“See you then,” he said.
Chapter 25
When Rania walked through the door, Bassam’s silence greeted her like a furnace blast. He was reading the newspaper, while Khaled sat on the floor, creating an elaborate structure of books and old toys. Maybe he would be an architect when he grew up.
“I brought molochia,” she said, feeling like one of the bad magicians who traveled around entertaining children in the refugee camps. She didn’t think her husband would be convinced to “Look over there!” by her promise to cook the spinach he loved, but no one could blame her for trying.
“Where did you go for it, the Naqab?”
“I stopped in Al Quds on the way back from Aida.” She had thought she had plenty of time to get back and couldn’t resist going through the Jerusalem markets again. It brought back her happy-go-lucky college days. But, by the time she got to the bus station in Ramallah, the north-bound buses were not moving. Something about a roadblock on the way north. She had been stuck there for almost two hours before she found a servees driver willing to go.
“How are your parents?”
“They’re fine.”
“Why did you go? Is something wrong?” Bassam asked from behind his paper.
“No. Well, I saw Samia.”
“Samia? You haven’t spoken to her in three years.”
“Two. She is very depressed.” She unloaded the groceries on the counter and rummaged underneath for a big metal bowl. She filled it with water and dumped the narrow, pointed Egyptian spinach leaves in it to soak.
“You went to Bethlehem because someone you haven’t talked to in two years is depressed? I don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“I didn’t say that’s why I went. I’ve been trying to find out more about what happened to Daoud al-Khader.” She removed the leaves a few handfuls at a time, placing them carefully between two towels and patting them dry. Then, she removed those leaves and began the process with the next batch.
“I heard you were looking into that. Who asked you to?”
“No one asked me to. But I thought if I could prove soldiers killed him, the family could get something from the army.”
“Did you tell Mustafa?” he asked.
“I tried,” she said. “But all he wanted to talk about was his sister’s cancer.” She winced at how unsympathetic she sounded.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to think of your own family for a while,” he said.
“What are you accusing me of?” she demanded. She located the big knife and tested the edge carefully. It could be sharper. She took a pumice stone from the sink and slowly stroked it along the knife’s edge.
“I am not accusing. I am just saying that you were away from your son for more than a month, and, now, you are running around doing something no one wants you to do.”
“How do you know no one wants me to?” He had said he had heard about her investigation. She could guess from whom.
“Forget it,” he said. He went back to his newspaper.
“Vroom vroom vroom.” Khaled ran full-tilt at her and rammed her legs with a yellow and black dump truck.
“Ow! There’s been a crash! I’m hurt!”
“You were throwing stones! I will bulldoze your whole village.”
She turned and stared at her son. How could this be his make-believe? Before Prison, she would have found a way to make a joke. But, now, she could not pretend things were normal. She felt like he was play-acting in the role of her old self.
“Go do your homework, habibi. I need to make dinner. We can play later.”
He didn’t protest the way he would have before. He had gotten used to not having her around. Maybe she should play with him now and let dinner wait. But, if she did that, Bassam would probably complain that he was hungry. She couldn’t please everyone, no matter what she did.
She turned on the radio while she chopped the spinach and started the rich, white soup, simmering on the stove. There was fighting in Gaza between men loyal to Fatah and those belonging to Hamas. The Hamas men who had been shut out of the police while Fatah controlled the government now wanted those well-paid jobs for themselves. The Fatah men were refusing to give up their positions or their weapons.
The report made her anxious. She hated that Palestinians were letting the Israelis and Americans make them fight each other. Their unity was the only thing that had enabled them to hold onto their land for this long time since before the partition in 1947.
“I’m going to Marwan’s,” Bassam said from the doorway.
“But dinner is almost ready.”
“Ma’lesh.” Never mind. “I will eat with them.”
“But I’m making this for you.”
“I will have some when I get home. I heard some news today. I need to discuss it with Marwan.”
“What did you hear?”
“The Americans have frozen some bank accounts of the Sulta. If they cannot be convinced to unfreeze them, there may not be enough money to pay salaries next month.”
“They froze funds belonging to the Palestinian Authority? How can they do that?”
He shrugged. “They did it.”
If she had been going to work every day, she would have come home already knowing this important news, having thought about it and been ready to discuss it with her husband. Now, she depended on him to tell her things that determined her survival. She wiped a plate and flung the towel onto the counter with a satisfying thwack.
“Are you going to ask Marwan to take you into the store?”
“No. But I may need to ask him for a loan.”
He left without another word. Before Prison, he would have come over to touch her arm, taken at least a sip of the soup she had worked hard to make. When he had clumped down the front stairs, she turned off the soup and went to Khaled’s room.
“What shall we play?” she asked.
“Fatah and Hamas,” he said. “I am Hamas.”
He shoved a plastic ruler into her hand—she supposed it was meant to do for a sword. He sighted down the toy pistol his grandmother had given him for the last Eid. “Bang bang, you’re dead.”
