I read every article I could find on quantum tunnelling. Menachem and I worked around the clock in an attempt to observe the spin excitations to determine the orientation and strength of the anisotropies of individual iron atoms on copper.
This tunnelling intrigued me. It was like throwing a baseball at a kilometre-high brick wall and, instead of bouncing back, the ball passed through to the other side of the wall.
Before we could apply our theory to anything, we had to figure out how things work at an atomic level. Once we figured out how to manipulate the atom, the possibilities would be incredible.
Grief came in waves, but, like a seasoned soldier, I was prepared. It always began with an empty feeling in my abdomen.
***
Menachem and Justice tried to make sure I ate. Justice would send a breakfast sandwich or muffins to the office. She packed lunches for Menachem and me. Menachem would heat up our meal. Usually Justice attempted to prepare Middle Eastern food – lima beans, lentils and rice, peas and rice – but her heart was much greater than her cooking.
I’d wondered how Menachem had managed to lose so much weight and keep it off after he married Justice. Now I knew.
In the afternoon, Menachem would make us mint tea, which we’d sip while we worked. I was ashamed to let them both take care of me, but I couldn’t refuse their kindness. I couldn’t look after myself, but Menachem was pleased with my work. We made tremendous progress. Nora, I knew, would be proud.
***
New York University offered us jobs. At last, I would be a professor.
‘I’ll only go if you go,’ Menachem said.
I wasn’t ready, but I knew I needed to make a change – leave the apartment that I had shared with Nora.
‘You’d be a professor,’ he said. ‘We could apply for grants together.’
‘What does Justice want?’
‘Whatever is best for you,’ he said.
Justice blamed herself for Nora’s death. It wasn’t her fault. I told her over and over, but she didn’t see it that way. The professorship offered four times more money than what I received at MIT. Really, there was no choice to make. I’d send this money to my family. Fadi no longer worked because I’d hired Teacher Mohammad to tutor him: he was a student, full time. This year he was graduating from high school and showed a great interest in science. He wanted to study medicine in Italy and I wanted to make it happen. Hani was studying Middle Eastern Studies at the Hebrew University.
Two weeks later a man in a black pinstriped suit picked up Menachem, Justice and me outside New York University’s Science Center in his shiny black Cadillac. He was the realtor the university had chosen to help me find an apartment. Justice and Menachem had already found theirs.
Despite the luxurious rentals available to faculty, I wanted to rent the cheapest place I could find. I didn’t need much. I wanted to send home as much of my money as I could. I rented a small one-bedroom apartment like the one I’d lived in with Nora. The view out of the window was of a parking lot. NYU paid for movers to transport the black vinyl couch, Formica table, mattress, two card tables and two folding chairs, along with the rest of my possessions, to my new apartment. I moved into the office next to Menachem and we continued our work.
I was in New York, a city that Nora had loved. She would have taken me to readings and films, to museums and shows on Broadway. She would’ve attended protest marches, taken me to eat at restaurants, read books in Washington Square Park. She would’ve loved it, living in New York.
It didn’t matter to me where I was.
CHAPTER 43
Slaughtered Palestinian babies were in rubbish heaps alongside Israeli army equipment and empty bottles of whiskey. The buildings of the Palestinian refugee camp Shatilla had been dynamited to the ground. The TV camera zoomed in on the Israeli flare canisters still attached to their tiny parachutes that littered the area.
Corpses of Palestinian women were draped over a pile of debris. The camera focused in on a woman lying on her back, her dress torn open and a little girl pinned under her. The girl had long dark curly hair. Her eyes were open, but she was dead. Another child lay near her like a discarded doll, her white dress stained with blood and dirt.
Justice shrieked and Menachem and I stared at the TV unable to speak.
Two months earlier, 90,000 Israeli soldiers had invaded Lebanon to dislodge the six-thousand-member PLO. By August, Lebanon was devastated, its infrastructure destroyed. 175,000 civilians were killed, 40,000 injured, 400,000 left homeless.
