Yasmine by Eli Amir Page A

youthful vitality that glowed during the Kol Nidrei prayer on Yom Kippur. She stared at the huge stones with the patches of sprouting hyssop and scraps of paper wedged in the crevices, then looked at me. She said nothing and simply walked up to the Wall, touched it gently and then disappeared amid the throng of worshippers.
    The dusty square was crowded that morning. There were religious and secular Jews, tourists, policemen and soldiers, but despite their differences they looked to me just like a crowd of pilgrims from the past. I watched from the side, trying to imagine the place in all its ancient glory. Mother was gone for a long time but at last I saw her walking towards me. Here, amid the mass of strangers, she looked so small and delicate. Her expression was relaxed – the dream about her father had come back to her, she said, and then added that he had always hoped to pray at the Wall.
    The crowd swept us along. Thousands streamed through the shady passages and out to the sweaty alleys of the souk – the street of leather goods, the butchers’ market where great hunks of meat hung on hooks, streets of clothes, of fruit and vegetables, foods and sweets – each alley with its own distinctive odours and colours, sweet or sour, fresh or mouldy, attractive, nasty and confusing to the nose. The smells reminded Mother of Baghdad and she was happy, holding herself visibly more erect.
    We stopped and stared at the passers-by. Such a colourfulvariety, such contrasts, different cultures side by side, although with no contact between them. There were veiled women showing only their eyes, dignified men wearing long robes, a wide sash, keffiyeh and agal, simply dressed peasants bearing baskets, and among them bare-headed women in revealing modern clothing. How did these men feel at the sight of the girls in tiny mini-skirts invading their alleys? What were the veiled women thinking?
    Bustle and noise. Hundreds of people, most of them Jews, packed the speciality shops, buying baclava, pressed apricot, boza ice-cream, imported liquors, various cheeses, fish and smoked meats. They fell like locusts on the shops selling electrical appliances, household goods, furniture, antiques.
    â€œWatch out for pickpockets,” said Mother, alarmed by the crush.
    â€œThis is a city of saints,” I replied, borrowing her stock phrase, and her eyes smiled back at me.
    She wanted to surprise Father with the kind of dried white mulberries that he used to like, but finding herself at the entrance to a textile shop she could not resist going inside. The shopkeeper, his head wrapped in a keffiyeh despite the heat, showed her some fabrics, then turned to a customer who did not speak Arabic. Mother looked at the materials and now and then interpreted for the two of them.
    â€œLearn Hebrew and you’ll do good business,” she said to the shopkeeper.
    â€œWhat for? How long will you stay here? A month, two months?”
    â€œ Khaliya ala allah , leave it to God.”
    â€œWell, my son,” she said when we left the shop, “this is just the honeymoon.” She wouldn’t rest until we found the souk al - attarin ,the heavenly spice market. There she discovered a shop that specialized in dried fruits and traditional eastern sweetmeats, and bought not only dried white mulberries, but also small dried fruits of the kind we hadn’t tasted since Baghdad, dried apricots and plums, dates and pistachios, black watermelon seeds, and all sorts of other delights that caught her eye.
    Loaded with all these aromatic goods from the Old City, we reached Jaffa Gate. I wanted to put her in a taxi, but she insisted on going home by bus.
    Â 
    I had some time to spare before a scheduled midday meeting with the Mayor and decided to visit my new office. It was only a few days since I had been taken to see it by Mr Solly Levy, but I already felt that it was my second home. Mr Levy, who represented the Israel Lands Authority,