by Malu Halasa
There is a terrible finality in the clunk of the five double bolts, a twist of the wrist he tries to avoid whenever he runs to the Rest House and Internet Café for a quick browse on the Web. Once the deadlocks are in place, he feels as though he has slammed the door in his face. Almost mournfully he takes in the huge mass of products, artifacts, and secondhand goods threatening to explode out the windows onto the street. With its miles of snazzy neon signs flashing impotently in the hot afternoon sun, the vulgar attractiveness of the Marvellous Emporium remains a heart-stopper. If he admires it long enough, he will be unable to tear himself away.
Despite his misgivings, he maneuvers himself toward the very last inch of tarmac and gingerly steps off the partially asphalted main street, the first of many small acts of defiance. With each click of a Cuban heel he brightens. The prospect of the chase and the possibilities of a large reward, commingling with the anticipation of new sights and sounds, might even make ar-Rish Ajjanah soar.
Waving down a shared taxi, he breaks his own rule of tightfistedness and barters with the driver to remain the only passenger. His reasoning has less to do with traveling in style: he must work out his next move. Past the town’s outlying shops, he nods pleasantly and could have easily started waving to people; they would surely want to acknowledge this rare sighting of him, a thought that only adds to his giddy excitement. By the time the car passes the Eastern Quarter, Abu Za’atar remembers with a jolt, or perhaps it is a pothole, that he isn’t out on just any old lark. He feels his mind sharpening once the taxi reaches the vacant land beyond the crumbling houses and farm sheds, which stretches off into the distance and disappears into the bright arc of nothingness. This is how his life could have been—dry and uneventful. His mind darts back to the teeming habitat of his beloved Marvellous Emporium and a very rare collection that appears to be gaining a reputation in all the right places.
Another jolt throws him against the backseat. But self-aggrandizement is not his only purpose. If only people would believe him. He wants to save them from themselves. He smiles beneficently at the driver, who has been so busy watching his passenger’s flights of fancy through the rearview mirror that he keeps smashing into craters in the road. At rest with his motivations, Abu Za’atar relaxes in spite of the bumpy ride. If yoga has taught him anything, it is posture is the font of good ideas. All he has to do is breathe deeply and wait for the logistics to come.
Fifteen minutes later Abu Za’atar emerges from the cab discombobulated. The heat doesn’t help, and the glint of his smart but tight Cuban heels on the dirt pathway makes him feel only sickly foolish, a novel emotion for someone so self-possessed. Leaning against a crumbling wall, he delicately presses his never-without against a sweat-drenched forehead. He usually doesn’t venture to Hussein’s side of town. Whenever he and his nephew discuss business, they meet at the Marvellous Emporium, the butcher shop, or, if necessary, the farm.
Off in the distance, a moving dust ball of wheels trundles down one of the dirt tracks. Abu Za’atar doesn’t give it much thought until its color—flashes of blue—and then its shape emerge. “Ah, Hussein’s van!” He isn’t expecting Hussein and his friend quite so quickly. The emotions he’s experiencing have little to do with his customary bravado; he hasn’t yet generated a plan, plausible or otherwise. He could say he happened to be in the vicinity—a sudden emergency, perhaps, involving Fadhma, but she would give him away. Or he could follow his instincts: steal a few precious minutes more to get a bird’s-eye view, as it were, before the inevitable kill. In effect, hide.
The Featherer flies into a nearby garden that has a divan under an effervescent grape vine. Leafiness is always soothing. As his thoughts meander through the greenery, he nearly trips over a stray black-and-brown dog lying on its stomach, enervated by the heat. No friend to the canine, Abu Za’atar is about to kick it when the van zipping past leaves his stylish Cuban heel dangling in midair. After the vehicle pulls into a sparsely graveled driveway twenty feet away, Abu Za’atar, still holding his pose, can’t quite make out what Hussein is saying, as the two men retrieve a knapsack from the back and double check that the van is locked before going quickly inside.
A weedy voice shatters Abu Za’atar’s illusion of invisibility. “It’s been years since you’ve gone door-to-door. Business must not be good.” All along someone has been spying on him from the stone house adjacent to the garden.
