by Amy Wilentz
George had forgotten his son-in-law’s charm, but now it was brought back to him powerfully, as Hassan, released finally from Ahmed’s embrace, looked over at his father-in-law and smiled wryly. When you were near him, it was impossible to believe that this gentle, open man could really be some kind of monster, as the Israelis liked to portray him. But if you turned away from that smile and listened to the youthful purveyors of Hassan’s legend, to his supporters, everything became clear. Of course—at the very least—he supported the bombings.
Look who his friends were, after all! George surveyed the room: Silent men standing in corners. Excited boys trying to get near the hero. Certain mayors and local pols. That idiot lawyer from Ramallah—what was his name? Businessmen whose businesses had died years ago but who were still wielding power for social and cultural reasons beyond George’s exile understanding. George watched as Hassan and the lawyer talked. They put their heads together like two bad boys up to no good. George did not find it inconceivable that one or the other would eventually put a knife to the soldier’s throat.
Blow up buses! Burn the land out from under the feet of the Zionist oppressor! Terror is the legitimate war of a people without a state, without an army! Slit the throats of the drunken infidel dogs! Yeah! Go for it! Christ, thought George, looking at Hassan’s expectant welcoming face as he turned away from the lawyer and began the long job of receiving each of the guests. He must believe all the propaganda; he probably dreams about The Palestinian People. The passion and commitment of the young. Watch it burn and explode.
George’s Jerusalem of olive groves and goat herds and za’tar salesmen and eggplant sandwiches and boys in school uniform playing tennis was now a Boys’ World of fire and weaponry and destruction. From the other side of the room, the lawyer was watching George, now, trying to catch his eye. The lawyer had come here to hustle his little secret, no doubt. Lieutenant Ari Doron. Ready, aim, fire! Muskets, cudgels, cutlasses, catapults, battering rams!
George had forgotten the boyish delight of destruction. Now, he simply longed for one final unswerving belief. He felt his joints weakening as Sheukhi approached. Swaying slightly, George watched as the lawyer sauntered across the room—and in the end made his wandering way not to George, but to the table of sweets and pickles. George leaned back against the wall to steady himself, and closed his eyes. He could feel his bones failing, his heart leaping and thrumming like a drummer playing out of time.
• • •
A CONSTANT MURMUR came from the living room. Marina sat with the sisters around the kitchen table, listening to their talk. They were eating sweets. The children were piled in the bedroom, watching television and drinking cherry syrup. Marina looked down at her hands, her sad old hands. Soon, Hassan would stop loving her, she thought. She would be sad and old, a virtual spinster, childless, who sat with her sisters-in-law in a kitchen in Ramallah while her dashing husband fought for the freedom of his people. She shook her head. What stereotypes people agree to live by, she thought.
And yet it could happen. The kitchen table, forever. The chipped cups. Ibrahim’s bright drawing on the refrigerator door. She would leave it there, forever. She looked at the sisters again. This world, this fluorescent light, the rubble on the rooftop. Nihaya was chewing a nut. Fatima had the baby on her lap. These could be my companions for life, and the nieces, and the nephews. I will be a victim of politics. I already am.
Seeing Hassan out of prison was heartbreaking. He seemed like a refugee, out of place in his own home. She felt the tension in him. He was ready to be doing things, taking up where he left off. And where was that? She did not think that she could remain in Ramallah much longer. Dashing husband. She was afraid that she could no longer go along with the uses to which he put his courage and sangfroid.
Nihaya giggled at some joke of Tamira’s, and Marina tried to listen. She had once been curious about the inner lives of these people whom she had known now for more than three years. They gave off few clues. Once, Fatima had smiled at a child on the street. Once, Marina had caught Tamira watching The Brady Bunch, by herself. That was about it. Now, Fatima was in on the joke with the others, and the sisters were almost touching heads, as if they were in a rugby scrum. They were laughing. Marina wondered what the joke could possibly be. The sisters were not usually funny. They made a practice of not laughing at Marina’s attempts to lighten conversation, and nothing serious could be mocked. Nihaya had told Marina once that she did not like comedy—Marina wondered what that could mean. Not like comedy? Hassan’s sister? Yet here Nihaya was, laughing, bent over with laughter; they were eating their sweets and nuts and almost cackling. And then suddenly they went silent and their backs straightened. Marina looked up to see what had caught their attention. Hassan was standing in the kitchen doorway.