“How can I play if I’m dead?” she asked.
He made a whooshing motion with his hands. “You are alive again. Come catch me!”
He ran outside, and she followed, careful to stay behind him while seeming to run hard. Last year, he would have wanted to play jesh w shabab— army and kids—and he would have wanted to be the Israelis, because they were the strong ones. Now, he wanted to be Hamas because they were the powerful ones. The party she had belonged to since she was fifteen years old was cast in the role of the losers.
“I got you,” she cried, as she suddenly swooped down on him, tickling his soft tummy.
“Laa laa!” His words said no no, but his giggle was happy. “I’m a plane!” He stretched his arms wide and zoomed crazily across the yard.
“I’m a bird.” She imitated his flight motion without the sound effects.
“I’m a plane, and I kill birds.” He engulfed her with his wing arms.
She wrapped her arms around her son. He was at that age where every game ended in murder. She wondered if that was true of kids in every country.
“Are you hungry, habibi?”
“Yes.”
“Good, let’s go eat.”
“Weyn Baba?”
“Baba went to Uncle Marwan’s. He will be back later.”
They ate the spinach soup with rice, and bread with hummus and salad. After dinner, she looked over his English homework. He had spelled all the words right.
“You are clever,” she said. That was as it should be. Both she and Bassam had been good students. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
She waited for the only answer he had ever given: A policeman, like you.
“An engineer,” he said.
“What? Oh, why an engineer?” Engineering was a good career, if that turned out to be what he was suited for. But she felt a
throbbing in her throat and turned away from him so he would not see the tears welling in her eyes.
“I want to be an engineer like Yahyya Ayash.”
Oh. That kind of engineer. Yahyya Ayash, whose nickname was “The Engineer,” had been a Hamas bombmaker from the village next to theirs. After the Israelis killed him, they destroyed his family home, which still lay in ruins.
“Who has been talking to you about Yahyya Ayash?” she asked.
“Teacher Kareem.” She would have to speak to Kareem. He shouldn’t be teaching seven-year-olds to emulate bombmakers. Yahyya Ayash was the most revered historical figure from their part of Palestine, but the kids were not old enough to grasp the complexity of his contribution.
“An engineer is a good thing to be,” she said. “But you don’t have to be an engineer like Yahyya Ayash. Engineers build tall buildings and roads and bridges, lots of things to make our people great and strong.”
“Hamas makes our people strong.”
“What should we read?” she asked. She had had enough of a politics lesson from her child for tonight.
She led Khaled by the hand to the bookshelves. She was pleased when he chose a picture biography of Yasser Arafat.
“Il Ra’is,” he said, brushing his hand over the cover photo of Arafat in his classic black and white keffiyeh.
“That’s right. Even though he is dead, he is still the President. What party did the President found?”
“Fatah.”
“That’s right. Go get into your pajamas and brush your teeth, and then we will read about the President.”
When Khaled was in bed, Rania scrubbed the kitchen counters and the sink until they gleamed. She couldn’t make herself put the soup into the fridge but left the covered pot on the stove. Maybe Bassam would still be hungry or would be hungry again when he returned. She heard her mother-in-law’s heavy footsteps moving back and forth upstairs, from kitchen to living room, against the hum of the television. Maybe she should turn on the television too, but she doubted there would be anything she wanted to watch.
As she wiped the glass bowls with a piece of cheesecloth, her thoughts turned to Daoud and his Israeli friend, Lior. She had never thought of herself as closed-minded or provincial. She wanted to think it didn’t matter to her if Daoud was… “Gay,” she made herself say aloud. She thought about Chloe and Tina. She could trust Chloe with her life—already had, on several occasions. Tina seemed like a bright, thoughtful woman. Knowing what they were to each other didn’t change that—but it did.
“What are you thinking?”
She hadn’t even heard Bassam come in.
“I was wondering when they will let me go back to work.”
“It is hard right now. Even the men may not have jobs soon.”
“Are you suggesting I should be laid off first, because I’m a woman?”
“Of course not. But you cannot expect them to take you back right now, when things are so insecure.”
She said nothing. He had always supported her commitment to her work. She didn’t believe he was trying to undermine her. But she was not surprised by his next sentence.
“I hoped maybe you were thinking about the baby.”
“There is no baby.”
“But there could be.”
True. Why was she so reluctant to think about that? She had always assumed she would have more children.
“It wouldn’t be smart to have another child if we could both be out of work any day,” she said. “You were just talking about borrowing money from your brother.”
“You make it sound like children are a burden.”
“They are not a burden. But they are a responsibility. It’s irresponsible to have them if we cannot support them.”
“We will be able to support them. Allah will provide.”
“Since when do you believe in Allah like that?”
“I have always had faith,” he said.
“Faith, sure, on a spiritual level. I believe Allah protects our people too. But on a practical level, no. Allah does not decide who eats and who starves. We don’t believe that the people who are poor are being judged by Allah in some way.”
“I never said that.”
