Bitter Almonds

by Lilas Taha

  They drove through the city in silence for a while. Disgusted with his selfishness, Omar finally prodded, ‘Everything all right at home?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And your uncle?’

  ‘Not doing well. He wants me to take his second son under my wing. Teach him the ropes, introduce him to the market.’

  ‘Take his brother’s place?’

  ‘Something like that. The boy is fifteen.’

  ‘You were a year younger when you took on your father’s business. You turned out fine.’

  Marwan slammed his palm on the steering wheel. ‘But I lost the chance for a decent education. I will not let my uncle do that to Nader. The boy is smart, driven. He should have a better chance.’

  Omar motioned for Marwan to take a right turn after he missed the street they should have taken. ‘Is that what Nader wants?’

  ‘Nader wants to please his father, carry on the family reputation. But someone has to look out for the boy. The Barady name is solid enough in the market, if I keep it up until Nader gets a diploma, he can take over his share then.’

  ‘Your uncle won’t have it that way?’

  Marwan shook his head. ‘My uncle is devastated by his son’s death. Not thinking straight.’ He missed another street they should have turned into to go home. ‘My uncle wants . . . more.’

  Realizing Marwan wasn’t paying attention to his driving, Omar pointed in the distance. ‘There, park the car. Your uncle wants payback?’

  ‘After my father died, my uncle was everything for us. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be standing on my two feet right now.’ Marwan brought the car to a stop with a jerk. ‘He could have taken over the business, covered our expenses, done his duty and no one would have faulted him for that.’ He exhaled long, struggling with whatever he was trying to say. ‘But he insisted I learn everything about my father’s trade. He introduced me to the merchants my father dealt with, backed me up. He shaped me to be the man they wanted to do business with.’

  Omar couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering his friend. ‘You owe him to do the same for Nader. I get it.’

  Placing his hands on the steering wheel, Marwan stretched his arms and dropped his chin to his chest. ‘More. He wants more. I can’t refuse him.’ Lifting his head, he glared at Omar, his eyes intense. ‘Can you understand that?’

  Omar nodded. ‘What can’t you refuse, man?’

  Marwan swallowed a couple of times, working his throat to get difficult words out. He shifted the car into gear and drove off. ‘Better get home.’

  Rihab’s falafel sandwiches dripped with tahini sauce and hit the spot with Omar. He ate more than his fill, crunching pickled hot peppers between bites to enhance the flavor. The dripping sesame seed paste needed more lemon juice in his opinion, but he didn’t say anything. They ate under the orange tree in the courtyard and Marwan seemed to relax. Encouraged by his lightened mood, Omar licked his fingers in front of Rihab, complimenting her for the fabulous meal. ‘That was the best falafel I’ve had in years.’

  Marwan watched Rihab go into the kitchen. ‘I will miss her.’

  ‘You’re planning a trip?’

  ‘She’s getting married. Her wedding is at the end of the month.’

  ‘Congratulations, man. Huda didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Huda doesn’t know yet. The decision was made recently.’

  ‘When did Rihab get engaged?’

  Marwan left the table, went to the fountain and washed his hands. ‘I thought you knew. Rihab has been engaged for the past year.’

  ‘I had no idea.’ Omar followed Marwan. ‘A year is a long time for an engagement.’

  ‘She refused to go ahead with the wedding on account of my younger sisters.’ Marwan dried his hands on a towel hanging from a tree branch. ‘Didn’t want to leave them. Kept the poor man waiting all this time.’

  Omar avoided Marwan’s gaze. Wasn’t he doing the same thing? Keeping Marwan waiting for a green light from him? He took the towel. ‘Who’s the lucky man?’

  ‘A merchant’s son from Aleppo. A decent man. But he’s running out of patience. The girls are old enough not to need her mothering now, so we are moving forward.’ Marwan gave a half-hearted smile. ‘Though I fear Rihab worries about me the most.’

  ‘She will move to Aleppo?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Rihab joined them with a tea tray in her hands.

