The Sea Cloak

by Nayrouz Qarmout

  Sunlight dazzled her as she opened her eyes. Tears fell onto her cheeks and lay glistening there. She felt incapable of coherent speech.

  ‘Let me go, I’ll carry on by myself.’ Garbled words escaped her: ‘What will people say?’

  The young man smiled in surprise, swimming strongly forward.

  ‘They’ll say “look at that handsome young man who’s rescued that gorgeous girl.”’

  ‘What do you know? Maybe I wanted to die,’ she said, overwhelmed by exhaustion.

  ‘No. You got a taste of death so you’d learn to appreciate life. Next time, I’ll teach you to swim.’

  They lingered in the water, now safe from harm. She glanced into his eyes.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Maybe it was me who was going to give up on life until I saw your eyes,’ he said, his words interrupted by the waves washing over them.

  They walked the rest of the way to the beach. One of her brothers, a year younger than her, was watching them. In his face, she saw confusion and anger, mingled with affection.

  ‘What happened? Are you OK?’ he called, coming towards them.

  She remained silent, staring at him wordlessly as she drifted in and out of a daze. The man replied instead.

  ‘She was drowning. But she’s fine now, thank God.’

  Her brother stepped forward, took his hand, and shook it vigorously.

  She remained standing between them. The young man smiled, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? Life’s simpler than you think.’

  She gazed at his familiar smile and broken tooth. She remembered her hairclip, the walls of the neighbours’ house and the shade of the tree, then felt her heart take flight once more.

  She longed for a childhood that had faded away amidst the scolding severity of her family, suddenly afraid of their neighbourhood’s scorn.

  Black Grapes

  Early Afternoon

  An old man can be seen leaning on a fence stake with a mobile phone in his hand. There isn’t any room on his face for a smile; the furrows on his brow whorl around a deep centre, like the eye of a storm, a hole in time. Leaning over an unplastered wall, he plucks a grape from a vine and grinds it between his teeth. It makes a satisfying squelch. He takes another, inspects its size, glossy and black between his fingers. The sunlight bounces off its surface as he turns it, as he hears a breeze rustling the vines on the hill behind him. It is the middle of August and the heat is already brutal. He licks the sticky juice from his fingers, sucking each finger loudly, then makes the call: ‘Hello, Bitahon?1 There appears to be a terrorist in the Efrat settlement.’

  Within a couple of minutes, security guards in flak jackets swarm into the street, followed by fully armed soldiers. A house at the end of the row becomes surrounded, and a 40-year-old man can be seen coming to the front window brandishing a hunting rifle, screaming. They shoot him in the head, then break down the door, and from all the shouting it’s clear another man has been found. As he’s dragged out, past the body of the dead man in the front room, it’s evident he’s distressed. By the time they get him outside, his shirt is covered in the other man’s blood. ‘What have you done? He didn’t do anything! I didn’t pay him!’ he screams. ‘I didn’t pay him…’

  In a student bar, on the campus of Bar-Ilan University in Tel Aviv, a 19-year-old economics undergraduate becomes distracted from his drink. On the TV screen above the bartender, an old man can be seen repeating the same plaintive phrase: ‘I didn’t pay him!’ It’s his father. The ‘Breaking News’ feed along the bottom of the screen reads: ‘Settler killed in Efrat: Terrorist believed to have entered through perimeter fence.’

  The student cannot understand what’s going on. He stares at his drink vacantly, and mumbles to himself: ‘When are they going to understand?’

  The Night Before

  In the last light of dusk, an old woman, whose face is riven with wrinkles, can be seen trudging along the rugged mountain road between al-Khader village and the Efrat settlement. She wears an embroidered dress and a white handkerchief tied around her head. It is four miles from her home to the vines she owns near the settlement. She walks alongside a donkey pulling a cart full of water barrels to irrigate the vines. Her oldest son passes her, with another donkey and cart, this time laden with grapes, going in the opposite direction. Without even trying to make out his face in the growing darkness, she knows it’s him.

