"There is no need to dust today, Soni," says Bella.
"It isn't one of my duties."
"Yeah, I know, I know, but I'm just tellin' ya," she slurs. "Let's sit out in the garden."
"Maybe we could go for a walk, instead?"
"Aw, I'm tired today and my feet hurt."
"We're supposed to go out. My supervisor was reminding me yesterday."
"Are you here for me or are you here for your supervisor?"
She is wearing black and white, a black sleeveless top and a flaring white pleated skirt with a broad-rimmed
white sunhat adorning her head. She wears her hair in pageboy style, and it is bleached the usual shade of light
brassy blonde and her lips painted a brilliant fire engine red.
Soni thinks she looks like an obese magpie devouring a cherry. The garden is huge, with meticulously trimmed
grass, rose bushes coming into bloom and
vibrant azaleas and rhododendrons, the handiwork of her Chinese gardeners. The air is full of fragrance and
birdsong and the warm sun and cool shade
leave one feeling a little bit stirred and a bit drowsy.
"You know this is our last day," Soni says. She feels slim and elegant today in her belted magenta shirt and
rolled up blue jeans and golden goddess sandals.
"Yeah, you've been telling me this for weeks."
"It's to get you used to the idea," she says, sipping her tall glass of ice tea.
"Yeah, like my life's going to come to an end once you're gone." She looks up and lifts her sunglasses as
though to see her better, "Not that I haven't appreciated
you. No, don't take it like that at all."
Soni is not merely a paid companion for Bella. She is her peer support worker. Both women share in
common a history of mental illness. Soni is well
recovered from the post-traumatic stress disorder that has plagued her since before she and her family left as
refugees the Palestinian Territories. She
speaks nearly unaccented English and Bella still hasn't guessed where she is from, nor has she troubled to ask
her. Bella is a Jew. She is very wealthy and also
a fervent Zionist although she has never been to Israel.
"Where you from, Soni? You still haven't told me."
"You've never asked me."
"You're Canadian, aren't you?"
"Now I am."
"It's too easy to become a Canadian," says Bella. "My grandparents, well, I already told you they survived the
Shoah, they arrived in Montreal in 1946 and this
country still wasn't too fond of Jews, you know. They really had to prove their worth. They worked hard for
this country and they had to earn their citizenship.
Not like all these Chinese and Filipinos and God knows who else who come here now. And they don't even
bother to learn English. Not the Chinese anyway."
"Most Filipinos are already fluent when they get here. And the ESL classes, I understand, are overflowing
with Chinese students."
"Don't bore me with facts," she drawls, emptying her ice tea into her generous maw. She reaches for a piece
of chocolate cake. "Have some cake, Soni. It's
delicious. Elvira just made it yesterday."
"Elvira?"
"My Filipino cook."
"I'm from Bethlehem," she says.
"In the States?"
"No, not the States."
"You want to say that you're, you're from Israel?"
"Not Israel. I'm Palestinian."
"More ice tea?" Soni is seated straddling sun and shade in her deck chair. A freshly leafed elm tree towers
over her. Her black hair is swept back in a poney-
tail and her eyelids obscure her brown eyes as she stares helplessly into her lap. For two years she has worked
with this difficult woman, and she has mostly
succeeded in working well with her. Since the winter she has not been able to get her to leave the house. Bella
has become obsessed with her home, a sumptuous
twenty room house in a tony neighbourhood. Her husband was a bank CEO, much older than her and confined
now to a ritzy nursing home. She still can't bring
herself to sell the house.
"What are you going to do when I'm gone?" Soni asks.
"I'll be okay."
"Have you thought of the social club?"
"That's full of sick people."
Soni bites her tongue.
"They're sicker than I am anyway. I got friends already."
"How often do you see them?"
"How often can you come over?"
"I can't. You know, we've discussed this, already. Several times."
"Yeah, I know, I know. But you can't break the rules?"
"I would like to keep my job."
"They can't pay you very much."
"I get by."
