Bitter Almonds (13 page)

‘Is that why you didn't come home on your breaks?'

Omar remained quiet. How could he explain that he felt Shareef didn't welcome his presence in the house? He watched every move his wife made around Omar, acting like a jealous, over-suspicious buffoon. Besides, there was no room for Omar to sleep. With part of the living room closed to create private quarters for the married couple, he didn't feel right about sharing the girls' room. Especially with Nadia having turned seventeen, and Huda sucking in her breath whenever she saw him. The one time he had come home, he had spent the night at Fatimah's place and then invented reasons to return to the academy earlier than scheduled. One day he would return to his father's house in Jerusalem and be done with this space hopping, landing out-of-place with each step he took. He heaved a heavy sigh. That day better come soon.

Marwan seemed to have gotten the hint from Omar's silence, and he stayed quiet the rest of the way.

At home, Omar threw himself into the process of preparing Uncle Mustafa for his burial. Joined by the Imam from the local mosque, Omar and Waleed followed his instructions on how to wash the body, where to start, what prayers to say, how to perform ablution for a dead person, and how to wrap the three-layered white linen shroud.

Shareef hovered around, observing the ritual and proving himself to be useless. Through it all, Omar escaped in his mind somewhere else, to an orchard carpeted with flowering almond trees. Before his eyes, Uncle Mustafa tended to his orchard with happy energy, not spread cold and still on the wooden table under his hands. From behind the closed
door of Mama Subhia's bedroom, the sound of women's soft weeping drifted through the house and he latched onto Nadia's intermittent sobs. When it was time to take out the body, the house filled with men: neighbors, friends and co-workers. Shareef, Waleed and Omar carried the body on a stretcher down the stairs to a waiting van. They passed through throngs of men murmuring prayers and reaching out their hands to share the load part of the way in accordance with tradition.

The van crawled its way through the neighborhood. Men filed into cars and followed. Loud speakers mounted on top of the van broadcast the funeral attendant's calls for people to forgive the deceased, loving husband and caring father, listing Uncle Mustafa's qualities and good deeds. The calls invited anyone to whom the deceased was indebted to get in touch with his son for payment or to forego the debt altogether. Shareef sat in the passenger seat of the van to declare his position as head of the family. He remained distant from the crowds that gathered in the streets during the procession.

Omar walked on foot alongside the van most of the way. Some of Uncle Mustafa's friends grasped his hand and tried to give him money, claiming they were paying back their debts to Uncle Mustafa. But he knew there was no way Uncle Mustafa had loaned anyone money. He had none to spare.

Omar invited the men to the traditional main meal held after the burial. No one seemed to question his position in the family, dealing with him instead of Shareef. A blank expression was stamped on Shareef's face and Omar couldn't tell if he minded the crowds' misplaced attention, or if he was too self-involved to notice his marginalization. After the special prayer held at the mosque over Uncle Mustafa's body, the procession headed out of the neighborhood. Omar got in Marwan's car and they took off to the cemetery.

Three days of mourning passed like a blur. The family was almost never left alone. Women paid their respects from morning to late afternoon;
men filed in during the evening. The next-door neighbors opened their home to accommodate the overflow of people, lining the walls with rented chairs. At night, everyone crawled into beds exhausted and emotionally spent. Omar slept on the sofa in the partitioned living room.

On the last night, after the house fell into relative quiet, Omar sought his favorite spot on the roof. He had managed to avoid a confrontation with Shareef so far, but it was time to have a serious talk with him to work out the details concerning the family's financial situation. Shareef's income from his part-time job wouldn't be enough to keep the family afloat, even with Huda's contribution. Now that he had graduated, Omar's salary from the army should cover most expenses, but he wouldn't receive it until the end of the month. He needed to check what bills must be taken care of before then, come up with a payment plan.

The door behind him creaked open, and he turned to see who had followed him.

Fatimah stood in the doorway. The stairs' light from behind cast her in a saint-like halo. ‘Mind if I join you?'

He motioned for her to come sit on the railing next to him. Taking off his jacket, he draped it around her shoulders. ‘There's a chill tonight.'