  ‘Hammoud, what are you doing here, and so late?’ she asks.

  ‘I have to take these to Bethlehem,’ he replies gesturing at the grapes. ‘The shorter route has too much security on our side.’

  ‘Grapes? You son of a...,’ she yells at him. ‘Where did you get them? I can see they’re not ours!’

  ‘Don’t ask, Mama.’

  ‘Don’t shame me, more like! Your father was prepared to be run over by a bulldozer before he gave up his grapes. And now you do this. I curse the very bitch that bore you,’ she spits in his face.

  They set off again in opposite directions.

  As she approaches her land, she is greeted by the still-unfamiliar lights of the settlements that surround it on all sides. The smell of the soil triggers a cascade of memories, wrapped up with the soft dew that is even now beginning to settle on the leaves. She ties the donkey’s reigns to a tree and with her sprinkler-hose starts to water the vines. As she does so, she examines each tree’s clusters of small, unhealthy-looking grapes, picking out the ripe ones, and throwing them onto a sheet of cloth she’s spread across the ground. She will leave these here to turn into raisins, as they are too heavy for her to carry.

  Meanwhile, Hammoud gets a good price for his grapes from one of the big traders at the Bethlehem market. With the money in his pocket, he sets off immediately back to Efrat, determined to be home by early morning.

  Early Hours of the Morning

  As the rising sun dapples the ground under the orchards’ boughs, a 40-year-old man sits eating breakfast with another, in his mid-sixties. The trees are laden with all kinds of fruit: grapes, figs, peaches, apples, quinces. The smell of every flavour fills the air. They talk all through their breakfast. The older man tells the younger one: ‘The miracle of Efrat is that it is surrounded by five hills, all of which are named after the bounties they provide: Rimon, Gefen, Dekel, Zayit and Dagan.2 Paradise on earth.’

  ‘I have a favour to ask, my friend,’ the younger man interjects. ‘Leave my mother’s land out of your plans.’

  ‘Convince her to sell to us.’

  ‘She refuses; it’s all she has left of my father. It’s too personal for her.’

  ‘I’ll talk to someone,’ the older man reassures him. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll sort something out.’

  ‘I won’t forget this favour,’ Hammoud smiles. ‘Do you know what my mother sings when she picks the grapes?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘“The sweetness of the grapes of Alkhalil,

  the waters of Salsabil,

  is the legacy of generation after generation,

  and a long history of struggle.”’3

  The older man laughs and pats his companion on the shoulder. ‘By the sound of it, she really isn’t going to sell us that land…’

  As they eat, a third man approaches them.

  ‘David, have you lost your mind?’ he shouts out. ‘What the hell are you doing? Eating with a labourer... Just look at the Arab’s hands, he’s filthy!’

  David stands up. ‘How dare you speak that way... Apologise at once, you vile elitist!’ They exchange insults for a moment; the newcomer accusing David of offending his forefathers’ most sacred beliefs. Then David picks up his hunting rifle and swings it at him, instructing the newcomer very slowly to kindly get off his property.

  As they watch the man retreat, Hammoud thanks David, who seems out of breath from the confrontation. They finish their food, then Hammoud starts his day’s work. He trims the grass around David’s house, prunes the hedge around the garden, and pic
ks more grapes along with the other workers. He has seniority so he supervises the other labourers.

  In the afternoon, Hammoud asks David for his bonus.

  ‘I don’t have it right now,’ David explains.

  ‘But I told you I needed it urgently. My children will go hungry this week without it.’

  ‘Not my problem. Your only guaranteed salary is your cut from the grapes. You’ve taken more than your allowance of grapes this month.’

  ‘Everything I sold I paid back to you, minus my seller’s fee. What I’m talking about is my payment for working your land,’ Hammoud starts to raise his voice.

  ‘Again, not my problem.’

  ‘It’s your problem because I work for you.’

  ‘You agreed the terms of your contract when you started. The gardening bonus is discretionary, you knew that. Why did you sign up if it was such a bad deal?’

