“Sweet dreams, Abu khoaga,” said Ramzi, lying down on the sofa.
Pressing my back against the wall, I lit another cigarette and waited.
First my tongue went numb. It went numb and disappeared, as if it had never existed. No longer did I need to form words with it, for it had vanished without a trace. Its absence didn’t bother me. This was followed by my legs, with which I no longer had to walk, and my hands, which I’d cursed a thousand times, hands I’d touched women with. My heart, which, used to uppers, regularly pumped the blood through my veins in a rage, now quieted down. Its hushed purring calmed me. My face and my eyes disappeared. Time ceased.
No longer did the sweat forming puddles on my skin drip to the ground, and the fine yellow dust sifting this way from the desert, which colored and sickened the palm trees in the yard of the crypt, froze in the air. The stones in this desert of stones no longer crackled. The black hearses stopped on the desert access road.
In my dream I see a woman. A white-skinned brunette. Her eyes are like a fire ablaze, glowing-hot brass in a smelter. Her face is like the sun shining full force.
She is standing on a dune. The sand sinks under her bare feet, the wind blows her white dress. The brilliance of day glows behind her, and yet it is night. The light hurts my eyes. I raise my hands to protect my face.
I stand at the foot of the dune and, driven by an inexpressible force, charge toward her, up to my knees in the hot sand, which burns my legs. I call out to her, but she does not hear. She turns with her face toward the night. In vain I implore her to help me. She doesn’t even look at me; she doesn’t hear my voice.
Years pass, it seems, by the time I reach the top of the dune. Both my legs are scorched red. As I arrive beside the woman, my strength leaves me. I lie prostrate, powerless. But I don’t even need strength to take in the view that greets me from the summit. All that light is from a burning city. The streets are ablaze, building walls are ablaze, grocery stores are ablaze, bus stops are ablaze. The geraniums in the windows, they too are ablaze, as are the parks. Even the ground is burning with yellow flames. The smoke is suffocating. Greasy ash rises skyward before falling to the ground in big flakes, daubing my face and my hands.
The inexplicable woe that takes hold of me as I watch the burning city is different from any I’ve known until now. Consuming every fiber of my being, it is the sadness of someone who has lost everything he’d known and loved. As I weep tears black from soot, I watch the city burning to a crisp, a city whose every street, building, and inhabitant I know.
“Who did this?” I ask.
A black cloud rises up beside the city. Soot? No, for the cloud rises way up high, changes direction, heads my way. A flock of crows flies past the top of the sand dune where I lie, before turning back and circling above my head. Their incessant cawing muffles the crackling sound of the burning structures in the city below.
The woman, who until now had been standing with her back to me and looking into the night, opens her clenched fist. Something falls out, twirling downward before me into the sand. A blue plastic lighter of the sort available in any shop. The moment it hits the sand, it bursts into flame, frizzling away to nothing.
“Why?” I ask, hunched up, staring at the fire.
I try grabbing hold of the woman’s leg, but my hand goes through her slender ankle. Sand fills my mouth and I begin coughing. Gathering all my strength, I get up on my knees and then to my feet. The crows circle above me faster and faster so close I can see the feathers on their stretched-out black wings.
“Why did you do it?” I ask again. The irises disappear from the woman’s eyes, leaving them as white as the full moon. With slow steps she starts heading down the hill. I then hear a bellowing voice reminiscent of the roar of a raging river.
“Everything is valid—you can do anything.”
The voice is so powerful that I have to press my hands to my ears. By the time it ends, the woman is nowhere to be seen.
It is cold and dark. I shiver. The city, which just before was burning in one big flame behind me, is silent and still. The charred ruins stand there. I run down the hill, thinking I might find something that can be saved. For hours I poke about in the debris, but nothing. I am set to give up when I find, in one of the heaps, a blackened board bearing this inscription:
NOT BELIEVING IN A THING IS A GREAT FREEDOM.
My teeth are chattering, my hands are trembling, and I can see my breath. I stumble away to get out of the cold.
“Just keep practicing,” someone said.
I felt the sun against my skin, the light penetrating my closed eyelids.
“I don’t want to.”
“Come on, give it one more try. It’s not so hard. See?”
I opened my eyes. I was inside the crypt, the light filtering in through the door. My lips were parched. I took out a cigarette and lit up. I stood up and staggered outside.
“I don’t want to do this,” the little girl said again. She was sitting on the ground in the yard in front of a colored drill-book. Amr was leaning over her. Her upper body was bare, her bones pressing visibly against her skin.
“You’ve got to do it, you’ve got to learn how to write.”
“Why? You can’t write.”
“Exactly. So you don’t turn out as dumb as your older brother.”
“And so I can teach you.”
“Yes.”
A coughing fit took hold of me. Both of them turned toward me. The little girl stared in shock, fear passing over her face. She began wildly scratching at her dreadlocks.
“Don’t be scared, Emira,” said Amr. “The man is a friend of Mr. Ramzi.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning. Don’t call me ‘sir,’ Amr. My name is Daniel.”
“Good morning, Mr. Daniel.”
