Dancing Arabs

by Sayed Kashua

  How Samia cried when we slept together the first time. The sheet in the dorm room was covered in blood, and she didn’t stop crying the rest of the night. She sat on the bed, her knees pulled up, leaning her head on them between her arms, and cried. I was sure she’d cry herself to death. I could tell that something horrifying was about to happen, and there was nothing I could do. I just sat there facing her, helpless, frightened, and kept promising I’d marry her if she wanted. I was prepared to marry her then and there. So what if I was nineteen years old?

  She can’t leave now. After losing her virginity. They’ll kill her, they’ll kill me. Nobody will ever marry her. If it isn’t me, there’ll never be anyone else. Women without their hymen intact are kicked out. What a disgrace. Damaged goods, they have to be discarded. I wouldn’t do that to anyone. I’d never let her suffer on my account. I was the one who did it to her, and I’ll take responsibility.

  “It was a black day,” my wife says. “God, what an idiot I was. Damn the circumstances that made me stick it out with you. You animal. Did I say animal? Even an animal has more feelings than you do. I hope you die. I hope I finally get rid of you. There’s no point making an effort to love you anymore.” And again she curses her parents and her family. They’re the reason she can’t just dump me. If she had the strength, she’d kill me. She’d grab me by the neck and never let go. She lashes out and slaps the air by way of showing me what she means. She’d like to bang my head against the wall again and again till it broke. She says I have no idea how much she hates me. Even just looking at me makes her sick. “I hate you, I hate you! You dog. You animal.”

  Sometimes I think I ought to just throw my clothes in the car and take a few books I read long ago, books I know I used to love, though I can’t remember why. I’d fix the car radio and drive off. For a few days in Eilat maybe. I’ve never been to Eilat. If I had the courage to cross the border, I’d go to the Sinai. And if it weren’t for the baby, I’d never come back.

  When I grew older, I realized I’d been duped. An Arab girl’s hymen wasn’t as holy and pure as people said it was. Samia had been doing a number on me. She’d been taking advantage of my naïveté. She’d been exploiting the fact that I didn’t know much and filling my head with honor-or-death ideas. Those were years of being afraid, of hiding out. Sometimes I went through an entire night in Nahlaot without sleeping a wink, even though nobody in that neighborhood knew me anyhow. I was sure they’d find me, and once they did it would be the end of me. I never left the door unlocked and never slept with the window open. Not that it would have saved me. If anyone had wanted to get to me, nothing would have stopped them. But I had to try to stop anyone who was likely to arrive on the scene. I had to be there to shout it out: “I’m willing to marry her right away!”

  I would never tell my wife “I hope you die,” even though I’ve pictured her dead often enough. I know I wouldn’t be able to handle the loss; suddenly, when she disappeared, I’d start loving her, missing her, and understanding how right she was. What a sonofabitch I was. If anything happened to her, I’d blame myself, nobody else. Because I’d wished for it to happen. And I believe wishes do come true in the end.

  If Samia dies, I’ll visit her grave as often as I can. Not only on holidays, like the other people in the village. At the beginning, I’ll go there at least once a week. I’ll weep, I’ll speak to her, I’ll ask her to forgive me, I’ll speak words of love. I’ll mourn her with all my heart. I’ll suffer. I can picture myself sitting there, all by myself in the cemetery on rainy days, in the cold, cocooned in the long black overcoat I don’t own. I won’t be afraid of going there at night. I’ll have a beard, and it will give me an air of suffering, a special aura. I’ll cry out at the grave, and people will hear my pain. And every now and then I’ll give out a long moan that will echo through every home in Tira.

  Hitting Rock Bottom

  I think I’ve hit rock bottom. I’ve broken almost every rule I can think of in the moral code. I’m going home now, to sleep it off. I’d like the radio to be on in the background as I doze off but I don’t have a radio. It broke long ago, and I can’t face the idea of having to take it to be fixed or of having to fork out the money for a new one. I’d like to go to sleep now and not have any bad thoughts.

