They would hold her hand and lead her from one meeting place to another, through shops and monasteries where people would come and go while she stood there, a mere presence. Then came the fall, nine girls she had known had traveled that road and fallen, becoming like prostitutes, with one major difference, that the prostitutes were paid for their services whereas the girls were cheap prey, the rewards of the revolution and the liberation. They were seduced the same night by a poet, a leader, or even an intruder to the revolution, and a would-be poet. They got nothing in return but talk about the revolution, an addiction to hashish or morphine, and an emotional affliction that crushed them. She had seen nine youthful girls reduced to decrepit women, like secondhand goods.
She stood there watching the sun set slowly behind the olive trees on the hill. She smelled the scent of a jasmine that Nahleh had brought from her garden and planted near the entrance. It had grown into a big tree. She wondered how many months had passed since Nahleh’s incident, Zayna’s arrival, and the day she had met Mazen. Time passed at an unbelievable speed and events happened like in a speeded-up film.
Two months ago, only two months ago, she was soaring and singing for Mazen as she sang in the past for the priest she had fallen in love with. She was a young girl then, and felt chat life was like a beautiful film, filled with events, emotions, and music. She compared it to a Julie Andrews movie she saw years ago, a film that had a special place in her heart, one that reflected an experience she’d lived. She had imagined herself as Julie Andrews, with her baby face, her guitar and her love of an older man, a baron who fought the Nazis. But why weren’t the men she met like the baron? Each one had a complex that brought him down from the position of a baron to that of an animal. How could a baron fall so fast? Why did it happen to her and so quickly as if there were a sign on her forehead that said to a man: “Help yourself.” It was as if her clothes, her makeup, her name told them: “I’m easy.” How many times had she looked in the mirror to understand their audacity toward her after the first handshake? Her clothes weren’t revealing or low cut, they didn’t expose armpits or cleavage like Futna’s clothes. Her hair was short and simple, her conversation was elegant and polite, and she didn’t laugh at dirty jokes and hidden meanings like Futna. Her laughter was decent, and she didn’t guffaw or clap her hands and shake them the way Futna did. But Futna was protected by her name, her native city, Jerusalem, her family name and the Shayibs; hadn’t they been trusted with the keys of the Aqsa Mosque!
Violet wondered whether people’s attitude toward her was due to her profession as a hairdresser, her mother’s work as a nurse, and her father’s work in the post office. She wished they all had different professions. She wished she had a different name, one less inviting. Had her mother been like Amira with a commanding tone and a confident voice, he might not have dared to nudge her with his elbow, his elbow! What a beast, what a pig!
She was extremely angry and felt a blinding rage that transformed the world around her into a very strong storm. She wanted to go back to the cafeteria and throw her anger in his face, tell him that he was an animal and that his elbow and his face looked like an old shoe. Or worse, his face resembled the tail of a sheep with his double chin, a disgusting sight. Who does this pig think he is? She couldn’t care less about his family name, his career as a diplomat, his palace, his English accent, and his cashmere sweaters. And Amira and her stupid daughter Futna meant nothing to her. The members of the Shayib family were nothing more than overblown balloons, nothing but hot air. Futna’s pregnancy was nothing but an ugly scandal. She was more honorable than Futna and her mother because she earned her living honorably and didn’t sell herself to a rich old man, as old as her father.
When Futna crossed the terrace she saw Violet. She asked, her voice hoarse from a cold she had caught and her pregnancy at this advanced age, “Hi Violet, are you writing poetry?”
But Violet turned her head toward the west and looked at the mountains and the valleys, filled with anger. She whispered, spitefully, “For whom and for what? I’m leaving soon.”
The Bey had a history and a heritage as well. He was the son of wealthy ancestors who had lived life to the fullest. Some had owned land near the coast where they held parties and banquets, enjoying evenings of singing, dancing, and love. He would not have accepted the kind of love common during his father’s generation. He didn’t dream of a dancer or a musician, but he wished he could fall in love with a girl with special qualities, a girl who read books and spoke French and English. He wanted a girl who wore bold clothes, narrow around the waist with a large belt, a girl he would dance with at the Orient House.
