A Little Piece of Ground (5 page)

“Up to a point,” he said cautiously.

“I know I was rude about your soccer abilities, but I didn't mean it. I think you do great headers. Honestly.”

“Yeah, all right. Get on with it. What do you want?”

Jamal licked his lips.

“You've got to promise, on the holy Koran, that you won't tell anyone.”

“I'll think about it.”

“No, promise me now.”

“Come on, Jamal. Who do you think I am? Mr. Number One World's Biggest Sucker? You've got to tell me what it is first.”

“Yeah, I suppose so. Fair enough. OK.”

Jamal took a deep breath.

“I want you to persuade Joni to get ahold of a photo of Violette for me. Without her knowing,” he blurted out.

Karim stared at him, too astonished to even laugh. He might fight with Jamal, he might mock him and insult him and try to get the better of him in every way he could, but Jamal was still his older brother. He was still someone Karim secretly admired, whose good opinion he valued more than anyone else's. How could he have gone soft in the head from one day to the next? And to think that it was all on account of Violette Boutros, a girl he'd known all his life, who'd changed, admittedly, but only into the giggliest, stupidest fluff-head (according to Joni) in the whole of Palestine! Or the Middle East, come to think of it.

“You're kidding,” he said at last.

“I'm not.”

“You've got to be. Violette? That Barbie doll? She's... ”

Jamal had moved before Karim had even blinked, and Karim's head was locked under Jamal's arm. Laughter was trying to bubble out of Karim. He thought for one breathless moment that he would suffocate and he pushed Jamal off with a superhuman heave.

“What'll you give me if I agree?” he managed to gasp.

Jamal's eyes narrowed. The brothers were on familiar ground now, bargaining.

“Well, for a start, I won't tell Mama I saw you go off with that scruffy kid this afternoon. Down towards the refugee camp.”

Karim stared at him, horrified.

“You didn't see me with anyone,” he blustered. “And if you did, it must have been someone else.”

“Think I don't know my own brother? It was you. Who is he?”

“Just someone. Anyway, what were you doing down there yourself?”

“None of your business.”

It was a stalemate. They looked at each other. Karim was the first to give way. A strange feeling had come over him, a sudden surge of affection for Jamal. Inexplicably he wanted to please him. He didn't even want to bargain anymore, even though it meant giving away the best advantage he would have for a long, long time.

“OK, I'll do it,” he said.

He had taken his brother by surprise. Jamal's brows shot up so high they disappeared into his hairline.

“What, for nothing?”

“Yes, you great soft lover boy.”

“Wow, Karim, you're a good kid. You really are. Total secrecy, all right? Lips buttoned. And Joni's too. You'll have to make up some kind of story to tell him.”

“Yeah, well, you leave Joni to me.”

Karim felt grand and lordly and generous.

“Jamal! Karim!” their mother called out from the kitchen. “Come and eat.”

Karim had been afraid that supper that night would be tense, his parents tight-lipped and irritable and the little girls whining and cross, but to his surprise his father looked almost cheerful as he served the meat onto their plates.

“I hear your school's out of commission, boys,” he said. “It's a shocking mess, so I'm told.”

Jamal and Karim nodded.

“So you're going to have a few days off. Well, I want you to pack a bag each tonight. We're going to Deir Aldalab to see your grandmother. She called today to tell me that the olives are ready to pick. Anyway, it's been months since we made it down to the farm.”

Karim looked sideways at Jamal. As he expected, Jamal looked horrified.

“But surely you can't leave the shop, Baba?” he said. “I thought.... Doesn't it need...I could help you straighten things out if you like?”

Hassan said nothing, but a heavy frown settled back on his forehead.

“There's more to be gained by getting in the olive harvest,” Lamia said quickly. “Your father ordered new stock for the shop a while ago. He'll open up again once it's delivered and things have calmed down.”

“We'll leave early,” said Hassan. “I want you up and ready by seven thirty.”

“But...” began Jamal.

Karim kicked him under the table. Jamal glared at him, but said no more.

Farah was looking excited.

“Can Rasha come, Baba? Please. Ple-e-ase!” she whined.

“No,
habibti
,
”
said her father. “It'll be too much for your grandma.”

Karim looked down at his plate. He had loved going to the village when he was Farah's age, especially when Joni was there. It was in the village, in fact, that they'd first become friends. Their fathers had grown up there together, going to the village school and playing all day out in the olive groves, as close throughout their youth as Karim and Joni were now, in spite of the fact that Karim's family was Muslim and Joni's Christian.

I wouldn't mind if Joni was coming too, Karim thought, scooping up a spoonful of beans.

But Joni wouldn't be going to the village, he was sure of that. Joni's Greek Orthodox school had been left untouched by the occupying army, this time at least. Joni and Violette would be going back to school tomorrow, their bags weighted down with books.

I'll think of something, thought Karim. I'll work out an excuse so that they leave me behind.

Chapter Six

It was already nine in the morning when they left Ramallah at last. Karim sat in the back of the car, hugging the corner, keeping as far away from Farah as he could, disgusted with himself, his family, and the world in general.

He had spent hours after supper working out one good reason after another why he should be allowed to stay at home, but when at last he'd plucked up the courage to tackle his father, he found that Jamal had got there first.

“I've said Jamal doesn't have to come, but I'm not leaving both of you here,” Hassan said irritably. “The whole point of Jamal staying behind is so that he can catch up with his studies in peace and quiet. If you're here too, you'll end up bickering all day long. No, that's enough, Karim. No pulled faces please. If you're so desperate to study, you can take your books down to the village. Have you packed your things yet? Why not? Go and do it now.”