  Sometimes I think I know what mental relaxation means. I can outline it in my brain. I know where I’m heading. I’d like to be able to crawl into bed with a book, any book. A book of jokes, maybe, or light stories about Jucha. I’d like to settle into it, to enjoy it, to doze off with a smile on my lips. I’d like the book to slip out of my hands ever so slowly, to fall off the bed without my noticing. I’d like to be tucked in tight with my body at just the right temperature, not too cold and not too hot. I’d like to fall asleep in just the right position. I’d like the pillows to be propped at just the right height. My neck won’t hurt and I won’t have to move. I won’t have any noise in my ears, and my head won’t ache either. I’d like to find sublime serenity.

  I’d like my wife to be there with me too, to blend with me as we relax and fall asleep. Our bodies will be in sync. She can place her head on my chest. She won’t have to twist her neck, and her hair won’t get in my eyes or in my mouth. I’ll hug her. I’ll place a hand under her head, and my arm won’t hurt or fall asleep. I’ll place one leg on her waist, and it won’t be too heavy. It will even make her feel good, give her a warm sensation, round off her own body. Her waist will be a comfortable resting place. It’ll be thin and youthful. She’ll smile at me and say a heartfelt “I love you” and kiss me. I’ll feel the kiss draw me into a delightful childhood dream. I’ll smile in my sleep, and my wife will smile back and fall asleep.

  The baby will sleep, knowing she has loving parents that she can always count on. She’ll have an angelic smile and a dry diaper. She’ll be eager to talk, to tell us how wonderful we are, how much she loves us. She won’t have a rash or an eye infection, and she’ll never ever cry. She won’t be bored. She’ll feel wonderful; she’ll be happy to be alive. She’ll sleep till morning and wake us at just the right moment with little giggles and her first word. Baba, maybe. My wife will be happy for me. She’ll hug me and tell me she’s always known that the baby would say my name first, because I’m so good to her. I shower her with love.

  I’ll give up drinking. Just a glass of wine on Friday night. I’ll buy a good bottle of wine in a liquor store, not a supermarket. A store in a good neighborhood. Not the kind that sells mostly to Romanian workers, not one that sells Gold Star Beer. We’ll have a set of wineglasses that we’ll receive from our parents. A bottle is too much for two so we’ll invite a couple we know. We’ll enjoy a good meal together. We’ll be comfortably full, with no stomachaches. Nobody will need to use the bathroom. We’ll eat just the right amount and we won’t grow a potbelly. The wine will go well with the meal. Maybe a piece of fine cake too, to enhance the pleasurable experience. It’ll melt in our mouths. It won’t stick to our teeth, and it’ll be digested smoothly, with no pangs of conscience.

  I won’t have any more thoughts about women. I won’t keep looking at every girl’s ass. I’ll treat women with respect and listen to them without thinking dirty thoughts. I’ll stop jerking off. I won’t keep looking for tits and fucks on TV, and if there happen to be any in the middle of a good film, I’ll treat them like art. It won’t turn me on. My hands will always be where they belong. It’ll be good with my wife. She’ll know exactly what I want. I like her, I love her, I lust for nobody but her: her long neck, her Gypsy face, her perfect figure. We’ll understand each other. We’ll take each other’s needs into consideration. We’ll always come at the right moment, and we’ll want to do it again. There will be nights when we won’t get to sleep at all. We’ll make love until sunrise. She won’t dry out, and I won’t let her down.

  I’ll go home now. I’ll drive slowly, in the right gear. I won’t overload the engine. I’ve got to be as quiet as possible. I hope none of our neighbors is making his way to morni
ng prayers just now. I hope it’s still early enough, I hope there are no workers waiting at the intersection. I’ll keep my eyes to the ground. I won’t smoke a cigarette, I won’t listen to music. I’ll go to sleep now, and tomorrow will be a new day. I’ll show them all.

  Tomorrow I’ll start praying. I’ve forgotten how you wash before prayers and what you say. I don’t remember the right sequence, or the number of prayers you’re supposed to say. Tomorrow I’ll buy an instruction book with pictures, the kind we had in elementary school. I’m convinced I wouldn’t be in this condition if only I’d kept on praying. Look at me, look at what’s become of me. Me, the one everyone expected to succeed. What a comedown. I’m going to prove to myself that I’m a good person, and then I’m going home to Tira.