During those days girls were like doves and dahlias. They had long necks with a small head like that of a finicky goldfinch, their eyes were large and almond-shaped like Audrey Hepburn’s, and their long, silky black hair would be combed in a ponytail. Some wore their hair in a new style called ‘à la garçon,’ the style of choice for distinguished women but worn by all at present. The dress or the skirt at that time was very wide, like an umbrella with pleats and numerous layers. Whenever a girl sat down or her clothes were raised by the wind, one could see white layers like the transparent petals of a rose. During those days a girl was like a dream or a soft pure melody, like a moving song played on the piano or the guitar. The piano was fashionable then, every well-born girl played the piano at the nuns’ school.
He was so lucky to have met yesterday’s girl, today. He dreamed of her for years until he met her. Violet was that type of girl, from a nuns’ school, gifted, sentimental, with short hair, a long neck, and high cheekbones like Audrey Hepburn. She was both yesterday’s and today’s girl, and like yesterday’s girls she wasn’t for him and didn’t want him. It had so happened that every girl he had wanted during those days had stopped through his fingers, and he would see her the following day with another young man dancing in the Orient House or in Ramallah. He stopped searching for the delicate girls and contented himself with the sturdier type. He had an explanation for the situation: the gold (inch rends to fly high up above the clouds, above the Dome of the Rock and the bell towers, as for the sturdy types they were like hens and ducks, they did not fly and moved slowly without making much noise, they wouldn’t run away. So he lived for three years with Sarah, a year and a half with Mary, then with Marika and Tumader and many others, then he stopped counting. A couple of times he’d been about to fall and tie his future to a duck but he’d been saved at the last minute.
He was over sixty now, single, and childless, with no one to inherit his name and his fortune, without a woman willing to live with him without marriage. Was it true that he didn’t have a penis? The truth is that he behaved like someone who had more than one penis, always ready to perform the act. He went through periods of great activity when he exploded with desire and power, followed by periods of rest that gradually grew longer. It surprised and saddened him when all the passion he felt died and boredom settled in. He would then turn to his books, searching for the secret of the universe and the human being, the secret of love and human relations. For years he felt he was a Kafka or rather that Kafka was thinking for him. He then moved to Washington and there he became enamored with Hemingway and grew a beard similar to his, he took up fishing, traveled, made love to women, but his interest in them was always short-lived.
Now, however, after all those years and his long experience in life, he knew himself, or at least his type, and he understood that the human being was not endowed with a free will but was guided. This was reality and those who didn’t know it were either stupid or ignorant. Had he ever chosen what had happened to him? In the past he had dreamed of this and that, both in his private and public life, but things didn’t happen the way he’d wanted and he hadn’t known how they had moved and whether he had received what he’d wished for. He had wanted to join the faculty of law but instead he found himself somehow, in the department of philosophy and psychology. He had wanted to be an ambassador in a Western c
ountry but found himself a consul in Turkey. He wanted to have the most beautiful and the brightest women but his wish was unfulfilled and he didn’t resist what happened to him or even regret it. Why was he fighting now what had already happened and was over with? What was the point of resisting something and denying its benefit for the sake of something whose benefit was unknown to him? Things were in continuous motion- as a person changes, so do his mind and his heart. Since the mind moves in all directions, thoughts change shape. How can one bet on love knowing that feelings are like a balloon, inflated today and deflated tomorrow? How can he bet that emotions rushing like a rocket will not one day settle on earth and become a reality? Let whatever happens happen, hoping that he might get what he hopes for.
He stood like the others looking at the military post in Kiryat Raheel and he suddenly noticed the hill where the settlement was built, its trees and its roof tiles. It was a large settlement with a military camp, a fence, and forbidden roads. They were building a new checkpoint to mark the borders between the past and the present, between an occupation that had lasted years and an occupation that will last forever. He had become used to this sight and its depressing impact on him, but the problem, as he explained it, was bigger than us, bigger than them, bigger than a nation and even many nations. It was part of history, it was fate.