‘The Israelis have committed genocide,’ Justice said. She burst into tears.
The US had brokered a ceasefire agreement. The PLO fighters had evacuated and Israel had agreed to guarantee the safety of the Palestinian civilians left behind in the camps, which included Sabra and Shatilla.
‘Sharon’s responsible,’ Menachem said.
The Israelis, under the command of the Israeli Minister of Defence, Ariel Sharon, stood guard for three days over Sabra and Shatilla to make sure no Palestinians could escape while the Lebanese Phalange militia massacred thousands of Palestinian women and children. The Israelis were well aware of the Phalange’s desire to rid Lebanon of the Palestinians.
All I could think of was Abbas. I didn’t know where he was or if he was even alive. Once I got my American citizenship, I hired private investigators, but no one could dig up any information on him. I had a sick feeling that he was in Lebanon. He was a cripple. He would have been left behind with the women, children and elderly. Men like him had been lined up and shot, execution style.
That night I took a taxi back to my apartment. There, I sat on my black sofa surrounded by my things – volumes of science manuals; journals of physics; textbooks on quantum mechanics, nanotechnology and maths for physicists; the silver spoon; and the two-spouted jug.
While I waited for my parents to answer their phone, I decided I wouldn’t mention to them my premonition that Abbas was dead. After all, it was just a feeling.
‘I found you a wife,’ Mama said. ‘She’s perfect for you.’
‘I have a wife.’ They must not have heard of the massacre, I told myself. I hoped they never did.
Baba got on the phone. ‘Ichmad, please, for your mother’s and my sake, think about it. Nora’s gone. You don’t have to stop loving her. Your heart is big enough to be shared. Please son, you still have your whole life in front of you. Don’t squander it.’
What could I say? I owed my parents this. They expected grandchildren from me.
‘The arranged marriage is the way in our culture,’ Mama said.
‘I don’t live in the East anymore.’ I flipped on the TV and muted the sound. Elderly men lay on top of each other, their limbs tangled and their bodies covered with flies. I tried to make out the faces. Could Abbas be there?
‘It doesn’t matter where you live,’ Mama said. ‘This is our tradition, passed down from generation to generation.’
‘Baba chose you.’ I turned off the TV. I didn’t want to have anything to do with the Middle East.
‘She’s Mohammad Abu Mohammad’s daughter, the village healer.’
‘Mohammad, who was three years ahead of me in school?’
‘He’s respected throughout the village for his healing. People come from other villages to drink his potions and receive his blessings. He’s agreed to give his daughter to you in marriage.’
‘And her age?’
‘She graduates from high school at the end of the year.’
‘How would that look? I’m thirty-four years old.’ This was absurd. What would we have in common? How could she compare to Nora, who was educated, from the West, had opinions of her own?
‘Please, son,’ Baba said. ‘Do it for me.’
I thought of him beaten with a machine-gun. Kicked while he was unconscious. Wasting away in that hell of a prison. I would marry the girl for him. There was no choice. This would be the price I paid for absolution.
‘Set it up,’ I said. �
��I’ll marry her when she graduates from high school.’
With those words, I admitted to myself that Nora wasn’t coming back.
‘Thank you, son,’ Mama said. ‘You’ve made me very happy. Do you want me to send you her picture?’
‘If you think she’s acceptable, that’s enough for me.’
At least now, when they heard about the massacre, my upcoming nuptials would comfort them.
CHAPTER 44
Fadi, home on summer break from medical school in Italy, met me at the airport and drove me home in my parents’ four-door Nissan. Mama, Baba, Hani, Nadia and Ziad and their children were waiting in the courtyard of my family’s house. I always felt relief, coming home, to see the house still standing. And I felt proud that my family lived well with the money that I provided.
Baba was the first to hug me. Mama was next. The women started ululating.