"Come work for me privately. I'll give you what you're worth."
Soni again bites her tongue.
"I couldn't. I'm sorry."
"How about some more cake. You're so skinny, you could use a bit of padding."
"Sure."
"So, you're, you're," she can't bring herself to say the word.
"Palestinian."
"How come you're not wearing a veil?"
"You mean hijab or niqab?"
"Anything."
"I'm not Muslim. I'm Christian."
"There are no Christians over there."
"Yes there are."
"They're all Muslims. They hate us. They want to drive us all into the ocean."
"We are not all Muslims and we would like our country back."
"Where are we going to go?"
"Have you people ever thought of sharing?"
"It's our land. God promised it to us."
"And then He evicted you."
"And now He's brought us back. So deal with it."
"Are you sure we can't go for a walk."
"I'm too tired. Maybe you`d like to leave early?"
"We still have an hour together."
"What? Are you being metered?"
Soni brushes a fly away and stands up.
"You're not going are you?"
"You're welcome to join me."
"Where you going?"
"Back to the office. I'm walking. You can come partway if you want."
"Why not all the way? Then I can have a little chat with your supervisor."
"You're always welcome to."
Bella trails Soni through the house, from the terrace, through the warmly tinted breakfast room, the cool,
Wedgwood blue elegance of the dining room, the oak
panelled splendour of the living room into the foyer. Bella stands awkwardly as Soni reaches for the door,
pausing to examine the green, blue and gold stain glass
panels.
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go on like that," Soni says.
"Think nothing of it dear."
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to come out with me, even for a little while?"
"I don't like it out there."
"But you live in such a beautiful neighbourhood. It's safe, and lovely with all the trees and gardens."
"This is where I live. I got everything I need here. I only have to pick up the phone or log onto the computer,
or ask Elvira or one of the maids to go shopping."
"It's not good for you to isolate."
"I didn't know that was a verb! Hey, Soni, before you go, I want to show you something." Bella gestures to
the side table. It is draped in a blue and white
Israeli flag, adorned with a menorah, a vase full of red roses and the photograph of a young man.
"Have I ever told you about this?"
"No."
"You know who this is, this picture of the handsome young man?" Her voice rises with emotion. "Do you
know who this is?"
"Your son?"
"He died in Israel. Fifteen years ago. Twenty years old. Blown to smithereens by a goddamn suicide bomber
over there. One of your people. A... a
Palestinian. What do you think of that, Soni? Tell me, dear, what do you think of that? When I heard the news I
had a complete and total breakdown.
I was too sick to travel to attend his funeral. My own son, Soni. Killed by one of your people, one of you
bloody Arabs. Maybe a relative of yours. And you
know something, Soni, I was doing really good before that happened. It was the best I'd been in years, and now
look at me. I can't even leave my own
property. My son, Soni. My only child. What do you think of that? Tell me, dear, what do you think of that?"
"I didn't know. You never said anything. Bella, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry to hear this.
"What? Sorry that it happened or sorry that I told you about it?"
"What was his name?" She feels stupid and inert as she says this. She knows she should have left already.
"Seth." Bella glares at her, then bursts into tears. "Now please go."
Walking down the hill of the winding street of mansions, big leafy trees, ample lawns and fragrant gardens
Soni reaches for her cell phone. She calls her office,
asks for Bella's case manager, then for her own supervisor, leaving messages on their voice mail. She feels like
a machine, or an animated doll. In less than forty
minutes she is at the office, seated in the staff room, at the table, trying to finish her paperwork. She knows
what she has to do. Having banked a lot of hours
she is set to take time off, perhaps a couple of weeks. She could not deal with all this and still continue to
do well in
her job. Soni loves what she does, but accepts
that there are limits. She didn't know that seeing that picture of Bella's son, Seth, would set her off like this. She
knows the pattern well, this sudden numb
detachment, with the clear, inalterable knowledge that she has just been horribly violated. It is happening again
and she knows that she is going to have to hole
herself up in a safe place. Fortunately she has an understanding and supportive husband. He always knows
when to leave her alone...and when not to.
