by Colum McCann
16
Sound is the preferred form of communication among birds since the noises made—singing, calling, honking, whistling, squeaking, warbling, croaking, clicking, trilling—carry far beyond the places the birds might be able to see.
15
He was on holiday in Tuscany with Nurit when he saw the sign. He was taken aback. The Wael Zuaiter Center. The arrow pointed down a narrow laneway in the town of Massa. The street was thin and cobbled. Laundry hung from the upper windows of the buildings. Children were dragging each other along on flattened cardboard boxes.
It was an old shopfront. The door was locked. They shaded their eyes and peered inside. A few tables with glass boxes. Some bookshelves. Some posters on the wall. They knocked on the window but nobody answered.
Halfway down the street Rami heard someone calling out behind them. A woman waved them down. Her hair was grey, but long and ribboned. She wore an elegant dress a couple of sizes too large. House slippers on her feet. She spoke in English. She had seen them peering in the window, she said, from the vantage of her apartment. The director of the center was away in Sydney but she had been given keys to the center. There hadn’t been many tourists around but they were welcome to go inside, she was sorry but she had to go shopping for her son, would they mind taking the key and then locking up after they were finished?
Only in Italy, thought Rami.
She held out the key but then hesitated a moment and asked: Where are you from?
The question startled him. Perhaps she had heard his accent? Perhaps she would wonder why exactly he was there? Did she misunderstand him?
—From Hungary, he said after a moment.
—Hungary?
—Originally.
She smiled and she placed the key in his hand.
14
It was remarkable how little damage the bullet had done to the actual pages. The entrance hole was clean, only a little tear at the edges. It had angled in on the right-hand side of the book and then nosed itself in the center near the spine.
13
Rami touched the bullet. It seemed tiny and warm, like something that was still intent on reaching its destination.
12
In the Theresienstadt camp in 1943 Viktor Ullmann composed a one-act opera called The Emperor of Atlantis, using a libretto written by another inmate, the artist Peter Kien.
In the libretto, the Emperor of Atlantis—also called the King of Jerusalem—declares a universal war. Total all-out Holy War! Each against the other! No survivors!
Ullmann in his prologue had referred to it as a kind of opera. It began with the German anthem set in a minor key. The Emperor was a baritone. Death was to be played by a bass.
The Emperor tries to conscript Death to his cause. But Death, who appears as an old retired soldier, finds himself offended by the mechanization of killing, and the modern way of dying, which has put him out of work. Death goes on strike and, from then on, it becomes impossible for anyone to die.
Under Death’s decree, even natural death is declared dead.
At first, the Emperor interprets this as a liberation from Death’s tyranny—Freedom from death! Liberty of the soul!—but soon the inability of anyone to die, from bombs or bullets or anything else, leads to panic and revolt and paralyzing boredom among the Emperor’s people.
The Emperor scrambles to enforce his rule but—since he can’t kill anyone—his power has already begun to rapidly fade. So, he begs Death to resume his traditional duties. Death agrees to start killing again, but with a single caveat: only if he can begin with the Emperor as his very first victim.
In 1944 the Nazis saw a dress rehearsal of the opera taking place in the barracks of the camp. Aware of the possible allegorical intent—following the assassination attempt on Hitler that summer, along with Himmler’s call for total war—they quietly closed it down.
Later that year Ullmann was marched out of camp towards the Auschwitz-bound trains, but managed—just before being forced into the cattle car—to secretly slip the score to his friend Emil Utitz, the director of the camp library.
11
Ullmann had once written that the secret of every work of art was the annihilation of matter through form.
10
Borges said that his despair as a writer came when he was unable to translate the limitless nature of the aleph: that point in space which contained all other points. While some fell back on birds and spheres and angels, he himself was unable to find the metaphor for this timeless repository of everything. Language was successive: it could not, by its nature, be frozen in one place and therefore couldn’t catch the sheer simultaneity of all things.
Nevertheless, said Borges, he would recollect what he could.
