by Malka Marom
“Whenever you hear someone approaching you think it is your brother,” says Azzizah. Tammam by now is halfway to her tent, rushing into the wind with little Salimeh in her arms.
Tammam ululates—in Honour of her brother? In celebration of his arrival?
Her cry bounces from mountain to mountain. The whole desert can hear her trembling joy . . .
j
Hillel’s letter
. . . You are staying in tents rumoured to be embroiled in father-and-son violations that might end up in father killing son and brother killing sister—the girl Abu Salim married. His son Salim, rumoured to have fathered her infant-daughter, might be subjected to Badu test for proof of paternity. If result positive, I’ll return to the maq’ad and take you home well before the crowd gathers to witness the double execution.
. . . Bear in mind that after a year-long search Abu Salim finally tracks down his son, Salim, then only a couple of days later he breaks a law his clan has adhered to for as long as anyone can remember and invites you to visit-stay in his forbidden tents—to be your brother’s-sister’s keeper? To deter double-murder, arrest, imprisonment, by your mere presence? . . .
If you would rather leave now, advise me of it via Abu Salim’s grandsons. If you decide to stay, I’ll back you up all the way.
Whatever you do, remember: the mountain Badu have been known to kill a person who spreads rumours of adultery, incest, illicit love . . .
Hillel—the Haifa’ee, as our mutual friend, Tal, refers to me
CHAPTER 23
“Are you ready? Write-to-remember!” Abu Salim orders me, as if this evening is no different from yesterday’s, as if I am a scribe in his royal court.
“No,” I’m itching to tell him. “Give me a minute to breathe, to recover.”
“Are you ready?” little Mutt, emulating his grandfather, snaps at me.
His grandparents—Abu Salim and Azzizah—crack up. Oh, how their laughter irks Tammam and her brother.
The shibriyya—the dagger—peeking through the frock Tammam’s brother wears unbuttoned looks like a sort of belt buckle, until he hands it to his sister and you see how the cutting edge slices the top off a can of tuna.
Tammam cuts open all the cans her brother brought. No one tells her to leave some for tomorrow. “Take what is left of my life and enjoy it,” Tammam’s eyes say to her brother.
Yes, I know the Badu well enough to read their eyes. It’s Russell I can’t read, and Hillel, and, perhaps most of all, Tal. Why have they waited to dispatch the police to this Badu encampment, even if they think the rumour is baseless?
Patronizing, arrogant, presumptuous—Hillel, Tal, Professor Russell. Or was it only Hilal—Hillel—who presumed that a clan of Badu nomads who have endured for centuries without interference might suddenly find themselves to be such helpless, backward children, they couldn’t survive a family crisis—a rumoured family crisis—without the “mere presence” of a stranger? Then, to top it off, Hilal—Hillel—smuggles this letter past Badu who have lived by smuggling goods and information for centuries. There isn’t a smuggler’s ploy these Badu aren’t wise to.
Tal must have stopped at Hillel’s post after he dropped me off at this forbidden compound. “Something didn’t smell right there,” he might have told Hillel. And when Hillel told him of the rumour, Tal probably wanted to drive back to Abu Salim’s maq’ad to pull me out. But Hillel would have said, “She knows what she’s doing. She must have heard the rumour and didn’t tell you about it for fear it would endanger your life and hers, expose your blood for five generations . . .
Is that how it transpired?
The Haifa’ee, Tal called Hillel, meaning “a native of Haifa.” You can’t walk upright in that city for very long; all the streets slope down or up the crests and ravines of the Carmel mountain range. Therefore, natives of Haifa walk bent like Hilal, meaning quarter-moon in Badu Arabic. In Hebrew, “Hillel” means “praise.” The Haifa’ee—Hillel—Hilal—had served with Tal in the Unit.
Had he showed up in the maq’ad when I was sick and out of it?
Daqq, daqq, daqq. Abu Salim pounds the roasted coffee beans to fine powder in a brass mortar. Daqq, daqq, daqq. The mountain echoed for all the desert over to hear what Honour, what welcome, Abu Salim is brewing for Tammam’s brother.