  I have no idea what I’m going to do there. It’s certainly not a place for a barman. They don’t even have alcohol. My father says I ought to become a social worker. They don’t have enough social workers in Tira. I could go to the same place as my wife every morning, and come back home with her in the evening. Maybe I’ll become a teacher. If I start praying tomorrow, I may still stand a chance of becoming a teacher of religion. Maybe I’ll be accepted into the A-Shari’a College in Hebron. It’s easy to get in, and they need lots of teachers of religion. I’ll be a good teacher. I’ve been through a lot in my life, and I can help keep my students on the straight and narrow. I’ll make sure they don’t go downhill the way I did. I’ll warn them against what can happen, but I won’t tell them how far gone I was. I’ll have the reputation of a good person. People will come to consult with me on questions of religious law. They’ll listen to what I tell them, they’ll respect me, and they’ll follow my advice. My father will be proud. He’ll start praying too. Perhaps we’ll go on a pilgrimage to Mecca together.

  Gradually I’ll blend into the local political scene, and when my students get the right to vote they’ll nominate me for the Islamic ticket. They’ll make sure I’m at the head of the party list, and in the following elections I’ll be elected mayor.

  I’ll be a candidate selected by consensus. I’ll be a Member of Knesset. The media will love me. They’ll find it hard to believe that a Moslem MK can talk like that, without a trace of fanaticism, gently, almost without an accent. I’ll express myself well, and I’ll represent the views of an entire community. Even the Jews will consider me an honest man. I’ll get along very well with the right-wing parties and the ultra-orthodox. I’ll become prime minister—the first Arab in the Islamic Movement to be made prime minister. I’ll bring peace and love to the region. The economy will flourish. There will be no war on the horizon. I’ll turn the Middle East into a superpower. I’ll be head of the Asian Union, and Israel will market maklubah, za‘atar, and gefilte fish in New York’s fanciest malls. The naked girl I left behind yesterday will never believe it. She slept with the mightiest leader in the world!

  The Night of Purim

  It’s the night of Purim, and two Arabs are taking over the dance floor. “They shouldn’t let Arabs dance here,” I tell Shadia, who’s standing there with me behind the bar. She chuckles and agrees with me. “It’s disgusting. In Nejaidat or any other village like that, people like that would be raped. I’m telling you, they simply grab those kinds of people and fuck them whenever they want to.”

  They really are ugly, especially the short one with the mustache. He swivels his ass, crammed into those cloth pants of his, making a mockery not only of himself but of anyone dancing next to him—of the whole bar, especially Shadia and me. If he wasn’t so clueless, he wouldn’t dare to dance. Why should Arabs like him be dancing disco anyway? Don’t they realize how different they are, how out of place, how ugly? Especially the short one with the mustache. He doesn’t give up. Just keeps popping peanuts into his mouth and shaking his ass. Thinks he’s a regular celebrity model, and every girl dancing near him is a whore. Every time the ugly dwarf orders another beer, he points at one of the girls and says, “She’s Russian, isn’t she?”

  “It’s my last shift,” Shadia says. “I can’t stand the sight of this place anymore. I can’t stand the sight of all these Arabs. They’ve destroyed the place, they’ve driven out the paying customers. The ugliest people in Jerusalem come here, good-for-nothings who think they’re God. I swear I feel like calling in a few people from Nejaidat, just to come in here and knock these guys senseless, the little shits. Especially the one with the mustache.” She giggles and covers her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Shadia was the first Arab girl I’d met who knew about Tom Waits. She happened to sit next to me at one of the lectures in the philosophy department seven years ago. I was putting a new cassette in my Walkman, and she recognized it. That changed my whole perception of Arabs. Because of her, I realized there’s a different kind; they’re not all the same. But apart from her, I’ve yet to meet an Arab who likes the same music I do.

