13

Sahtayn Hummus

Sahtayn had been open for ten years. Its owners, Akram and his wife Yasmeen, have excellent rapport with their customers. They often forget that the two are Palestinians except when they hear them speaking Arabic to each other, or to one of their children.

Roni comes all the way from north Tel Aviv once a week just to eat at Sahtayn. After finishing his breakfast there, he usually walks the ten steps from Sahtayn Hummus to Café Sarah, nearby on Shenkin Street, to drink his coffee and read the newspaper.

Today, however, there was no confident smile, political joke, or a curse about the rising cost of life in Tel Aviv. Nor were there complaints, questions, sighs, or any new Arabic words for Roni to learn. Sahtayn was closed and many of its customers went back after standing in front of its dirt-colored, iron door. There was no sign posted to indicate that it would be closed today.

Roni’s walk from Sahtayn to Café Sarah was lonely and slower than usual. “We won’t forget, nor forgive the fifth of November, 1995” read the slogan on one of tens of posters that covered the glass facade of Café Sara. Roni used to stop and read the writing on all the posters every time he entered the café. This ritual reassured him that things were still the same since the last time he came the week before.

He didn’t exchange greetings and niceties with Sara this time. He just said “Boker” but without “tov.” He didn’t tell her how delicious the hummus at Akram and Yasmeen’s was. They usually chat as he reads his newspaper, cursing the Israeli right and lamenting the days of Rabin. Had Rabin lived, everything would have been better. Sara and Roni agree on that every week. But this week he had many questions for which Sara had no answer. Sara wasn’t herself either. She didn’t crack any jokes, or regale him with one of her many stories. She looked at her watch and was surprised that he had come at that hour.

“What happened? Why are you here early? You usually come in the late afternoon. It’s twelve thirty now.”

“Did you see Akram and Yasmeen?”

“Yeah, they each drank their coffee here during their break yesterday. Akram came back after closing the shop and stayed here for a while. He smoked more than usual and was absent-minded. When I asked him about it, his eyes welled up, and he said he was ill. He has kidney problems and doesn’t know what to do. He was thinking of Yasmeen and their children. He was going to start treatment next week and had to talk to Yasmeen. He hadn’t told her yet. Then he kissed me on the cheek and left saying ‘till tomorrow.’ He walked slowly though.”

“Do you think that’s why the shop is closed?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something bigger. They say the Palestinians are on strike today!”

“Strike? Why would they go on strike?”

“Didn’t you hear the news? They are saying they want to improve their conditions.”

“Buy why go on strike? What does improving their conditions mean? Who’s stopping them from that?”

“What can I say?”

“I don’t get this nonsense. Why would they go on strike? What do they lack? I don’t care, but they should’ve announced it beforehand. I’ll take my coffee to go today. I won’t be drinking it here.”

Sara shrugged and didn’t say anything. Roni left and stammered as he bid her farewell. He left Shenkin and its busy cafes, small shops, and the noise of tourists, and headed to Allenby Street. He passed by some tiny shops and thought they were whispering to each other, conspiring against him, and hiding the secret behind the disappearance of Sahtayn’s owners.