‘Come,’ Baba said and he took me inside. Though they were unable to get a permit to enlarge the house, they’d managed to redecorate. The living room was furnished with a mahogany hand-carved sofa with red cushions, and matching chairs and ottomans. Mama had a new refrigerator, dishwasher, washer and dryer. The floors were marble, the sinks made from porcelain; the bathroom was as fine as any, with a new sink, shower and bathtub. Mama flushed the toilet. She was proud and happy.
We sat in the kitchen, at a dark wooden table with eleven small stools around it. My immediate family sat first.
When we finished eating, Mama and Baba took me to see Nora’s grave beneath the almond tree. They’d built a bench under a trellised arch with bougainvillea densely entwined in it. White forget-me-nots were planted all around the grave and oversized sunflowers and roses of every colour.
Mama kissed my cheeks and I hugged Baba.
The next day, my parents and I walked over to Yasmine’s family’s home. It looked much like our old home, the one the Israelis had blown up. It was a small mud-brick structure with one window with shutters, a tin door and a small courtyard in front. Mohammad opened the door, welcoming us with a warm smile. Baba looked up at him with reverence in his eyes.
‘Please come in.’ My future wife’s father was dressed in a long white robe and an Arab headdress. My bride’s mother came out. A black veil covered her hair. She was as big as a tent in her long embroidered robe, with a callused, rough hand that she extended to me and a big, partially toothless smile. Black hair was growing on her face like a light beard. I began to question my consent to the arranged marriage. Why did I not ask for a picture?
‘Welcome, welcome,’ Mohammad said again, and he kissed me on both cheeks.
‘Please come in,’ my future mother-in-law said. ‘Please sit.’
I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. What if my bride looked like her? Could I back out? What was wrong with me? Why should I care?
My parents and I entered their home and sat on the dirt floor. My future mother-in-law and a few of my future sisters-in-law, all of whom were veiled, placed small plates of food on the floor.
‘What do you do?’ Mohammad asked.
I knew that was only a formality. My future in-laws already knew all about me; otherwise, I wouldn’t have been there. ‘I’m a professor at New York University in the United States.’
‘Where would my daughter live?’
‘I’ve a one-bedroom apartment with a fully equipped bathroom, a kitchenette, a washer, dryer and a dishwasher.’
‘How much do you have saved?’
I’d forgotten how blunt my people could be. I gave them a figure that temporarily silenced them.
‘How often will she come home?’
‘Every summer and every December for three weeks.’ I told them everything that Mama had prepared me to say. I reminded myself that I was entering this marriage for my parents. ‘I’d like to request your daughter’s hand in marriage.’
Mohammad’s body stiffened. He probably planned on asking a hundred more questions, but I didn’t have the patience. I looked at Baba and smiled.
‘I accept,’ Mohammad said.
I let out a sigh of relief.
The women began with the ululations and the tea.
‘Fetch your sister from your grandmother’s house,’ Mohammad said to my bride’s brother.
Everything about my bride screamed ignorance. Her veil, her thick, unplucked eyebrows, her traditional robe. I immediately wanted to go back on my word. My bride, Yasmine, wasn’t tall like Nora. Her facial features weren’t delicate like Nora’s; they were hidden in layers of baby fat. Her teeth were yellow and crooked and she was plump. Plumpness was a sign of beauty in my culture, but I had grown fond of a slimmer body. I couldn’t see her hair because she was veiled, but I imagined it was black, like her eyebrows. And she was so young. How could I bring her to the States? How would she ever fit in at faculty parties? What would Menachem think?
Nora still had a hold on me.
Yasmine smiled at me with her eyes, and then lowered her head so as only to get a stolen glimpse of me. And with that one look, I understood that she was trying to convey both sexuality and submission. I wanted so badly to be attracted to her.
‘This is your bride,’ my future father-in-law said. I smiled, fighting back the image of Nora, her golden hair, and felt a pain in my heart.
‘Isn’t she pretty?’ Mama asked me in front of everyone.
I forced a smile. ‘Very much so.’
