The Parisian

by Isabella Hammad

“I am happy to be home,” said Midhat.

  She swung her legs onto the bed, and the rotating strings of smoke ascended.

  “I am happy too. We have been at my father’s house.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. The rebels came for money. In the end, we gave them an old gun.” She inhaled. “Hani Bey is in a prison camp.”

  “Hani?”

  “Mm. Poor Sahar, she is pregnant you know. I hope it will end soon, the strike, I want to go back to normal. Every night we hear gunfire. Khaled comes and sleeps with me, sometimes.”

  “Hani’s in prison,” said Midhat, “Oh—” He put his hand to his lips. “I think I knew that. Someone told me. At Sarafand.”

  “And Uncle Hassan sold more land to the Church,” said Fatima, “to fund the cause.”

  “Wallah.”

  “The last time I saw him was … last year.” She closed her eyes; she was talking randomly. “There was a priest there. French.”

  “Oh, yes, I know him. Brother of the Virgins.”

  “He wrote a book about Nablus.”

  A memory blurted across Midhat’s mind. He saw the Nablus hospital in the fog of his derangement, and there, Frédéric Molineu, sitting beyond the other patients on the far edge of the veranda. He looked at the memory in astonishment; anger flooded him, pursued by a kind of holy terror. Then, quite as abruptly, he recalled a desire to speak with his old enemy. He turned his head, and Docteur Molineu had vanished. In his place sat a priest.

  “Are you all right?”

  He made a noise. “I was just remembering something at the hospital. A man.”

  “A man?”

  “A—yes. A Jewish man.” He cleared his throat. “I met him, I mean. In the bed next to mine.”

  She tapped into the ashtray, and Midhat wondered how much she knew about his psychosis. How much did any of them know? Who knew what one let slip in a delirium? He teetered, exposed, as though a gale had forced open his greatcoat. He looked over at his impenetrable wife.

  “Fatima.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you really get me out?”

  “The way Teta said.”

  “By telling them I was a doctor?”

  “Among other things.”

  She shrank down against the pillows.

  He said, “You look so sad.”

  She closed her eyes. Tears slid down her lashes. He did not try to comfort her. He returned onto his back, and as her breathing slowed the mattress shifted under her slackened muscles. He still had a strong desire to talk. It had been so long since his last clear conversation, and he was remembering the pleasure of it. He looked again at his wife’s face, her breaths short and light from her open mouth.

  “Fatima,” he whispered. A long silence followed before the next breath, which came like a gasp, in, out. His energies gathered to a point. “I know,” he said, “this was not what you expected.”

  He arranged his head in his palm, propped on his elbow. A crease quivered down her brow, and he waited before resuming: “I’m sorry. When the strike is over, when we have money again, I promise we’ll leave Nablus. We’ll go to the sea. We’ll go to Beirut, we’ll go to Jaffa. Alexandria—”

  Her lips started to tighten. Her cheekbones emerged into distinctness. She opened an eye.

  “Salut,” he whispered, smiling.

  She twisted to face the ceiling.

  “Sorry.” He closed his eyes as if to sleep. But the need to speak remained caught in his chest, like an unexpressed cough. So much had happened, was still happening. He wanted to say how peculiar it was to wake up after having been asleep for months. Though physically only a couple of hours’ drive from Nablus, really he had been abroad, in another country, while in his hometown a kind of war was going on—he wanted to talk about the strike; what it might achieve; what it meant to walk down these empty, menacing streets. He wanted to ask Fatima questions, he wanted their words to come out and meet in the middle. He wanted to tell her about his delusions, and by telling them draw out what remained of their poison—he wanted to tell her how changed he felt. That he could see himself a little more clearly from the outside. And he could see Fatima, beside him. Her nightgown had risen above her knees, above the gentle curve of her whalebone shins, crossed like the arms of musical instruments; she had taken off her stockings, and from her locked ankles, wisped with pale hairs, her pinkish feet protruded, her slender-necked big toes. She inhaled slowly. He felt her weariness, he knew she was blinking at the ceiling. Beside him, this breathing, opaque body. No, he would not tell her any of this. The wave crashed.