9
Little bitterns, red-throated pipits, blackcaps, yellow wagtails, whitethroats, turtledoves, bee-eaters, Arabian babblers, European rollers, griffon vultures, pied bushchats, storks, flamingos, pelicans, sandpipers, buzzards, cranes, kites, eagles, hawks, gulls, owls, nightjars, sparrows, swifts, sunbirds, plovers, northern wheatears, ruffs, shrikes, starlings, cuckoos, warblers, flycatchers, thrushes, hoopoes.
8
Operation Returning Echo.
7
Swans and ortolans too.
6
He drives slowly along the high garden wall. The flat roof of his house peers from behind the tall brickwork. The road is rutted and pitted but he knows each and every pothole. He angles the car wide, pulls the hand brake, opens the door, steps out to the high metal gate. The gate has been bolted shut. The motor is broken: he must open it by hand.
A stiffness in his bad leg. The pain shoots upwards through his hip. He slides the rusted lever across and the gate gives out a little groan. He pushes it sideways along the high white wall. The pain rests for a moment in the small of his back. The metal runners squeak and clank.
Bassam steps back towards the car through the light from the single headlight. Yet another thing that will have to be fixed.
He leans on the car door and swings himself into the seat once more, drags the bad leg in behind him. He picks up his phone, keys it alive and texts Rami: Home, brother. Their simple ritual, how many thousands of times now? He tosses the phone into the passenger seat, eases the car through the gate, brakes, then climbs out once more to close the gate.
By the time the gate has clanked shut, Rami has replied, a simple emoji of a thumbs-up and beneath that, See you tomorrow.
Bassam parks in the driveway under a blue cloth canopy. He sits a moment in the driver’s seat, leans forward. Another long day. Yet again tomorrow. And again after that.
He pats his pockets to make sure of his cigarettes, his lighter, his phone. All intact. He flips the handle, pushes open the door, steps out.
The night is cool and sharp. No rain here today. He can tell simply by the smell of the garden.
5
Four lemon trees, two fig, two clementine, two Chinese orange, one almond, one persimmon, one pomegranate, one edible cactus, rows of zucchini, eggplant, squash and loofah vines right along the wall to the neighbor’s house: in summertime you can smell the garden half a street away.
4
Salwa sits on the porch at the rear of the house, waiting, wrapped in a thin wool blanket. A small universe of smoke above her head. She adjusts the hose, lays the mouth of the hookah pipe on the table, leans across the card table towards him.
—You’re late, she says.
He kisses her, once on the forehead, once on the lips. The sweet tang of tobacco. It is her calming ritual every night. She laces the shisha with fruit from the garden. Evens the bowl out with a kebab skewer. Perforates the tinfoil. Lights the coals.
—The restaurant is already closed, she grins, but you might find something on the counter.
He pulls across the folding ch
air, sits opposite her. Lays out his cigarettes and places his lighter on top. Leans his head back. Takes a long deep breath.
—All present? he asks.
—Of course not.
—Judeh?
—He’s already sleeping.
