Olives

by Alexander McNabb

  We lay in each other’s arms, damp heat cooling and the smell of our excitement mingling with her heavy perfume in a rich, lustful stench. The release brought a tremendous sadness upon me and I cried, Aisha crying with me, cradling me into the nape of her neck and softly repeating my name.

  I woke in the middle of the night to find she had left, the bed cold beside me. I thought I heard a helicopter, but it was just my imagination playing tricks again in the darkness.

  Morning smells filled the kitchen – coffee, toast and butter – the door open to let the cool, fresh morning air into the room, the sky outside grey and dull. I wandered into the living room and flicked on the TV to catch the news as I saw the red text flashing across the screen in its white panel, ‘Israel Terror Attack.’

  I sat down to watch, finishing my slice of toast and wiping my hand on my sock as I heard the presenter play for time. I watched the news ticker. A bomb, a big one. Fifteen people dead. A busy shopping centre in Haifa.

  The presenter cut to pictures of the blast, a home video of a family shopping trip, Grandpa mugging for the camera, giving the thumbs up and Hebrew chattering and laughter on the soundtrack.

  Behind the old man, hundreds of feet away, a plume of smoke mushrooms into existence, the street jumps as the corona of the concussion expands in a moment of violence, the black, roiling cloud billowing around a scarlet core. The camera goes wobbly before falling, skittering footage across the tarmac, scattered images, blurred legs. The camera is picked up again, steadies and records wreckage, smoke, dust, blurred people running. A child crying, blood on her frilly pink frock.

  Strange details lodged in my mind as the shock of it forced me into slow motion. The name of a shop: Haifa Antiquities. The colour of a young man’s shirt: blue, spattered with red. He’s holding his hand to his ear, his mouth is open and his eyes are clenched shut in agony. He’s staggering in circles. There’s someone pointing a phone at him. The report cut back to the newsreader and a blurry satellite linkup to their reporter in Jerusalem.

  I held the remote control loosely in my hand. Strange details. Like the small, innocuous car down the street, caught on film behind Grandpa’s shoulder, the epicentre of the blast, momentarily there before being rocked and engulfed in the dusty, cloudy explosion. A glint of sunlight on the windscreen before the blast.

  I channel-hopped desperately, catching the scrap of video, watching it again and again as my coffee went cold on the floor, catching the instant when the windscreen of the car flashed in the sun before it detonated. A small, dark blue Toyota Tercel.

  EIGHTEEN

  Water flicked through the car’s open window, lashing my eyes. I raced through the city streets, the engine screaming and tyres hissing on the wet tarmac. I broke out into open country and a vista of cypress-dotted hills and rock outcrops before the road looped back into the suburbs.

  I sped around a tight corner in a hilly residential area. The tyres hit a bad road repair and I slid out of control across the smooth, treacherous bitumen. The car spun a full circle before bumping against the kerb, not a damaging impact, but heavy enough to jolt me into awareness of my surroundings.

  A pretty street, one of the old ones. Silence, apart from the soft rain falling around me and the ticking of the cooling engine, mist rising from the hot bonnet.

  I left the car where it had stalled, impelled by a need for movement, any movement to escape the horror of that piece of video, of the moment before a street in Haifa was torn apart.

  At the top of the road there was a small, white building topped with a cupola and a crucifix. I opened the whining iron gate and walked through a pretty garden up to the big door of the church. Inside was warm, the walls and ceiling coloured with rich Byzantine decoration, golden icons hung on the walls, the flames of the candles bobbing as I passed. Pinpricks of light stretched away from me, glowing in the dark comfort of the interior. I walked up to the altar and gazed at the Eastern sumptuousness of it all, my mind empty of everything but the revulsion and shame filling me. I sat down on a cold wooden pew, my fingers tracing the worn lines, the smell of wood and frankincense in my nostrils as my breathing slowed.

  ‘Pari lou is.’

