House of Many Tongues (8 page)

Paris. THE CAMEL reading
Le Monde
.

The Camel:
Suha has an orgasm whose effects are felt right across the Middle East.

In the Negev, nuclear missiles in their bunkers sigh.

In Bethlehem, the wall cracks a smile.

And in Tel Aviv a frustrated theatre director drops his gun before he’s about to shoot himself in the head.

The effect of the orgasm does not stop there.

In Baghdad two people make love in the back of a bombed-out mosque.

Osama bin Laden has a dream he’s playing table tennis with Halle Berry and winning.

There are all sorts of effects. Even the stratosphere heats up. This is something Alex could not have anticipated.

The stratosphere heats up. And at that very moment, the space shuttle
Columbia
re-enters the earth’s atmosphere. It catches fire, blows up into a thousand and one pieces over Palestine, Texas.

Smack. Damned. Boom.

Ilan Ramon. The hope of a nation. Dead.

Abu Dalo:
“1988. Things were quiet—

the occupation of the West Bank continued its gentle course of normalcy,

over twenty years in.

But the General didn’t trust the silence. It was too quiet.

He could see it in the eyes of the occupied,

the Palestinians he passed on his way to the military base on the hill

overlooking everything.

They were tired, scared.

Fear, he knows, eventually can turn.

The General liked to drive the highway from the Dead Sea to Jericho,

alongside the Jordan River.

He would drive it, thinking, this is the road of our forefathers.

Joshua the warrior,

Abraham the father,

Ecclesiastes the prophet.

How beautiful, he thought,

to return to this country.

Inheritance.

It was hot out that day.

You could see the heat rising above the highway outside Jericho.

The General left his army Jeep at home—he took the car,

the top down, sun baking his head.

The radio played “Hatikvah,” “The Hope.”

The General had chills in heat.

At a checkpoint near the Jordan River,

five bearded men kneeling in a line by the side of the road.

Their hands were over their heads; they’d been holding them up like this for hours.

ID cards on the ground.

He saw his soldiers laughing, smoking in the sun.

“We’re taking them in,” said the corporal. “Questioning.”

One of them was Zayid.

Zayid looked familiar, though the General wasn’t sure where he’d seen him before.

Was he the neighbour at the kibbutz, the one he’d waved to as a young man?

Was he the falafel man, the one in the Arab village he sometimes stopped at on the way to work?

He couldn’t remember. Nothing was clear in that heat.

The General pointed to him and said,

Shimon:
“You. Go home now.”

Abu Dalo:
But Zayid wouldn’t move.

Shimon:
“You can go home,”

Abu Dalo:
said the General.

Zayid wouldn’t speak.

Shimon:
“Go on. It’s okay.”

Abu Dalo:
The others were looking at him, trying to get his attention, eyeing him, go on, get out, run while you can.

Shimon:
“Here,”

Abu Dalo:
the General said, and brought Zayid a canteen of water.

Shimon:
“Drink this. You’re thirsty.”

Abu Dalo:
The General wasn’t aware of what he was doing, why he was doing it.

Perhaps he felt an unconscious need for compassion;

the habit to feed those who are thirsty.

Zayid wouldn’t drink; he smiled at the General; they were both drunk from the sun.

Shimon:
“I’m offering you this. You need it. Drink.”

Abu Dalo:
Zayid said something in Arabic. Unintelligible. He told the General to fuck off, fuck his mother, to lay his head down in the shit box he belonged in.

Shimon:
“I’m offering you water.”

Abu Dalo:
Zayid still wouldn’t take it.

Shimon:
“I’m offering you life!”

Abu Dalo:
Zayid took the canteen, drank a mouthful, then spit in the General’s face.

Now the General drew his gun.

Shimon:
“Take the water!”

Abu Dalo:
The General weighs the pistol in his hand. And the soldiers are wondering, what the hell is he doing? The guy won’t drink the water, surely there’s nothing wrong with that.

Shimon:
“Take it!”

Abu Dalo:
And the General hits Zayid on the cheek with the back of the Mauser.

Shimon:
“Enough!”

Abu Dalo:
Cried the General and he hits him again. Zayid’s face a river of blood—

Shimon:
“Enough!”