  She lives in the Old City and only goes back to Nejaidat on holidays. She says nobody in her family will talk to her. Every time she goes there she imagines it’ll be different, and then she sinks back into her depression. She wrote a book and sent it to several publishers in Egypt but never got an answer. She doesn’t think they’ll accept it; her writing is too difficult for them to digest. Only two people liked what she wrote. One of them is dead already, and the other was Mahmoud Darwish. She says she’d always wanted to write about her childhood, but the problem was that sometimes in Nejaidat a whole week would go by with nothing happening. People would pass one another from time to time and ask, “How’re things?” and they’d answer, El-hamdulila.

  “How many times can I write el-hamdulila in the same book?” She smiles. “I spent the whole year writing, for hours on end, day in and day out. But when all was said and done, my entire childhood took up barely forty pages.”

  She’ll quit her job at the bar. Maybe she’ll go to New Zealand. She gets along well with sheep. She doesn’t stand a chance here. She can’t find a job. She worked for a while as curator at a prestigious Ramallah gallery, but there’s a war on now. Everyone at the bar comes on to her, especially the Arabs. They think they’re really sophisticated when they say, “Give me an orgasm.”

  She can’t stand it anymore, the way they look at her. As if because she’s an Arab and she works at a bar, she must be a whore. If anyone says anything, she gives him a really hard time. She raises the roof with her screaming. The last thing she needs is for false rumors to reach the people back in Nejaidat. Even in the streets of the Old City, if anyone says anything as she passes by, she walks back and knocks him over with her yelling.

  Shadia carries a knife around with her; she stole it when she was in first grade. When there are problems, she hides the knife up her sleeve. It’s a switchblade, not like my Lederman with its nail clipper, its screwdrivers, and its spoon. Shadia laughs at me when I tell her about my knife. She says she could write a good story about these things—about an Ashkenazi nerd who entered the world of crime. There was a guy called Husni in her class. He’d robbed a bank once. She couldn’t believe he did it. He wasn’t capable of stealing an eraser. Someone shot him when he came out with the money, just some sonofabitch with a pistol. A Jew. They didn’t do anything to him, didn’t even arrest him.

  It was her last shift. She couldn’t go on this way anymore. It was the night of Purim and the place was so sad. Not a single good-looking person. The regulars come in, take a look around, and leave. I can understand them. I’d never go to a place where the dancers were so ugly. Shadia and I don’t dance like them and we don’t look like them, and both of us arrived with a premonition. It was Purim night and we smelled trouble. For the first time, I was wandering around with something in my pocket that could open into a knife.

  “The owner had better pay a bouncer to get them out of here,” she says, and I nod. “I for one would never come back here. And I don’t mind having to pay for my own liquor. What about you? Are you staying?”

  I look at the bar, at the beer stain
s, the lemon, the lupine spikes in the ashtrays. We’re not emptying the ashtrays today. We don’t want anyone to stay. Facing me at the bar is a man in a suit. He must be past fifty. Sometimes he says he’s a lawyer, sometimes he tells us he studied medicine in Frankfurt. He orders another glass of white wine, and as he puts it to his thick lips, it brings out the deep wrinkles in his rugged complexion. Like cracks in the desert soil after an earthquake. Now he’s putting on his glasses to write down a phone number for the girl next to him. She’s a stranger, a volunteer in one of the human rights organizations. She’s short and heavy-set, looking for men the whole time and not particular.

  There’s no way I can look like them. If I convey what these Arabs convey, I’m in serious trouble. But it’s out of the question. People aren’t scared of me, and they’re not put off by me. Or maybe they are, except they manage to hide it. I bet there are lots of girls who got the wrong idea, as if I was coming on to them, and I must have been as disgusting as the rest of them. I can’t believe it.

  Every time our paths cross, Shadia and I manage to pick up our relationship. She keeps telling me about her loneliness and her sadness. But despite all the loneliness and the sadness, she always manages to make me laugh. She’s one of the few who can get me to laugh out loud, not just to smile politely. Out of loneliness, she bought a bird and stuck it in a cage in the center of the house. There are two sticks in the cage, and the bird jumps from perch to perch all day long. It helps Shadia unwind, but still she thinks she’ll probably release the bird before it dies of boredom.