Lowering his foot, Abu Za’atar realizes the statement has some basis in reality. The house, the garden, the cur, and the voice—though age has made it less melodious to his ears—are not unfamiliar. When he was young and full of energy, he used to wander the outback before there was a road, offering cloth and sewing needles to lonely women like this one.
“I no longer do rounds, but I am available for free consultations in town, with an appointment,” he brags weakly, distracted by the way the mind, foot, and time conspire against the unobservant. He gives a perfunctory wave to the shadowy figure behind the curtains; there is a good chance that they were once close. Back on the dirt road, he can’t shake off the sensation that there are many eyes undressing him down to his Calvin Klein boxers.
Behind Hussein’s van, he casually crouches down and pretends to tie a lace-less Cuban boot. Standing up slowly, he makes a prolonged appraisal of the contents in the back. Just as he thought, clues abound. Exaggeratedly wiping his brow—aside from its practical uses, the never-without has obvious theatrical applications as well—he climbs the steps to Hussein’s new house. Glancing around to make sure everyone has a clear view of him, he enters without knocking, like the old trusted family relation he is.
Inside Abu Za’atar moves past the empty living and reception rooms. He treads lightly on the tile floors, peering into a series of dark and silent bedrooms where curtains have been drawn. By the closed bathroom door he hears the muffled movements of someone inside, but it is the gurgle of water in the pipes that impresses him; no one in the town is inured to the unreliability of the water tankers. Inch by half inch, his Cuban heels tiptoe down the hall toward the sounds of merriment and cooking. With his back pressed against the wall, he stops a few inches before the kitchen door and allows himself a split-second glimpse inside, making doubly sure that none of the inhabitants in the house has seen him.
At the counter Mother Fadhma is dicing tomatoes, cucumbers, and green onions and placing them in a bowl. Beside her, fluffy dark green bundles of parsley wait for the cleaver. Samira rescues a bunch and parades around the kitchen. “Like the wedding party tonight!” She is smiling and about to throw her bouquet to Muna or Fuad, when unexpectedly she cries out, “Amo!” and tosses it in his direction.
An expansive Abu Za’atar steps into the light, burying his nose in the bouquet with a wry grin.
“Our most troublesome relation,” Samira calls out to Muna by way of introduction, and then tells him, “I’ve been wondering when you were going to show up.”
“Me, trouble?” A wide, stupid grin, added to his carefully attuned dress-sense, masks his true intentions. “I apologize for missing the family meal yesterday, but, Samira, it is you who has abandoned us. We never see you anymore in the Marvellous Emporium—in and out of town, off on your travels.”
The girl winks at him and raises a finger to her lips as she checks on Fadhma, who has been pointedly ignoring the antics of her daughter and brother by hacking at the salad vegetables for tabbouleh.
Oblivious, the Featherer basks in his niece’s attention. It is so refreshing; the young accept everything at face value. Samira would never ask him what he’s doing here, nor would she care. The two of them have an implicit understanding, like his relationship with Hussein when he was that age.
As Muna shakes his hand, Abu Za’atar hands her the parsley bouquet with one of the small gift-wrapped boxes. “Welcome, my dear, I knew your father.” He lowers his voice: “He did well to escape.”
He gives the other gift to Samira, whispering, “Peace offering,” when he really means “Br
ibe.”
The two young women open their gifts and admire the slender silver necklaces with a single turquoise glass bead.
“To ward off the evil eye,” explains Abu Za’atar, before calling gleefully to Fadhma, “Ukhti—my sister!”
His arms spread out for an embrace that will never come. Despite her inability to return his affection, he makes a point of never stinting to show how much he cares. It always amazes him: here is a woman with the fortitude and determination of ten men. And she still acts like they don’t need each other?
Mother Fadhma eyes her brother warily. Whatever unpleasant comment she is about to make is interrupted by Hussein pushing through the curtains from the back terrace. Smoking a cigarette and carrying an empty tea glass, he nods in disbelief as he clasps his uncle’s hand, saying, “Why, you wily old bird.”