It was during the military occupation and already her family was preparing to get out. They were moving
to London, where she would attend university classes
part time while recovering from the incident. Fifteen years ago it happened. She was walking home from a
Christmas Eve mass in the Church of the Nativity
where her father served as a priest. There were Israeli soldiers everywhere, and there he was. The streetlight
was bright enough so she could see his face clearly.
Seth. Yes, who else could it have been? Even then she knew his accent to be Canadian, or British, but certainly
not Israeli. He demanded to see her papers, only
hers, as he waved away with his AK-47 her sister, father and brother. He didn't say why he wanted to detain
her, a shy fifteen-year-old girl, while sending off
the rest of the family. Then he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her, forcefully into an empty building. It was
over very quickly and she was too paralyzed to
do anything. What she remembered most was the weight of his body pressing her down, his hot rancid breath
and the sense that now and forever her life had
come to an end. To this day she does not remember how she got home.
The next day she saw her father weep as she told him and her mother what had been done to her. She was
very fortunate. They loved and protected her all the
more They were not like the Muslims, nor like many of the other Christians. They would not be hobbled by
shame, nor by embarrasment, they would not accuse
their child of the atrocity that had just been inflicted on her. They were soon in London, where she was
delivered of her child of rape. A boy. Stillborn, and no
longer a problem for her. When later that day, news was broadcast about a suicide bombing and a young
Canadian-Israel soldier named Seth being among
the dead, Soni broke down and wept in the dark privacy of her bedroom. For days she couldn't stop weeping.
She knew she was ill. In the hospital she met her
husband, a Canadian medical student recovering from a psychotic episode. They were soon marrried and have
lived in Canada now for most of the six years of
their marriage.
Now she sits at their kitchen table, waiting for her husband to come home. She is drinking a cup of tea and has
no appetite for the slice of toast with melted
butter and honey growing cold in the small white plate. She hasn't the energy for reading or watching TV, nor for
going on the Internet. The apartment is silent.
A breeze carries a fragrance of lilacs through the open window. She would lie down if she could. But she feels
best right now seated at the table doing nothing.
She only wishes that she had had the opportunity, that she had taken the time to tell Bella about the grandmothers
in Jerusalem whom lately have been clandestinely
smuggling Palestinian families past the wall on day trips to befriend and show them the city, their own city that
they are not permitted to enter. But Bella doesn't
believe that there are any Palestinians. To her they are all dirty, uneducated Arabs. Jew haters. She has lost
count of the number of times she has had to hear this
from this fat miserable Jewish woman, and hold her breath, count to ten, grit her teeth and clench her fists till
she's overcome the desire to defend, to attack, or
retaliate.
Bella has returned outside carrying a flask of Bourbon that she pours into her half-empty glass of ice tea. She
has carried the rest of the chocolate cake with her,
which she has set on the table and has begun to cut into generous rectangles, stuffing one after another into her
mouth. She takes another swallow of Bourbon then
realizes she feels hot and tired. Then she shoves in another piece of cake, followed by another. Soon she is
pouring more Bourbon into her glass. She feels even
hotter now, so she removes her black sleeveless top. her breasts are still round, and not very large. A black
lacey bra holds them up. Her dead husband Victor
used to love seeing her in black undergarments. The fat woman with the ivory coloured skin slips from her chair
and lies down in the sun on the grass where she
slowly loses consciousness. She lies there like a beached manatee sporting black lace and pleated white, a
large white sun hat covering her face. She is soon
snoring.
When she wakes she has no idea how long she's been there. The shade has moved over to cover her just in
time to prevent the sunburn from getting worse.