  “I think,” he said, “that I should go on a walk.”

  “You need to rest.”

  There was fear in her voice. He reacted to it as he always used to: with a ludic grin. “You know how long I have been in bed for?” he said. “I need to walk.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “They are fighting out there—they are sniping. It’s not safe.”

  “But, Fatima, I have to see Eli. He has been without me for months and months. Imagine.”

  “You need to rest. No.”

  He rasped his palate and raised his hands. “Oh, fine,” he said. “Out of the rule of the doctors, under the rule of the wife. This is my fate.”

  “BABA! BABA!”

  Fatima groaned. Ghada skidded into the room.

  “Habibti!” said Midhat. “Habibet alby—why is your hair so long?”

  “Baba Baba Baba.”

  “Baba misses you.”

  “You weren’t here for my birthday.” She held out her arms to be lifted. “You weren’t there.”

  Taher and Massarra hovered in the doorway. “Baba,” said Khaled, barging between them.

  “Mama is sleeping,” said Midhat. “Oof, you’ve grown!” he said, putting Ghada down. “Yalla, ruhu.”

  He led them into the kitchen. Through the window the trees shone grey-green. A flock of birds charged across the sky.

  Khaled put his elbows on the table. “Where have you been?”

  “That’s none of your business,” said Massarra.

  “Is there any fruit?” said Midhat.

  One old and dry orange, was the answer. They watched him force a knife through the skin and pull the strips of rind one by one from the rounds.

  “Salt,” he said, extending a hand across the table with mock ceremony. Khaled passed the little pot, and Midhat crushed some over the slices, flourishing his arm up and down. Ghada laughed.

  “Don’t be sad, Taher,” said Midhat, rising to rinse his fingers.

  “He’s not sad,” said Massarra.

  “What have you all been eating?”

  “Bananas,” said Khaled.

  “Bananas?”

  They watched him dry his hands on a dishcloth. As he turned to the window, an alien sound entered his ears: a hoarse, voiceless tinkle, like a high key on an out-of-tune piano. There was no piano in the house. His posture slumped. The whistle tickled his eardrums.

  On the red screen of his closed eyelids the priest appeared. The Brother of the Virgins, on the balcony, asking questions. His desire to speak with the priest was immediate and profound. He recalled meeting him in the Nablus hospital, though not what they spoke about. A rare creature, this man of France, of faith: the foreigner who knew Nablus. He did not know yet exactly what he would tell him, only that they must speak.

  “Sahtayn my darlings. Eat.”

  “And there’s cheese,” said Massarra. “And there’s figs in the garden.”

  “Oo-ooh,” said Midhat, with singsong enthusiasm. “My favourite.”

  “I’ll get them. The birds ate a lot when we weren’t here, but there are still a few.”

  “Later, my love. Why is no one eating?”

  Khaled lifted a slice. “I need a napkin.”

  That first night home in Nablus, Midhat was woken every few hours by gunfire crackling from the mountains. When at one point the din became particul
arly acute Fatima reached beneath the duvet and put her warm hand on his arm. She did not apply any pressure; she was simply reassuring herself that he was there. Or, perhaps, reminding him that she was.

  In the morning, Widad Hammad bustled into the hall.

  “Where is your husband? I am here to wish him good health.”

  “He’s coming,” Midhat heard Fatima say, before her voice was swallowed by the corridor.

  He held down his irritation. He took his time to bathe and shave, and whisk his neck with his French badger brush, and smack his chest with his old cologne, and trim and file his fingernails, and pluck the longest hairs from his nostrils, and do up the buttons on his linen suit, and oil and comb his hair, and wash his hands before joining his wife and mother-in-law in the salon. Widad was in the chair beside the window. At the sight of him, she pronounced, “Hamdillah asalama!” and stuck out her neck for three kisses. Without waiting for his response she reverted to a story she was in the middle of telling.

  “They arrested three and shot four.”

  Midhat took a cup from the tray. “Where?”

  “Beit Dajan.”

  “Did they leave the bodies?” said Fatima.