Yasmine and I signed the marriage contract and, just like that, I was legally married. Sadness descended upon me. We’d have the ceremony the next day.
We all sat on the floor, just as my family had done before I began sending extra money home. Yasmine and her mother laid out more little dishes of tabboulie and an array of salads; tomato, green bean, black-eyed pea and lima bean, baba ghanouj and hummus. They had probably been cooking since dawn for this occasion.
None of us ate much: Yasmine’s family from sheer delight and I from the shock of finding myself suddenly remarried. I wished for Yasmine’s sake, and for Mama and Baba’s, that I could find a way to love her. I knew that the pleasure of pleasing Baba and Mama should have left no room in my mind for selfish distractions, but I couldn’t help but wonder how on earth I was going to bring myself to spend the rest of my life married to this young girl, whose plumpness and dark hair would be a constant reminder of Nora’s slim blondeness. I hated myself for my feelings.
***
The next morning, Mama came to get me for my ceremonial cleansing.
‘It’s time,’ she said.
There was a loud ringing in my ears. Was that a warning? This marriage would satisfy Baba and Mama. That was all that mattered. It was my duty as their eldest son. I stood in a tub as my male family and friends danced around me, washing me and shaving my facial hair. My body was there, but my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about the night I met Nora, how she had seemed to float across the room. What was I doing? What would she think about my remarriage? She wouldn’t want me to marry Yasmine. She would tell me to educate her. I shook my head. This was my wedding day. I wouldn’t permit myself to ruin it with thoughts of Nora. It wasn’t fair to Yasmine. Instead, I began to think of the small fluctuations that altered the thermodynamic variables that might lead to marked changes in the structure, and compromise my work.
When I was pronounced clean, I dressed in a white robe and walked with the men to Yasmine’s house. If she hadn’t been wearing a wedding dress, I wouldn’t have recognised her because her makeup was so thick and her hair so big.
***
After the ceremony, I took Yasmine, my bride, back to the room at my parents’ home – the same room I had once shared with Nora. I was grateful that someone had removed our wedding portrait. The last thing I wanted was to see Nora staring down at me as I consummated my new marriage. All of the villagers waited outside for me to emerge with the bed sheet.
Without warning, memories of the first time Nora and I made love bombarded me. I remembered how she had stroked my hair an
d kissed me. She had whispered words in Arabic, urging me on. Nothing else in the world had existed. That night I had held her in my arms, wanting the moment to last forever. Her touch had felt electric to my body, her Arabic seduced me, her beauty captivated me and her body excited me. It had been my first time.
I looked over at my bride and saw that she was shaking. ‘Don’t be nervous,’ I said. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’
I took Yasmine’s hand and guided her to the bed. This was for Baba.
‘Take off your dress.’
She was plump, with a few rolls of fat, but not completely unattractive. With my eyes closed I pulled her close and kissed her, and then thought of the first time Nora had kissed me. I willed myself to erase those thoughts from my mind: this wasn’t fair to Yasmine. And yet I couldn’t help it. Knowing it was wrong, I pretended Yasmine was Nora when we made love.
Yasmine’s crying brought me back to reality. She was a virgin and in pain. I opened my eyes and saw her young, round face. It was terribly awkward. This was my new life. Yasmine lay on the bed without movement, like dead meat. She knew none of the tricks of an experienced woman. She was so shy that when I told her to move her hips she reddened and cried. After we were done, I took the bloody sheet outside and the villagers cheered.
***
That night I dreamed I was a bird that had fallen into a trap, been put in a cage, and was trying to escape. I felt so sorry for Yasmine. She deserved a husband who loved her.
During the days that followed, I passed the time with the men, and Yasmine stayed with the women. Meals were communal. At night, Yasmine and I would retire to our room. We would have sex, and then we would go to sleep like two strangers. In the morning we’d join my family for the Morning Prayer and then breakfast. We talked little, as we had little in common. She never spoke unless spoken to, and I rarely had anything to say.
The Almond Tree Page 22