Ishmael's Oranges (8 page)

Nadia returned with a glass of water, and sat down next to Salim. He saw that her hands were nervous, fidgeting in her
lap.

‘What's up?' he said. ‘Do you have a boyfriend hiding in here somewhere?' She didn't slap the back of his neck as he expected. The absence of her touch sent a warning chill through
him.

‘Listen, Salim,' she said and then stopped. Her hand reached over to touch his arm. ‘Please, Salim, promise me you won't get all crazy.' That word,
majnoon
, was his father's favourite insult. That Nadia used it now told him there was some problem, something to do with Abu Hassan.

A door opened behind them with a click. Salim turned to see Rafan emerge from the bedroom. His small face was sleepy and white, his mother's green eyes hiding under pale eyelids.

‘What are you doing home?' asked Salim, opening his arms for the
boy.

‘I was sick so Mama let me stay home from school.' Rafan came slowly, trailing his fingers along the chair backs. When he reached Salim, he curled his thin body into his brother's side and looked up into his
face.

‘Did Nadia tell you?' he said, small fingers tapping Salim's arm. ‘Baba is going back to Jaffa, to sell the house.'

‘What?' Salim went rigid, panic rushing through him like ice water. ‘That's impossible. Baba would never do that, never.' He turned to Nadia, who spread helpless hands. She slapped Rafan on his forehead, half-loving, half-scolding.

‘Rafan, you're a real troublemaker,' she said. ‘What do you know about anything, you monkey?' Then to Salim, ‘
Habibi
, don't get upset. Nothing is decided. Your father is at the office with Tareq, talking to Abu Mazen.' Tareq was a family lawyer, making a little living piecing together the broken parts of Arab lives.

‘But he can't sell,' Salim said. He felt seven years old again, pleading. ‘It's the last thing we have, now all the money's gone.'

‘That's just it, Salim. The money has gone. Your father and mother want you to have something to live on, not just dreams.' Nadia's eyes were sympathetic, but life had taught her that sentimentality does not feed you, or keep you warm at night.

‘Where's Mama?' Salim asked. She would never let this happen.

‘She went to Al-Jameela's for a haircut,' said Rafan. ‘She knows about it, though. She told me.' Salim stared at his brother in disbelief. Rafan was only eight, a baby still
–
what right did he have to her secrets?

Nadia took Salim's hand. ‘I know how important that place is to you,
habibi
, believe me,' she said gently. ‘But please, don't worry yourself sick. They'll all be home soon. We'll talk it through.'

He nodded and detached himself from her. Hoisting his schoolbag onto his shoulder, he walked into their little bedroom.

It was close and hot, the air motionless. He lay down on his mattress underneath the window.

The boys had all shared a room until Hassan left for England two years ago, to live with Tareq's relatives. Hassan's bed was still just as he'd left it, his blanket patterned with little black footballs. Rafan's mattress was on the floor beside it, filling the room with a sour stink. At first the little boy had tried to climb in with Hassan, who had no time for him. ‘He pisses every fucking night,' he'd complained. ‘Pissing or crying is all he ever does.' So Rafan had started crawling onto Salim's mattress in the dark, whenever his own bed became too wet or full of pursuing dreams. Sometimes Salim woke up damp and smelling of urine, but he couldn't find it in him to deny his brother's
need.

Something to live on, not just dreams.
It was all very well for them to say. But what was life worth, once all the dreams have become
dust?

After a while a key turned in the front door, and he heard Rafan's shrill voice crying out ‘Mama, Mama!'

Swinging his legs off the bed, Salim moved towards the door, opening it a crack. His mother passed him by, her copper hair shining in the sunlight as she leaned forward to scoop Rafan up in her arms. She looked fresh and even happy
–
perfumed and coiffured, wearing a light red dress with flowers stitched along the
hem.

He opened the door and said, ‘Hi, Mama.' She turned, Rafan with his arm around her
legs.

‘Salim,
habibi
. How was school today?' She smiled, reaching out her hand for him. Surely, surely, this nonsense about the house could not be
true?