‘I don't feel anything.' She sounded exhausted, defeated.

‘What are you still doing here?' He rubbed her shoulder. ‘You should go home to your husband.'

‘I was at the neighbors'. Huda and I helped them put their house back in order. It's Sunday and they missed their church time because of us.'

‘The Rafids are good people. I hope we will be able to return their favors under better circumstances.'

‘One of their daughters is bound to get married. We'll step in then.' Fatimah took Omar's hand in hers. ‘I know it's not the right time, but congratulations, Second Lieutenant.' She squeezed his hand. ‘You made Uncle Mustafa proud.'

Omar swallowed a lump. ‘Please don't do this now.'

Fatimah lowered her head and whispered, ‘Someone has to say it. I'm proud too. And Waleed. He can't stop bragging about you to his colleagues at school.'

He gave her a quick hug. ‘I appreciate it.'

‘Come home with me. Nadia told me you've been sleeping on the sofa. There's a private room waiting for you at my place.'

As appealing an idea as it was, he wouldn't allow himself to impose on Waleed's home for two weeks without the man's clear invitation. There was Um Waleed to consider as well. Omar raised his eyebrows. ‘What about your husband?'

‘Waleed insists. He would have told you himself, but he had to go home early and you were busy with the men.' She furrowed her brows. ‘Do you really need an invitation from him?'

Omar examined his hands.

She nudged his shoulder with hers. ‘Or are you enjoying Shareef and Sameera's abuse?'

He blew out a long breath. ‘I know what Shareef is doing, unable to trust his wife. He thinks, like him, I lack morals.'

‘Shareef is stupid and Sameera is worse. She's been getting on Mama Subhia's nerves ever since she moved in. Bothering Nadia too. Forgot she used to be her friend.'

Omar looked into the distance, a thousand questions in his mind. ‘How is she?' He started with the one he needed answered the most.

‘Mama Subhia is strong.' Fatimah missed his intention. ‘She's undone now, but she'll pull through. The death wasn't a surprise. We all saw it coming.' Fatimah brushed tears from her cheeks. ‘I suspect now that Uncle Mustafa is gone, Mama Subhia will not have to tiptoe around Sameera. God rest his soul, he didn't want tension in the house. Watch and see, Mama Subhia and Huda will put Sameera in her place.'

Lowering his voice, Omar tried again. ‘I haven't been able to see much of the girls. Are they all right?'

‘The little ones are devastated, but I worry about Nadia the most.'

‘Why?' He gave up on covering his concern. ‘What's wrong with Nadia?'

‘Nadia has always depended on you, Omar. Since you left, Uncle Mustafa tried to fill the void. They became closer. Now that he's gone, she has no one.' Fatimah rose to her feet, pulling Omar with her. ‘You should spend some time with Nadia before you leave. Get her to open up to you like you used to.' Fatimah patted his hand. ‘She adores you.'

His cheeks heated. He bent down and pretended to fix the creases on his pants legs, hiding his face and his embarrassing reaction to Fatimah's innocent remark. What would Fatimah think of him if she knew the depth of his feelings for Nadia? Would she remain proud of him?

Omar spent his days running errands for Mama Subhia and the girls, making sure not to be in the house when Shareef wasn't there. He had to borrow money from Marwan to cover what was needed until his salary kicked in. The debt to Marwan weighed on Omar's shoulders, but he had no choice.

Gathering the courage to take Nadia out on a walk like old times was difficult. It felt wrong on many levels. Her unblemished innocence had disappeared, leaving behind a melancholic maturity that chipped at his confidence. He checked on the family every evening before he retired to Fatimah's place for the night. Seeing Nadia sad and withdrawn tore at his heart. She sat by her mother's side, not saying a word, refusing to meet his eyes when he took his leave at the end of the evening. Like him, Nadia was grieving the loss of more than just a father. She needed a compassionate shoulder, and Omar couldn't bring himself to provide one. He was leaving in a few days and she would experience another loss if he grew closer. So he kept a reserved distance, hoping it was the decent thing to do.

