Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 1 of a new online serial novel, If Anyone Is Listening, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week. Click here for previous chapters.
Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications.
The Chinese-English dictionary turned out to be superfluous when it emerged that the Chinese taxi driver spoke a decent English.
“I bring lot of people to market,” he said.
Shimmy sat in the front seat with his hand luggage on his lap, alternately glancing out at the streets of Beijing and at the note in his hand.
“Why are the windows closed?”
“Soon is a smell of fish. Not Chinese person…not like smell of fish.”
Shimmy was ready to argue about the accuracy of this statement, but a moment later he discovered two things: Firstly, they were apparently very close to the fish market already, and second, Chinese fish were not at all like his mother’s gefilte fish, or Batya’s tilapia. Not the smell, at least.
“You want to meet in the market Shio Ching, the translator.” The driver stopped at a place where the road suddenly ended. “I bring lot of people to him. He knows also Hebrew a little, and he works with Israelis.”
“Yes, I know.” He looked out to the narrow street. “What is this?”
“This is the market. Here no cars go in. But you want to go to Shio, yes? I take you,” the driver announced. He unbuckled his seatbelt, and in a flash, he was out of the little car. Shimmy followed him, watching as he locked the door of the taxicab. The local children were watching them curiously.
“You are from Israel?” the driver suddenly asked.
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“I lived in America until I was fourteen, and then we moved to Israel.” Was he just imagining that the skinny youth on the street corner was staring at him? It was possible that, as a Western stranger, he was just attracting attention. On the other hand, there was a chance he was a pickpocket; Gedalya had warned him about pickpockets who abounded in these kinds of places.
The driver walked quickly, without turning around. Shimmy hurried after him, gripping the handle of his suitcase tightly and trying not to step in places where the sidewalk was especially dirty. The smell of fish grew stronger as they drew closer, making him want to get to his destination as fast as possible.
People were bustling all around them, some of them wearing face masks. Shimmy recalled that he had such a mask in his pocket. Maybe it would filter out the odor a little? But before he had a chance to stop and take it out, his escort announced, “Here is Shio Ching.” He said it with pride, as if it was his only son, and pointed straight ahead.
Behind one of the stalls was a young, husky Chinese man, wearing an apron and talking to a customer. The customer raised his voice, and the seller answered angrily; they looked like they were arguing. Two others stood near them, observing the dispute with interest.
“Who is Shio Ching?” Shimmy asked.
“Here, the seller.”
“The seller? A fish seller?”
“Yes. Ching!” the driver shouted, and added a few words in grating Chinese.
The seller waved to Shimmy and called to him in English, “Welcome! I’m not going to shake your hand now because mine are dirty. Wait for me, please. I will finish here in a few minutes, and I’ll be with you.”
Shimmy had no other option than to smile politely, nod and wave back, and pretend as if there was nothing more enjoyable to him than standing in this malodorous cloud for a few more minutes.
“What are they arguing about?” he asked the driver.
“Arguing?” The man didn’t understand the word.
“Yelling. Talking.”
“Ah.” The driver smiled. “Money. Shio Ching says this is good fish, so cost much money. The man says not so good, not want to pay much money.” He suddenly turned to a passerby and began to speak with him animatedly.
Shimmy found himself losing his patience. Finally, after twelve whole minutes had passed, and it still didn’t look like Shio Ching was “finishing here and being with him,” he called out, “Ching! When will you be ready for me?”
“Soon, very soon,” the Chinese man reassured him. “Are you in a big hurry? Why?”
“Because I don’t have all the time in the world. Can you please hurry up?” He felt like he was not being polite enough, but it was the tiredness speaking for him. His belongings were still in the trunk of the taxi, and he desperately wanted to get to the hotel, to a quiet, clean room, and rest for a few minutes.