‘Not bad. They think I'm doing well.'

‘So they should, that clever brain of yours. If only I had half of your brain, I'd be rich by
now.'

Salim shrugged to hide his pleasure. Nadia, standing in the kitchen door, came to put her hand on Salim's shoulder.

‘He's a very smart young man, for sure,' she said, almost defensively. It irritated him; sometimes Nadia acted as if she didn't trust his mother.

‘Mama,' Salim said, as his mother turned to walk into her bedroom, ‘the house
–
our house in Jaffa.'

‘What about
it?'

‘Are we selling it?' The words came out in a higher pitch than he'd wanted. His mother's face smoothed into a blank.

‘It's more complicated than that, Salim,' she said
–
but then the sound of the door stopped whatever she had been planning to say. Abu Hassan and Tareq were
home.

Nadia hurried over to kiss her husband and help her sweating father to his armchair. Casting a glance over at Salim she said, ‘I think the boys are keen to hear what's been happening, Baba. Can you tell us anything?' Salim realized she wanted to keep him out of trouble, by asking the first question herself.

Abu Hassan shook his head. ‘These
Yehudin
make it all so difficult,' he said. ‘First it's my house, then it's not my house. Shit on these new laws! By God, what right do they have to say it's not my house?'

He reached for the salted sunflower seeds and began crunching. Salim had never seen him so flustered. He remembered that day, long ago in Jaffa, when Mazen had joked about their fathers. For all their money, he could see that Abu Hassan was drowning, like a flounder in the
net.

‘Baba, why would you try to sell the house?' Salim asked, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘We always said we would go back one day, didn't we?' He'd dreamed of it; the misery of the past eight years wiped out by the turn of their key in the
lock.

His mother answered. ‘It's not a question of wanting or not wanting, Salim,' she said. ‘We must think of our future. Who do you think can pay for that school uniform of yours, or that university you say you want to go
to?'

Salim looked from Tareq to Abu Hassan, his heart still racing and his fingers
numb.

Tareq said to Abu Hassan, ‘Maybe we should take Salim with us tomorrow?'

‘What's happening tomorrow?' Salim asked.

‘We're going to the municipal offices in Tel Aviv,' Tareq said, setting his briefcase down on the coffee table. ‘There is some dispute about the house, it seems. We've been on the telephone all day, to Abu Mazen and the Israeli authorities.'

He gave Salim a wink and nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Let's go and help your sister,
habibi
, and I'll tell you all about
it.'

The kitchen was just big enough, Nadia used to say, for one person not to step on a cat's tail. Nadia busied herself on the balcony hanging out the washing. Tareq put on a pot of thick, black Turkish coffee, adding four teaspoons of sugar and stirring. Salim waited, impatient. Finally Tareq sighed.

‘Okay, so here it is. When the war ended, the Israelis started planning how to claim all the land left empty by the Arabs. So they passed some laws saying the people who fled
–
well, they had no right to come back again. The State took their homes and gave them some money, to say it was fairness. Do you understand
me?'

Salim nodded, desperate to show he could follow it
all.

‘To stop the Jews taking your father's house under these laws, his friend Abu Mazen moved in and pretended to be his cousin. And now your father is thinking to sell up,' this, very gently, ‘to get the money he needs for your education and your future. But, it seems there are some problems. So we will meet Abu Mazen tomorrow at the City Hall in Tel Aviv, to speak to him and the Israelis together. Then we'll
see.'

‘OK,
habibi
?' His uncle squeezed his shoulder and Salim forced a smile. ‘Things will work out, don't worry.' Then suddenly Nadia was between them, complaining to Tareq about another problem with the stove, cutting off Salim's questions before they'd been formed.

A strange atmosphere filled the flat as evening fell, like a thunderstorm brewing in the far distance. Supper was cleared and the men relaxed in front of the radio listening to General Nasser of Egypt rant about the Suez Canal. Rafan had his ear to the box, bewitched by its tinny sounds, his small fingers tapping and twisting. Nadia stayed in her room, mending clothes.