Whatever Tammam’s eyes say to her brother, he can’t take it, or so it seems. His eyes shift to the cliffs in the east, reflecting the golden tail of the sun, sinking in gulfs, oceans, seas hundreds of kilometres west of this compound. In the slanted rays, the compound looks besieged by the mountains, circles within circles, their purple deepening by the minute. Dusk here is a tease, like a lover ejaculating prematurely.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give now to be in the screened-in porch of the summer cottage in Algonquin with a glass of scotch on ice, not a pen, sweating in my hand.
Saluki dogs, chasing a herd of black goats to the tents, raise a cloud of dust and a fit of coughing and cursing. As soon as the dust settles, Tammam’s brother looks at Azzizah as if she had brewed the rumours like poison to kill her junior co-wife, even if Salim, Azzizah’s only son, must die as well.
Azzizah’s eyes well up with tears—from the onion she is slicing? The senior wife drops the onion slices into a frying pan sizzling over the cooking fire eight to ten meters away from the welcome-carpets she and Tammam had spread round this fire-circle.
“Are you ready?” Abu Salim breaks silence as soon as my pen stops. Now, Abu Salim says nothing while my pen’s moving. He frowns as if I take him for fool who doesn’t know how long it takes to write three words. “Write what I tell you,” says Abu Salim, pouring Honour-coffee into dainty porcelain cups. “Largesse won’t lessen your wealth/whereas avarice acts like a pail never full,” he dictates, serves Honour-coffee—“From the right, to avoid the guest’s spite . . . Uwakhad li’l theif/theni li’l seif/tallat li’l keif. Now write what it means. Are you ready?
“First coffee cup is for to Honour the guests; the second is for the sword; the third is for the keif—the sheer pleasure. After that you must rest your cup face down on the ground. For only a fellah lacking adabb, asl-agl—nobility, lineage, character, manners—will extend his hand for a refill after the third cup of coffee-Honour.”
Tammam’s brother sips, leaning forward for fear, it seems, that a drop might stain his light blue frock and pants—like his beige shoes and beige socks, spanking-white shirt and spanking-white kaffiyye, brand new. Nowhere in Sinai could he purchase such tailored clothes, except in Al-Arish—a week by camel from here, give or take a day or two. He rode straight from the tailor shop and shoe store to this compound, or else he saved this outfit for a special occasion.
“He dressed for a wedding,” Azzizah said when he dismounted his camel by Tammam’s tent.
But it was in the season of the weddings that I first entered the interior of the peninsula, and not then, nor after, have I seen a Badu or stranger dressed like Tammam’s brother. No man who has something to hide or to be ashamed of would dress up like that. Is that why he was riding like a prince, parading for God knows how many days, or how many travellers, shepherds, tents, or maq’ads he passed? To dispel the rumour that might doom him to kill his sister? To show he has no doubt that Abu Salim’s son, Salim, will pass the Badu test of innocence?
“How does your Badu clan test a suspect for innocence or guilt?” Ask them, Leora. Come on, what are you afraid of? I don’t know. A hell of a lie detector you’d need to test a suspect in this place, where stories-lies are considered spice to enhance life and a person who tells no lies is considered to be a person with no pepper. Would a Badu of pepper conduct this test? When? When is Salim expected to reach this, his home compound? Would he be returning home if he were not absolutely certain that he would pass the Badu test of innocence?
“No,” Tammam and her brother would reply.
“Yes.” Azzizah an
d Abu Salim would disagree.
Or so it seems.
Abu Salim, looking like a pauper next to Tammam’s brother, treats him like an old aristocrat indulging an upstart who has paraded his lack of cunning; his secret ambition; his craving for power, fortune, fame; and his vanity.
Tammam’s brother places his cup upside down on the ground. He’s had his fill of Abu Salim’s Honour; Abu Salim can keep his patronizing indulgence for his son Salim, his eyes seem to say. He’s probably not more than two or three years past his teens; same age as my son. Maybe he also wants to be a hero. Maybe he dressed up in his best clothes because he thought all the eyes in the desert are on him; in tents and maq’ads the desert over his name is mentioned; never before was he the centre of attention anywhere, except perhaps in his father’s compound, years ago when his mother died birthing his sister, Tammam. He was probably six or eight years old then. And ever since, he has taken care of his sister, Tammam, protected her, widened her world by telling her what he has seen and heard in the desert that stretched beyond her narrow boundaries. But now he’s out of his league, Abu Salim seems to imply, otherwise he would have known that he would serve his sister best by acknowledging to no one that he had heard a rumour about anyone even remotely connected to him.