“Where is Ramzi?”
“He asked me to tell you when you wake up that he’s waiting for you in the café.”
“Where is that?”
“Three streets from here.”
“Can you lead me there?” I asked, dizzy.
“Yes, sir. Just a moment.”
He went into the hole he and his little sister lived in. I stepped over to the plastic barrel in which Ramzi kept water for washing up, and, using the mess tin tied to its side, ladled out some water and poured it on my head. The lukewarm water soaked my shirt and washed the remains of the opium out of me.
By the time I finished the spectacle, Amr emerged with a filthy blue running jacket in his hands. He got it on, zipped it up, and waved a hand for us to leave. Stepping out of the crypt, we headed off between the dilapidated burial chambers. The City of the Dead was alive and breathing. Men were sitting by the gates of the crypts, children were scampering about on the muddy dirt road. Wafting through the air, the sickly-sweet smell of decomposition.
“How old are you, boy?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“How is it that you don’t know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know when you were born?”
“No, sir.”
“Where are your parents?”
“Our mother died. I don’t know about our father.”
I tried keeping pace with the boy, and for a while we fell silent. Dehydration had left me dizzy, so we stopped at a grimy kiosk where I bought a big bottle of water and a chocolate bar. I drank half the water in one gulp, and then pressed it into the boy’s hand. I then gave him half the chocolate. He gobbled it up and smiled.
“You’re a really good man, sir,” he said.
“Where did you get that idea?”
“You’re a friend of Mr. Ramzi. And Mr. Ramzi is a really good man.”
From the alleyway we arrived on a wider road. That’s where the café was. Fashioned out of a garage, it had plastic tables out front and was packed with men. The men were smoking hookahs and gesticulating ardently. Ramzi was sitting at a table with two of them. He waved on noticing me. Amr accompanied m
e to the table and courteously greeted the men, who returned the greeting. He then spoke.
“Mr. Ramzi, if you don’t need me, I would go back to the house.”
Ramzi signaled with a wave that he could go.
“Sit down, Abu khoaga,” said Ramzi to me, pointing to an empty chair.
“These gentlemen here are Mohamed Gamal and Mustafa Abdelkader. They both have an interest in the matches.”
“Ahlan,” said the men, who then immediately resumed their conversation.
“I say you should face him off against the Palestinian all the same,” said the one called Mohamed Gamal.
“It’s too early yet. I need one more win first.”
“You won’t find anyone. The little lion already has a reputation.”
“Not at all as big as the Palestinian’s.”
“The Palestinian will eat him for breakfast.”
For a moment they all pondered in silence.
“Abdelkader, isn’t your boy fighting today?”
“Well, there are no plans.”
“And don’t you want to make a plan?”
“For two thousand genēhs, yes.”
“Make it five hundred genēhs.”
“You don’t have a mother, Ramzi.”
Ramzi broke into a grin.
“Nor a father. A thousand, but not one more.”
“You were borne by dogs, like sin. A thousand two-hundred.”
“A thousand two-hundred.”
They shook hands, whereupon Ramzi counted a thousand two-hundred pounds into the man’s hands. Abdelkader gave a whistle. A young street kid ran up to him. Abdelkader whispered something into his ear, and already the child ran on.
“It will be proclaimed,” he said, and then stood from the table and shook hands with us. Mohamed Gamal followed him. I remained alone with Ramzi.
He took a sip of his tea and grinned.
“How did you sleep, Abu khoaga?”
“I slept.”
“Did you dream?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t take these dreams seriously and don’t dwell on them.”
“Why?”
“Because these dreams are from the Devil.”
“I don’t believe in the Devil.”
“But it’s in these dreams that the Devil tells you how he sees you.”
He laughed. He lit a cigarette and waved over the café’s waiter.
“What are you drinking?”
“Coffee.”
The waiter nodded, and then shouted back to the shed where the stove was.
“Any news about the Bedouins?” I asked.
“Nothing yet. They always come on the weekend.”
I too lit a cigarette. The waiter brought a coffee. I leaned back in the chair and stared at the street. Not far from the café a group of rugged-faced old women sat on little chairs, killing chickens. They took the birds out of wooden cages, cut their throats with well-practiced motions, and let the blood drain to the ground. It gathered in a big puddle all around their feet and flowed with the sludge down the street. The sun flashed against their kitchen knives, blinding me momentarily as I shut my eyes.
On opening my eyes, I saw my boy’s mother, barefoot, in a miniskirt, taking little steps beside the old women, holding our son’s hand. She was smiling as the blood colored her foot up to her ankle. I shook my head and sipped my coffee. By the time I looked their way again, they were gone. The vision hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds, but that had been plenty for me to be late in noticing the two boys, street children, stepping over to the table. In torn slippers, shorts, and dirty, ad-emblazoned T-shirts they stood beside our table. The older one spoke.
“Mr. Ramzi, I can punch like a rocket.”
“Yes,” said Ramzi, knitting his brows.
“Yes,” the boy repeated. “Like a rocket.”