  ‘I needed the money to help my mother plant more on her own land. And now my son needs tuition fees for his first semester in college.’

  ‘Well, my son is studying at Bar-Ilan University, and he needs a lot more money,’ David laughs. ‘So I don’t have a bonus for you this week, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s not for this week; it’s for the last four weeks, old man.’

  David decides he deaoesn’t care for this conversation anymore and takes another sip of his coffee. Leaning back in his bamboo chair he announces: ‘I’m bored now, Hammoud. Get back to work. Prattling won’t get you any more grapes for the market!’

  Hammoud’s fury grows. He charges at the old man, lifting him up over his shoulder, and carrying him into the house. Inside, he drops him to the floor and picks up the old man’s rifle. ‘What are you doing, you crazy Arab?’ David yells at him. Then: ‘Help! Help!’

  ‘Not before you give me my money,’ Hammoud replies, pointing the rifle at him. ‘I’m going to sit here and drink your coffee,’ Hammoud pulls over a chair and sits in it. ‘It’s very comfortable this chair of yours. Go on, old man. Go and find the money you owe me.’

  David shouts his reply loud enough for everyone on the street to hear. ‘I’m not giving you any money, you fucking terrorist.’

  The man David had kicked off his land that morning happens to be lurking, at that precise moment, by an unplastered wall on the opposite side of the street. As the afternoon sun turns its back on the vines, he leans on a fence stake and licks the juice of a grape he’d pinched from David’s land from his fingers. He takes out his phone and punches in a familiar number. The sound of the grape squelching in his mouth mixes with the sounds of the crickets. ‘Bitahon? There appears to be a terrorist in the Efrat settlement.’

  Notes

  1. Bitahon – Hebrew word for ‘security’, also used to mean settlement security services specifically.

  2. Rimon – pomegranates, Gefen – grapevine, Dekel – date palm, Zayit – olive, Dagan – grain.

  3. A Palestinian song from the 1960s, titled ‘The Grapes of Alkhalil’ (or ‘The Grapes of Hebron’), based on a poem by Ezz El-Din El-Manasra, set to music by composer Hussein Nazek.

  The Mirror

  As soon as she finishes her lunch, she runs to her grandmother’s room. The scent of musk clings to the bedroom walls. Climbing onto the old wooden bed, she props a pillow behind her back, stretches her short legs out in front of her, then crosses one over the other, the way she has seen her grandmother do. On the wall facing the bed hangs a mirror in a thick wooden frame. A keychain – her grandfather’s car keys – is pulled out of her dress pocket, and set down on the quilt beside her. She takes a long, stern look at herself in the mirror, all the time combing her fringe with her fingers. Then she shouts: ‘Aunty Luuu-la, I’m waiting!’

  ‘I’m coming, Dahlia, I’m coming,’ Leila replies from the hallway, but her niece won’t relent.

  ‘Here,’ the girl says as Leila finally enters the room. ‘Sit next to me. Put a pillow behind your back like I did.’ She pats her grandfather’s pillow, and Leila leans over to place a kiss on the little girl’s forehead. As she lowers herself on to the bed, a single strand of Leila’s hair catches the light and shines like silver thread.

  ‘Right, I’m here. Reporting for duty. What are my orders?’

  The girl looks at her aunt in the mirror, carefully following her movements. Leila catches the girl’s eye in the mirror, and smiles. At this, Dahlia picks up the car keys, points the plastic fob at the mirror, and presses the remote locking button, declaring: ‘Aunty Luuu-la, let’s watch TV. It’s time for Masha!’

  Leila has to stop herself from laughing, seeing how serious her niece is. ‘Oh wow, Masha! Of course, let’s watch it together,’ she says, remembering the girl’s favourite cartoon. Dahlia giggles at the attention her aunt is now paying to the game, then goes back to pushing the button on the fob. A little red light at the end of the fob flashes with each press.

  ‘Oh, are we changing channel now? Not too fast, we need to see what’s on each one,’ warns Leila.