Marina stood and went over to him. She put her arm around his waist and he kissed her lightly on the forehead. The sisters giggled, as if they had never seen such a thing. Maybe they hadn’t, Marina thought. They stood, too, and awkwardly began clearing the table and putting on water for tea.
“Stop, stop,” Hassan said, beginning to laugh. “What are you doing?”
“Making you some tea,” Fatima said. She stood there, holding the kettle in midair.
“Tea is not what I want, sisters,” he said, smiling at them.
“What do you want, then, Hassan?” Tamira asked.
He still had his arm around Marina. He looked at Tamira and bent his head slightly, raised his eyebrows, and smiled.
“We’ll leave you, then,” said Fatima, putting down the kettle with a thud.
She gathered the other sisters and the nuts and went into the bedroom with the children. Hassan sat down with Marina at the table.
“I feel I never leave this table,” Marina said. He was holding both of her old, sad hands.
“I love this table,” Hassan said. “I am so happy to be here with you. So happy. You can’t believe it. I love this table so much.” He leaned over and kissed the table. He looked up and smiled at her. “What seems unbearable and boring to you is like a fabulous dream to me.”
“You are like a fabulous dream to me,” she said. She realized she had almost forgotten how much she loved him. “Kiss the table again.”
He kissed it with comic fervor. He raised his head after and looked at her. Her face seemed so calm, the Virgin of Notre Dame. He breathed slowly. He reached toward her and unpinned her head scarf. It sank down to her shoulders. Her hair fell around her face. She smiled and then pointed her chin at the table, and he turned away from her and kissed the table again. Doing as he was told. His shoulder blades were sharp under his white shirt. She could see his breath coming and going. His hair fell forward and she reached over to touch his bent head. She wanted to cry but she refused. He turned his face to her, resting his profile on the table’s cool tin top. She wished the sisters and the children would go, would leave the bedroom empty, at least. She leaned down to him. As she bent her head to kiss him, she saw Ibrahim’s old drawing rising over his shoulder: blue scribble that was sky, yellow stain for a sun, a few green lines of tree. This place will never be the same, was her last thought, and then she kissed the father of her child.
He kissed her back, and stood up slowly, and said, “I’m kicking them out of our room.”
“Okay,” she said.
“I’ll tell them I need to take a nap.” He smiled. “I’m tired—from prison, you know. Exhausted.” He yawned dramatically.
“Ah,” Marina said.
He went through the door, and she heard laughter and complaining and then the silence of the television set. In a few minutes he returned.
“I have kicked them out of our room.” He was smiling.
She stood up and walked over to him and they went into their bedroom like a bride and groom. He held her tightly around the waist as if he might fall if she weren’t there, and she leaned against him.
• • •
“AHMED AMR.”
Ahm
ed whirled around at the sound of his own urgently whispered name, his keffiyeh making a trail of light behind him under the streetlamps outside Hajimi’s house. The voice was low and desperate.
And there was its owner, that moustachioed, old-fashioned-looking West Banker, standing next to the green dumpster. He looked familiar, like someone you’ve seen before but only in a photograph. He had a bit of a hangdog look to him. Who was he, again? Ahmed hoped the fellow was not about to assassinate him. A shame, at a moment of triumph like this one. Maybe I should hire a bodyguard after all, Ahmed thought. Of course, that would be my dying thought. That thought, and the taste of those wonderful pink pickles.
He looked at the man.
“Yes,” Ahmed said.
“You are Ahmed Amr.”