  Marwan took the tray. ‘Thank you. We’ll have it in my room.’ He poured tea at a small table in the corner. Omar walked around the room, studying the family pictures and paintings framed on the walls. Generations of Barady family members stared back at him with grainy gray faces. Aware of the absence of such pictures in his own life, jealousy poked his chest. He wandered over to the desk and checked a stack of books.

  Marwan fell silent, heaving a heavy sigh every now and then. The spoon in his hand clattered without mercy against the sides of the short tea glasses, stirring sugar and spinning the wheels in Omar’s head in search of a way to draw him out.

  ‘So you’re going to look after your sisters by yourself from now on?’

  ‘I won’t be by myself. My uncle solved that problem.’

  Omar’s fingers paused between pages. ‘What do you mean?’

  Marwan flung the sugar spoon onto the brass tray. ‘I can’t say no to him.’ He shook his head, sounding defeated. ‘I just can’t.’

  Omar closed the book in his hands. ‘What’s going on? What does he want from you exactly?’

  ‘God help me, Omar.’ Marwan lifted red eyes. ‘He wants me to marry his son’s widow.’

  ‘Oh!’ Omar blew a long breath. ‘I see.’

  Marwan dragged his palms down his face. ‘He thinks it will solve everything.’ His voice came out muffled and strained. He dropped his hands. ‘It will keep my cousin’s share within the family without having to deal with fortune hunters who will go after the widow. Her boy will have a decent living until he can take over his inheritance. I will have help with my sisters while Rihab finally moves on with her life.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘See? Everything is solved.’

  Giving Marwan his back, Omar closed his eyes. He placed his flat palms on the desk surface, catching his breath. Could it be this easy? Getting Marwan out of his way, out of Nadia’s life, without having to do anything? Was this God’s way of showing him he wasn’t forgotten?

  Marwan’s voice came closer from behind. ‘You know where my heart is.’

  Omar opened his eyes. A blue and white ribbon dangled from one of the books before him. He knew that ribbon well, the details of its white lace fringes imbedded in his memory. How had it come to be tucked in Marwan’s book? How long had it been there? Had he asked for it? Had she given it to him as a token of her affection? How would she take this news? Would it break her young heart? Omar forced his throat to work. One word came out, heavy with concern, with worry, full of bitterness and frustration. ‘Nadia.’

  ‘How am I to cherish a woman as a wife,’ Marwan choked, ‘when my heart belongs to another?’

  Omar swung around, his pulse racing. How was he to answer that? And why couldn’t he come up with something to ease his friend’s agony? Must he? He could stand aside and let things unfold on their own. Allow his suffocating aspirations to rise to the surface and catch a breath of air at last.

  ‘Talk to the widow. Try to make her understand.’ The words forced their way out of his mouth, overriding a voice in his head saying, Let it be. Let it happen.

  Marwan dropped on his bed. ‘I tried. All she cares about is her son’s wellbeing. I promised her, no matter what, I would take care of her boy like he were my own.’ He slammed a fist into his palm. ‘But my uncle won’t have it. Says I have to honor the family. Keep the Barady name above everything. If she marries someone else, it would shame us among merchants to allow a stranger to raise our orphaned namesake.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. We don’t live in the Dark Ages. You’re a free man.’

&n
bsp; ‘Free?’ Marwan shook his head. ‘I’m nothing without my family name. Our heritage goes back hundreds of years. I cannot ignore that.’

  Omar paced the room, trying to focus his thoughts; his feelings—a different matter. A moment ago, he was jealous of Marwan’s deep roots, but now he saw they had turned into shackles around his ankles. ‘The widow has a say in this, right? And her family?’

  ‘They left it up to her. But her father said he wouldn’t stand in the way of another Barady member taking care of his daughter and grandson. Would be proud if it happened. And she . . . seems to agree.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘She doesn’t mind this arrangement if I agree to it.’ Marwan twisted his lips in a sad smile. ‘She’s under the impression I’m a good man.’

  The voice in Omar’s head screamed for him to end this conversation there, to leave. But the miserable look on his friend’s face nudged him to decency. ‘There must be a way to get you out of the picture without damaging your family image.’