“You couldn’t keep me away.” Abu Za’atar appeals to Samira, “We rarely get visitors and now there are so many of them. What’s to be done?”
Hussein instructs the girls, “Make your amo coffee.”
While Muna fusses with the brass pot on the stove, Samira is about to take Abu Za’atar onto the back terrace, but a look from her half brother changes her direction and she suggests briskly, “The living room will be more comfortable for the both of us.” They tease each other as they head up the hallway.
Facing Al Jid’s photograph, Abu Za’atar settles on the couch. Having had enough of the chase, he begins the next phase: interrogation. “Have you met Hussein’s friend? If I’m not mistaken he comes from far away.”
Samira doesn’t seem to be following his hint. “Muna is the one who’s traveled the farthest, from New York,” she replies, stating the obvious.
“That’s the known world.” He speaks patiently as he would to Saleem or Mansoor. “As for our other guest, his origins have not yet been revealed. Did you notice that he carries all that he owns in a few canvas bags? Certainly that should be a tip-off.”
Samira still gives nothing away. “He’s probably from Amman, so that’s not exactly what you would call ‘foreign.’”
“Really.” Abu Za’atar, unconvinced, is getting a little bored. “Hussein hasn’t said anything to you? Where does he know him from, the market or the farm?” He is clutching at straws, hoping that Samira will come to his rescue. When she doesn’t, he bluntly states, “There’s a chance this person is dangerous. Who knows what he plans to do?”
“Do people shower before they commit a crime? Imagine,” says Samira, “the first time we have water in the house in weeks and it’s wasted on a stranger. All I can say is Laila better not find out.”
When Muna carries a tray of coffee and sweets into the living room, Samira teases him again: “If you ever need anything nobody else has, our favorite relative might be able to find it in that jumbled monstrosity he calls a store.” She toys with her uncle’s gift, the lucky charm around her neck.
Abu Za’atar would prefer not to change the subject but feels obliged to correct her. He clears his throat and says, “You mean the Marvellous Emporium.” Samira feigns disinterest, as he continues: “She only insults me in front of guests… but no matter. I am her best friend and supporter. When everyone fights her, I remain true.”
“Yes,” says Hussein, following Muna into the living room. “Uncle Abu Za’atar is loyal. Girls, he and I have a few thing to discuss—if you don’t mind.”
On their way out, Hussein takes Samira’s hand in his and squeezes it. Shutting the door gently behind her, he turns to his uncle. “I was going to see you earlier today.”
Abu Za’atar is delighted. In the excitement his nephew hasn’t forgotten him. There are ties between them that still bind, and who knows the plans that will be hatched in the next few minutes. He feels a rising impatience, like falling in love. But Hussein’s words only disappoint.
“I was attacked today, near the mosque.”
The old man’s eyes grow wide with disbelief. This isn’t at all what he expects to hear.
“They were waiting for me, and I was a fool to be there. They are trying to intimidate me.”
“No”—Abu Za’atar shakes his head, hoping that this is only a prelude to the main event—“they only want to see how the successful make money.” He helps himself to coffee on the tray.
“There’s something else.”
He looks up at Hussein standing over him. Beneath a placid exterior Abu Za’atar is boiling.
“Special visitors came to the shop today,” Hussein reveals.
Finally, something. Abu Za’atar thanks his lucky stars for his patience but deliberately dampens down any eagerness in his voice: “Oh yes, I saw him and want to—”
“Visitors,” Hussein interrupts, and goes on to relate the unexpected appearance of the sheikh and his acolytes in the shop. “They feel we’ve transgressed.”
Abu Za’atar notices that he has been included in the damned, although he has always insisted to Hussein that as a silent investor in the enterprise, his reputation and that of the Marvellous Emporium must remain above reproach. However, this might not be the time to argue the finer points of their contractual agreement. He allows his nephew to finish.
“Of course Umm al-Khanaazeer isn’t responsible for the violence of the world. But I have been warned there will be serious repercussions.”
Abu Za’atar is bored to tears. Why does Hussein waste time worrying about this nonsense when he has the makings for bigger success in his bathroom of all places? The mysterious stranger who left his business card had offered Abu Za’atar a sizable reward. Still, it would be impolite to ignore the topic under discussion. “Same old argument. Let them say something new.”
