Chapter Six
Jaffa is unusual in its geography in that the coastline to the north regresses to form a knee-shaped bend. This peculiar characteristic, protected by numerous coastal rocks, enables small ships to anchor in the bay, presenting a squadron of sea vessels of all different shapes and sizes as part of the panorama. It was not difficult to understand the reason why Jaffa had played such an important role in history, originally serving as the port for Jerusalem. Its sheltered harbour above which the city looms on a rocky hill, made the settlement an easily fortified seaport and commercial centre. The harbour is quite small, however, so that larger vessels must anchor some way out in the Mediterranean, close to the Rock of Andromeda, and unload with the aid of smaller boats and rafts. At night, one can see lights moving along the shore as the fishermen land their catches of sardines.
It was a blistering hot day. The sun blazed like a torch in the sky bleaching walls, baking earth, and sapping human energy. Penny was dressed in a light white blouse and grey slacks and we walked directly to the harbour in Jaffa, keeping as close to the sea as possible to gain the benefit of any gentle breezed that might become available. We arrived at the port at a leisurely pace and gazed at one of the tourist attractions. It was a mosaic floor, evidently the paving of an early synagogue which had been built there in the early Byzantine period, about the sixth century a.d., depicting King David playing a harp dressed as Orpheus, the Greek mythological hero. We left the dock area to push our way through the tightly-crowded flea market in Jaffa. It was a most unpleasant experience. The jostling of bodies as they pressed and nudged each other, moving in different directions between the stalls, the shouting of the customers and traders as they haggled over prices, and the babble of the crowd which made so much din became almost too much to bear in the oppressive heat. We took flight from the bazaar with haste to break away from the multitude, retreating down a narrow rugged street which had an uneven surface and no pavement at all. It was a slum area strew with rubble and decaying matter resting incongruously against the walls of the houses, lying stinking and inert below inscrutable shuttered windows. A stench of unknown origin pervaded the air with an odious aroma which was not only foul but remained ubiquitously persistent. There was no escape from the repulsive presence.
It took us a while to find the house we wanted. By then, within the confines of small alleys which were protected from the sea breeze, the effect of the heat was intolerable. When we finally arrived at the place, the house of Menel wore a façade that seemed centuries old. In every respect, it was deplorable. The property was terraced, although it was only fair to say that the whole street from start to finish was terraced. Every house conformed to time-honoured architecture, each one exhibited ochre-coloured walls baked hard by the constant rays of the sun. Each house was offset by dull brown or green shutters, most of the paint of which had been stripped off by the austere weather conditions in the effluxion of time. The hovel seemed inconsistent with the cause of the 21st Century Crusaders but that was not our affair. Penny and I gazed at each other for a few moments and then I hammered on the door with my fist, there being no other means to attract attention. After a short while, a tall bearded Arab answered and stared at us with a fierce expression on his face. I was immediately reminded of Kemal but thrust the image of that giant to the back of my mind. The man bade us to enter with a sweep of his hand and we shuffled into the dark hallway unable to see anything at all after the door was closed due to the fact that the pupils of our eyes were still accustomed to the brilliant sunshine outside. The Arab moved swiftly past us and we stumbled behind him blindly into a room where a man sat behind a large table.
‘Good morning,’ he greeted in excellent English, although his accent was slightly clipped. ‘I am Menel. I welcome you to my humble home where we shall enjoy some refreshments and discuss matters relevant to both of us. Please sit down’
We relaxed in low comfortable chairs as Menel studied our faces closely in the dim light. He was a dapper man, dressed smartly in a black pin-striped suit completely out of touch with the surroundings. Despite the fact that the temperature in the room must have been almost a eighty degrees he still wore a white shirt and a tie knotted up to his Adam’s Apple. It was difficult to determine whether he was an Arab or a Jew, not that it mattered, for he was probably a mixture of both anyway. His brown face had a slightly longer appearance as a result of the absence of hair on his head and he sported the smallest of moustaches which fitted neatly on the central ridge below his nose. Menel had two obvious nervous habits. The first was to rub the middle finger of his right hand over his tiny moustache at regular intervals. The second involved jutting out his jaw and moving his lips over the front of his false teeth before releasing them in a kind of spasm. Yet despite these nervous traits he carried an air of authority which commanded respect, while his manner, although curt, was pleasant.
It soon became apparent that Menel was in no hurry to launch into the meeting and he scanned us closely in the interim period. Then, suddenly, he clapped his hands together twice and the bearded Arab swathed in white clothing brought in a tray bearing cups of dark liquid which he offered to us without speaking.
‘Please accept my humble hospitality,’ begged our host meekly. ‘The hot coffee will cool you down but you may be surprised by its taste. If you require any other refreshments… falafel, peanuts, pumpkin seeds… they’re all yours for the taking.’
‘Falafel?’ I asked with interest.
‘Falafel are little balls of ground peas fried in oil, wrapped in pitta… a kind of bread spiced with hot peppers. We have many delicacies if you’d like to try them.’
‘No thank you,’ I replied feeling slightly nauseous at his reply, having regretted asking the question. ‘I’ll stay with the coffee, if you don’t mind.’
‘You’re not used to our way of life,’ he continued amiably. ‘We have many customs which may seem strange to you. You will learn to love us though… if you live that long.’
The hair at the back of my head started to bristle as I stared at him with alarm. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Menel jutted out his jaw and moved his lips over his front teeth. ‘Information of the sensitive kind brings its own danger. The more sensitive, the more dangerous. We live in troubled time where the emphasis on intelligence becomes more imperative each year. You see, more wars are in progress in the offices of secret service agencies in most countries than are ever fought on the battlefield. You are amateurs at the bottom of the pile. I can only assume that you like to live dangerously.’
‘You don’t believe in pulling punches, do you?’ I responded swallowing hard.
‘It depends on how much you value your life!’
The air was hot and absolutely still with just a gentle whiff of breeze coming from a small fan fixed to the ceiling. The stench of inadequate plumbing and the cooking of spicy foods in the kitchen was almost overwhelming although the awful smell did not seem to affect our host. In addition, there were numerous flies which clearly enjoyed tormenting us, landing briefly but regularly on our hands, arms and faces. Menel, himself, had found a tried and tested solution for the problem. He waved a fan, shaped like a large table-tennis bat, in front of his face every twenty seconds with an automatic sweep of his hand.
‘Okay.’ he went on seriously. ‘Let’s get down to business. I’m an arms dealer. The top man in this country.’
‘The top man.’ I repeated in disbelief. ‘If you’re so successful how is it that you live in a dump like this?’