The Land Agent by J. David Simons Page A

patched-up, sandy-coloured affairs, he guessed they had been acquired on the cheap from the British Army now that the desert campaigns were over. It was the kind of deal Mickey might have brokered. Behind the tents, there was a stone byre fronted by a fenced-in area where half-a-dozen skinny cows chewed on some sparse gorse and a few chickens roamed. Beyond that, a rusted anvil, a wagon, buckets of tar, a couple of wooden sheds for storage, stalls for the horses, a covered area for the hay. Further off, a remote tent where Celia had already pulled up the wagon, gone inside. The compound reminded him of the small farms back in Poland. He recognized the sense of struggle and sadness about the place. Jobs half-completed, repairs needing to be done, improvements to be made. He picked up his case and tube of maps, entered the brick building.
    The dining room was laid out with six long, trestle tables, assorted chairs and benches. At one end there was a cloth partition beyond which he guessed was the kitchen area from the sound of pots being washed and scrubbed. At the other end of the room, a solitary figure sat bent over some spread-out sheets of paper on the table.
    Lev called out to him. ‘Rafi Melamud?’
    The man looked up then his voice came out deep and fierce. ‘Who wants to know?’
    ‘Lev Sela.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘From the Palestine Jewish Colonization Association,’ Lev said as he approached the table. ‘From PICA.’
    Rafi Melamud was a solid boulder of a man with a thick neck and round head, hair cropped short. As he leaned back in his seat, his short-sleeved work shirt stretched tight around his powerful chest, as if it were a piece of child’s clothing on an adult’s body. He didn’t get up. ‘I expected you tomorrow,’ he said, waving his hand over his papers. ‘These accounts are for you.’
    ‘No, today. It was definitely today.’
    ‘Definitely tomorrow.’
    ‘I have your telegram.’
    Rafi’s steady look challenged then quickly softened. ‘What does it matter? You are here now.’ He motioned to the chair opposite. ‘Sit.’
    Lev did as he was told.
    ‘Hungry?’
    Lev nodded.
    ‘The midday meal is finished.’ Rafi called out to the kitchen: ‘Shoshana.’
    ‘
Yah
,’ came a cry from behind the cloth partition.
    ‘Is there soup?’
    ‘There is always soup.’
    ‘We have a guest.’ Rafi clasped his hands in front of him, the knuckles on his thick fingers were grazed, his fingernails filled with dirt. ‘You walked from the train stop?’
    ‘Celia brought me.’
    ‘Ah yes, Celia. Were there boxes?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Good. The new tools. And post?’
    ‘Yes, yes. I almost forgot.’ Lev handed over the bundle.
    ‘Letters are always good. They are our only hope.’ Rafi flicked through the envelopes until his eyes clouded over in disappointment. ‘Ah, here is your soup.’
    Shoshana waddled in. A stout young woman with large, bovine eyes, an enormous bosom, a filthy apron and a stink of sweat about her. ‘Here,’ she said, handing Lev a tin cup with one hand, a chunk of bread with the other. ‘It’s all there is.’ She glowered at Rafi. ‘Until I’m permitted to kill another hen.’ She turned her back on them, returned towards her kitchen.
    ‘You are my little chicken,’ Rafi shouted after her. ‘You want that I should kill you?’
    ‘I want I should cut off your dirty tongue for my soup,’ Shoshana called back, before disappearing between the folds of the cloth partition.
    Lev sipped at the hot liquid. It was thin and salty with some slithers of tough meat. He soaked it up with his bread and ate.
    ‘From Poland?’ Rafi asked, flicking away some flies from his paperwork.
    ‘
Tak
.’
    ‘Polish is for the weaklings in the diaspora. We speak only Hebrew here. Where is Sammy the King?’
    ‘I thought only PICA called him that.’
    ‘The four kings of Israel. Saul, David, Solomon. And Sammy. King of the Land. Where is he?’
    ‘He had a meeting in Jerusalem.’
    ‘You