“Who gave you the Badu ring—the silver ring on your writing hand?” Tammam’s brother breaks the silence like a tyrant—a tyrant who knows damn well that his sister gave me that ring, trusting I would not unveil her even to him, her brother.
Tammam utters not a sound. No one does. No one looks in her direction, his, or mine—not even Abu Salim. Looks like Tammam was right: when it comes to her, her reputation, her ring, her brother ranks higher than her husband, Abu Salim, and higher than a woman-stranger of the tribe that rules his desert. Is that why he thinks he can test me like a tyrant? Like a tyrant schooled in the way of strangers; a tyrant who knows I can’t pass this character test—that, if I’m straightforward, honest, I betray his sister’s trust, her reputation, his clan’s, his tribe’s? Is he testing me to see if I will put his Badu moral code above mine and keep the silence even if and when he kills his sister?
For all I know, he’s counting on me to call the police, but how? Does he think a Yahodiya stranger wouldn’t dare sit alone in a Badu compound without a gun? One like Tal’s that fires S.O.S. flares—as if a Badu compound was an enemy camp.
“Who gave you the Badu ring—the silver ring?” He won’t let up.
“A Badawia,” I reply.
“What is her name?” he demands.
Silence. Abu Salim will snap his head off if he fires another question at me. Three questions too many for Abu Salim have been fired at me already, it seems. As soon as he saw his sister’s ring he should have realized, taken for granted, that Abu Salim had prepared me for this test—a test that probably dates back to the days their clansmen were warriors or outlaws, and it took not more than a silver ring to lead enemy troops to their hiding-place or home base. The first question implied that Abu Salim was negligent, incompetent, incapable of keeping the Badu moral code in his compound, of keeping his son, Salim, from Tammam, of squashing rumours that might cost two lives and imprison Tammam’s brother and Abu Salim for life. Does he hold Abu Salim responsible for all that?
Yes.
“To what tribe does she belong?” Tammam’s brother drives the point home, sticking it to Abu Salim, by snapping at me. He knows, doesn’t he, that he can snap at me like a tyrant, badmouth me, my tribesmen, my sheikh; even say to me: your sister fucked her own stepson—and nothing will happen to him, except perhaps a promotion to the status of a freedom fighter asserting himself against his foreign ruler. But for a critical whisper against an Arab ruler—not a king, a head of state, a sheikh, a mufti, but an elder like Abu Salim—hundreds if not thousands of young Arab men, true Arab young men like Tammam’s brother, have paid the ultimate price. Beads of sweat cover his face now, as if it has finally dawned on him what it might cost him just to imply that a Badu elder is anything less than above reproach.
The boy is not himself; his brand-new clothes have gone to his head—that’s what Abu Salim thinks, it seems. Abu Salim is acknowledging nothing this evening, not what the boy implies, not the rumour about Tammam and his son, Salim—not even that he had prepared me for this test of trust.
“El Bofessa taught you well.” Abu Salim breaks the silence, his eyes on mine—and betraying in no way that it was he himself who had taught me.
I hide my eyes in this notebook and keep my mouth shut. I don’t trust my gut. For all I know, I’m only seeing things, imagining . . .
“Wallah, El Bofessa taught her well,” says Jeff, dragging a water jerrican from the cooking-fire-circle over to this one. “Had she been wearing a veil, she would be a Badawia.”
“No, she can never be a Badawia, for she is not of Arab blood,” says Abu Salim.
“That is why Hilal can never ever be a true real man,” says Mutt, bringing the rusty tea container from the cooking fire. “But only because he is not of Arab blood; except for that, Hilal is a true real man.”
“No, he is not,” says Jeff, “because a true real man is complete, ya’ani, he is forty years old at least. For only then can his eyes be open; only then can he see who is true, who is false; only then can he have the wisdom to settle disputes; only then can he have a face in front of him—meaning honour, high esteem, reputation, respect, and boldness.”