  ‘No, I’m just trying to find the one with the best signal,’ Dahlia explains.

  ‘Okay, keep looking then.’

  Leila watches her niece. She wants to hug her, she’s so proud of her, but would never interrupt a game she took so seriously.

  ‘Luuu-la, look, it’s Masha!’ Dahlia suddenly exclaims.

  ‘Oh, yes. There she is. Look at her golden fringe peeking out from under her little white scarf!’

  As her niece goes on to describe what she imagines somewhere beyond her reflection in the mirror, Leila can’t take her eyes off the ingenious three-year-old personality sitting beside her. ‘Aunty, look! Masha is drowning in the sea!’ She points suddenly to the window, to where the real, pale blue sea of Gaza can be seen. ‘The bear has jumped into the sea to save her!’ she continues, then pretends to be the bear, outstretching her arms, growling and throwing herself around the bed. Eventually, she sits up and wipes imaginary water from her face, taking turns to look at the mirror and then her aunt.

  With rushed, half-pronounced words, and a face more animated than any cartoon character, Dahlia tells Leila the full story of today’s episode. Alongside the basic plot, she also offers a side commentary about her own fear of water, something her aunt is all too familiar with.

  For a second, Leila imagines herself drowning in the waters of the mirror. She remembers another little girl, perfectly drawn, her blonde hair in buns that danced against the sky like puffy clouds. Her name was ‘Laidy’, and Leila sees her now, chasing the sunset in the opening credits, running across a meadow towards a horizon where the grass is shoulder-high. But Dahlia’s screams bring her back to the present.

  ‘Oh, Aunty. Masha drowned! The bear couldn’t save her.’ A look of dejection has spread across her niece’s face.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, habeebti, he can still save her,’ Leila says.

  But just as quickly, Leila retreats back to the mirror. She sees a dark staircase, and small feet striding upwards, jumping one step at a time, like a rabbit. Her nursery school teacher told her about rabbits, and she thinks of them now as she climbs the stairs. Despite the darkness, she bravely climbs up and up, shining an imaginary torch ahead of her, until the moment she’s grabbed from behind by a pair of unseen hands. Hands that start to run all over her body. The body of a four-year-old at a turn in the stairs of her own life. The imaginary torch goes out. She doesn’t know what these hands are trying to do. Are they feeling for a pattern, a drawing of a treasure map, perhaps? Her nanny once told her the story of a sea captain who drew a treasure map on his arm to hide it from others. But she doesn’t know what these hands are doing, or why they are removing her underwear. What drawing can there possibly be down there?

  ‘Aunty, Masha’s screaming!’ Dahlia interrupts. ‘She wants the bear to help her.’

  But Leila has swum out too far now, where shells and coloured stones glimmer on the sea floor beneath her. ‘Don’t worry, he will help her,’ she reassures. ‘Look how big and strong he is
: he loves her like I love you.’

  There is a tear in Leila’s abdomen, as a hand reaches round to cover her mouth. She feels as if her legs have been trapped in blocks of ice. Only a few steps separate her from her family’s front door on the first floor. But it is dark. The hands move away: ‘Where is your house?’

  The girl points a trembling hand to the door: ‘There.’

  ‘Stand here. Don’t move. I’ll be back in a minute to check you haven’t moved.’

  Dahlia bangs on the headboard to get her aunt’s attention: ‘Aunty Luuu-la, he’s saving her! Masha’s not going to die.’

  She knocks on the door. She screams. But her fists are too small and the wood of the door too thick for her to be heard. She screams and screams until her voice is hoarse and her throat stings. Suddenly a neighbour across the hall opens her door and sees the girl, with tears streaming down her face. She rings the doorbell that the girl hadn’t been able to reach. A woman opens the door and is instantly horrified. ‘My daughter, what’s wrong? Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick.’ The girl doesn’t answer. Tears continue to stream down her face.

  Her teenage cousin comes to the door as well, mirroring her mother’s worried expression. ‘Leila, are you alright?’