  A deep voice. I turned to my right and saw a huge white-bearded figure dressed in black, an olivewood crucifix around his neck. I looked at him, opened my mouth to speak, but couldn’t make the words come out.

  He spoke again: ‘Sabah al khair,’ and, when I still didn’t reply, ‘Good morning.’ I nodded.

  ‘Welcome to our Church. I am Father Vahan.’

  He smiled, his hands held together either in prayer or greeting.

  ‘Forgive me, but you appear troubled.’

  I looked at the richly decorated altar and around at the classical images, glittering Madonnas and Christs on the wooden panels around me.

  The priest smoothed his robes, dipping his head to the altar as he bent to sit at the pew opposite me. He inclined his head, a quizzical expression on his face. ‘You have suffered a loss, perhaps.’

  He waited but I remained silent, looking around at the icons, hangings and decoration. Flickering candles in holders appeared to multiply up into the darkness of the roof above me into infinity. I twisted my hands on my knee, rocking and taking comfort from the rhythm of my movement.

  ‘My name is Paul.’ I was surprised at how husky my voice sounded and cleared my throat, the rasping sound echoing in the empty church.

  ‘Welcome, then, Paul.’ He waited for me to speak again. And when I did, the words tumbling out of me, he sat motionless and let me relive the months since I had flown through the turbulent desert air into Amman to start my new life and ending up in a cell for helping the hotel driver in his argument with two sneering policemen. I told him about the court case, about my fears for the sentence still hanging over me, of my love for Aisha and my visit to her family’s farm. I told him about Gerald Lynch and what he had made me do for him, about Bethany and a lost bag, about Jericho and the bomb. And I told him, crying now, about Haifa and an old man dying on video in front of a car I thought I had seen before, on a cold night in the West Bank.

  He listened without interruption until I ran out of words, my tears wet on my cheeks. The double-armed cross on the altar glowed gold in the candlelight and the echo of my last word, spoken clearly, died in the darkness around us.

  He waited for me to look up before he spoke. ‘You think she made this bomb? Your girl?’

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’

  ‘The brother, then.’

  ‘Daoud. I don’t know. Maybe. He has reason and resources.’

  ‘But you don’t know. There is doubt in your voice now.’

  ‘There were men by my car. Why would they be there in that weather, at midnight, skulking in the dark?’

  ‘You think they hid the explosives in your car.’

  ‘Yes. No.’ What did I think? ‘Their car was blue.’

  His voice was matter-of-fact. ‘There are many blue cars in the world, Paul. There are many meetings between men at night in Palestine, because the Arabs love the night. They like to plot and scheme, to talk about ideals and the perfection of the world. Now and then their talk turns to action, but rarely. Mostly they talk and dream, drink tea and smoke argileh. It’s their tragedy, the Palestinians, to dream like opium eaters while their leaders fail them. They leave it to others to act and build better houses around themselves.’

  ‘It was close by, just over the border, like the last bomb. Bethany is across the border from Jericho, Qaffin is over the border near Haifa.’

  Vahan smiled sadly at me. ‘He would have to truly be a monster, this man. To hide explosives in a car his sister would drive in. Is he such a monster, Paul?’

  ‘Convictions make monsters of men, don’t they? Enough passion, enough belief, and you have a monster. If you brutalise men, they turn into monsters. Were Sabra and Chatila enough to create monsters? Gaza? Ramallah? Daoud lost his father and brother. Could revenge be a monster? Maybe he
’s just doing it for God.’

  ‘Not our God, Paul.’

  ‘The same God.’

  Vahan shifted his big body to sit more comfortably, his arm hanging over the back of the pew in front. ‘So you think she has betrayed you. She is his willing accomplice.’

  ‘No.’ I realised I had barked the negative, looked guiltily at the priest, but he remained impassive.

  ‘The Israeli soldiers searched your car at the border.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They are thorough. They use dogs, electronics. I have been through many times to Jerusalem, to our dwindling community there. Do you not think they would have found these explosives?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know. I know there was a missing bag in Bethany and then a bomb in Jericho. That there were men by my car and then a bomb in Haifa.’

