The Parisian

by Isabella Hammad

  “I wrote to her,” he said, after a while. “The French woman.”

  “Wallah?”

  “Wallah. But she never wrote back.”

  The rawi’s eyeballs were growing as he reached some climax. Smoke rose in long columns from the nargila pipes.

  “I feel …” said Midhat.

  “What, habibi?”

  “I don’t know.” He put his head in his hands. “You think I should do it? This Hammad girl?”

  “Are you kidding?” said Jamil. “If you can. Definitely.”

  Inside, someone was shouting. “You can’t leave him in prison!”

  A young man upturned a chair. Others were rising to their feet. Some of the faces showed amusement; others, anger. Tahsin Kamal appeared at the doorway, straightening his tie and blowing out his cheeks.

  “What’s going on?” said Midhat.

  “Everyone is angry because Abu Zayd was arrested.”

  “That comes much later. He can’t jump around the story like that.”

  Tahsin shrugged. “Well, they’re angry about it.”

  Midhat stepped into the café and saw the rawi waving his hands, one of which held a flute.

  “Shwaya!” he shouted. “Stannu shwaya, I’ll finish it. Lahza, lahza, itfadalu, please all sit down.”

  “Look at Haj Abdallah,” said Jamil.

  Near the window on the far side, Haj Abdallah Atwan was standing up. With one hand on his son’s head, he was brandishing his other fist at the rawi and shouting.

  “He has his son with him,” said Midhat.

  “I know. He frightens me sometimes.”

  The upright bodies strained to violence. Then the rawi’s flute began to play, and the tension broke, and with scattered applause the bodies sat back down again for the poet to recite the next verse that would release Abu Zayd from prison.

  6

  Shortly after his return from exile in 1918, Haj Hassan discovered that his lands in the Jordan Valley, his twenty thousand dunums planted with wheat, had been sabotaged. The entirety of the crop was burnt, and there would be no return from the yield. His cousin, Haj Nimr, suggested the culprits were probably either vandals or thuggish foot soldiers returning from war. In any case, there was nothing to be done: the British were preventing Islamic courts from dealing with land disputes, even though they had not yet set up their own judicial system. In Zawata, Hassan fell into a depression, while his wife played all day long on the oud he had bought for her.

  A year later, in November 1919, a representative from the Jewish National Fund visited and offered to buy the land immediately for ninety thousand pounds. Despite the extraordinary price, Hassan refused. The British military government had closed the Land Register, and he knew such transactions were currently illegal. Nevertheless, the event galvanised him to arrange an advance sale for when the ban was lifted, and he approached the Patriarchate of the Latin Church in Jerusalem. They struck a deal for four thousand.

  “That was the right choice,” said Haj Nimr.

  They were sitting in the upstairs meeting room of his house, with the new mayor, Abu Omar Jawhari. The sunlight from the window was skipping around the floor at the whim of the fruit trees waving in the garden.

  The seats were so slanted that each man was forced either to recline in full or to perch on the edge. Hassan was leaning back to Nimr’s left. His large cream jacket augmented the impression that he had lost weight, and his short beard was salt-white. Even seated, there was some drama about the tarbush so upright on his head, his slow blink, his lower lip juddering with apprehension. Opposite him, and to the right of Nimr, Abu Omar Jawhari sat swinging prayer beads. A tight-fleshed man nearing fifty, he looked a deal more the bureaucrat than his companions: broad face, round glasses, cramped woollen suit.

  Widad brought a tray of orange juice and glasses, to which Nimr now administered. His wife whispered: “You pour them all first. You hand them round after.” Nimr waved her off, and as she left handed the first full glass to Hassan.

  Abu Omar said: “This is happening a lot, you know, people selling to the Jews. But what are you going to do, when one guy is in Beirut and now there is a border …”

  “Ya it is a difficult question. If you are like Hassan, then of course you will sell,” said Nimr.

  “I didn’t sell to the Jews.”