The soldier motioned the cars and said, “Go,” so he moved fast toward his aim without thinking because his mind had shifted for a moment when he saw the soldiers and the checkpoint. But he regained his composure as he drove, surrounded by the olive trees, the scent of the evening, and the music. He concentrated on the aim of the day and his expectation of what was to happen.
He began planning and preparing the way for what he wanted. A small town like Wadi al-Rihan wasn’t big enough for him. Moreover, sleeping in the upper room in the Hamdans’ house, as he had done a few times before, wouldn’t be suitable. It was not only a burden and a bother to them, but it would be impossible for him to lure his catch to a safe nest. It would be better to stay at a hotel in Nablus for a few days instead of traveling back and forth daily and lose the day on the road, and especially the nights, which are more important. He liked the idea and found it practical. Spending time with them would strengthen his position and keep him close to the two projects, the regressing environmental project and the progressing Art and Culture project. He stayed in touch with the organizers, keeping up with the events, without losing sight of developing situations and new details.
The Bey made arrangements to stay in a comfortable room at a nearby hotel. He rested a little, took a shower, smoothed his beard and watched the quiet city from his window. He realized that the place wouldn’t suit the advanced stage of his project, when the fishhook catches the fish, and a permanent arrangement would have to be made. Later on, however, the dove would follow him to the diwan or any hotel in East or West Jerusalem, as peace was becoming a reality and the exchange of visitors and business was a fact. It was important to be organized and move carefully, one step at a time. He had no aim for his project, which complicated matters somewhat, he wondered how he would move ahead without an aim. He didn’t know how Violet would feel about him, would she accept him or rebuff him, playing hard to get? Would she use her trip to America as an excuse, her involvement with the preparations and the arrangements to be made? Her travel plans didn’t constitute an obstacle as once she sold the furniture and the house, she could leave immediately, he wouldn’t hold her back. He hoped she wouldn’t hang on to him, but what if she did? He didn’t think that would be too bad. He couldn’t have hoped for a better and sweeter conclusion to his project, especially in these surroundings where the accessible women are few. The indications were that it wouldn’t be at all difficult to fulfill his dreams, judging from Mazen’s experience.
He made up his mind and embarked on his project invoking God’s help. On his way to Wadi al-Rihan he saw the settlement again, the army and the police checkpoint, and drove behind a long line of cars. None of this dissuaded him as it had in the past. The radio had been talking about a true peace and the end of problems and complications, and the gradual removal of checkpoints and settlements. This meant that one would finally be able to breathe and live a reasonable life, enjoy the usual pastimes, reading and engaging in discussions without a stick hanging over one’s head. One would become a human being, a son of Adam. Let’s then live free of worries, anxieties, and pain. Although pain was still eating away at the heart and the bones of Jerusalem, those were mere stages before peace prevails. Even if it ends up being a partial peace, what can one do? The issue is bigger than us or them, it is the responsibility of the Security Council, the Senate, the House of Lords, the United Nations, and similar bodies. It is the combined policy of nations and a new world order.
He arrived in Wadi al-Rihan early, as the night was just beginning to set in, the streets were still awake, the cars were moving and people’s eyes were wide open. He would not, naturally, embarrass her or himself and arouse suspicion. Matters such as these are not to be publicized and what a person does in his private life is for himself and not for others to see. People wouldn’t understand, and even if they did, they would make a mountain out of a molehill. What if he greeted her and went to visit her as a friend, like the others? Didn’t Mazen visit her thousands of times and so did Kamal and the gray-haired man with the special look, wasn’t he always with her wherever she went? Was he Violet’s friend or her mother’s? It was none of his business or anybody else’s business, it was her private life. She was free to do whatever she wanted and so was he. Two independent individuals can play without hurting anybody.