  Marwan rose to his feet. ‘There is. I need your help for it to work.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Go to my uncle. Tell him I had given you my word to marry Nadia. He wouldn’t allow me to break an honorable promise like that.’ Marwan lifted his eyebrows. ‘Family reputation above everything else, remember?’ Lifting his arms sideways, he inflated his chest. ‘I’ll be released of my obligation to the widow with honor. She can choose whomever she wishes to marry. The boy will be raised under my care.’ He dropped his arms. ‘Problem solved.’

  Omar blinked a couple of times. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

  Marwan nodded. ‘Nadia doesn’t know about my intentions, I know that. Let me talk to her.’

  Omar looked away. What arrogance! Did Marwan think Nadia waited on a word from him? Her mind made up to accept his proposal? He pressed a fist to his midsection, recalling Nadia’s questions at the hospital. He was the arrogant fool, thinking he could keep her to himself. Of course she wouldn’t object to Marwan. Everything he observed in the past months confirmed her hopes to be his.

  Marwan stepped into his view. ‘If you tell my uncle you postponed my official proposal because of all that happened with the war, he’ll respect that even more.’

  Omar coughed into his closed fist, reeling himself in to face his cruel reality. No matter what he wished for, or did, he should at least give Nadia the chance to hear Marwan out. If she wanted to.

  ‘My uncle thinks the world of you.’ Marwan gripped his shoulder. ‘A soldier like his son. He will listen to you.’

  ‘You know it’s not up to me. Shareef has the final say.’

  ‘I think I’ve reached a level of acceptable civility with him. I haven’t completely won him over, but I’m sure with your help we can convince him to go along.’

  Omar clenched his jaw. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’

  ‘I’m asking you to use your powers of persuasion.’

  ‘What if Nadia refuses you?’

  Marwan sucked a sharp breath. His hands dropped to his sides. The hopeful expression on his face collapsed in front of Omar’s eyes. Did he not consider that possibility? Was he that sure of Nadia’s feelings? What had she done to give him such confidence?

  Marwan shook his head. ‘I have a feeling she will not.’

  Stifling a need to slam his fist into Marwan’s audacious jaw, Omar turned and headed to the door, needing to get out of there before he lost his mind. ‘Let me talk to Nadia. See where we stand.’

  Marwan followed him, touched his arm, urging him to turn around. He thrust his hand forward. ‘Do I have your word?’

  He had no choice but to take Marwan’s hand and give it a firm shake. ‘We are men talking here, aren’t we? I will get back to you in a couple of days.’ He pulled the door open with more force than necessary. ‘In the meantime, it’s best to keep your distance.’

  26

  An urgent knock sounded at the front door. Omar sprang out of bed and rushed to see who dared bother the household after midnight.

  ‘You the Englishman?’ A tall, thin man asked in a hushed voice, his eyes darting down the stairwell and back.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  The man shoved a package onto Omar’s chest. ‘Take this.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘You will understand.’

  Omar grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt instead of the package. ‘Understand what?’

  Shareef’s voice came from behind Omar. ‘Who’s there?’

  The man pushed the newspaper-wrapped package against Omar’s chest again. ‘Take it. Don’t let anyone know. I was told to deliver this to the Englishman.’

  Hearing Shareef’s footsteps advancing, Omar released the man, took the item and tucked it under his pajama shirt. The man hurried away and disappeared down the steps in the darkness. Omar closed the door and turned to face Shareef.

  ‘Someone looking for Faisal Nabawi.’ The name popped into Omar’s head from a movie poster he had seen on the streets. ‘You know him?’

  Yawning, Shareef shook his head. ‘At one in the morning?’

  ‘Some emergency.’ Omar headed to his room. ‘Told him he had the wrong building.’

  Shareef didn’t waste time on the matter. He shuffled back, mumbling curses on the way and shooing his wife into their room.