“Yes,” Ahmed said again, wondering, Should I admit to being myself?
“I know the name of the soldier.”
“What soldier?” Amr asked.
“What soldier? What soldier?” Sheukhi looked at Amr, and then began to laugh through his nose.
When he caught his breath, Ahmed was still watching him.
“Okay,” Ahmed said. “You’ve had your fun.” Ahmed remembered now who this odd man was.
“My God,” said Sheukhi, “your arrogance astounds me. Your cynicism is breathtaking. Your indifference is royal. You don’t even care. The soldier isn’t even remotely on your mind. Forgotten, eh?”
“You don’t understand. There is no soldier anymore. What soldier? It’s over, my good man,” Ahmed said. Perhaps he was being a little grand, but he could afford it. It seemed clear that he was not about to be killed. And it was over, as far as Ahmed was concerned. Hajimi was released. Ahmed had had his political victory out of Find the Soldier. He was on to other, bigger things now. Making a new stand on a disputed hill outside Jerusalem. This afternoon, he had pitched a tent near its summit. Bit like the old days.
“ ‘It’s over, my good man,’ ” repeated Sheukhi, in a mocking tone. “Who the fuck do you think you are, effendi?”
“Listen, Sheukhi, I know who you are,” Ahmed said, tightening his keffiyeh and pulling himself up to his full height. “I know where you live, I know who your family is, I know your practice, I know your upstanding brother, and you had better watch your attitude toward me, sir.” Ahmed had never before delivered a speech like this, and it thrilled him, although he would have regarded his behavior as distasteful and embarrassing and even politically incorrect in someone else. We are so forgiving toward ourselves, he thought. He was particularly proud that he had remembered the man’s family name.
“Are you threatening me, Excellency?” Sheukhi glared at him, and Ahmed thought, This man is brave. He is capable of action. Who knows what he could do? The glare reminded him of George back in Hajimi’s living room. Poor me, Ahmed thought, no one likes me tonight.
“The Authority will take care of the Authority’s business,” Ahmed said. “Habibi, I am not threatening you. I am simply advising you to leave things to us. If we think the matter requires further attention, we will certainly see to it.”
“But I know the name.” Sheukhi pointed a finger at Ahmed’s chest and thrust it forward with each syllable. “I . . . know . . . the . . . name. . . .”
“Well then, out with it, patriot,” Ahmed said.
Sheukhi told him.
Ahmed’s face registered nothing.
“Not only do I know it,” Sheukhi went on. “Raad knows it, his daughter knows it, and her husband, too, now.”
A flush began to color Ahmed’s face. He was shocked, and even hurt, that George knew the soldier’s name and hadn’t told him. And now this man knew that George hadn’t told him. Embarrassing.
“How long has Raad had this information?” Ahmed asked the man.
“Oh, days, days . . .” Sheukhi said. He sensed a vulnerability and pressed on. “I suppose he didn’t want to tell you. Possibly, he was worried that you wouldn’t do the right thing or that you might—”
“Thanks for your information, brother.” Ahmed interrupted him, turning to go, only remotely expecting to hear the crack of a gunshot.
“What will you do with this information, habibi?” Sheukhi asked, putting an extra accent on the “brother,” in imitation of Amr.
“Whatever we deem necessary,” Ahmed said without turning. Then he remembered—the compliment. He turned.
“Listen, Sheukhi,” he said. “I appreciate your coming to me with this. Really. Anything I can do for you, I will do. I think you are a very brave man. I will tell the Chairman what you have done for us. Surely it will not go without notice. Here is my card. You are a real patriot.”
Sheukhi took the card but did not look at it. He watched Ahmed depart but did not say thank you—or even goodbye.
I better hire that bodyguard, Ahmed thought.
• • •
MY FRIEND, COMRADE, thank you for this important piece of the puzzle, Hajimi had said. You have helped me to see things more clearly. I am your servant.
His empty blue eyes were like portholes into the sea. Mahmoud had never seen eyes that were so removed.
