A Little Piece of Ground (9 page)

The bags that Lamia had given him to carry seemed to weigh a ton. It was always like this when they came home from the village. Grandma and the aunts loaded them down with produce from their vegetable plots, fruit trees and storerooms—bags of onions and lemons, bundles of spinach, swags of fresh mint and parsley, and bottles of pickles, olives and oil.

“Take them while you can,” Grandma had said to Lamia, pressing yet another bunch of homegrown grapes on her daughter-in-law. “Who knows how long we'll be able to grow anything here at all? They've taken our olive terraces this year. Next year they might help themselves to our whole farm.”

It was clear, when at last they got inside, that Jamal hadn't expected his family to return so soon. He was out, and there was no sign that serious study had been taking place. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink in the kitchen, and empty mugs and a drift of crumbs graced the coffee table between the sofa and the TV.

“You shouldn't have let him stay,” Lamia grumbled to her husband, after she'd clicked her tongue disapprovingly at the mess. “If he's done half an hour's work in total I'd be amazed.”

Hassan Aboudi rounded on her.

“You're sorry he wasn't with me at the checkpoint that day? You wish he'd come out with us to pick the olives? What a prime target for them he would have been! A seventeen-year-old boy!”

Lamia bit her bottom lip and edged past him into the kitchen.

Hassan Aboudi had switched on the TV.

Tanks entered Bethlehem this morning and a strict curfew has been imposed. In Ramallah, clashes between Palestinian youths and Israeli troops....

Karim blocked the voice out.

Home again, he thought sourly, feeling the familiar crackle of tension in the air.

He'd only been back for five minutes, but he felt the need to get out again at once. He fetched his ball from behind its usual chair, then sidled around the edge of the sofa, making for the door.

“I'm going to see Joni,” he informed his father's hunched back.

Hassan Aboudi, who was fiddling with the remote control for the TV, grunted but didn't turn around to answer.

It was great to be outside and on his own. Karim stuck the ball firmly under his arm, walked across the parking lot and down the short road that led to the main street running up the hill. He had set off fast, anxious to get away from the apartments before anyone could call him back, but without realizing it his steps were getting shorter and slower.

Would he turn right when he reached the road and go to Joni's? Or would he skip off the other way, towards the refugee camp and Hopper?

Preoccupied with his thoughts, he almost bumped into Jamal, who was turning onto the street with a gift-wrapped package in his hand.

“Karim! What are you doing here?”

“We came home early. We just got back.”

Jamal's eyes were widening with horror.

“All of you? Mama and Baba? They're back too?”

“You think I walked all the way from the village on my own? Of course they're back.”

“But why? You were supposed to be staying till Thursday.”

Images of his father at the side of the road and the settlers running towards him through the olive trees flashed through Karim's mind. He didn't know where to start.

“It was...they.... ” he began.

Jamal wasn't listening anyway.

“When did you arrive?”

“Just now. I told you.”

“Has Mama been into our room yet?”

“Not as far as I know. I have, though.”

Karim pursed his lips.

“No need to look like that, Mr. Clever-clever. I was going to get down to work this afternoon. I thought I had loads of time.”

Karim's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“What've you been doing, then? Did you go down to the tanks? There was something about clashes in Ramallah on the news.”

Jamal shook his head, and the wedge of dark hair flopped against his forehead.

“No. None of my friends went out. Everyone's jumpy because of the military operation.”

“The bomb?”

“Yes.”

They looked at each other in silence. Karim tapped the package that Jamal was holding.

“What's this?”

Red began to flush through Jamal's cheeks. He jerked the parcel away.

“Lay off, Karim. Mind your own business.”

Jamal seemed about to push past his brother and hurry on, but then he stopped and grabbed him by an elbow, almost dislodging the ball.

“Have you done anything about that photo yet?”

Karim shook him off.

“Are you crazy? I've been in the village, remember? Or do you think that there are photos of Violette scattered around down there? Lying around the lanes, maybe? Stuck up on the trees? Anyway, speaking of trees, you wouldn't believe what happened. Our olives, the ones on the far side of the village, well, the settlers—”

But Jamal had started walking away.

“Yeah, well, tell me later. And don't forget the photo. You promised.”

He was running now towards the entrance of the apartment building. He'd be up the stairs in a flash, Karim knew, and into the bedroom. He'd have the computer games swept away and his books laid out, with a bit of luck, before Mama had stuck her head through the doorway.

Karim put Jamal out of his mind. He'd reached the road now. He turned right. He'd go and see Joni. This business of the photograph—he'd better get it over and done with or Jamal would never give him any peace. He was regretting his promise already. What kind of fool would he look like, begging Joni for a photo of his stupid sister? Joni would be sure to think he wanted it for himself. He could already see the look on his friend's face, scornful and disbelieving. Contemptuous.

He slowed down again. He wasn't ready to see Joni yet. He needed to think up some kind of reason for getting the photo first. A story of some kind.

Anyway, there's no point in trying to see him, he thought. The Israelis didn't touch his school. He'll be there now.

He spun around and started off in the opposite direction, towards the refugee camp, his spirits lifting. This was what he'd wanted to do all along. He'd go back to the new soccer place and see if Hopper was there. Even if he wasn't, he could clear a few more stones and try playing his game against the wall. It might not be any good, against such an irregular surface, what with the holes in it and everything, but the challenge might make it even better. Anyway, it would be fun to give it a try.