“But Hilal is bold,” says Mutt, holding the teapot to catch water pouring from a jerrican that is too heavy for Jeff’s hands. “Hilal is more bold than any true Arab, or he would not dare tell to a Badu elder like my grandfather, Abu Salim, that he cannot cut down this tree or that.”
“Aywa, Hilal is bold, only to talk,” says Jeff, tilting the jerrican back to solid ground. “Like a woman, Hilal is a pot that only boils and boils; like a woman, Hilal is not bold to punish not even one Badu who cut down trees, sahih—right?” Jeff asks his grandfather almost as if the kids on the block will laugh at him, gang up, beat the shit out of him, if Abu Salim will not reassert himself and, like a true real man, punish Tammam’s brother for challenging his Honour, power, manhood.
“Laa—no,” replies Abu Salim, “Hilal does not punish a Badu for cutting down trees, ya’ani, firewood, because he knows that we Badu live on fire.”
“Hilal knows also that we Badu could live on electricity fuelled by a generator like the one that fuels the electricity in Hilal’s post,” says Tammam’s brother.
“Fire,” snaps Abu Salim, “fire fuels our Badu way of life, and Hilal knows it.”
“You see? I told you. Like a true real man, Hilal is loyal to his friends,” says Mutt to his brother, Jeff.
“No, Hilal, like a woman, has a womb, meaning: pity, mercy, compassion, ya’an: like a woman Hilal is nice; and like a woman he is owed deference from no one. A true real man is not nice; a true real man is generous.”
“But you told me yourself that Hilal is a true real man,” says Mutt, resting the teapot on the blackened trio of stones set level in the centre of the fire-circle.
“No, I told you that Hilal regards women like a true real man,” says Jeff. “Only in that is Hilal a true real man; for, like a true real man, Hilal belongs to no woman, pays no heed to women—”
“For he likes trees more than women,” mutters Mutt, trying to pry open the rusty top of the tea container with a twig that keeps breaking.
Jeff brings over from the cooking fire the sugar container—a small cloth bag, stiff like a kitchen towel that hasn’t been laundered in days-weeks-months.
“Aywa, a true real man is not controlled by desire, hunger, or fear,” says Tammam’s brother, handing his shibriyya to little Mutt.
Mutt groaned as he struggled to pry the top off the tea container, groaned and groaned then went on to declare, “A true real man does not complain no matter how painful his pain. A true rea
l man does not cry, not even when his mother or his child dies.”
“But, first and foremost, a true real man is a free man,” says Abu Salim, like a reigning old monarch, seasoned wise, accustomed to having the last, definitive word. “A true real man stands alone and fears nothing; a true real man is like a falcon—shahin: like a falcon, a true real man flies alone and fears nothing, and if there are two in the same territory, one must kill the other.”
Must kill even his own son for invading his territory—his Tammam?
Was it here, by a fire-circle like this one, a family gathering with a guest or two, that Abu Salim’s son, Salim, first saw this girl that his father married—to end a blood feud, seal a sulha—a forgiveness—with Tammam’s clan? A girl in her teens, the purest maiden in her clan. Younger than Salim perhaps. A girl as graceful as a dancer, balancing her layers of veils on a head held high. Her black, full-length thowb, embroidered in dazzling colours and designs, is belted at the waist with a royal blue sash that reveals the subtle curves of a budding beauty. Her silver anklets glitter, and her wrists jingle-jangle with bracelets. Jewels cascade down her firm breasts, none more sparkling, more riveting, than her eyes.
Day after day, Salim hears his father—a true real man, like a falcon—waking Tammam with whispered endearments—ayuni, galbi—my eyes, my heart; yet, day after day, he sees his mother, Azzizah, treating this girl like a daughter, like one who could arouse Methuselah, perhaps, but not his father, Abu Salim. Now Salim thinks he understands why this budding beauty is as volatile as a goat penned up with an impotent ram. Now Salim thinks her riveting eyes are yearning for a potent ram like him.
And, evening after evening, Tammam brings Salim a bowl of water and a towel, and folds her legs on a carpet spread next to their common supper tray. His fingers and hers dig into rice oozing with samn. But he sticks to his territory, and she sticks to hers. Their fingers don’t touch; their eyes don’t meet. She, raised to be proper-modest, averts her eyes from his. He, raised to be a true real man, conceals his feelings evening after evening, week after week, month after month.