He wants to move on to something pleasant before doubling back to the real reason that brought him here in the first place.
“And Abd’s daughter?” asks Abu Za’atar. “I was lucky to get away when I did. You know, trouble brings untold delights…” He rubs his hands, and his face contorts into a tight smile that on anyone else would give the impression of a chronic pain.
“Humpf,” utters Hussein.
Now it is Abu Za’atar’s turn to be baffled by Hussein’s response. If encouraged, the proprietor would have taken the opportunity to announce another moneymaking scheme he has been formulating of late. Instead of pork and beans, he has come up with an interesting fusion dish: pork and freekeh wheat topped with Bull-Dog, the Japanese equivalent of Worcester sauce. That would be an international taste sensation. However, Hussein is too preoccupied to talk recipes. There was once a time when, like Samira, he would have hung on Abu Za’atar’s every word. The older man irritably returns his empty coffee cup to the tray.
Only after he has situated himself again does Hussein snap, “Well, what are we going to do?”
“About what?” Abu Za’atar is genuinely surprised, then remembers in a flash. “I told you, do not give in, not one inch, or they will take advantage. Better to sell your wares every day of the week, but you insisted on having it your own way. I told you then and I tell you now, give Fridays up for the Muslims, Saturdays for the Jews, and Sundays for the Christians. Be nice to everyone and go bankrupt! Now you come crying to me because a few hotheads and a sheikh have thrown a fit. Honestly, Hussein, for real success you have to put up with a few minor inconveniences!”
It is an all too familiar tactic on his part. In tight situations Abu Za’atar creates a smoke screen behind which his own obligations vanish. Still, he refuses to be blamed for what are essentially Hussein’s troubles. Much of what the two of them have accomplished has turned out better than either of them expected. Continuing profits have benefited the entire family. What better yardstick of success could there be?
“I’ve helped you each step along the way.” Abu Za’atar doesn’t enjoy rebuking his favorite nephew, yet continues. “Your wife and children eat well. My own sister enjoys a lifestyle that your father”—he derisively gestures at Al Jid’s photograph—“never thought of giving her. I risk everything to p
rovide you with this important opportunity, and my reward? Disrespect and ingratitude.” He wags his finger. “This reminds me of all the important changes I’ve made in this town that nobody bothers to acknowledge!”
Recounting the hostility he’s faced as an Agent of Progressive Change upsets his sensitive equilibrium. “When I created the Marvellous Emporium I filled it with goods and services the superstitious were frightened of and now can’t live without. Granted it’s not the trendy treasure trove it once was, compared with the state-of-the-art shopping malls and department stores operated by the Gulf investors in Amman. But our little town offers something no place else has.”
The deepening furrows on Hussein’s forehead make Abu Za’atar lose his temper.
“Progress, my boy, never comes easily to those who insist on living in the past. If Allah did not want the world to change, all powerful, all knowing that He is, the Internet and satellite TV would never have been invented. The Arabs were once the fathers of science and mathematics. Without their hoarding of ancient texts, nobody would have ever known that a crazy Greek philosopher discovered the atom. We have globalization now? We had it then; it was our ideas and systems of distribution and exchange that transformed the world.”
He is gesticulating madly. “With the simplest tools of their day—a tent, a spear, a horse—our people conquered lands as far away as Europe. Then what happened? It wasn’t original thinking that won the day but religious dogma—the defeated didn’t want to pay taxes for worshipping a different system. Instead they learned the beautiful language, memorized the Qur’an, aped their masters, and a religious bureaucracy was born. But bureaucracies don’t invigorate the world. Instead of demanding sharia law, why not teach quantum physics? Surely that is another of God’s secret languages. Instead of worrying about women’s honor, why not harness their minds and forget about their bodies. The Saudis and Qataris combined could give every house in the region a laptop and a flush toilet. It wouldn’t bankrupt them. Instead the richest and the most devout buy up London’s Covent Garden and race Ferraris through the cobbled streets and harass girls on roller blades. Or they’re busy exporting religious extremism.