“You said Allah would provide. That means that if a family does not have enough, it’s because Allah is not providing for them.”
“Stop changing the subject. I wasn’t talking about philosophy or religion; I was talking about us. About having a baby. Why won’t you talk about that?”
“I don’t know.”
He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She leaned back against him. It had been a long time since they had been comfortable with each other like this. She nuzzled her shoulders against his chest. His hands crept closer to her sensitive areas, and he planted a kiss in the corner of her neck.
“Now you are the one changing the subject,” she said softly.
“Shhh.” He turned her to face him, meshed his mouth to hers. She willed her body to respond. She wanted to respond to him. He was her husband, he was her soul mate, he and Khaled were her life. There was nothing she wanted more than to make him happy. She had never looked at another man. But she couldn’t turn off her thoughts.
Things were changing so fast. One month, she had a powerful job and was a member of the most powerful faction in the government. The next, she was an unemployed wife of a soon-to-be-unemployed civil servant, and her son was being brainwashed to hate the party to which she had dedicated her life. In the middle of it all, Palestinian men were risking their freedom to dress up like women and dance in front of Israeli men, and her oldest friend had a secret she had never before guessed. She couldn’t just forget all that and make love to her husband.
Or could she?
She pushed all the jumbled thoughts out of her mind like wiping a rag over her kitchen counter. She turned in her husband’s arms, finding the space between his ribs where her breasts had always fit neatly. She placed her palm against Bassam’s chest and felt her pulse synchronize itself to his heartbeat. She swayed in rhythm with his breathing, felt the pressure of his hands on her back and thigh grow more insistent.
“Let’s go to bed,” she whispered.
Chapter 26
Chloe was nervous and got up early. She moved around quietly, trying not to disturb Tina, who snored softly in their closet. She went next door and insisted on paying Um Malik for four eggs from her chicken coop, ignoring the protests of “I’m like your mother!” She sipped coffee while she fried potatoes and scrambled the eggs with some processed white cheese. When everything was ready, she put it all on a tray and took it into the closet.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” she said softly, shaking Tina’s shoulder gently. “I brought you breakfast in bed.”
“You’re sweet,” Tina said, but rolled over on her stomach and pulled the pillow over her head.
“Reem’s appointment is at one, and it’s going to take a while to get transportation on a Friday. We need to leave in an hour, and I know you’re gonna want a shower.”
“What are you talking about?” Tina moved the pillow and half-opened her eyes.
“Reem’s chemo. I arranged to borrow Bassam’s car, but we have to get to Mas’ha to pick it up. We should leave by eight, eight thirty at the latest.”
“Chloe, I didn’t know the appointment was today. I can’t go; I have plans.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t know? You were there when she made the appointment, just like I was.”
“I didn’t write it down. I’ve been so busy; I forgot, and you didn’t remind me.”
“Didn’t know I was your social secretary.” Stop being a bitch, Chloe told herself. It’s not like you never forgot an appointment. “Can’t you change your plans?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m meeting some friends in Tel Aviv.”
“You’re going to Israel?” Chloe’s arms ached from holding the heavy tray. She put it down on the floor and sat down on her sleeping mat.
“I’m meeting them in Forty-Eight, yes.”
“Don’t be more Palestinian than thou. I grew up calling it Israel. It’ll take a while to get used to the new terminology.”
“I am more Palestinian than you.”
“Tina, I know I am not Palestinian. But that doesn’t make me a settler or something. The point isn’t what name I use for the place where Tel Aviv is. It’s that you’re going there, and you always say you hate it, and you didn’t tell me. What is it you have to do that’s so important?”
“I’m just meeting some friends.” Tina got up in one fluid movement and strode over to where her bathrobe hung on an iron hook next to the closet door. Chloe watched her walk, admiring the supple way Tina’s back curved into her butt. She felt a stirring in her crotch, which pissed her off. How could she be so aroused by someone who was blowing her off?
“Which friends?” she asked. “From work?”
“No.”
“Who, then? I don’t get what you’re being so secretive about.”
“If you really want to know, it’s a group for Palestinian lesbians. I got on their e-list a while ago, when I was still in Australia. It used to be just online, but they’ve started having meetings, and I go to them.”
“Palestinian lesbians meet in Tel Aviv?” Why was that what she asked? There were a million things she wanted to know about the group. She had heard rumors of an underground Palestinian lesbian group, but she had no idea Tina was part of it.
“Sometimes they meet in West Jerusalem, but Tel Aviv is safer. No one can risk someone in their family finding out where they’re going.”
That made sense. Chloe forgot her feeling of betrayal in the hundred questions that flooded her mind.
“What do you talk about?” she asked, nibbling on a fry. She took the breakfast tray into the living room and set it on the coffee table. The breakfast-in-bed thing had been spoiled, but the food was delicious. Tina sat next to her on the couch and poured herself a cup of coffee from the little pot.
“Yum,” she said, warming Chloe’s heart. Chloe pushed the food toward her lover.
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