Days of boredom stretched ahead. There would be endless visits with relatives. He would have to endure hours of nothing, sitting respectfully on uncomfortable chairs, as the adults lounged in the comfortable ones and talked on and on. He would have to put up with his uncles' heavy teasing, and his aunts' fond memories of all the cute things he'd done when he was a baby. His grandmother would stuff him with endless quantities of food that he wouldn't particularly want to eat. His cousins would try to involve him in their games at first, but they'd soon go off with the other village boys and he'd be left alone to watch Farah and Sireen being revoltingly petted and spoiled by everyone.

The morning rush of traffic in the center of Ramallah was past its worst, but the narrow streets were still choked with cars, vans, and taxis. Drivers were irritable and impatient as they tried to resume their normal lives after weeks of inactivity. Everyone was in a hurry, desperate to get their goods to the market or to restock their empty shelves.

A minibus crowded with people pulled out suddenly in front of Hassan's car and tried to overtake a man pushing a handcart laden with oranges. It blocked the oncoming traffic and everything lurched to a halt.

“Go on, my darling, no problem. Push in front of everyone if you like. Just don't let me catch you out on your own after dark,” Hassan said sarcastically to the inside of the windshield.

Farah, playing with her doll, leaned it up against Karim's arm. He jerked away and turned his head to look sideways out the window, wishing he could simply open the car door and jump out.

The traffic was really stuck now. Horns blared. Drivers shouted and gesticulated.

Someone appeared at the window of the front passenger seat, which Lamia had opened to let in some air.

“Verses for sale,” said a wheedling voice. “From the holy Koran. Give what you like.”

Karim sat up with a jerk. He knew that voice. He leaned forward to look.

Too late, he saw that it belonged to Hopper. He shrank back into his corner again, but Hopper had seen him.

“Oh, hi, Karim,” he said breezily, dropping his salesman's tone. “Where are you going? I thought we were meeting up today?”

“Can't,” mumbled Karim. “We're going to our village. Don't know when we'll be back.”

Lamia had been fumbling in her purse. She pulled out a few coins and dropped them into Hopper's palm. He handed her a little piece of paper inscribed with verses and leaned into the car to talk to Karim.

At that moment, to Karim's intense relief, the traffic ahead thinned and the car jerked forward. Looking back, Karim could see Hopper standing on the pavement, waving at him, a friendly smile on his face. He raised his hand and moved it sideways in a surreptitious answering signal, then subsided into his corner again.

“Who on earth was that?” said his mother disapprovingly.

“Just someone. He goes to my school. I don't know him really.”

He was aware of Farah's bright eyes inquisitively studying his face. He nudged her sharply with his elbow.

“What are you staring at?” he hissed at her.

He picked up her doll, which she had propped against him again, and threw it into the opposite corner.

“Mama, Karim's being nasty to me,” whined Farah.

Lamia wasn't listening.

“Selling Koranic verses like that,” she said. “It's no more or less than begging.”

“What else can people do when their livelihoods have gone?” said Hassan, accelerating as the open road stretched ahead. “May God be merciful to them, poor souls.”

In the past, it had taken no more than half an hour to drive to the village. It had been a frequent outing on a Friday, the one-day weekend, when schools and businesses were closed. Since the latest unrest, though, the journey had become difficult and unpredictable. A deep trench had been cut right through the main road, making it impassable, and a new, heavily guarded road, which only Israelis were allowed to use, had sliced across the countryside, cutting old country roads in half.

Hassan had spent an hour the previous evening calling relatives for the latest news on roadblocks, so that he could plan the best route.

“Two hours if we're lucky,” he grunted, as they began to leave the new sprawl of Ramallah behind.

Karim had never before ridden along the tortuous little country lanes, which meandered from one village to the next, climbing the steep rocky hillsides and plunging down again into the valleys. He bothered, for a while, to notice what was passing outside the window, to look at the new houses on the outskirts of each village and wonder about the burned-out cars along the side of the road. Then he lost interest and stared unseeingly at the sky.

“Look at this,” Hassan said with satisfaction when an hour had passed. “We're doing well. Half an hour at the most from here, I reckon. Call my mother, Lamia. Tell her we'll be there soon.”

Lamia reached down into her handbag to pull out her cell phone. She was holding it in her hand, ready to punch in the number, when it rang. She held it to her ear and listened for a moment.

“It's your sister,” she said. “She's heard that there's trouble ahead.” She handed the phone to her husband.

He listened too, asked a couple of questions, tutted with exasperation, and handed the mobile back to her.

“We'll have to go back and find another way around,” he said, slowing down as they approached a corner. “I'll turn at the next opportunity.”

“What is it? What's happened?” asked Karim.

“There's been an incident,” his mother said over her shoulder. “Israeli settlers attacked a village last night. Three Palestinians killed and one settler wounded. The soldiers have blocked the road and they're not letting anyone through.”

They were around the corner now. Ahead of them, instead of the emptiness of the country road that they were expecting, was a line of cars and minibuses. Beyond it was a khaki armored vehicle, with a yellow light flashing on its roof.

The car slid to a halt. Hassan looked over his shoulder.

“Nothing coming up behind,” he said. “It's narrow, but I'd better try and turn here. Looks like we'll be stuck for hours if we don't go back.”