Shoot Me, I'm Already Dead Read online

  Translation by

  Lawrence Schimel

  www.megustaleerebooks.com

  For Alex,

  who brings me joy every day.

  And for Fermín, always

  Acknowledgments

  To all the friends who have accompanied me throughout my life. And on this occasion, special thanks to Jesús, whose friendship is as firm as a rock: always positive, kind, and loyal.

  Thanks to all those at Penguin Random House Grupo Editorial who have made it possible for this novel to reach your hands, and to Virginia Fernández, for her patience.

  1

  Jerusalem, The Present

  “There are times in life when the only way to save yourself is by dying, or killing.” She had been troubled by this phrase of Mohammed Ziad’s ever since she had heard it from the lips of his son Wädi Ziad. She couldn’t stop thinking about these words as she drove, under an unforgiving sun that gilded the stones of the road ahead. It turned them the same golden color as the houses that were crammed into Jerusalem’s New City, which were themselves built out of these deceptively smooth stones that were in fact as hard as the rocks of the quarry from which they had been hewn.

  She drove slowly, letting her gaze wander over the horizon, where the Judean Mountains seemed almost close enough to touch.

  Yes, she was driving slowly, even though she was in a hurry; as she had to savor these moments of silence to avoid being overcome by emotion.

  Two hours before, she had not known she was going to take this path that would lead her to her fate. Not that she wasn’t prepared for it. She was. But for her, who liked to plan everything in her life down to the smallest detail, it had been a surprise that Joël had arranged the meeting so easily. He hadn’t needed to say more than a dozen words.

  “That’s it, he’ll meet you at midday.”

  “So soon?”

  “It’s only ten, you’ve got more than enough time, it’s not very far. I’ll show you on the map, it’s easy to get there.”

  “Do you know the place?”

  “Yes, and I know them as well. I was there three weeks ago with Witness for Peace.”

  “I don’t know how they trust you.”

  “Why wouldn’t they trust me? I’m French, I’ve got good contacts, and the poor saps at the NGO need someone to get them through the Israeli bureaucracy, someone who can get them the permits to cross through to Gaza and the West Bank, someone who can get an interview with a government minister so that they can complain about the conditions the Palestinians live in; I give them a good price on trucks to get their humanitarian aid from A to B. My organization does a good job. You can trust that.”

  “Yes, you live off the goodwill of the rest of the world.”

  “I live by offering a service to people who live off other people’s bad consciences. Don’t complain, it hasn’t been a month since you got in touch with us and I’ve already managed to get you meetings with two ministers, with parliamentarians from all the groups, with the general secretary of the Histadrut. I’ve got you access to the Territories, you’ve interviewed a lot of Palestinians . . . You’ve only been here four days and you’ve already done half of what you wanted to do.”

  Joël looked at the woman with annoyance. He didn’t like her much. Ever since he had picked her up at the airport four days ago he had noticed how tense she was, how uncomfortable. He was annoyed that she put distance between them by insisting on being called Ms. Miller.

  She held his gaze. He was right. He had fulfilled his tasks. Other NGOs used his services. There wasn’t anything that Joël couldn’t arrange from his office, with its views of Old Jerusalem in the distance. His wife, an Israeli, and four other people worked with him. He ran a business that the NGOs greatly appreciated.

  “I’ll tell you something about this man: He’s a legend,” Joël said.

  “I’d have preferred to talk with his son, that’s what I asked you.”

  “But he’s traveling, he’s in the U.S. giving a seminar at Columbia, and when he gets back you’ll be gone. You didn’t get the son, but you’ve got the father, and trust me when I say that it’s a worthwhile exchange. He’s an impressive old man. The things he’s seen . . .”

  “You know so much about him?”

  “Sometimes the ministry sends him people like you. He’s a ‘dove,’ unlike his son.”

  “That’s why I wanted to speak with Aaron Zucker, because he’s one of the chief supporters of the settlements policy.”

  “Yes, but his father is more interesting,” Joël insisted.

  They fell silent, so as not to get caught up in another of their absurd arguments. They had not hit it off. He thought she was too demanding; she saw only his cynicism.

  And now she was on her way. She felt tenser every minute. She lit a cigarette and enjoyed breathing in the smoke as she looked out onto the swelling ground over which, on both sides of the road, modern and functional buildings seemed to be clambering. There weren’t any goats, she thought, letting herself get carried away by the biblical image, but why should there be? There wasn’t any space left for the goats, next to these hulks of steel and glass that were the sign of modern Israel’s prosperity.

  A few minutes later she left the highway and headed along a road that led toward a group of houses on a hilltop. She parked the car in front of a three-story stone building, identical to the others that stood on this rocky ground; on cloudless days, it was possible to see all the way to the walls of the Old City.

  She put out her cigarette in the car’s ashtray and took a deep breath.