Every afternoon, however, around the time the school day ended, Omar stood behind a big tree across the street from Nadia's school and waited for her to come out. He allowed himself one convoluted pleasure, despicable and demeaning as it was: following her home and staying out of sight. He noticed small gestures and committed them to memory—the way she hugged her books to her chest, the swing of her hips while she walked, the blue ribbon with the white lace fringes she tied her ponytail with almost every day, the slight tilt of her head to the right when she listened to her friends, the frequent tugging at the top button of her uniform shirt—little details Omar thought were his and his alone.

There was no justification for what he did, no honor in his stalking, but he couldn't stop. He craved the uncensored sight of Nadia. Alone in his bed at night, he chastised himself when his imagination ran wild. He made promises to quit the secret chase, and then broke them the following afternoon. The will to stay away had no place in an infatuated man's heart.

The following week, during breakfast one morning in early June, Fatimah asked Omar if he felt ill, remarking on his diminished appetite.

‘I'm just worried about what's coming.' He gave her a valid reason, though not the only one. ‘Israel's threats to attack Syria are gaining momentum.'

Waleed turned on the radio. The monotonous voice of a broadcaster reported news. ‘You think we're headed for war?'

‘War is inevitable.'

Waleed glanced at Fatimah. ‘Don't worry, Nasser and the Egyptian army will back us up.'

‘Will they send Omar to the front lines?' Fatimah's eyes darted back and forth between her brother and her husband.

Omar nodded. ‘I'm almost certain of that. Most of th—'

A loud beep from the radio interrupted him. The broadcaster announced an urgent statement to follow. Everyone dropped what they
were doing. Their heads turned toward the radio, as if the reporter were going to poke his head out of the radio box with the breaking news.

Israel had launched a surprise attack on Egyptian air bases in the early hours of the morning.

Omar jumped to his feet. ‘Shit! It's happening already.' He rushed to the radio and raised the volume.

Military statements followed one after the other, giving updates about the situation on the Egyptian front. Most of the Egyptian jetfighters were destroyed on the ground. A handful were able to take off. Egyptian army troops were deployed toward Sinai.

Omar paced the floor like a caged lion. After each update, he would burst out with a curse or a statement of his own.

Fatimah became obsessed with clearing the table, going back and forth to the kitchen, one plate in hand at a time. Silent tears flowed down her cheeks. On her last trip, Waleed grabbed her elbow and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Everything is going to be fine.'

Fatimah shook her head. ‘I can't listen to this.'

‘We should do something, damn it,' Omar yelled at the radio. ‘Support our Egyptian brothers.' He went into his room and returned minutes later with his uniform on.

Fatimah blocked his path. ‘Where are you going?' she screamed, her face stricken by fear.

‘Move out of his way,' Waleed said, his voice tender. ‘Omar is an army officer. He's expected to report to his base.'

Instead of moving aside, Fatimah threw her arms around Omar's neck. ‘No,' she wailed. ‘Not yet. Not yet.'

Omar unlatched Fatimah's arms and brought them down to his chest. ‘I must go.' He gave her a tight hug, and then moved her into Waleed's arms. ‘I promise to come back.'

 

19

During the following six days, the family gathered around the radio in Mama Subhia's house. Riveted, they followed reports of battle close to the Golan Heights at the Syrian front, of Egyptian troop movements in Sinai, and of the Jordanian efforts in the West Bank.

Out of respect for Mama Subhia's mourning period, Shareef and Waleed tried to contain their enthusiasm when statements came out reporting that the Egyptian army had passed through Sinai toward the Negev desert heading for Tel Aviv. Each evening, they joined men at the local café to follow news and discuss developing details. Men who had sons or brothers in the army gloated among their friends. Shareef joined in, boasting of his relation to Second Lieutenant Omar Bakry.

One evening, Shareef jumped atop a small round table and bragged, ‘I used to help Omar train at home before he even joined the military academy.'

Waleed gritted his teeth and swallowed a nasty come-back. Shareef acted like he and Omar were the best of friends, pretending his selfishness and blatant animosity toward Omar for forcing him to salvage the family honor had never occurred. What right did he have to claim any of Omar's accomplishments in this war?