  “Selma heard it from Muhammad Saka, who says that the police report says they were running away. What an accusation! Of course they were running away. They weren’t hiding in the lentil jar. They always do this,” she explained, turning to Midhat. “They come into the village, they arrest people, then they smash everything. They mix all the food together, the flour with the rice and the sugar wa kaza into a pile wa ba‘dayn they usually add olive oil or petrol. Disgusting.”

  Teta, Um Jamil, and Abu Jamil arrived within the hour. They stared intently at Midhat from the doorstep, and Teta gave a satisfied nod. “You look good. Um Mahmoud wishes you health.”

  “Do you want coffee?”

  “We’re not staying long.”

  “With or without sugar?”

  “With, please, thank you habibi,” said Um Jamil, following Um Taher, who was already walking into the salon and calling her hellos.

  A tapping on the salon window announced Nuzha and their brother Burhan, who had come up the path. A weary look passed over Fatima’s face, but Nuzha anticipated her and said to the opening door, “We’re not staying for lunch.” Voices rose, and the conversation splintered. Taher and Khaled appeared in the hall, and Fatima sent them to fetch extra chairs from the kitchen. Midhat dozed in and out of attention.

  “And now he’s in Transjordan.”

  “Why?”

  “He goes to visit these groups—I’m not sure …”

  “Can you swim? I’m very good at swimming.”

  “But since Hani Bey was released—” said Nuzha.

  “What?” said Midhat.

  “Yes,” said Nuzha, sitting back to include him. “They released him yesterday. And a few others. They are negotiating in Jerusalem, with the kings and Nuri Basha.”

  “That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” said Abu Jamil.

  “Ya salam,” said Midhat. “Is the strike ending?”

  “No one knows. Not yet, I don’t think,” said Nuzha.

  Midhat stopped listening again and looked at his hands. He saw Hani’s legs in his father’s study, and then his face coming into view. He had no idea what Hani thought of him now. For the duration of their friendship Midhat was always relatively confident of Hani’s perception of him—since it was, after all, a picture half of his own creating—but there was no way to be sure any longer, not since Hani witnessed Midhat’s moment of collapse, when he had become so utterly unknown to himself.

  The thought that followed this one struck him full force between the brows: Hani must have seen the letter from Jeannette. And so, therefore, must Jamil. His throat burned; he glanced at his grandmother, who was pouting and nodding, and then at Um Jamil. He looked at Fatima, stunned that it had not occurred to him before. Did they all know? His wife was playing with a button on her sleeve and listening to Nuzha. He could see no way to find out without directly asking, and thereby revealing himself. As for the letter itself—there was no way to ask where that was either. Not without reopening the chasm he had just crawled out of. He shuddered: either Jamil or Hani must have it. Surely both would protect him. They loved him; they would not reveal him. Fatima noticed him looking at her, and questioned him with her eyes. He pushed his face into a smile. Of course, he had already been revealed. He had no idea what they had seen; but they had seen him.

  “I will be sad when the revolt is over,” said Khaled.

  “Will you?” said Fatima.

  “There will be nothing to focus on. Ordinary life is boring.”

  His mother swatted his leg. “Shame.”

  “I don’t want to go back to school,” Khaled replied, with dignity.

  “When was the last time you saw Hani?” said Nuzha.

  Fatima winced.

  “Last year,” said Midhat.

  Here they all were, watching him return, gently, to this world. Ready to press him back into the shape of a person. Their impressions glanced off him like beams of light. There had been times in his life when he thought the need for them was illusory, this group of people, living in the same place, tied by their names and inherited stories. But if that was illusory, what was real? Without them, he was a body floating in the air—he stuck his foot out onto the cold tile, and struck a match to light Abu Jamil’s cigar.

  As Fatima repaired to the kitchen, he pulled out some olive wood misbaha beads and began counting them off to calm himself. He maintained his sociable smile; he did not want them to see him ruminate. His old schematic way of thinking was quite gone. Gone that ability, or propensity, to map one thing onto another. Nothing would ever again be contained by a map.

  Fatima appeared in the dark hall bearing a tray. She nodded at him, and he felt a twinge of anger that she should take it upon herself to approve his behaviour. But in a moment his anger was swept off by love, and love was flooded with sorrow. So it was. After one thought arose another soon overtook it, and they fell back one by one, like the breathy concessions of the sea.

