day in spring, a Tuesday .  He didn't choose Friday or Saturday or Sunday, because he preferred Tuesday, though he didn't know exactly why.  It didn't deter him that many found his choice peculiar: as usual, BS followed his whim and did as he liked.

 

At the wedding Haviva, now his bride, stood by his side in her white gown, radiant as the rising sun.   BS himself wore a green suit (to match her eyes, so he told her!), the like of which he had never worn before.  The reception took place in Abu Cristo's restaurant opposite the jetty in Acre, facing a magnificent view of fishing boats on the placid blue sea, as far as Haifa with its spellbinding lights. How did BS think of such a wonderful setting for his celebration?    How did he make the acquaintance of all his guests, and how did he invite them all? They came from town and country, they spoke many languages, and together they formed an unusual gathering which made him very happy.

 

Most of the night the newlyweds danced together to the rhythmic hand-clapping of their guests.   But this had been a most exhausting adventure for BS, and that is why he and his bride slipped away from the  party and disappeared -- discreetly, unnoticed, almost stealthily, while the hall, still crowded with dancing couples, reverberated to the booming music.

 

This was to be the end of BS's long years of loneliness. But where did he set up house after the wedding?  Nobody knew. No-one saw him in the village any more, and only rarely did anyone catch sight of him with Haviva in town.

 

Eventually BS  lapsed into his old habits, and once again spent most of his time roaming the city streets, though people hardly recognised him now because he wore new clothes and  his beard was properly trimmed.

 

One day he was resting in the shadow of an oak near a lottery booth in the Bay area, after a day spent wandering the streets; as he listened to the chirping and chattering of the birds, he himself could be heard singing:

 

   Will my luck change by and by

   To-day there is good reason why

   To questions I won't reply

   For my future I'm building high

   Perhaps Haviva will comply

   Who'll count the money -- not I

 

                                     until he suddenly got to his feet and vanished from view behind the tree, whistling to the birds and miming the actions of a musician playing his instrument.

 

Another time he and Haviva had just finished their coffee, and he made to light up a Dutch cigar, but she asked him not to.   Though he complied with her wishes, he explained that this was the first time he had tried smoking, because he was so happy to have her by his side.   And then, after imploring her to listen earnestly to his question, he asked her: "My love, how can I become a rich man?" Haviva said "If you work day and night, and work hard, you may get rich.  But everybody says you're already rich, BS !" "How can they say that?" he wondered, and she answered "You're rich because Haviva is your wife and the light of your life!" "Come on," he said, "let's walk a little, ornament of mine eyes , my inspiration; we may bump into friends, we may even earn something!"    Haviva had no idea what he meant and she didn't ask him.

 

So there they sat, BS and Haviva, in his favourite café, the Penguin in Nahariya, which he had patronised on his own for so many years,  brooding over his lottery tickets and sipping coffee while he smoked a cigar (usually English, sometimes Cuban); and where also he had hoped to meet the woman of his choice, of his most ardent dreams.  As they talked he reminded her of the sweet times they had known, and recounted also anecdotes from his own life, his friends and acquaintances, his excursions; he told her too of the three dogs who were his nocturnal companions: Lance, Colt, and Breeze: black, red, and wolf-grey.  But Haviva neither answered nor showed any sign of interest, almost as though she had heard nothing. So BS changed his approach: looking straight at her he declaimed "Your eyes are so beautiful, and altogether you are lovelier from day to day!" This time she responded with a little smile, though still without speaking.   Suddenly she glimpsed a passer-by resembling BS waving a greeting from afar, and while BS made no overt response, the lightning-quick flash in his eye signalled acknowledgement.

 

Haviva took a book  from her green bag, with the pretty picture of Tel-Aviv on one side, and on the other side drawings  of a book and a heart with flowers and birds.

 

"Look there," said BS, "your good fortune is there,in front of you."  She didn't grasp what he meant, until he pointed, "See all these people buying lottery tickets: why shouldn't we take a chance too?  Come on!" With this he took her hand and drew her towards the lottery booth, saying: "Try your luck -- take a lottery ticket, and fill out a lotto form.   Maybe we'll get rich!"

 

"Listen to me, BS, " she replied, "I'm prepared to fill out one lotto form, and buy one lottery ticket.  That's all." When he took three of each she teased him: "Take some more!" But he was firm: "No, only three.   Don't forget that we were married on a Tuesday, the third day of the week."

 

This was enough to trigger a bout of nostalgia, and BS went on: "I promise, any time I am in Acre, no matter where, I'll find a way to visit Abu Cristo's,  to enjoy the peace and quiet, to feast my eyes on the sea and the boats, and to remember. How I love that place!" (Now he was really carried away!) "On the other hand, I must admit, if only it were possible I would go to Haifa every day.   There also I can forget the world, and enjoy the beauty of a clean city, the great sea, the wom --" Here he stumbled, and broke off without completing the word. Haviva said quickly: "You think you'll find another woman like me? Let me tell you, I've been courted by rich men; but my dream was never of wealth: I dreamt only of wisdom and happiness."