A moment later, the customer left the stall. The seller washed his hands at a sink on the side, and disappeared into the corner of the store for a few seconds. He suddenly appeared again, this time wearing a light blue, collared shirt. He pulled down the shutters and locked the store.
Then he came over to Shimmy with his hand stretched out in greeting. “Sorry you had to wait for me. I am Shio Ching, the interpreter. Nice to meet you. Gedalya told me you would come today.”
“Great.” Shimmy looked around uncomfortably. He hadn’t exactly imagined his first face-to-face encounter with the industrial monolith called China to be like this. “So, can we get moving?”
“Certainly,” the man said, patting the driver’s shoulder. The three turned around to cross the fish market yet again.
Their walk now was not as nauseating. Perhaps it was because he’d started getting used to the sights and smells, or maybe it was because now he was listening to Shio Ching.
“This is our fish market,” the interpreter explained, as if his client was both blind and unable to smell. “It is the largest market in the city, and people make lots of money here.”
“But it seems it’s not enough of an income for people, if you also do translating services,” Shimmy said, hoping he didn’t sound too cynical.
“This is actually my father’s stall. I come to help him in the morning, until lunchtime. That is where I live.” He pointed to a tall row of buildings that rose behind the low market structures. “And there—” his finger traveled rightward toward a building covered with small pink stones—“is your hotel. Two minutes in the taxi, and we’ll be there.”
“A hotel so close to the fish market?” Shimmy wondered and coughed pointedly. “What about the smell?”
“Close the windows, and turn on the air conditioner,” the other man replied.
They reached the car. And just as Shio Ching had said, two minutes later, they were there.
The driver brought the luggage trolley into the lobby, and Shimmy sighed with relief when he discovered that it did not smell inside. Or perhaps he’d just gotten used to the smell?
The hotel was clean and tastefully decorated, and had a Western feel to it. After checking in and making arrangements with Shio Ching for their meeting the next day, which would be in the hotel lobby, Shimmy went up to his room on the ninth floor. The elevator was very swift, and his room was the first one in the hallway. His heart pounding a bit, Shimmy pressed the electronic card to the door, and it clicked open. He walked inside and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when he saw that the windows were closed and the room had a pleasant scent.
He pushed his bags under the dresser that was against the wall, and suddenly realized how starving he was. But Batya was probably waiting to hear that he’d found the interpreter, and that he was doing okay. He hadn’t called her since he’d left the airport.
As he rummaged in his suitcase for the can of beans in tomato sauce, he called Batya. But she didn’t even ask where or how he was. All she said was, “Why did I have to go out to the grocery now?!”
“Nu, so why did you go?”
“To buy formula for Shmuli.”
“Okay, so there’s your answer.”
“But why now?” She sighed. “Of all the people in the world, who did I have to meet there? Chumi! She came in from Yerushalayim and was standing in our local grocery, at the exact time that I went in there.”
“Chumi? Why in the world was she in Beitar?”
“She came in to study with a friend or something. Whatever. But once she saw me, she invited me for this Shabbos. And I don’t want to go there without you. Aside from the fact that if they want me to come, it makes more sense for your mother to invite me, not Chumi.”
“But my mother never invites people. If you want to come, you call her.”
“Well, do I have to go?”
“Of course not, if you don’t want to.”
“Good, so I don’t want to.”
***
How many pairs of shoes does one woman need?
The floor in my closet is already full. And that’s after I gave away two pairs, and put one pair—a really strange one—in a box downstairs in the front of the house. The box disappeared in less than an hour, and I’m afraid some Filipina or Romanian woman is now walking around wearing those shoes. Because which frum woman would wear such odd and ugly footwear? The fact that I bought them doesn’t mean I ever liked them; it just means that I bought the pair without really seeing what I was purchasing.
It was after another frustrating conversation with Yudi and Ruchi, of course.
There’s nothing like some retail therapy to calm an exasperated mother.
***
If anyone is listening—I want to talk about what “emotion” is. It’s an important thing to understand…
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