  ‘Ah, but then there are bombs that happen without you, too, my young friend. Are you sure these bombs truly belong to you? The Arabs are very fond of making conspiracies, connecting things to build palaces of supposition in their talk. Are you not becoming one of them, Paul? Are you becoming an opium eater yourself?’

  I cast around me for answers I didn’t have. I could see myself bursting into Daoud’s office, confronting him with it all and his cold, flat voice telling me to get a grip. Aisha crying, my betrayal of her trust tearing us apart. Nour’s horrified face: ‘How could you, Paul?’ Mariam, a bent old lady in a kandoura, tapping her tiny gold-rimmed glass on the tabletop, a lifetime of pain and loss behind her and an unjust wall cutting across her olive groves.

  The priest continued. ‘We seldom have the benefit of certainties, Paul. It is a luxury we can reserve for our love of God. Maybe you did see the bombers in the night, but this doesn’t mean you carried the bomb. Maybe you didn’t see bombers. Maybe you saw some farmers asking this man about the foreigner visiting him. Maybe you saw some men planning some other crime. Maybe this car was the same car. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you are intelligent and have a strong imagination.’

  ‘You don’t believe me.’

  The priest chuckled. ‘Oh, my friend, my fine young friend. I don’t think you believe yourself.’

  He was right. In the calm half-light of the church, the certainties had left me. I had no answers for him, I couldn’t give him anything more than assumptions, circumstantial evidence and suspicions founded on my own willingness to believe in strange things, perhaps because I was adrift in an environment that felt more unfamiliar with each passing day. The child that used to make tanks out of hawthorn hedges and trenches out of ditches. I shuddered as I thought of how close I had come to wrecking everything around me on such flimsy supposition.

  The girl who made courtiers out of olive trees as she passed through them, the olive princess.

  ‘You have to be very certain of yourself. Few us of are ever so lucky,’ Vahan said. ‘You could talk to the authorities.’

  ‘They wouldn’t believe me.’

  Besides, the only authorities I had been conditioned to trust were represented by Gerald Lynch, liar and thief.

  ‘Then why do you believe yourself? The test of conviction is in being able to convince another. Perhaps you are lacking conviction, then.’

  ‘What do you believe?’

  He chuckled again. ‘I believe in God, in his will and the goodness he has made in us.’

  I listened to his baritone voice resonate in the space of the church. ‘And you believe I am imagining this?’

  ‘Perhaps I do, perhaps I believe you are right in your suspicions. There are no certainties. I think you may be right, but then you may be wrong. And I think you are not so certain and you perhaps have been blinded by love. But then perhaps you are indulging yourself in fancy.’ He smiled, a wry grin at the floor. ‘Perhaps. Everything is perhaps, is it not?’

  Vahan got creakily to his feet. ‘Perhaps you are asking the wrong person as you sit in this church, in His house.’

  I stood with him, but he waved me down. ‘Ask Him,’ the priest said. ‘If you need me, come through the door by the altar. I’ll be there.’

  He offered his hand and I took it, feeling the warmth of his skin. He walked away from me up the aisle, turning by the altar, crossing himself. ‘Paul. Go with God.’

  I sat there for a long time, my eyes closed and my hands together, before I finally pulled myself to my feet and left.

  I got to work late. Aisha had left a sticky on my screen: ‘Your mobile’s off. Dinner?’ I sat at my desk, going through the motions and turning the images from Haifa over and over in my mind. I read the news reports online, watched the video clip time and again and tried to imagine Aisha deliberately setting out to create that carnage.

  I called her on my way back to the Ministry, grinning like an idiot at the sound of her voice.

  ‘Hi Brit. Dinner round at mine? Eight o’clock. Mum wants to feed you up.’

  ‘Great. Is Daoud going to be there?’