 

At the lottery booth Haviva bought her two tickets herself, and didn't let BS contribute to the purchase.   She thought she had a better chance of winning if she used her own hard-earned money, rather than BS's, which she felt came from doubtful sources  and she was sure it wouldn't bring her luck.

 

"Well," said BS, "now we'll see which of us is the lucky one.  Though I have the feeling that if we're talking about the big prize, I'm the one who's going to be calling you 'Luck-Lass'."

 

"Don't you think 'Luckless' might be more appropriate?"  Haviva suggested.

 

But BS would have none of it.  "No, Haviva, this is the first time we are trying our luck, especially in the lottery."

 

Nevertheless people saw BS on various occasions, inexplicably weeping under a bird-filled carob tree near a lottery booth on the Carmel in Haifa, listening to the twittering orchestra, and himself singing plaintively.

 

 This was the same song he had chanted to himself while walking the city streets year after year (when Haviva was still a child); and now he had added some new lines:

 

   We all crave luck indeed

   Not only those in need

   The rich also take heed

   With them it's only greed

   They never had to bleed

   Being together is H&B's creed

   They'll produce a beautiful breed

 

When Haviva first heard this song, she laughed in spite of her pain.  She was now often alone in her modest town house, and one day she thought she would like to see the inside of an ancient little cupboard which she had never seen opened.  In the cupboard Haviva found a pile of old papers, which, to her surprise, turned out to be lottery tickets and lotto forms, hundreds of them, all neatly arranged; and most surprising of all was a page torn from a drawing-pad, with the inscription: "Tough luck.  No big deal. Till

my wedding day!"  

 

Time passed; and we find Haviva in the maternity ward of Elisha Hospital in Haifa, where she knew she would enjoy peace and quiet , a wonderful view, and the care of skilled medical staff.   But she was alone; so that although she was overjoyed when the nurse placed her angelic infant in her arms, yet her tears flowed copiously. Her face shone like the rising sun as she conversed with the nurses in low whispers, but when they pointed out that the child had her features, she didn't utter a word.

 

Next evening Haviva happened to pick up yesterday's Ma'ariv, left there by Lucy, a nurse who had been in her room.   Her eye fell on an item at the bottom of the back page: "An unidentified drunkard was found dead in Haifa railway station, near the bus terminal."   Before she even read the details she was overcome by bitter weeping. "Oh, BSB, why did you leave me?" she moaned. "You told me I was the woman of your choice, your 'luck-lass' -- but I am really luckless.   Look at your only son: born at dawn on the day you died, your favourite Tuesday, as if you bequeathed him all the days to come that should have been yours. Your son, child of your love -- but you never saw his beauty, like the beauty of Joseph the Righteous!

 

   Bitter my fate, I sigh

   Outside the law I fell

   Ask mother, she'll reply

   Her grief was grim as hell

   My love of toil's no lie

   BS, we wish you well

 

Another nurse, Besora, came to grieve with her and comfort her.

 

Later on Haviva was searching in her wallet for telephone numbers, when she came across two forgotten papers; and her eyes widened when she realised what they were  -- a lottery ticket and a lotto form…

 

"Don't you worry, Haviva," said Sister Besora,  "I'll attend to this." She went off with the tickets, and soon came hurrying back, laughing and gesticulating, and announced: "My friend, it seems the good news is all yours."  When Haviva asked her what she meant, she explained that she had just read a notice in the newspaper Lucy had forgotten yesterday, and she assumed Haviva hadn't paid it any attention.  "What notice?" Haviva asked in puzzlement, "And what does it have to do with me?"

 

So Sister Besora explained that the notice was from the National Lottery, and it said: "A resident of the north of the country has won two first prizes --  lottery and lotto! The winning tickets have to be presented at any lottery station within a month." Haviva hadn't seen this item at the top of the back page because the  paper had fallen from her hands when she was overcome by grief on reading the other item.

 

It gradually sunk in, that the first time in her life she had tried her luck, Haviva had indeed won both first prizes.  She now felt vindicated in her insistence on using only her own hard-earned money, even for so small an outlay. But although a well-educated and beautiful woman, and now also wealthy due to the unexpected windfall, she remained broken-hearted and grief-stricken over the loss of BS, to whom she had tied her fate.   However, the Lord did not forget her, as He will not forget anyone modest and unpretentious.

 

Haviva and the nurse embraced and wept together, and other nurses and doctors came also, to mourn with her and console her.  They all admired the charming infant in her arms, and asked what she would call him. Haviva said "I'm going to name him Lucky Love," and everyone smiled and looked pleased, and Haviva smiled with them.  She also blessed the Lord, saying " We will never forget to offer You our thanks until the stones begin to speak." Haviva held her child, pressing one winning ticket to her own body and the other gently to his, beautiful, angelic, precious above all the world's treasures; and so they drifted into tranquil sleep, and in her bitter-sweet dream she sang     

 

   Dreams -- a no-credibility scene

   Nights and days of rapine

   Blooms are not always seen

   They spoke of her singular mien

   No star-bride like her has been

   Who then will be queen

   With eyes so wise and green?