She had a porcelain snake about her upper arm. Long dark and coal hair. Black eyes that followed me about the room, lizard like.

She was young, perhaps twenty. Her broken English was intriguing.

Standing about five foot ten. Tall petite. She resembled the Cleopatra in my mind—Cleopatra in tight blue jeans and a halter top. Purple. She wore no bra.

“What’s your name,” I finally asked.

“Ayala, Ayala Levy.”

“Where are your people from Ayala?”


“You’re an Arab Jew?”

“Ken” (Hebrew for ‘yes.’)

“Would you like to come with me back to my hotel?”

“Lo.” No.

“Why not?”

“You America.”


She grabbed her purse in one hand and took my hand in her other. Then she led me out of the Flat. We took the stairs down to street level. I hailed a taxi and we rode in silence to the Sheraton Hotel. My hotel.

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