And what will you do with what I’ve told you?
For the moment, nothing. Nothing at all.
Nothing at all?
No, nothing. There is the mourning period to be observed. And it is Ramadan.
Hajimi seemed not even to focus on the soldier’s name, maybe he wouldn’t even remember it come tomorrow morning. His face had turned blank when Sheukhi started explaining who he was. He shook his head unhappily as it became clear that if Sheukhi knew, then his sweet, lovely wife must know, also. Sheukhi tried to make that clear. But the fellow didn’t want to hear about it, really. Invoking his religious excuses like a damned imam. Well, Hajimi maybe had other things on his mind for tonight. Marina Raad had color in her cheeks again. She would be a lot of fun, so Sheukhi thought. High-strung girls always were.
So Hajimi was another one who was not interested in finding this soldier. So many Palestinians not interested in doing their duty.
They were all a bunch of snobs, George Raad, Ahmed Amr—Hajimi, too, who had been, until this evening, Mahmoud Sheukhi’s hero. Hajimi didn’t care, even though it was his very own son who had been murdered. Snob. Sheukhi could read it right away in their faces, their immediate, instinctive cool disregard for him. And why? He came from a good family, a family with a name, a major clan, he had a college education, was a professional. And he could imagine and do what they were incapable of imagining and doing.
The problem was, he was too Palestinian for them, not enough of a citizen of the world. Fuck them. Oh, fuck them extremely and in every way. He spit on Ahmed Amr. He would show them all, even Hassan Hajimi, who had too much on his mind to avenge the blood of his only son.
It would be Mahmoud and Jibril, then, working together, uncle and nephew. Jibril respected him. You are the only adult who still understands the people’s struggle, Jibril had said the other night, while Mahmoud was commenting on the news for his nephew in Adnan’s office.
Right.
Adnan had snorted, but fuck Adnan, too, and his petty concerns. Mahmoud was sick of them by now. Glassblowers, all. Sitting by the fire and only puffing, blowing air into sand, making bubbles and globes and long, thin breakable necks. No more of that, no more of that prissy, hot, sedentary leisure. He was going to show them what you do with a fiery furnace. He was going to shatter their pretty transparent world. They were too good for the struggle, too pure, too removed. Not he. He was in it. He knew all about it. He would teach them. He was made to be a teacher. Learn your lessons, boys. Don’t forget, now.
• • •
“WE’RE GOING TO leave you tomorrow,” George said, turning to Hassan. The reception had ended, and even the sisters had gone home. It was very late for all of them.
“What? Where are you going to go?” Hassan asked. He twirled a lock of Marina’s hair around his finger, and untwirled it, then twirled it again. The automatic
way he did it reminded George of the prayer beads of old tea-drinkers. Marina looked happy—happier, anyway. George wondered how long it would last, how long before she realized that her husband’s identity and the choices he had made in life were inextricably tied to Ibrahim’s fate. Philip had come up from the little guest bedroom, and was standing next to George. He held George’s antique leather suitcase (one of his relics, Marina’s mother had called it), the one with travelers’ stamps on it. Marina recognized it immediately. It was like a prop from an old movie, but real; it was his grandfather’s, of course, with stamps on it from Cairo and Alexandria in the 1930s, and from Suez and even the former Transjordan, for Christ’s sake.
Philip put the bag next to the front door. He looked up at everyone.
“We’re packing,” he said brightly, and disappeared again down the hallway.
“We’ll go to the hotel,” George said to Hassan. “I think there will be enough happening here without me and Philip to increase your caseload.”
“We wish you would stay,” Hassan said, but George detected relief in his son-in-law’s tone. And in his daughter’s expression. Finally he was doing the right thing, and what was it? Leaving, naturally. Leaving was what he did best. It made sense that he should have this gift. He had started at a young age.
Hassan sighed. “I wish the celebrations would end,” he said.
“You can end them, Hassan,” George said. “One simple word from you, and they are finished.”