Abu Dalo:
And the General hits the Arab’s face one last time.

Shimon:
“Enough…”

And when Zayid’s breathing stops, I look up at the horizon.

And I can no longer read the signs on the highway that point to the cities of my forefathers. A strange and sudden blindness of words.

Lights up on SHIMON and ABU DALO. SHIMON is blind.

Abu Dalo:
Your son brought me the ammo box hidden beneath your floorboards. I was happy for the first time in my life. Happiness is vengeance. I wrote your story. I will publish it, I will destroy you with words. You’ll be disgraced in front of the entire world, and I will take back this house—I’ll take back what’s mine.

Your own son had to betray you. To me. A Palestinian.

Enter ALEX and SUHA.

Alex:
Dad, Mr. Abu Dalo—

I have seen the truth!

In the hills of Jerusalem, a great and wondrous miracle has happened!

SUHA starts to laugh.

Suha:
That’s the jut-jut laugh.

The chihuahua.

The dagger.

The holly-hoo.

Alex:
Yes! She doesn’t have cataplexy anymore. She’s cured. It’s the Miracle of Cunnilingus.

Know that the cunnilingus revolution has brought peace to the Middle East! Witness that we have been led from darkness and war to a world of harmony and great cosmic desire!

Suha:
You and I are getting married.

Alex:
Wow. I’m totally speechless.

Abu Dalo:
You think this is Romeo and fucking Juliet? You’re not getting married.

Suha:
Sure we are. We have to get married. I have to live here. You have to live here. Our fathers have to live here. My dead mother—she’s going to live here too. We’re going to be like a family. We will be a family. I assume this is my father-in-law. Pleased to meet you, Daddy.

Abu Dalo:
No daddy. No way.
(to SHIMON)
Admit to your future daughter-in-law what you did. Tell your son’s fiancée what kind of family she wants to marry into. That her husband-to-be is the son of a murderer of her people.

Shimon:
(to ABU DALO)
You don’t know the whole story.

Suha:
I don’t care about that story.
(to SHIMON)
Call a fumigator. I want the basement cleaned. I want this room clean.
(to ALEX)
Can you cook?

Alex:
I can boil an egg.

Suha:
We can learn how to cook. We’ll learn everything. How to take care of things. We have to.

Abu Dalo:
(to SUHA)
I won’t let you become one of them. You cannot forget who you are. You’re Jenin. You’re your mother. You’re this house—thirty-five years ago. I won’t let you forget, he won’t let you forget, no one in this country will let you forget, because an Israeli cannot marry a Palestinian, a Palestinian cannot marry an Israeli—by history, by lineage, by law. End of story.

The House:
I’ll marry them.

Abu Dalo:
Shut up and stay out of this.

The House:
I want these two to marry. I want love. Love to destroy history.

Alex:
Whoah, citizens of Jerusalem, the miracle of the Cunnilingus Revolution is confirmed! The house speaketh!
(He bows.)
The house will marry us.

The House:
Do you, Alex, son of Shimon, and Suha, daughter of Abu Dalo, promise to love and care for me, to feed my garden water and fertilizer, to put in a decent television with cable, to make goofy home videos of your children, to plant a fig tree—

Suha & Alex:
We do.

Abu Dalo:
Oh no you don’t.

Suha:
Oh yes I do.

Abu Dalo:
You know nothing about love.

Suha:
Sure I do.

Alex:
We spoke to each other. She listened. That’s pretty amazing. Nobody’s ever listened to me before. And Dad, I never listened.

Shimon:
You can’t know love, kid. Not in this house.

Abu Dalo:
They’re fifteen.
(to SUHA)
You only want sex.

Suha:
Don’t start talking to me like a father. Where were you? When I started to walk. When they closed the schools down. When the gunfire was so loud I couldn’t sleep at night—

Abu Dalo:
In jail. For fifteen years, I rotted in jail. Your mother knew.

Suha:
We had no idea where you were.

Shimon:
Tell her the truth, Abu Dalo. And I’ll tell them mine. Let’s see if they can live with it.

Abu Dalo:
Absolutely not! I did nothing a father wouldn’t do. I thought only of you and this house. You do not love this Jew. You cannot love him.