Hopper's soccer place was nearer than he remembered. He'd been walking fast, but he stopped when he came level with the house where Hopper had said he lived.

I could go in there and ask for him, he told himself doubtfully. But he knew he wouldn't.

After all, I don't even know his real name.

A woman came around the side of the house from the back. She was wearing the long traditional Palestinian dress and a white headscarf. She was leaning over to one side, bowed down under the weight of the sack she was carrying.

She caught sight of Karim standing and staring at her from over the wall at the end of the vegetable plot, and shaded her eyes to see better.

“You want something?” she shouted across at him. Her voice was loud and cracked, with the accent of the coast. “What are you staring at? Never seen a sack of flour before?”

Taken by surprise, not knowing what to say, Karim turned and bounded away, hot with embarrassment. Her raucous laughter followed him down the hill.

As he'd expected, no one was at the empty plot. He walked across it towards the wall at the far end. It felt different being here without Hopper, almost as if he was trespassing. He pushed the feeling aside, put the ball down and gave it a tentative kick. It hit a projecting stone and glanced off sideways, as he'd guessed it would.

He retrieved it and kicked again, aiming more carefully this time, towards a smoother stone. The ball came back to him at a perfect angle. Pleased, he tried again. This wall was going to demand far more concentration than the one back at his flats. It could be really good. It would make him work harder, shoot more accurately, hone his skills.

He moved back to take a longer shot, and realized only after the ball had bounced sharply to one side and he'd had to fetch it, that there were fewer stones lying around on the ground than there had been before. The cleared area was bigger. Someone had been here. They must have worked hard to shift so much rubble.

Hopper, I bet it's him, Karim thought, grinning with pleasure at the idea.

He decided to work on it himself. He parked his ball between two stones, where it couldn't roll away, and looked around. He'd start over there, by the scraggly thorn bush. He'd see if he could clear the whole expanse between the wall and a rusting abandoned fridge before he went home.

Hopper appeared as suddenly and silently as he had the first time they'd met, materializing out of thin air just as Karim picked up the last broken cinder block and hurled it away onto the growing pile of stones.

“I didn't think I'd see you again,” Hopper said curtly. “Thought you'd gone off for good in that car of yours.”

He was the same boy, taut, tall and skinny as before, but the friendly smile had gone from his face.

Karim suddenly remembered the last time they'd met, when Hopper had leaned so confidently into the car and been so coldly greeted. He bit his lip, ashamed.

“We only went to our village. We got home this morning. I came here right away.”

“Where's your village, then?”

“It's called Deir Aldalab. My grandma still lives there, and loads of cousins. It's only about half an hour away by car usually, but it took us hours. They stopped us for ages at the roadblocks.”

“Lucky you to have a village,” Hopper said lightly, spinning around to kick a broken plastic oil can away to the side. “My grandma's village is a suburb of Tel Aviv now. She hasn't seen it since the Israelis chased her family out of it in 1948.”

Karim didn't know what to say, but Hopper didn't seem to expect an answer. He was looking around the area that Karim had cleared.

“Did you see how much I did yesterday?” he said.

“Yes. It's great. Must have taken you ages.”

They grinned at each other, all constraint gone.

“You brought your ball, then,” said Hopper, nodding over to where the ball still lay, held between the stones.

Karim picked it up and without saying anything more kicked it against the wall. It hit the perfect spot, precisely where he'd aimed it, and bounced back smoothly towards Hopper. Hopper shot out one stringy leg and took an ungainly swipe at it. The ball hit a jagged stone and careered up into the air. Hopper grunted, displeased with himself, as Karim ran forward to catch it on his knee.

They played on in silence, taking it in turns to kick. Karim was the most skillful. When he had time to position himself, his aim was seldom off, but Hopper tended to shoot the ball back fast and wild, sending it glancing unpredictably in every direction. It made the game exciting. A lot more fun.

“That was great,” panted Karim, when they'd stopped at last and had sunk down, red-faced and sweating, onto the pile of stones they'd made.

“I'm thirsty,” said Hopper. “Let's go to my house and get a drink.”

Karim remembered the woman with the sack of flour and felt shy.

“No, I've got to go home. I'll get in trouble if I'm late.” He caught the look of faint contempt in Hopper's eyes and turned away, wishing he'd said yes. “I'll come tomorrow if I can. If school hasn't started yet.”

“It won't have. Didn't you see the mess the Israelis made? They've wrecked everything. Taken the computers, smashed up the desks and stuff. It'll be another week at least before we can go back.”

“All right then.” Karim turned to go. “I'll come back tomorrow. At the same time.”

“OK. See you.”

“Yes. See you.”

Karim scooped up the ball with his foot and flicked it with a deft upward kick into his hands. He looked at his watch. It was later than he'd thought. He crossed the soccer field at a trot and set off up the hill.

As he neared the top, he heard running steps behind him and turned. Hopper was streaking up after him.

“I'll come with you as far as the school,” he said, falling into a long, easy stride beside him. “Just to see how it's going.”

Karim shrugged.

“OK.”

The soccer field at school was almost unrecognizable now. The goalposts and nets lay broken on the ground, and the surface, normally a smooth flatness of bare earth, had been churned up into mounds and ridges by the tracks of the tanks that had been assembled there. Broken desks and chairs, cleared out of the vandalized classrooms, lay in a pile outside the main entrance. Workmen were climbing ladders up the sides of the building, carrying blocks and cement to patch the walls where tank shells had left several jagged holes. Still more were picking shards of broken glass out of the window frames.