47

Ariel

The sun had set and night awakened. Ariel woke up when the music outside got louder. He looked at his cell phone. It was ten thirty. He got out of bed and went to the bathroom to wash his face. He came back to bed and gulped the rest of the wine. He pressed the button to listen to Uncle Itzik’s voicemail.

“Shalom Ariel. Itzik here. Call me when you get this, or early in the morning. I have some important news. A scoop for you.”

Ariel called him, but his phone was turned off. He didn’t leave a message. He’ll call him again. Jonathan said that they were expecting an analytical piece from him at the newspaper by six in the morning, New York time. His mother called to let him know she’s fine. There were other calls from friends in the country and from abroad. Everyone wants to make sure he’s safe.

He went out to the balcony. The platforms and decorations were in place and flags everywhere. What if the Palestinians return before 3 a.m., he thought? What if they return before the deadline we set for them? What if they didn’t adhere to our times and chose the time themselves?

He took a deep breath and sighed. He went back inside, headed to the kitchen, and poured water in a big glass. He took in the place around him. The apartment needs a coat of paint. He went back to bed and turned on some jazz on his laptop and kept the news on in the background. He looked at the screen and went over the notes he’d jotted down, and some of the sentences he had translated. He poured some more wine and sipped it. He logged into his Twitter account to read what news agencies and international newspapers, including Arab and Israeli, were tweeting. He scrolled through tens of tweets. Nothing new. Most of them start out with “breaking” but soon thereafter are refuted or turn out to be sensationalist chatter to attract readers. He looked at his watch anxiously. He created a new file on his laptop and started a to-do list for the coming few days. Then he went back to read Alaa’s notebook and take notes.