  “Ya I know, I was saying you could have done. And that’s when we get these problems with the fellahin, when they have no land, ya‘ni. That Colonel Hubbard came to see me … khalas it’s their problem.” He poured a second glass.

  Abu Omar, never one to let another appear more important than himself, said: “He came to see me too. I told him we need court jurisdiction to deal with it.” He rolled his eyes. “He wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “They won’t listen to us,” said Nimr, passing the next full glass to Abu Omar. “Jerusalem is the British capital. It’s a local custom anyway, it’s not in the law books. And more and more people care about what is on paper, and not just the British. As Ibn Abidin says …”

  “So much on Ibn Abidin, ya Haj,” said Abu Omar.

  “He was a genius. Local custom must be included, or the people suffer. Bidna a balance between the written and the lived. This is where reasoning comes.”

  Abu Omar shook his head and swallowed. A small orange circle stamped his upper lip, which he wiped with a forefinger of the hand that held the prayer beads. “This is the problem. Philosophy and theology are so mixed up that even the kuttab schools are infected. Young Muslims are trained with these instruments of, ya‘ni, unbelief.” The beads clicked between his fingers.

  “Listen,” said Nimr, reaching for the third glass. “Last week I had to deal with one case, a dispute about a horse. The first party was a farmer from near Sabastia, I can’t remember the village. He sold a mare to one of his usual clients, the transaction went through, the client bought the mare for so many pounds, and everyone was happy. Then, some weeks pass by, and the farmer is in Nablus for the harvest. And he is walking by the onion market, and whom does he see but his friend this client, the one who bought the mare. And the client has this expression of joy on his face, and he says, Thank you so much ya mu‘allim for the mare, I am extremely happy. It gave birth yesterday to a young colt, and the birth went well, and the young horse is very healthy.”

  Nimr set down the jug on the tray, and Abu Omar gave a short laugh.

  “So what we have here of course is two stupid people. One is the farmer who did not realise his horse was pregnant. Perhaps he thought it was just very fat, or something. Second is the client who did not realise it would upset the farmer to know he had sold a pregnant horse … ya‘ni … two for the price of one. So of course this farmer is dismayed, he demands the client pay an extra sum for the second horse, which had been conveyed in this purchase without his knowledge. Or, he says, the client has the option of returning the second horse. So, what happens? Of course the client says absolutely not, the horse is mine, you sold it to me fair and square bi’ulu bil ingleezi, as one … package, ya‘ni. And the farmer says, but if we count back to when the mare was impregnated, it must have happened in my care, the father would be one of my stallions, thus the offspring is rightfully mine, and and and, heyk heyk heyk.

  “So we leave behind certain of the stupid aspects, this becomes an interesting case. Does one own a horse if it is not yet born? Remember, my role is to find the solution that is most just. And what is most just? That which makes the lives of men less painful. This is not something easily quantified, tab‘an, for who can say the first farmer is not gravely hurt by the loss of this horse, now that he knows about it? Who is to say for the contingencies, perhaps his daughter is ill, perhaps he wants private treatment in Jerusalem. Of course, there are needs and needs, and these can be counted to a degree. And in this way, Abu Omar, such a case presents me with a moral question and at the same time a logical question. Logic is not divorced from life ya zalameh, and philosophy is what we live by, whether or not you ar
e a philosopher.”

  “And what did you decide?” said Haj Hassan. “About the horse?”

  “I hear you,” said Abu Omar, and as he tilted his head his spectacles shone like mirrors. “But how do you apply this to the land sales? When you have some landlord in Beirut, and he wants to sell his land in the Galilee, because there is now a border and how is he supposed to get his yield. And the new buyers don’t care about the fellahin. What would Ibn Abidin say, if the Quran says the owner is the one who ploughs. What I mean is there is logic and there is logic, and we can get lost in storytelling and lose sight of the truth. And this story about the horse … it could be used in fifty different ways, you could make any argument by twisting its limbs.”

