Chapter 6

I moved steadily between Gaza, Tel Aviv, Jerusalem and Ramallah, tying them slowly together like a threaded needle, carefully bringing more and more people under my control. Taking over ministers, I infiltrated departments, cabinets, and barracks. I spoke to soldiers and militants, prime ministers and kings.

At a certain point I was surprised to find that most people simply followed orders from above, no matter how unusual they might be. Anti-Semitic broadcasts from inside the territories ceased; shakedowns of Palestinians at the border gates by IDF guards fell. A dozen small improvements. Knowing that there had to be ten thousand more before peace could be achieved.

The creaking apparatus of three separate governments began to turn, very slowly. I found I had to provide constant motivational force to make the process work: without it, discussions would divert into ancient resentments, representatives arguing over political differences and old tribal feuds.

I could not talk to everyone. In Ramallah, kids still threw stones at IDF patrols; Israeli settlers deep in the West Bank still fired on encroachers to their claims. Violence still happened. Hatred still happened.

“Joshua –” Yael sat up in bed, white sheet tented over her knees. “We have to talk about something.”

Yael and I had been together six weeks, snatching time together where we could away from the hotel and my constant travel. Her apartment – with Liora out at discreet, prearranged times – had become my place of refuge.

It had rapidly become obvious that my initial guess of five weeks to gain peace had been shockingly naïve; the process would take many months, at least. Yael seemed to be okay with that.

“What?”

“I’m never going to marry you,” she said.

“I don’t recall proposing.”

She punched my arm. “I’m serious.”

“So am I! Why are we talking about marriage now?”

“Because I need you to understand where this is going. It’s been wonderful. It is wonderful. But eventually, I’m going to marry a nice Jewish boy ... or girl.”

I rolled over in bed to look at her. “There’s conversion.”

Yael looked at me sideways. “I care for you a lot. But I know you well enough now to know that you’re not going to do that.”

I had played with the idea. My feelings for Yael were undeniably real, and growing stronger. But Angie’s plan made it impossible: I had to remain unaffiliated and neutral for it to work. Being an agnostic atheist made me kaffir in Islam, but that was sometimes better than being Jewish when it came to dealing with the Palestinians. Even the fact that I was a black Canadian had helped immensely.

“What do you want me to say?”

“You don’t need to say anything.” She smiled at me, a little sadly. “Just know that it has to end sometime.”

“You don’t mind me trying to extend that “sometime” as far away as possible?”

She laughed delightedly and touched my hair. “No.”

I found that I had to act as an arbitrator for most treaties and agreements. No side had a concept of “fair”: Israeli negotiators had a constant fear of being a freier; Palestinians had uncontainable dreams of recovering every parcel of land up to the Jordan River. No amount of control would completely extinguish either, so I had to decide what “fair” was through endless research and discussions with unaligned experts, and force each claimant to accept it.

Every shift forward created a new problem. Lowered militancy resulted in decreased aid to Gaza from a surprised Iran, which had to be made up by increased exports from Israel, Egypt and Jordan, which couldn’t happen until attacks from desperate splinter groups were dealt with by Hamas. Leaders inside Gaza were reluctant to act against the attacks, since most of them had become rich from a 10% “tax” imposed on everything smuggled through tunnels from Egypt; legitimate imports decreased their income.

It was like a puzzle with an infinite number of parts: move one, and another was shifted out of place.

“Ah!” Yael cried. “Gently, gently...”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“It’s okay.” She chuckled low in her throat, running her fingers through my hair. “I love your enthusiasm. She’s just – mmmm – very sensitive...”

I pulled my lips up from her clit and pursed them, blowing a stream of warm air over her wet, throbbing center. “Better?”

“Mmmm. Oh, that’s lovely. Yes.”

I loved this: feeling her against my lips. Exposing the tiny pink pearl of her and chasing it with my tongue. The way her inner thighs clamped against my head when she climaxed; the feeling of her toes stroking my bare back.

It was Sunday evening. Yael had learned she’d have the weekend free a few days before; impromptu, I’d proposed to get out of the city as far as possible. I’d driven her all the way south to the small port city of Eilat, on the border with Jordan, renowned for its calm blue waters and sea life.

We’d barely left the hotel room all weekend.

I extended the tip of my tongue and licked her once, very gently. Her hips jumped in pleasure, and I smiled, beginning to swirl the wet tip of my tongue against her. She groaned deep in mock protest. “Again?”

“Again,” I grinned.

I couldn’t get enough of her. Being with Yael was like opening a sacred book, each page an illuminated discovery. Her infectious, irrepressible enthusiasm for life inspired me; her warm nature nurtured and sustained me.

I lowered my lips slowly, surrounding her. Began to use the combination of soft sucking and licking that had worked so successfully last time.

Yael groaned again, fingers tightening in my hair, hips beginning to rock up. I loved riding her like this, even as she tried to escape, my mouth communing with the core of her. My lips and chin shone with her; the root of my tongue ached pleasantly as its tip blurred against her.

I loved this. I loved her.

We hadn’t said the words, yet. We danced around them, disguised and couched them in other languages. Both of us carried the burden of knowledge that every day’s journey brought us closer to the immense, inviolable wall of faith and culture that still separated us. And we burned all the brighter for it, denying its arrival for as long as we could.

Yael began to pant hard, fingers clutching the sheets, taut stomach dipping as her pleasure rose. A trickle of sweat rolled down the central line of her abdomen, pooling in the oasis of her navel.

Looking up, I could see the tell-tale flush creeping down over the low rise of her breasts, a sandy dusk against her skin. And pulled back.

Yael’s growl was deep and desperate as her fingers tightened in my hair. “Noooooo...”

“Shhhhh.” I turned my head, kissing one bronzed thigh.

“Soooo close...”

“I know,” I chuckled.

She batted playfully at my head like a cat, trying to draw me back in; I resisted until I saw that flush fully retreat, only then settling myself back between her thighs.

I looked into her for a moment. She was glazed with wetness, her wonderful female furrow flushed with passion. I loved every fold of her.

Lips descended. I hummed against her in pleasure.

“MmmmmMMMmmmmm...” Yael moaned. Her hips resumed their slow, circular dance. “If ... if you’re going to let me cum this time ... I might ... nggg ... I might need a little more...”

“Hmmm?”

She was curiously shy, even blushing – not a flush, not yet. “Your - your fingers. Just inside.”

“Like this?” I slid two fingers in gently, curving them up, feeling her wrap around me.

“Oh!” Her hips surged up. “Not – not so deep.” Her hands reached down, scrambling. Found my wrist, pulled back gently. “There. Just there. Moving just a little. Yes ... that’s it...” She bit her lower lip, teeth white against her skin. “Yes ... keep going...”

I found a kind of union between the movement of fingers, lips and tongue; kept it up as Yael’s hips bucked, retreated, pushed back for more. Her fingers found my hair and tightened, holding on for dear life.

I felt every part of her trembling, and was determined to tease no more. My fingers stroked a fraction faster; I could feel her changing inside, opening and tensing at the same time.

Yael’s voice steadily climbed the peak of passion as my tongue flickered. “Ohh – oh, god, oh, I love you, oh – ohh!”

She came hard, legs up, writhing on the sheets, and at the same instant raised her fingers to her mouth, eyes wide. “I didn’t say it!”

I chuckled, kissing her smooth belly. “You did.”

Her body jolted with pleasure. “I didn’t. And if I did, it just – slipped out. Uhhh...” Another aftershock rocked through her. “What – what you say during orgasm doesn’t count.”

I smiled. “That’s the rule?”

“That’s the rule.” She looked abashed. “I’m sorry. They’re just words.”