Free The Wedding of Anna F. by Mylene Dressler Page A

the explosion and the sinking?”
    “No. That was never determined. You can read about it in the history books. Some think the Kostas went down after lightning hit the munitions being smuggled to Palestine. Some believe it was the British. Some the Bedouin. But I have no suspicions of the Bedouin. Because of that Arab boy who saved me.”
    I beam, suddenly, at Mr. Bardawil. I had no idea, when the day began, it would end so well, so perfectly.
    But my interviewer is looking puzzled, fatigued. I suppose it’s understandable. I’ve given him so much to take in, to transcribe, this day, haven’t I?
    “So you think that Palestinian boy was trying to help you?”
    “He threw the fishing basket toward me.”
    “What you said was—something was being thrown ‘toward’ you. And fish”—he looks at his notes—“were ‘hitting you in the face.’”
    “Because they were.” It’s only if you look at a thing for too long that it blurs. As I did, three weeks ago, during Shavuot, when I learned that my old Irish lover had died, because one of his children sent me a message, and so I lit a candle in his honor, in one of the pair of silver candlesticks he’d given me so long ago. But I looked at it for too long and lost the flame and saw only the terrible hole at its center, a place so close to the wick, to the source of the burning, that it becomes nothingness, invisible. I cried out, and in my breathlessness I caused the flame to stretch and in a single glimpse finally saw everything, all at once, and how it must have been, and who I was, who only ever wanted to be good, the one who said the wonderful words, In spite of everything, I still believe , because it must always be possible to believe, to believe in a human being, and to be forgiven, and if so, then I could not be the emptiness next to the wick, could I…could I?
    “You don’t think the Palestinian boy was trying to drown you.”
    Why so fixated on this? When we were so close, so close. “No!”
    He studies me with his tired calm. And now I wonder: Maybe it isn’t always possible to know whether one person means to cause harm to another person or not. To help them out…or not.
    The air goes very quiet in my study. I hear a churning of wheels as a car leaves the farm road, finds my drive.
    I stand, uncertainly.
    “I think the first of my birthday guests are arriving, Mr. Bardawil.”
    He nods and reaches for his phone. “Our time is up then.”
    “No! I mean—it doesn’t have to be. I was still hoping…”
    He tilts his head at me and he stays where he is, waiting for me to say something more.
    “I wanted to invite you to stay, Mr. Bardawil. For my party. To help me. Perhaps help me explain to my guests, my, my situation…as I’m sure you’re going to do, as I of course want you to do, to the whole world, in your book, in your thesis…”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Please, Mr. Bardawil. Let’s be honest. Haven’t I been helpful to you? Don’t you have a great deal of material now? Astounding, attention-getting material?”
    He flushes at that. For an instant.
    “I hope, Hannah, we’ve both tried to be honest with each other today. I told you I’m collecting stories of people who believe they have been other people.”
    “But I am her. As I’ve explained to you. So that you can understand. My name is Frank. It means honest.” I lean my hand onto my desk as I come around it, putting all of my weight on it, for support. “A name matters, in the end. A good name matters. What does Bardawil mean?”
    “My family name? It comes from a lake in Egypt. A lake in the desert.”
    Water in the desert. Water cut off from the sea. I fidget with my skirt, suddenly nervous. So many wheels turning, so many car doors slamming. So many people, more than I remembered. “If we could just…I don’t know, how should we do this? Perhaps I should introduce you? Or maybe you should announce, introduce me?”
    He starts up, a concerned look on his face.