Suha:
This is love. It’s a way of talking.

Abu Dalo:
Talking. Right. Tell me, Groucho. What do you have to say about this kike? These Chosen People who’ve chosen to take our land? To kill our wives and mothers?

Groucho can’t talk.

Shimon:
(a beat)
Sarah and I lived in this house.

It was beautiful.

Everything’s beautiful when you’re young.

We had a garden.

She worked at the school.

You were small as a peanut.

The army reports don’t mention that, do they?

Don’t mention I loved your mother either.

I took the car to work that day.

She left you in the house.

She was going to bring the Jeep closer so she wouldn’t have to carry you so far. You were getting so big.

I was in the car driving the Dead Sea highway. The West Bank.

The sun beat down on my head.

It was hot.

They called me on the radio; I answered it.

They gave me the news:

She turned on the ignition.

The Jeep blew up.

Her body scattered everywhere.

I was sure you were in there too.

Nothing made sense in that heat.

I pulled over and tried to give Zayid water. But he wouldn’t take it.

Alex:
You fucker. Why didn’t you tell me?

Shimon:
I didn’t want you to have to bury her.

Sound of rain. Time passes. The sound of water dripping into a bucket gets louder through the scene. SHIMON and ALEX on one side of THE HOUSE, ABU DALO and SUHA on the other. ABU DALO smoking, hammering, SUHA passing him nails. SHIMON and ALEX carry cinder blocks to the centre of the stage.

Lights up on THE CAMEL and THE HOUSE.

The Camel:
So what’s going to happen next?

The House:
Shimon’s building a wall. He’s trying to occupy more than half the house.

The Camel:
I hear Abu Dalo’s building an extension.

The House:
He’s not so good with his hands.

The Camel:
Don’t be sad. You got what you wanted, right? Life.

The House:
Some life this is. Winter in Jerusalem. My roof’s leaking and no one’s bothering to fix it. Nobody’s taking care of me.

Why does history make life so difficult?

The Camel:
Life is difficult no matter where you are.

Say. I brought you some French cigarettes. They make you absolutely sexy. Guaranteed.
(Hands her a smoke. Lights her up.)
See? You’re brighter already.

The House:
You were right. This is a tragedy. But you came back.

The Camel:
The problem with leaving is you never really go. Not completely, at least.

The House:
My problem is I can’t really let go of things. I hold on too tight: to people, ideas, land, love.

The Camel:
Holding on means you have hope. There’s nothing wrong with that.

The House:
I’m starting to think there is. Hope makes compromise very difficult. I mean, who wants to compromise when there’s something better around the corner?

The Camel:
You know, I really missed you.

The House:
Yeah? Would you make me a promise?

A beat.

The Camel:
Absolutely not.

ABU DALO puts down his hammer and starts carrying cinder blocks. The wall takes shape. ALEX and SUHA approach the wall separating the two sides of THE HOUSE. They touch their respective sides and listen.

The end.

Thanks to:

Gadi Roll and John Murrell for initial insights and dramaturgy.

The Banff Playwrights Colony for the original workshop and time to write.

Maureen Labonté.

Daryl Cloran and all previous workshop actors.

Thanks to Lise Anne Johnson and On the Verge Festival.

Akademie Schloss Solitude.

Frank Heibert for translation, edits and understanding.

Bastian Haefner, my man in Berlin, and Michael Petrasek, in Toronto.

ITI and the Maxim Gorki Theatre in Berlin.

Kristo Šagor, Holger Weimar and Bochum Schauspielhaus for the wild and loose production.

Jonathan Chadwick for the London variation. And Caryne Chapman Clark for setting that up.

Richard Rose, Andrea Romaldi, Camilla Holland and the Tarragon Theatre for the workshops, the commitment and the final deal.

Adam Sol, Udi Avnery, Martha Schabas, Marni Jackson, Medeine Tribinevicius and Manfred Becker for their careful readings of the text.

Bobby Theodore for his “good bad jokes.”

Eric Woodley for his usual magic throughout.

Finally, thanks to friends in Palestine and Israel, including Suha Diab, Samer Shalabi, Eytan Bronstein and Heidi Levine. Your insights were invaluable.