Mary

Tel Aviv.

When the plane landed, its roar jolted Aditya awake.

He had not slept well again. All the way from Dubai to Tel Aviv, he had been like a fish starved of oxygen, half awake and half in a daze. Only when the tires struck the runway and the fuselage bounced did he wake with a start.

The sky outside the window was gray-blue, and the sea lay not far below.

Dawn had just broken, and the lights along the airport runway were still on.

Aditya sat still for a few seconds to recover before unbuckling his seat belt and picking up his leather bag.

The cabin door opened, and cool sea air poured through the gaps in the jet bridge.

Aditya had left Mumbai wearing a gray-blue shirt and no jacket. Now, as the cool wind struck him, his body abruptly stiffened. He tucked his neck down and followed the people ahead toward the exit.

The immigration hall was not particularly spacious, nor were there many people. Everyone was quiet. Several armed soldiers stood against a nearby wall, lending the place a solemn air.

Aditya swept a glance over them, then hurriedly looked away.

The queue was divided into several lines, with separate lines for domestic and foreign passports, and another for countries such as India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh.

Aditya joined the queue. A South Asian laborer ahead of him was questioned the longest, and everyone's bags were opened one by one.

A man with a full beard spoke poor English. When the immigration officer asked, "Where are you staying?" he kept repeating, "Work, work." The officer's expression turned cold, and he raised a hand, directing him to wait by the wall.

Aditya stopped looking around. The person immediately ahead of him was being checked.

When his turn came, Aditya handed over his passport, arrival card, and return ticket together.

Behind the glass sat a Jewish man in his thirties, who coldly took Aditya's documents.

He looked at the passport first, then up at Aditya, as though comparing the face before him with the photograph.

"From Mumbai, with a connection in Dubai?" he asked quietly in English.

"Yes," Aditya said.

"What are you coming to Israel for?"

"To visit a friend. I run a textile factory in India, so I'm also taking the opportunity to look into raw materials and export channels."

"What's your friend's name? Where does he live?"

"Yair Ben-Zeev. He lives in Jaffa and works in clothing accessories." Aditya handed over a business card.

The immigration officer took it, glanced at it, and kept it in his hand rather than returning it immediately.

"How do you know him?"

"He spent some time in Mumbai and did business with my father. I've come to visit him and see whether we can do some fabric exports," Aditya said.

"What's your address in India?"

"Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh."

"Oh! How much cash are you carrying?"

"Four thousand shekels, plus traveler's checks."

"Varanasi. Are you Hindu?" the immigration officer asked suddenly.

Aditya said, "Yes, I'm a Hindu."

"Mishra. That sounds like a high Hindu caste?"

"Mishra is Brahmin."

The immigration officer nodded, lowered his head, and began writing on a form.

"Go to the room next door for a secondary inspection." The officer pushed the business card, passport, and documents back out.

Aditya picked up his documents and replied, "All right."

The secondary inspection area was on the right side of the immigration hall, in a small room with an open door.

A young female noncommissioned officer stood inside, her hair short and dark, her expression cold. She had Aditya set down his luggage, unzipped it, and went through it item by item.

There was little in the suitcase: just two shirts, a pair of trousers, a light jacket, and some toiletries. His leather bag was also opened and inspected. Inside were a yellow envelope and a stack of Israeli shekels.

The female officer opened the envelope. It contained some small change and a few pieces of old jewelry. After inspecting them, she put them back as they had been.

"You brought so little to Israel?" she asked.

"It's enough for me. I won't be staying long," Aditya said.

The female officer looked up at him. Aditya was entirely at ease.

She zipped the bag shut and pushed it back to him. "That's all. Go out and turn right. The exit is that way."

"Thank you," Aditya said.

He picked up his bag, turned, and walked out.

Only after he had passed through the immigration exit and a moisture-laden sea breeze struck his face did Aditya fully let out a breath.

Everything went smoothly. Straight to Mary, Aditya thought. He opened his leather bag, found Mary's address, and examined it.

Day had fully broken over Tel Aviv. The surroundings here were far better than in India.

Everywhere he looked were clean streets and low-rise buildings. No sacred cows wandered the roads, there was no dust, and no one honked indiscriminately.

Aditya stood by the roadside and hailed a taxi. The driver was in his fifties and wore a string of blue beads around his neck.

The driver got out of his own accord and helped Aditya load his luggage.

Aditya got into the car and gave the address: number 78 on a small street called Haifa Road in northern Tel Aviv.

He leaned back in the rear seat and looked out the window. Israel might have been small, but its infrastructure was far better than India's.

The taxi stopped in front of a small, gray-white, two-story building.

Aditya paid the fare, got out, and picked up his luggage. He straightened his shirt collar, then took out the token Solomon had prepared for him before ringing the doorbell.

The doorbell rang once, but no one answered. He pressed it again, and still no one came.

Aditya simply slapped the door hard and called, "Is anyone there?"

At last, a response came from inside. After quite a while, a woman in her fifties opened the door a crack.

The woman wore a dark-blue apron, her hair tucked into a hairnet. She stood in the doorway without letting Aditya in, only leaning halfway out.

Dressed like a housekeeper, the woman looked Aditya up and down, as though deciding whether the man before her had come to fix the plumbing.

Perhaps because Aditya was young and handsome, the woman stepped outside and asked in English, "Who are you, and what do you want?"

"I'm looking for Mary Cohen. My name is Aditya, and I've come from India. Does Mary live here?" Aditya said.

The woman gave Aditya a puzzled glance and said, "Wait here, then."

The woman closed the door again.

Aditya stood outside. The sun was fierce, beating down on him until he began to sweat. He moved a couple of steps to the side and stood in the shade of an orange tree.

Two or three minutes later, the door opened again. This time, a young girl came out.

The girl leaned against the doorframe, her chestnut hair falling to her shoulders,

Aditya looked over, and her eyes immediately drew him in.

They were pale eyes, almost golden-green, lowered at that moment, the shadows of her lashes falling across her high cheekbones. Her pale-red lips were full. The girl was as beautiful as a princess who had stepped out of a classic fairy tale.

She wore a simple white cotton shirt with two buttons undone at the collar, revealing her fair, delicate collarbones. A long dark-blue skirt covered her long, slender legs, its waist ties casually knotted into a bow.

Those olive-colored eyes suddenly lit up, and her red lips parted:

"I'm Mary. Who are you?"

"I'm Aditya Mishra, from Varanasi, India. Your father, Solomon Cohen, is a friend of mine. He asked me to come and find you," Aditya said.

The girl froze, a look of longing and stubbornness appearing on her fair, delicate face.

She raised a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and said, "Come inside first!"