  The place looked like a sleepy bourgeois town, the same as so many others. Houses a few stories high surrounded by gardens filled with swings and slides for the children, and cars parked neatly alongside pristine pavements. The air itself tasted of calm and safety. It was not difficult for her to imagine the families that now lived in these houses, although she knew what the place had been like decades ago. Some old Palestinians had told her, their gazes lost in the past, of the memory of those days when it was they who lived on this piece of land because the others, the Jews, had not yet arrived.

  She climbed the steps. Almost as soon as she rang the bell, the door opened. A young woman who couldn’t yet be thirty greeted her with a smile. She was dressed informally, in jeans, a baggy shirt, and sports shoes. She looked almost the same as so many other young people, but she would have stood out in a crowd for her open smile and her obvious goodwill.

  “Come in, we’ve been waiting for you. You’re Ms. Miller, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Hanna, Aaron Zucker’s daughter. I’m sorry that my father is away, but as the people at the ministry insisted, my grandfather will receive you.”

  They moved from the tiny hall into a large and bright salon.

  “Please sit down, I’ll get my grandfather.”

  “No need, I’m here already. I’m Ezekiel Zucker,” a voice came from farther inside the house. A moment later a man appeared.

  Ms. Miller looked straight at him. He was tall, with grey hair and grey eyes; in spite of his age he appeared lively.

  He shook her hand firmly and invited her to sit down.

  “So, you wanted to see my son . . .”

  “Well, I really wanted to meet both of you, but your son in particular, being as he is one of the chief proponents of the settlement policy . . .”

  “Yes, and he argues it so well that the ministry sends him to explain the settlements to all the most critical visitors. Well, tell me what I can do for you, Ms. Miller.”

  “Grandpa,�
�� Hanna interrupted, “if you don’t mind, I’ll be off. I have a meeting at the university. Jonah is about to leave as well.”

  “Don’t worry, I can look after myself.”

  “How much time will you need?” Hanna asked Ms. Miller.

  “I’ll try not to tire him out . . . An hour, or maybe a little more . . . ,” the woman replied.

  “There’s no hurry,” the old man said. “At my age, time doesn’t matter any more.”

  They were left alone, and he saw how tense she was. He offered her tea, but she declined.

  “So, you work for one of these EU–funded NGOs.”

  “I work for Refugees, which is an on-the-ground organization that studies the problems suffered by displaced populations, people who have had to move because of war, or natural disaster . . . We try to assess the refugees’ status, to see if the causes that have led to their displacement are being sorted out, how long the situation might last, and if we think it useful we put pressure on international organizations to help alleviate the refugees’ situation. We perform rigorous studies, which is why we qualify for EU funding.”

  “Yes, I know about the reports that Refugees writes about Israel. Always negative.”

  “This isn’t a question of opinion but of reality, and the reality is that since 1948 thousands of Palestinians have had to leave their homes, have been thrown out of their houses, off their lands. Our job is to investigate the policy of settlement, which is leading to more and more people becoming displaced. Where we are now, right here on this hill, used to be a Palestinian village; there’s nothing left. Do you know what happened to the inhabitants of this village? Where they are now? How they survived? Will they be able to recover the land where they were born? What do you know of their suffering?”

  As soon as she’d said this she regretted her words. This was not the way. She shouldn’t show her own feelings so openly. She had to try to maintain a more neutral attitude. Not one of being satisfied, but certainly not one of revulsion.

  She bit her lower lip while she waited for the man to answer.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I want to know your name. It’s very stiff to call you Ms. Miller the whole time. You can call me Ezekiel.”

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s right . . . We try not to fraternize while we’re working.”

  “I have no intention of fraternizing with you, all I want is for us to call each other by our first names. Come on, we’re not in Buckingham Palace! You’re here in my house, you’re my guest, and I’d like you to call me Ezekiel.”

  He confused her. She wanted to refuse to give him her first name, of course she was not planning to call him by his, but if he decided to end the conversation, then . . . then she would have lost the best chance she would ever have to finally carry out the plan that tormented her so much.

  “Marian.”

  “Marian? Well, well, well . . .”

  “It’s a common name.”

  “There’s no need to apologize for being called Marian.”

  She was angry. He was right, she was apologizing for her name, and there was no need to do so.

  “If it’s alright with you, I’ll give you the questionnaire I have prepared, which will provide the basis for my report.”

  “I imagine you’ll talk to more people . . .”

  “Yes, I’ve got a long list of interviewees: civil servants, members of parliament, diplomats, employees of other NGOs and religious organizations, journalists . . .”

  “And Palestinians. I imagine you’ll talk to them.”

  “Of course, I already have, they’re the reason I’m working here. I was in Jordan before coming to Israel and I had the chance to speak to lots of Palestinians who’ve had to flee after every war.”