  Safe behind closed doors, Omar placed the package on his bed and unwrapped it. Two pieces of folded paper and a brown leather wallet fell out. He flipped open the wallet first. His face stared back at him: an identification card had his picture with someone else’s name and specifications. He slipped out the card, examined it on both sides. Not a counter fake. Ziyad Nimir, twenty-six years old, born in Jaffa. He slipped the card back in the wallet and picked up one of the folded papers. It held a white travel document with the same personal details. Stamped on the inside, a visa to enter Jordan valid for two months.

  Omar dug in his nightstand drawer for his ID card. Comparing the two, he concluded the new one was authentic. The last piece of paper in the package had a list of names, detailing his new family history. On the back, clear instructions on how to sneak into the Karameh camp once he crossed the Jordanian border.

  Dropping the papers on his bed, he scratched his head. This was it, then? A new identity and a purpose? He sounded out his new name, Ziyad Nimir. Could he pull it off? Could he become this older man during the time he would spend in the camp, training militia who would trust their lives to him? To a fake from Jaffa?

  He gathered the documents and surveyed the room, searching for a good hiding place. Under the mattress? Nadia changed his sheets, and she was thorough. She might pull them out while she maneuvered the mattress. In his drawer? It didn’t have a lock. Between his clothes? The little girls sometimes used his closet for a hiding place when they played. Examining the books stacked on the windowsill, he chose three books at the bottom and inserted one document in each book. No one touched his books without his permission.

  ‘Omar, are you awake?’ Nadia’s hushed voice came from behind his door.

  He cracked the door open. ‘Everything’s fine. Go back to bed.’

  ‘Mama is worried. She heard you and Shareef talking.’ Nadia tightened the belt of her night robe. ‘Who was at the door?’

  ‘Someone had the wrong address. Tell her not to worry.’

  Nodding, she turned around. Dark strands cascaded down her back, free and unrestrained. Her hair brushed the light fabric of her robe when she walked.

  ‘Nadia,’ he called out before she moved far.

  Her abrupt turn threw her hair to one side over her shoulder. With questioning eyes, she raised her eyebrows.

  He stepped out of his room, needing to get closer, wishing he could rub a lock of her hair between his fingers. ‘Want to go tomorrow to the university to check registration?’

  Nadia’s face, illuminated by the mid-month moon, brightened with a wide smile. ‘Oh, could we?’

  ‘Get your
papers ready.’

  He waited for her to go into the girls’ room, not bothering to conceal his blatant admiration of her figure. Gliding away, her narrow waist accentuated the roundness of her hips. At that moment, half shrouded by darkness, he wasn’t Omar Bakry, the shamed soldier of a failed army, or the chained soul indebted to his friend, or the deprived man stuck behind an uncontrollable heart. He was Ziyad Nimir, the disguised leader, the skilled officer, the healthy man who had the freedom to admire Nadia in the open, without contrition or self-condemnation.

  On the small balcony, Omar sipped his morning coffee and waited for Nadia to get ready. He spotted Huda coming down the street, walking like a drill sergeant he knew. A teenage boy walked beside her. Omar checked his watch; it was nearing eight. She must have been at a delivery all night. The boy most likely had been dispatched by the family to escort her home, sheer pretense for the neighbors’ benefit. No one dared point fingers at Huda for staying out all night. Her occupation gave her benefits other women in the community didn’t have. Immunity.

  Grimacing, Omar set his coffee down on the tray. Huda’s mood was bound to be sour. More sour than usual. He had hoped to get Nadia out of the house without running into Huda, to spare Nadia her continuous nagging to attend nursing school.

  Huda’s sure footsteps announced her arrival, and Omar braced himself to hear her arguing with Nadia as soon as she entered their room. To his surprise, Huda joined him on the balcony instead.

  ‘We need to talk.’ She took the other chair and peered into the Turkish coffee pot on the tray.

  Omar poured her a cup. ‘Good morning to you too.’ He tried to smile, but decided not to. It might encourage her to stay, and he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to handle whatever she wanted to throw at him.

  ‘It’s important. Very important.’

  ‘It will have to wait. I’m on my way out.’

  ‘When will you be back?’