  ‘Yes, he’s in town.’ She sounded a little puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, I wanted to talk to him about the water thing.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted. He’s been talking about nothing else for weeks. Paul, are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Did you see the news this morning?’

  ‘No, I woke late and had to go straight to a meeting over at Finance. What’s the problem Paul? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Another bomb. In Haifa this time. It killed sixteen people.’ I waited for her reaction, hating myself for testing her like this. If anybody had seen me going into the Ministry that morning, they’d have thought me mad. I’d decided if I could make it up the thirty-eight stone steps to the front door in under sixteen leaps, Aisha was innocent.

  Aisha’s voice was neutral. ‘Oh, right. Hang on. Yes, it’s here on Yahoo! So much for Sharon’s wall, then. Haifa’s near the farm, you know. Just over on the coast. Wait a sec.’ I heard her mumbling as she read the news report, ‘Haifa, car bomb, sixteen dead. Five children. It says they were all girls from one family. Oh. Their mother too. God be with them, the poor things.’

  It had taken fourteen leaps to the door that morning and I’d walked through the big wooden double doors grinning, breathless and certain.

  ‘Catch you later, then.’

  ‘Don’t be late, ya Brit.’

  I sat at my desk, filled with lassitude and indifference to the magazine project. I kept breaking off to look out of the window at the city’s darkened buildings, the wet streets capped by the grey skies. I was still daydreaming when the Minister arrived at my desk. I jumped to my feet.

  ‘Your Excellency.’

  ‘Relax, Paul,’ smiled Harb Al Hashemi, pulling up a chair. He handed me a sheaf of papers – a printout of my feature on the water contracts.

  ‘This is very good. I’ve made just one change, where you’ve talked about the value of the water privatisation and the terms for the bidders. The value is purely speculation until we release the details of the financial proposals from the bidders and I really do not think we’re ready to announce it quite yet. But it would be nice to do a… do you call it a sidebox? A view of some of the issues. I’ll have Aisha bring you a copy of the original request for proposals as well as the evaluation committee’s report and recommendations on the submitted bids. It’s highly confidential, but it should give you a feel for some of the underlying issues we’re dealing with here.’

  ‘No problem, Minister.’

  I couldn’t believe it. I’d gone through the heartache of stealing the damn thing and now it was being dropped in my lap.

  He got up. ‘Good. Look, the Dead Sea Water Conference next month will see the whole privatisation issue settled. It will be the start of a new and important era for Jordan. I think it is critical to cover this in the magazine.’

  ‘Yes, I agree, Minister. It’s certainly seems as if it is going to be interesting.’

  ‘I’ve had you booked into the hotel as a member of the Ministry delegation, Paul. You can talk to all of
the stakeholders in the process, they’ll all be at the conference. I’d like to establish a broad, balanced view of the issues and solutions.’

  ‘That would be great. Thank you, Minister.’

  ‘A pleasure, Paul. Perhaps Aisha can stay on and act as your tour guide after the meetings.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to put her out.’

  He rubbed my shoulder. ‘I’m sure she would be delighted at the opportunity. You’re a good man, Paul.’

  There was no mistaking the presence of a twinkle in his eye as he turned and left. Aisha came down with a copy of the draft RFP and the evaluation document about an hour later. She stood by my desk, holding the document out to me, her face amused.

  ‘Your very own copy of the evaluation. Don’t leave it lying around or lose it, now.’

  I missed the inference at first, then did a double take and looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s a valuable document, is all.’

  I quickly changed the subject. ‘The Minister knows about us.’

  Aisha’s eyes flashed, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘How?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. But I’m coming to the Dead Sea for the water conference and he suggested I might want to stay over the weekend with you as my tour guide afterwards. I told him I didn’t want to put you out and he said you’d be only too delighted to take the opportunity.’

  ‘Oh God. He must have been talking to Daoud.’

  ‘So you’re ashamed of me, then?’

  She put on a mock angry expression. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she growled, ‘Damn Brit.’

  ‘See you later?’

  ‘Later.’