It is rapid-fire between them then, the pulse of the day, the phone calls, the visits, the dramas. She went to the market. He went to Beit Jala. She paid Muhammad’s phone bill. Rami was early, he messed up daylight savings time, he drove around for an hour, went to the Everest Hotel, got himself a coffee. She bought an anniversary present for her sister, a new perfume from Oman, it came in a ribboned box, it was a little expensive but it was worth it, she found it in the little stall in the market. The monk showed them around the monastery, you should have seen the thickness of the walls, the paintings, they went downstairs later to look at where the wine was made long ago, he brought her some olive oil, a gift, he left it in the car, he’ll get it for her tomorrow. She was asked by the women’s committee to figure out the new hiring schedule for the kindergarten, there will be two new teachers, both graduates from Birzeit, they’re wonderful, they will make such a difference. He had a meal in a room with a vaulted ceiling, so fresh, delicious, the falafels were almost as good as hers, maybe even as good as her mother’s, only kidding. There was an hour on the phone with Areen in Jerusalem, same old story with the permits, is it ever going to end? There were eight people there, they had all sorts of questions, we talked for hours, didn’t solve a thing of course, but we tried, there was tea in the late afternoon. Araab came by around three o’clock, he had borrowed a car, he wanted to get that piece of wood to fix the roof of his house. The sound in the chapel was beautiful, the acoustics, even for such a small group, it bounced around and later they went back to the lunchroom, talked some more. She is sure that there will soon be a wedding, Araab has that look in his eye, she hopes that he saves enough money, he needs a car to get around, but he’s worried about the insurance. When they left he could see all the lights down in the valley, the construction is incredible, more and more every day, he hates the sight of the cranes. Hiba is staying the evening at Mariam’s house, she forgot her toothbrush, maybe you can bring it over to her in the morning. There was no bother on the way home, it was a one-cigarette checkpoint, and oh the headlight went out on the car, he almost forgot, but nobody noticed, they gave him a quick glance at Container but that was it. Funny that, the microwave dish stopped spinning for a while, then it just started again, no reason at all. He will bring the car down to Ibrahim’s son tomorrow, see if he can fix it, that thing just eats money. She is due at the food fair at noon, she is in charge of the English table, they all think she knows England so well, she would try to make some scones in the morning, that’s the only recipe she can remember. What goes up must come down. Mariam’s mother is due for an operation in the next few days, if it doesn’t work here they’re going to try to take her to America, she has something wrong with her eyes. He has to be, he’s not sure where, West Jerusalem, he thinks, by two-thirty, a school this time. He better check the daylight savings then. Did anyone get a chance to look at the plants in the afternoon? No, she didn’t think so. Let’s face it, the world would stop turning if he wasn’t around. Could he please shut up and put another coal on the burner, tap the charcoal in the tray and shuffle the cards? She was really quite funny, did she actually think she was going to win this time?
3
Solitaire. Known as Patience in Britain, Success in France, Secrecy in Poland, Kabal in Norway, Serenity in Palestine.
With variations such as Eagle Wing, Maze, Parallels, Streets and Alleys, Elevens Up, Alhambra, Serpent Poker, Black Widow, Carpet, Three Blind Mice, Sultan, Tower of Hanoi, Ninety-One, Rouge et Noir, Shamrocks, Puss in the Corner, Zodiac, Imaginary Thirteen, Quadrille, Windmill, Tableau, Perpetual Motion, Grandfather’s Clock, Osmosis, Sly Fox, Thieves of Egypt, Intrigue, Emperor, and Simplicity.
2
He steps out of the room onto the landing wearing his nighttime thobe. His hip aches. The long white cotton swishes against his bare calves. He moves in his slippers to the top of the stairs and holds on to the steel banister as he edges through the dark. The banister is cool to the touch.
At the rear door he slips off his sandals and puts on a pair of dark sneakers. He leans down to tie the laces. A sharp pain slices through his lower back. He parts the sheet that hangs in front of the rear door, presses the handle open. He reaches for the cigarette behind his ear, decides against it.
Quiet outside. No traffic, no barking, no chirping of insects.
The yellow hose is coiled beneath the kitchen window. He checks to make sure the nozzle is closed, opens the water valve halfway. A tiny drip appears at the base of the valve where the hose attaches. He retightens the hose, steps back a moment, waits. Good. No leakage.
He shuffles along the rear of the house, past the empty swimming pool. The stars are out, deeper than their darkness. He leaves three empty buckets on the porch, loops the hose around them.
He has built four steps off the porch down into the garden. He eases himself down, following with the bad leg. The hard dirt crunches under his feet. It is clumped and broken in the areas where he has loosened it with the shovel. He could easily close his eyes and walk the length of orchard without error, past the car, under the canopy, beyond the abandoned fridge where he keeps his fertilizer.
Every few yards he snaps the hose behind him.
Bassam glances back to see an overturned bucket fallen from the porch. No matter. In the morning he will collect the fruit: even in winter the Jericho trees bloom.
He begins with the citrus trees at the far end of the orchard. They overhang the garden wall abundantly. At the foot of the tree he leans over the well of soil he has created, a crater around the base. He opens the nozzle, allows the water to pour, adjusts the pressure as he circles the tree. The ground darkens and drinks.