  He spent the afternoon reorganising his bookshelves. For many years his books were arranged with a false economy in two rows, leaving the second row completely hidden behind the first and all of its titles forgotten. Today he was rediscovering them, wiping pelts of dust off their top edges with a cloth. Several he had brought back from Paris, some were gifts from Faruq. One he remembered picking up beside the Seine; it fell open at a well-thumbed page on a description of Jerusalem, shimmering in the distance. The telephone rang. The operator announced his aunt’s house, and then Teta came on the line, hiccoughing.

  “I have to tell you something,” she said. “But don’t—don’t be sad. Mama? Be strong.”

  “What is it?”

  “Jamil is … Jamil is gone.”

  In the background, Um Jamil wailed.

  “I’m coming immediately,” said Midhat.

  He set down the telephone, and stood motionless for a long moment. He could hear his children laughing in the other room. He looked at the cloth in his hands, covered in dust.

  He stumbled on his way to the car. His aunt and uncle’s house was dark, the shutters were closed and they had not lit the lamps. Um Jamil backed into the corner by the kitchen as he entered, her mouth an open hole.

  Jamil was on the table. The heels of his boots, tanned with wear, were just visible beneath the sheets. He was wrapped in two of them, through which large bands of blood had soaked and dried and turned brown. Only the top part of his torso was uncovered. His buttoned shirt was heavily bloodied, and his pale chin was lifted. Midhat’s heart swung violently as he approached. Jamil’s mouth was open, his eyes were closed, and the weight of his face was already sinking into his narrow cheeks. His long nose pointed upward, as though he were taking a deep breath: it was a figure of pain, and of release.

  “Oh,” said Midhat. His eyes filled with tears. He traced
a finger over the torn fibres of Jamil’s necktie. The bristles of the unshaven neck touched his fingertips and he drew back in shock. Then, with conviction, he placed his palm on the dead cheek. The certain cold of the flesh beneath his hand made him cry out: “Oh no.” He heard his voice shaking.

  Abu Jamil showed him the piece of paper.

  This man was killed in an altercation with British soldiers, who acted in self-defence.

  Teta was holding his arm with two hands. Cords tightened in her wrists. He met her eye and, trying not to weep, blinked: I’m fine.

  It fell to Midhat and Abu Jamil to wash the body. Midhat, who had never done this before, watched his uncle set about the task with rags and bowls of water without bothering to wipe the tears that ran off his chin. They unwound the sheets, and covered Jamil with a fresh sheet from navel to knee, and then set about dressing his wounds. After washing him five times, and covering him in his shroud, they took turns to bathe. Midhat fetched his aunt and grandmother from upstairs, and they sat together praying around the body. Munir Murad arrived to give his condolences, and to tell them that Basil was still alive, and going on trial.

  “Basil?” said Midhat.

  “They were driving back from across the Jordan River,” said Munir. “They were on a mission for the cause. Basil told me, before they came to arrest him.”

  Jamil had left Nablus with Basil after bringing Midhat home from Bethlehem, and driven through the night over the Damiya Bridge into Transjordan. At Ajlun, someone from the Adwan tribe was waiting. They paid for some hundred or more rifles, pistols, and shotguns, along with ammunition, then rested until afternoon and set out for Nablus at dusk. At about one in the morning, near the village of Beit Furik, they realised they were surrounded. Basil managed to escape.

  “His trial is in three days,” said Munir. “Here, in Nablus.” He nodded, blessing the house.

  Three days passed. Three days of wailing and condolences and agitation, the body interred, the funeral prayers spoken before the mound of displaced dirt in the Western Cemetery.

  At the trial, the policeman said Jamil had shot at the soldiers. Basil’s lawyer asserted that this could not possibly be the case, since they were clearly ambushed. But the judge averred that the greater crime was Basil and Jamil’s, and that in the absence of witnesses there was nothing to corroborate the lawyer’s argument. Basil was sentenced to nine years in Akka prison for the possession of explosives and firearms.