Track Changes

by Sayed Kashua

  I could also have started the conversation with lines that I’d heard Arabs say in movies, “Let’s turn over a new leaf.” Or: “Let us not ask one another of the past.” May I, after seventeen years, ask to erase our past? Or maybe the right opening line ought to be: “Let’s edit our past from the beginning?” I’ll tell you how I’d like you to remember me: a young writer whose passion for writing brought about a disaster that he never sought to bring upon you. Here we are, two victims, sitting at an American restaurant, where we know no one and no one knows us, and we’re trying to start anew. You tell of how compassion replaced the terrible anger and the fathomless hatred that you once felt for me, how, with the years, the monster that you imagined me to be changed, how the lad from the school roof transformed from a rapist to someone in search of a love he had not yet known.

  A young man whose father whispered into his ear on his wedding day that he would never know love and asked not to see him until the day he dies. What did your parents ask of you? What did they wish for you, either overtly or covertly? Would you go home if they summoned you? Have they asked and have you refused? Will you join your mother’s funeral procession, observe the days of mourning for your father?

  I wanted to tell her that ever since I met her I wanted to return her to her house; that during our first days together in Jerusalem I would imagine the two of us on the back of a white horse, a great strong, white horse whose hoofbeats would reverberate throughout Tira, striding slowly, confidently, fearing nothing, and she seated sidesaddle before me in a long white dress. The locals peering at us through cracked doors and shutters, our faces sealed and expressionless, just the footfalls of the horse telling of our victory. That we’ve won the war. My arms encircle her hips and gently hold the reins in my cut and bloody palms. And I look at her profile, her long hair, flowing over her shoulders and concealing her face, and occasionally a gentle wind tosses it and reveals some of the length of her neck, and I recall one of the few phrases I learned in classical Arabic, which describes the length of a woman’s neck according to the earrings with which she can decorate her ears, and here she is, the woman from the Arabic class, seated before me on the horse, and the horse knows where to go, striding toward the house of her beloved, whom I had never seen, and stopping in front of an impressive villa behind a tall gate. And when the horse stops, she dismounts with a light movement and starts to walk back home, knowing that all will be as it once was, that no one will dare say a word, about her or about me, and she does not look back when she returns home. I wait for her to turn back toward me and for her gaze to express gratitude, but she goes inside and locks the door behind her and leaves me there, alone, on the back of the horse, which stands still before the house, not knowing which way to turn.

  “It’s starting to rain,” Palestine said and looked out the window, as the rest of the diners also turned their eyes to the glass.

  “At long last,” I was glad to hear her say. She smiled. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  POSTSCRIPT/ARABIC CHAPTER

  Dad.

  Yes, my son.

  Is Wajiya still working?

  Which Wajiya, the barber?

  The barber.

  Allah Yerhamo. Wajiya died more than five years ago. Why?

  No, nothing. Sometimes I remember him, may his memory be a blessing.

  Your hair is long. You need a haircut. Who cuts your hair for you in America?

  A different person every time. There’s no regular guy.

  That’s not the way things work. The barber, the butcher, the mechanic: they all have to be regulars. My beard is too long. I have to shave. Or maybe it’s better this way so that the angels in the grave get confused and think I’m with the Muslim Brotherhood.

  Don’t talk that way, Dad, please.

  It looks like the lentils are fully cooked, my son.

  Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve heard that expression, Dad?

  Why, they don’t have lentils in America?

  Yes, they do. I tried to make some for the kids. Only the little guy ate them.

  Mashed?

  Yes, mashed.

  Did you squeeze lemon juice on it?

  Yes, it came out good. It’s just that the kids aren’t used to it.

  Did you have radish? You can’t eat lentil soup without radish.

  I know, believe me, I know. I was so distraught that I forgot to buy radish. What are you laughing at?

  I’m laughing. Laughing out of distress. You probably haven’t heard that one in a while, either, huh?

  No, really, Dad. What’s funny?

  I remembered the lentils and the radishes. Back in the day in Damon Prison we went on a hunger strike. We wanted to be allowed transistors, newspapers, books, visits, that sort of thing. And we really did strike for more than two weeks and the authorities gave in to most of our demands but not all. Do you remember Abu al-Walid? From Kafr Kana. He said we demand lentils, and without mashed lentils and radishes there isn’t going to be an agreement.

  And did they agree?

  They agreed. I swear I never ate a more delicious bowl of lentils. Wow, did we laugh, though we didn’t even have the strength to laugh. Ever since then I love lentils and love cooking them.

  In the winter.

  Lentils are winter food. If your kids were with me, you’d see how they eat up my lentils.

  What happened, Dad?

  Nothing, my son. Nothing happened. They’re better off there. What do they need this heartache for?

  It’s tough over there.

  Here it’s tougher.

  Dad.

  You say “dad” a lot.

  Are you tired?

  No. Go on.

  Is there something you always think about before you fall asleep?

  You know I sleep with the radio on. Fifty years I’ve been going to sleep with the radio on so that I don’t have to think about a thing.

  But sometimes the radio has music on. There are no news shows on at night and there must be something that you summon to help you drift off.

  In times of peace?

  Why is there a difference between times of peace and times of war?

  In times of peace I sometimes replay chess moves, sometimes imagine myself in the middle of a soccer match.

  And in times of war?

  In times of war I see myself as a soldier, carrying an old rifle and charging alone toward the tanks.

  And do you win?

  When my head is on the pillow?

  Yes.

  Of course. Every night.