  “You asked about the suffering of displaced people . . . Well, I could speak to you for hours, for days, whole weeks about that suffering.”

  It was difficult for her to believe that this tall, strong man, who managed in spite of his age to display confidence in himself via his steel-grey gaze that bore witness to his inner peace, could know the truth about others’ suffering. She wasn’t going to deny that he had suffered, but that did not imply that he was capable of sharing the pain of other people.

  “How did you know there used to be an Arab village here?” he asked suddenly, to her confusion.

  “My organization has detailed information about each and every one of the towns and villages of Palestine, including those which no longer exist since the occupation.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Yes, ever since the first Jewish immigrants came, all the way up to the proclamation of the State of Israel, as well as all that’s taken place since then.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I want you to talk to me about the policy of occupying land, about illegal settlements, about the living conditions for the Palestinians who have seen their houses destroyed as a result of revenge attacks . . . about why people carry on building on land which does not belong to them . . . I wanted to talk about this with your son. I know that Aaron Zucker is one of the most fervent defenders of the policy of building settlements: he’s famous for it in his articles and speeches.”

  “My son is an honorable man, a brave soldier who has served in the military, and he has always said what he thinks out loud, without caring for the consequences. It is easier to moan about the policy, or even to say nothing, than to support it fully. In my family we prefer to show our faces.”

  “That’s why I’m here, because the Ministry of Foreign Affairs sent me to talk to your son. He’s one of the leading figures in Israeli society.”

  “And you believe that the people who are in favor of the settlements are little more than monsters . . .”

  Marian shrugged. She wasn’t going to say that this was in fact what she thought. The interview was not following the path she had planned for it.

  “I’ll tell you what I think: I’m not in favor of the building of new settlements. I defend the right of the Palestinians to have their own state.”

  “Right, but your son Aaron thinks just the opposite.”

  “But you are talking to me. Don’t look at me as if I were some little old man; I’m no fool.”

  The door opened and a tall young man came in, dressed in a soldier’s uniform, with a submachine gun strapped over one shoulder. Marian was alarmed.

  “This is my grandson Jonah.”

  “So you’re the woman from the NGO . . . Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing what you just said. I’d like to give my opinion as well, if my grandfather will allow me.”

  “Jonah is Aaron’s son,” Ezekiel Zucker explained to Marian.

  “The policy of building settlements isn’t something done at random, it’s about our security. Look at the map of Israel, look at our borders . . . The settlements are a part of the front along which we are forced to fight,” Jonah said, with such conviction that Marian was upset, and felt an instinctive negative reaction toward this young man.

  “So you fight against women and children? What glory is there in destroying houses where Palestinian families live their deprived lives?” Marian asked.

  “So we should let ourselves be killed? Stones can hurt a lot. And these villages, which seem to be filled with peaceful families, are also home to terrorists.”

  “Terrorists? You call people terrorists who defend their right to live in the towns where they were born? Settlement policy is only a way to take hold of land that doesn’t belong to them. The UN resolutions about the Israeli borders are extremely clear. But your country works via faits accomplis. They build settlements on Palestinian land, they corral the Palestinians, they make their lives impossible until they have no option other than to leave.”

  “You are a passionate woma
n, I don’t know why you’ve bothered to come here to write your report. It’s clear that everything is obvious for you, that nothing my father or grandfather could say would make you change your mind, isn’t that right?”

  “I am obliged to listen to all sides of the story.”

  “You’re going through the motions, nothing else.”

  “That’s enough, Jonah, let’s let Ms. Miller do her job.” The tone of Ezekiel Zucker’s voice left no room for his grandson to make any reply.

  “Alright, I’m going.” And the young man left without saying goodbye.

  Marian could read in Ezekiel Zucker’s grey eyes that he was going to draw this conversation she’d been unable to control to a close. But she couldn’t leave. Not yet.

  “I think I will have that cup of tea you offered me.”

  Now it was he who seemed disconcerted. He did not want to carry on talking with this woman, but neither did he want to appear impolite.

  When he came back with the tea, he found her looking out of one of the picture windows. She was not a beautiful woman, but she was attractive. She was of medium height, thin, with her black hair tied back. He thought that she must be some way past forty, closer to fifty. He thought she looked uneasy, and this uneasiness was contagious.

  “Jerusalem’s that way,” he said, as he put the tea tray down on a low table.

  “I know,” Marian replied.

  She forced herself to smile, but he no longer seemed to want to speak.

  “You said earlier that you could speak about suffering for weeks.”

  “Yes, I could,” he replied drily.

  “Where are you from, Ezekiel? Which country?”

  “I am an Israeli. This is my country.”

  “I suppose the most important thing for a Jew is to feel that he has a homeland,” she said, ignoring the man’s distant tone of voice.

  “Yes, our homeland. No one gave it to us. We had a right to it. And I’m not from anywhere. I was born here.”