Shoving away the hat from her face she curses softly when she sees that her skin has turned pink. With
tremendous effort she pulls herself up, sits on the chair in the
shade and has another swig of Bourbon. Her head aches and she reaches for the chocolate cake. Suddenly
disgusted with this excess, with her gluttony, she
returns inside to summon one of the maids to come clean up the mess. She remembers that today is the servants'
day off. this is the one-day of the week that she is
alone, that she has the house to herself. Still drunk she walks with difficulty through the breakfast room, the
dining room, the living room and out to the foyer.
Pausing in front of the makeshift altar she stares at her son's face. With her blessing he went to Israel when he
was eighteen where he joined the army. She does
not know that he raped a Palestinian girl and that her name is Soni. Lifting the photo to her face, Bella kisses her
son's image, leaving superimposed on his
handsome young face a wet smear of red lipstick and brown chocolate. Drunken tears begin to stream down her
face as she mutters,
"My son, my son, my precious
precious Seth...my son...my beautiful son..."
A yellowjacket wasp has flown in attracted by the chocolate smear on the Plexiglas. Bella is severely
allergic to wasp venom. Clinging to the photo like a dying
nun to a rosary she tries to shoo the hornet away with it but it lands on her fat naked stomach. Her son's
photograph slips from her hands and the Plexiglas shatters
on the terracotta tiles. Somehow the wasp flies off without stinging her. The fat Jewish woman, barefoot and
naked but for her stained pleated white skirt and her
black lacey bra, sinks down to the red floor, sits cross legged on the terracotta tiles and continues to weep in the
presence of her dead child while a shard of broken
glass pierces her white thigh. The little trickle of blood shows invisible against the terracotta tile as Bella
weeps and kisses her son's mangled photo again and again
and again. Outside a soft wind blows filling the garden with the spiced fragrance of the bright yellow azaleas.
As the disconsolate mother quietens she hears the
singing of birds, rises up and walks out of the foyer, carrying her son's photo. She is unaware of the blood that
she has stepped in and is now tracking through the
beautiful rooms of this elegant house. In the kitchen she pours a glass of water and takes it ouside where she
discovers her black sleeveless top draped on the
chair where Soni was sitting. She puts it back on, breathing in the fragrant spice of the yellow azalea, then turns
around and sees for the first time her bloody
footprints on the pavement. Looking down she pulls the glass shard from her thigh, then she faints, slumped into
the chair in the cool shade and hopes bitterly that
soon she will die there. She doesn't stay there long. Feeling suddenly and unexpectedly sobre Bella heaves
herself from the chair and cleans the mess from the
table. She carries the glasses, pitcher, leftover cake and half empty Bourbon bottle into the kitchen. She cannot
remember when she last loaded the
dishwasher. She turns it on and while the dishes are cleaned to a danceable rhythm of water crashing against
glass, metal and porcelain, she walks not slowly but in
a measured pace up the winding staircase. undresses in the bathroom and takes a long hot and renewing shower.
Drying herself and dressing in a white cotton
blouse and bluejeans, she carefully locks every window and door in the big sprawling house, and finally the
door that she shuts behind her like an unpleasant
memory. She leaves the property and takes her first walk in many many months, knowing that she might be out
until late this evening. Already the sun is beginning to set and while a robin sings and a crow drowns
the music in raucous cawing the newly green leaves are caught with the yellow gold fire and the trunk and soil
beneath are stained red in the dying day. She is the only person out on the sidewalk and wishes that for the rest
of eternity she might walk like this alone into the consuming light of the dying sun. In the round park empty but for
the blazing trees and the flowering bushes she sits on a bench bathed in the golden and fading light. She closes
her eyes and just wishes she could strip naked and lie down in the cool green grass and the tiny white and
yellow daisies and there die with the fading light, completely unaware of the existence of Soni who has been
weeping in the protective arms of her gentle and frightened husband. The sun has set and the light fades from the
park and from the earth. As the first street lights come on the weary Bella rises up from the bench and begins her
slow and uncertain return to her home. She already knows that the first thing she is going to do is dismantle the
altar of her dead son. She has no idea of what she will do after. She wonders if she will ever see Soni again.
The birds have stopped singing and the city is silent.
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