To prove his point, with full force he punched the kid standing beside him. The other kid hurled ten feet backward and landed face up on the ground. The scene elicited general mirth in the café.
“I can knock out anyone,” said the boy while his companion got up slowly off the ground, dusted himself off, and stepped back to the table. Ramzi hemmed and hawed.
“That’s your friend?” he asked, pointing to the younger boy.
“Yes.”
“I want you to hit Rocket with all of your might.”
“But why?”
“Because anyone can hit. The big thing is to endure the blows.”
“Go ahead and hit me,” said Rocket.
“I don’t want to,” replied the younger boy.
“Hit me,” Rocket bade him, closing his eyes.
The younger boy looked around, took a step back, and put his weight on his right foot.
“Hit me already.”
He hit with full force, giving it all of his weight. The blow caught Rocket on the jaw, spinning him around before he crumpled to the ground. Blood dribbled from his nose.
“Rocket!” shouted the younger boy, jumping over to him. The men in the café were already guffawing away.
For half a minute Rocket lay unconscious on the ground, the younger boy slapping him so he would come to.
“Get out of my sight,” Ramzi finally said once he stopped laughing. Heads down, the two boys vanished into the alleyway.
“Is this how you picked up Amr, too?” I asked. “Did he apply as well?”
“Of course not. True gems are found in boulders, not at the market.”
“How did you pick him up, then?”
“By chance.”
“By chance?”
“Yes. I was headed home after a match. I’d been there to bet, not with my own kid. So, I was heading home from the Bahtak when I spotted a baltagiya gang, eight of them, taking money on the street. One of them got the hots for Amr’s little sister.”
“And?”
“They wanted to put a knife toward her eyes to show who she belonged to. That’s what they tend to do.”
“And?”
“Well, I started watching them rip the clothes off the little girl. They had no idea what they’d gotten themselves into.”
“Amr showed up.”
“He struck down three of the kids at once, and the rest gave him one hell of a beating with sticks.”
“And?”
“When they thought Amr wouldn’t be getting up anymore, they turned their attention back to the girl.”
“But Amr got up.”
“Yes. I think he even killed one of them, since that kid didn’t get up as long as we were there. So, I went over, struck two of them on the head with a board, and then, when the rest of them ran off, I asked him if he wanted to work for me.”
“And he did.”
“Of course he did. Doing business with me is a dream come true.”
“When was that?”
“About two months ago. They didn’t have a place to sleep, so I let them into my place. What can I say? The boy’s earned his keep. So far no one’s beaten him, and we’re through twelve bouts already. Soon he’ll pass the Palestinian’s record. Well then, let’s go, Abu khoaga. I’d ask you to let Amr know he’ll be fighting today, too. I’ll go off and make sure everyone in Arafa knows about it.”
“Aren’t you worried the police will come?”
“I hope they do. They place the biggest bets.”
We stood from the table. Ramzi headed left, and I went the other way, back toward his place.
In the inner yard of the crypt, Amr’s sister was shouting through her sobs, “Cut it off, cut it off already!” In her hands was a pair of scissors she was trying to press into her big brother’s hands, but he did not take it.
“I won’t cut it off.”
“No, cut it off. It’s disgusting.”
“You’re a girl. What will people say if I cut off your hair?”
The little girl flung the scissors to the ground and ran inside.
“What happened?” I asked Amr.
“They sent
her home from school. She said it’s because she has bugs in her hair, and the teacher doesn’t want her to infect the others.”
“She has lice?”
“Yes. I don’t know what to do.”
“Gasoline. Buy some gasoline and wash her hair with it.”
“Does that work?”
“Yes. You’ve got to leave it on for a while. That kills the lice.”
Amr fell to thought, and then went out the gate. I sat on the ground and lit a cigarette. After a little while the boy returned with a green bottle in his hand.
“Emira!” he called out.
“Are you going to cut off my hair? The girl asked from the room.
“We don’t have to cut it off. There’s another solution.”
Emira went out to the yard and sat down beside Amr, who looked at me questioningly. I nodded, at which he unscrewed the cap from the bottle, poured a little of the gasoline into his hand, and began spreading it all over the little girl’s hair.
“It’s really stinks,” said the little girl with a grimace as Amr rubbed more and more gasoline into her hair.
“This will kill the bugs.”
“Is that for sure?”
“It’s for sure. Mr. Ramzi’s friend said so, too.”
The little girl gave me a questioning look.
“Yes,” I said.
She stopped grimacing.
“Why is your skin so white?” she asked.
“Emira,” Amr chided her.
“Because where I come from, the sun doesn’t shine as much.”
“And will your skin become a normal color here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I hope so. You’re really strange this way.”
“Well, that’s how it is,” I said, standing up.
“Did you know there’s a match tonight?” I said, turning to Amr.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, and went on washing his little sister’s hair with gasoline.
I went into the room where I’d slept at night, sat up against the wall, lit up a cigarette, and looked out of my head.
Ramzi got back to the crypt around five. He came in and sat down across from me on the floor. He took kusherie from out of a plastic bag and began spooning it out.
The Most Beautiful Night of the Soul Page 7