  Haj Nimr sucked his lip, drank from his glass, and exhaled sharply through his teeth while looking at the juice. “In the end, it helped you to understand my argument. Therefore, it is a sound form of reasoning.”

  “And what did you say your verdict was, ya Haj? About the horse and its baby?” said Hassan.

  Haj Nimr was about to respond when footsteps sounded on the stair, and he turned his head as the door opened on the veiled face of Widad Hammad.

  “You have a visitor, Abu Burhan.”

  Haj Nimr stood and a pale young man entered, He was dressed in a slim navy suit and a dark red tarbush. His thick hair was black and his large green eyes shone, and, though it was cool outside, his brow was visibly specked with perspiration. He held his cane a little uneasily, the tip hovering near the ground as though he were uncertain whether to lean on or carry it. He glanced at the other men and jolted into a bow.

  “As-salamu alaykum. My name is Midhat Kamal.”

  “Wa alaykum as-salam,” everyone murmured.

  “Nimr Hammad,” said Nimr, reaching to shake his hand. “Would you like a glass of orange—Widad! Bring another glass, please. And more juice. Itfadal. Sit.”

  Midhat had already recognised the other men sitting there: the mayor Abu Omar Jawhari, of course, and the famous Haj Hassan Hammad. It had been enough to prepare for a meeting with Haj Nimr, and the sight of these other two was overpowering. He wished he could have brought his father with him.

  “I am the son of Haj Taher Kamal,” he began, and as he sat he immediately wished he hadn’t, since it left Haj Nimr standing. “Grandson of Muhammad Kamal.” He half turned in his seat to address Nimr, who was still waiting by the door for the juice and glass, but ended by announcing to the entire company: “My father owns the Kamal store in the khan and the Kamal store in Cairo. I have recently returned from France, from Paris, where I studied medicine, and philosophy, and history.”

  Abu Omar Jawhari turned down the corners of his mouth at Hassan as if to say, not bad. Midhat tensed his leg to stop it shaking.

  “I know your father,” said Haj Hassan. “He is my friend. Haj Taher is one of the municipal hospital founders, Abu Omar.” He turned back to Midhat. “He helped me in the war.”

  “Did he?” said Midhat. This news of their families’ alliance should have made him braver; and yet, knowing nothing of the episode, and with no one making any effort to explain it to him, he felt confused. And ashamed, as if his lack of intimacy with his father had just been exposed. There was a silence. He turned to Nimr. “I would like to ask—May I speak to you in private, ya Haj?”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Nimr glanced at the door. “Please, follow me.”

  As Midhat rose, Abu Omar poured himself the little juice that remained and held it up to the light.

  Nimr led him to a narrow, humid room with a sloped ceiling. The window gave a view of the street, and Midhat peered down at the oval front steps that he had climbed only a few minutes before.

  Haj Nimr folded his hands: Midhat saw a resemblance to Fatima. The eyes, the lips. He breathed deeply.

  “I would like to ask for your daughter to marry me.”

  Nimr’s expression did not change. Gradually, the eyebrows went up.

  “Ah. Unfortunately, the answer is no.”

  Midhat looked down and tried to assemble a neutral face. He had failed, so fast. His mind ran in slow motion. He heard kitchen noises and women’s voices from below, and when he looked up Haj Nimr was still watching him. The answer, unfortunately, was no. “If you can,” Jamil had said of Fatima. The words echoed in Midhat’s ears, hot with new meaning. At last, he managed:

  “I see.” His voice was very quiet.

  Haj Nimr gave a genial grunt and smiled. “Thank you for your visit. How about that juice?”

  “No. Thank you. Thank you for your time.”

  Midhat wished very much to bolt down the steps. But he bowed at Nimr’s wife and stared at her hand as she opened the front door; a delicate hand, the wrinkles very fine, the fingernails sharpened and polished. When he reached the street he gave in, and broke into a run.