Salim sat alone with his bubbling thoughts. A great desire to see his mother filled him. Rafan was distracted for once, and she would be alone.

Finally he found her sitting out on the balcony. As he hurried towards her, her head twisted away and he faltered in sudden unease.
Is she crying?
There were lines on the sharp planes of her cheeks and her eyes were in shadow. A piece of paper lay open in her hand, yellow with black type. Salim thought it was a telegram. When she saw him, her hand closed over it, covering the sender's
name.

‘What's that?' he asked.

‘Nothing.' She turned away from him, out towards the north. ‘A letter from an old friend.'

‘From Lebanon?' he said, half-joking. Away to the north, the hills of the Lebanese border were split into red and black chasms.

She stiffened. ‘Why ask me that,
ya'eini
?'

‘No reason,' he said, surprised. ‘You just say sometimes that you miss it. I guess you miss it just as much as Jaffa. Do
you?'

Salim saw her glance at his face, a questioning look, hard to read. ‘I do,' she said at last, her voice slow. ‘I was so young.' A laugh came from her, scornful. ‘A young fool. My father used to call me the prize of the house. I was so proud, so special, and I thought he meant my life ahead was going to be the prize. But really he meant it was me. That I would be his gift to the highest bidder.' Her eyes were almost black, looking past him to the empty horizon. ‘And now look what has happened to us.' She reached out her hand, palm facing forward to the setting sun, a gesture of denial. Then she dropped it to her side. ‘No one understands,' she said quietly. ‘I hope one day you can understand it, Salim. Why things had to be this
way.'

‘What things, Mama?' A torrent of love streamed through him and he went to hug her. Her arms were about him and all wondering left him. He was perfectly content.

After a time, he asked her, ‘Why did Baba never go back to Jaffa?'

‘He did
–
once,' she replied. ‘During the second truce. He went to see Abu Mazen, to give him a copy of the title deeds for the house. He was gone for three days,' she laughed suddenly, ‘and you boys, you didn't even notice. Then after that,' she sighed, gesturing out at the deepening skies, ‘we were all in this
Israel
and it was very difficult to make sense of it. Things moved on
–
you were in school, Hassan left us for England… it needed an energetic man to sort it out. And your father is not an energetic
man.'

‘But
you
want to go back, don't you, Mama? It's your home too, more than Lebanon.'

She laughed again.

‘Ah, Salim, you know better. It's not how long you live somewhere that makes it a home. Home is a feeling
here
,' she tapped his chest, ‘that you belong somewhere and somewhere belongs to you. But, I'll tell you a secret,
habibi
. Some people don't feel they belong anywhere. No matter where they are, they are always unhappy.' Her voice shook. ‘They go from place to place trying to find peace. And usually they find themselves back where they started. It's the greatest curse under heaven.' She took a breath, wiped her forehead and took Salim's chin in her hands. ‘I pray you escape it, my clever
son.'

‘But we know where our home is,' he said, disturbed. ‘We were happy there.
You
were.'

‘Were we?' She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Even in Jaffa, you and me, we had restless feet.'

She stood up in a sudden, fierce movement, her body turning northwards like a needle towards the deepening shadows.

‘Let your father dream of Palestine,' she said. ‘He's the one who really knows where he belongs
–
with all the other useless
ay'an
, eating nuts and drinking coffee. Their time has passed for ever now. That's why he's selling up. But you, Salim. You're made for better things. Don't forget
it.'

‘Okay, Mama,' he said, softly. Then he watched her walk into the dark kitchen, the tall line of her back disappearing, the telegram clutched tightly in one elegant fist. And he suddenly thought of a felucca he'd once seen drifting on the sea, cut loose from its moorings, its white sail tall and straight against the falling
sun.

Later, Salim sat in his bedroom trying to concentrate on his maths homework. He was good at sums. They comforted him, hinting at a universe where rules right and wrong were clear and dependable, obedient to fundamental
laws.