It was not a convenient time to visit, however, he should wait an hour or two until the movement in the streets stopped and people either went to sleep or were watching television, then he would make his move.
He drove along the edge of Wadi al-Rihan, saw the Hamdan’s farm on his right and noticed a light in the study and in the guard’s room. It looked like a good opportunity to kill time and greet Abu Jaber. but the parked pickup was Mazen’s. He slowed down, thinking that the car was here merely to transport vegetables the following morning. He locked his Mercedes and walked calmly toward the study. He heard voices in the room and recognized Kamal’s voice. So, the pickup was then driven by Kamal, a pleasant and sociable person. He-could have been an excellent and dependable partner had it not been for the turn of events. The political situation was not stable, however, and no one knew what the future might bring. How many times had he been surprised by the events and people’s behavior, strange things had happened to him. He had had no choice but to accept them, as usual, after a period of reflection.
He knocked at the door but no one answered. The discussion inside appeared heated with very loud and emotional voices competing to be heard. There didn’t seem to be an opportunity for a discussion or a break that would allow them to hear the Bey’s delicate knock. He pushed the door and found himself before a large gathering. There was Kamal, Mazen, and their father Abu Jaber, in addition to another man, a dark, thin man with a sensitive face and large chestnut eyes. Abu Jaber stood up quickly to greet the Bey, while the others interrupted their discussion for half a minute and exchanged short greetings with the guest before returning to their business.
Abu Jaber said in a brief whisper, “We are talking about Abu Salem’s son, the project, and Nahleh’s shares.”
Abd al-Hadi Bey shook his head and began to pay close attention to the conversation since he was very much concerned in the matter. He intended to join the project and had high hopes for it. Mazen turned to him suddenly and said, sharply, “Listen Bey, listen, listen, have you ever heard a wise person talk like this? We say it is a bull and he says milk it, We say it is a bull, a bull, man, can the bull become an engineer? What a story!”
The Bey intervened, calmly and politely, saying, “Please excuse me, I don’t understand.”
The dark skinned man was unsure of him, but Mazen reassured him saying,
“Speak freely, don’t worry, he’s one of us.”
It was a courteous gesture that the Bey appreciated, he smiled to the dark skinned man who turned to him and explained the situation, “After Kamal withdrew from the project it became garbage.”
The man smiled at his own words and explained the joke to the others, “It’s a project about garbage and it became garbage.”
The Bey shook his head and replied politely, but without a smile, “I understand, I understand.”
The young man went on, “In a word, the project hangs on Kamal. He invented it and we entrusted him with it. It will cost thousands of shekels and maybe millions, but Kamal has abandoned us.”
Kamal objected loudly, “Isn’t this what you wanted? In reality, the shares aren’t yours, our father gave them to Nahleh and you took them by force.”
The young man replied, “Then, dear sir, you give up a project that costs millions and leave the garbage where it is? Are you going to leave us lost between your brother’s stupidity and a big, complex project that we don’t understand, just for your sister’s sake?”
Kamal looked at them vexed and angry, because the dark-skinned man knew very well that he did not give up the project merely because of Nahleh or their father, it was a more serious and more complicated matter. He sought only to provoke him or even defy him, to blackmail him in the name of the homeland, patriotism, his expertise, and modernization. Kamal refused to be pulled into this type of discussion, he was determined to avoid getting entangled in the war of blame because it would undoubtedly upset everybody including his father, who had whispered in his ear, at the beginning of the discussion, “Is it conceivable that you would leave a huge project in the hands of . . . you know who?” Kamal ignored his father’s words and everybody else’s, he had made up his mind. It wasn’t because of Nahleh or the stupidity of Abu Salem’s sons and that of his brother Said, it wasn’t because of people’s greed or their ignorance and the difficulties of life in this sick environment. It wasn’t that at all, but something more serious than that, something he couldn’t swallow or overcome, something graver than garbage. He was determined to avoid working in an atmosphere of fear, that was all. That was the reason, and nothing else.
The Inheritance Page 22