He reaches for the cigarette behind his ear, takes a lighter from the thobe pocket, snaps it aflame. He takes a deep drag, coughs. Time to give them up, yet again time, always time. Somehow, though, they seem to relieve the pain in his back and legs.
The scarf of smoke rises behind him.
The vegetables. The loofah vines. Not bad, he thinks. Nothing too difficult tonight. A one-cigarette garden.
He moves along the wall to the second tree, fills the well of it, and then tightens the nozzle, stops the flow of water, steps towards the clementines and the Chinese orange trees, their small bursts of color.
1
The hills of Jericho are a bath of dark.
For Sally
acknowledgments
This is a hybrid novel with invention at its core, a work of storytelling which, like all storytelling, weaves together elements of speculation, memory, fact, and imagination. It also gathers from friends and acquaintances all over the world who have helped me in countless ways. These people and their acts of generosity have helped shape the work. They opened their homes to me, gave me access to archives, helped research, provided inspiration, read drafts, chased down sources and permissions, provided refuge, insight, and criticism.
The list of people who have helped me is so long that it feels sometimes that I should just leave well enough alone, for I fear leaving some people out by mistake, and I apologize in advance for any omissions, but I would be remiss not to single out a number of people without whom this novel would not have been possible.
I first went to Israel and Palestine with two nonprofit groups, Narrative 4 and Telos, run by Lisa Consiglio and Greg Khalil, respectively. At every turn they have provided help, advice, insight, inspiration, and grace. They led me to new places. They guided me when I felt sure that it was an impossible task. They inspired me. Without their help and guidance it just couldn’t have been done. Simple as that. And I was supported in every possible way by my family, my wife, Alliso
n, and my children, Isabella, Christian, and John Michael. Thank you endlessly. My agent, Sarah Chalfant, believed in the book from the very beginning. Also, my editors all over the world had a huge part in keeping me going, especially Jennifer Hershey, who encouraged and supported me in every instance. Alexandra Pringle enabled the vision. Jaco Groot sent me clippings virtually every week. Caroline Ast and Thomas Uberhoff were inspirational. I had a number of great readers as I went along. These were the ones assigned with the most challenging task, to see the work when it was raw and unformed and messy. John Michael took over the role of my late father, Sean, and read the book for me late in the evenings: his advice was a constant ballast, especially when things were rough. Assaf Gavron, Darragh McKeon, Ray Dolphin, and Emily Jacir put in endless hours and somehow managed to help direct me without throwing me off course, a remarkable act of generosity and friendship. And Martin Quinn came along, amazingly as always, to pull the ties together. Others provided me with precise reading, research, and inspiration: Gideon Stein, Marc Briz, Mickey Madden, Raja Shehadeh, Nathan Englander, Michael Ondaatje, Bob Mooney, Dan Barry, Tyler Cabot, Ishmael Beah, Penny Johnston, Dani Gavron, Elik Elhanan, Ed Caesar, Gabriel Byrne, Tom Kelly, Phil Metres, Nathalie Handal, Liat Elkayam, Lee Keylock, Kelsey Roberts, Joe Lennon, David Scharia, Jack Saba, Dana Czapnik, Steven Hayward, Zaha Hassan, Tamer Nafar, Mariam Bazeed, Barry Lopez, Brad Fox, Susie Lopez, Christopher Booth, Daniel Sokatch, Michal Brimm, Heather Mitchell, Loretta Brennan Glucksman, Bill Whelan, Tim and Kathy Kipp, John Greally and Niall Burgess. To Sting and Joe Henry and Gregory Alan Isakov and Colm Mac Con Iomaire, go raibh maith agaibh go léir, this book was written to your music, in fact it became your music. And as always Jim Marion and Ronan McCann. As for those who helped me out with research and sketches and photos, there was Elizabeth Eagle, Lilly Khoury, Taliah Nathanson, Cindy Wu, Ellis Maxwell, Philippe Petit, Kathy O’Donnell, Noah Passavoy, Gary McKendry, Hal Grossman, and all the librarians at Hunter College and the New York Public Library.