Magic for Unlucky Girls by A.A. Balaskovits

Author:A.A. Balaskovits
Language: ara, eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Santa Fe Writer's Project
Published: 2016-10-12T14:08:32+00:00

U THINK TAKING A DYING MAN OVERSEAS WILL HELP HIM?! UR NUTS!

LOVE, UR MOM

P.S. DONT GET BLOWN UP!!

Grandfather and I flew eleven excruciating hours into Tel Aviv and stood for an additional two in lines at the airport. I asked the stodgy woman at passport control if this was typical and she said yes, tourism booms between conflicts.

I’d made arrangements with my travel guide for us to meet up with a tour agent in Jerusalem to take us wherever we wanted to go. Their prices were exorbitant, but for the supposed services they offered, and considering I knew little of the place beyond when the violence made headlines, I figured it would be worth the cost. They had a cab waiting for us outside the airport. Grandfather pointed out everything on the way, the palm trees, the skyscrapers piercing the neon Tel Aviv sky. He falsetto’d his excitement when we passed camels on the dusty roads, and I asked the driver to slow down so we could watch them walk in their funny, plodding manner.

We arrived in Jerusalem, exhausted from reclining on the plane and sitting in the cab. We found a cheap restaurant that accepted American money and ate chewy falafel with hummus, the only thing we recognized on the menu. Our hotel was located in New Jerusalem, near one of the entrances to the old city. The air smelled like spice and tasted like the cheap metal of coin and sweat. We shared a room with a halfhearted but loud air conditioner. Grandfather fell asleep immediately, but I stayed awake as long as I could to watch him breathe.

In the morning we met our guide, Amir, in the lobby. He was tall, slightly muscular, like a soccer player. He smiled and shook grandfather’s hand and asked him how he liked the weather. When he smiled at me I could see all his teeth. He didn’t look much older than me, and when I asked it turned out he wasn’t, but he swore guiding was his passion, and he had been doing it alongside his father since he could talk.

At my urging, Grandfather told him the story of the ibex girl, but he left out the part where I had been Hessa.

I haven’t heard that story, Amir said. But there are many small tribal groups in this country, and they each have their own secrets. If you’re looking for the ibex, I can show you.

He took us to a zoo on the edge of Jerusalem. We could have stayed home.

There, he said, pointing to an ibex herd grazing behind bars. Want me to read the sign? he offered, since it was in Hebrew.

I asked Grandfather what he thought, and he said they were very nice, larger than he expected, but he pointed to the zoo map and said could we go see the penguins? Amir explained penguins were not native to this part of the world while Grandfather mimicked their squacks. When we got to the little white myna

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