  One person saw those little legs alternating, shuddering to a halt as a car passed; and on again, crossing the road. That person was at the top of the house, sitting in the third of three arched windows, using a tiny brush to rub olive oil into a basin of powdered kohl, and looking out over the town. Her sister Nuzha, half reclined on one of the beds, wiped a pale cream over her cheeks.

  “What are you looking at?” Nuzha made an exaggerated sad face at a pocket mirror to stretch out the skin beneath her eyes.

  “Nothing,” said Fatima.

  The figure disappeared and reappeared beyond the trellis. And then it ran, one arm raised, its hand on the tarbush.

  7

  Midhat started up the mountain at a run. As the road steepened, his momentum failed, and he lapsed into a jog. He had tried what they wanted. He did not belong in Nablus. This life, this system, it was not for him. He fell from a jog into a walk, and kicked a pebble. Of course, Teta would never see it that way.

  “It’s not my fault,” he said aloud. “He’s a snob. It’s not my fault if she’s going to marry her cousin. You want me to propose when she’s already engaged? Teta, it’s not my … I think it’s actually your fault—”

  A dark figure, like a tree with one thick branch, appeared against the twilit sky up the mountain ahead. It could have been a tree, only it registered in his vision as an alien shape on a known horizon. And it was moving. Midhat came out past a cluster of branches, and saw the figure one last time before it was engulfed by the mass of rising earth. The light was failing. Midhat increased his speed.

  “Midhat!” came a voice from behind. “Midhat, wait!”

  “Jamil?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s me.” Jamil’s tall body came up the path at an angle. “Why were you running?” He laughed, and burst into a sprint to catch up. “Are you scared?”

  “No.”

  “Ça va?”

  “Ça va bien.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  Midhat wrinkled his nose in protest. “I saw someone up there,” he said at last. “With a big beard.”

  “It was probably the Brother of the Virgins.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A priest. He likes to sit in odd places. Quite strange.”

  “Is he French?”

  “Probably. Why?”

  “I saw a Frenchman with a beard in the Samaritan synagogue.”

  “The synagogue—what were you doing there?”

  “He was looking at something, I think. A page, or a book.”

  “What were you doing?”

  Midhat hesitated. “I told you already. Teta wanted a charm.”

  Jamil did not reply. Midhat wondered if he ought to tell him what had happened at Haj Nimr’s house. He was not sure he could bear Jamil’s scorn.

  “You know,” said Jamil, leaning to pick up a stick from the roadside, “she’s marrying him.”

  It was a moment before Midhat realised they were talking about Yasser. His stomach dropped. “What?”

  “They signed the book already.”

  Midhat stopped walking. Jamil released a torrent of laughter, and Midhat waited for him to finish. F
inally, Jamil wheezed, and said: “I’m joking.” He raised his stick above his shoulder and lobbed it over the edge of the slope. He seemed to take no notice of Midhat’s dismay. “I suppose they have been selling their old books. The Samaritans. These foreigners are coming to buy.”

  “What are they buying them for?”

  “Money, habibi, what else. Times are tough. Oh by the way, I meant to tell you—”

  “Do you mean money for the Samaritans, or money for the foreigners?”

  “I’m working in the khan now, in a carpet store.”

  “Oh, well, that’s good news,” said Midhat. “We can eat lunch together.”

  “My father copied you. Or copied your father. I have to spend a year there and then I’ll graduate to the offices. So I’m dealing with carpets all day. It’s interesting.” He did not sound convinced.

  The bend in the road unfolded and they could see much further ahead. Coming down a narrow path that forked on the slope was the French priest. He was lifting his habit to climb over the rocks, and as he stepped at last onto the main track he opened the bag on his shoulder and slid a book inside. He was taller than Midhat remembered from the synagogue, and broader. The habit flicked up in front of his feet as he strode towards them.

  “Bonjour,” said Midhat.

  To his surprise, the priest came to a complete standstill. “Bonjour.”

  The boys likewise stopped in the middle of the road.

  “This is my cousin,” said Midhat in French. “Jamil Kamal.”