The Inheritance

by Sahar Khalifeh

  I was overcome with feelings of sadness and estrangement.

  I stood in front of a blue-gray iron gate and a wall covered with dark green Climbing plants and flame-red flowers. Behind the walls I could see acacia trees, and despite the midday sun, jasmine was still giving off a fresh scent that mixed with the smell of recently watered grass. I rang the bell, and a few minutes later I heard a soft voice saying gently, “just a minute, just a minute.” The door opened to reveal a fair woman’s face, a short woman with bold eyes and a dignified smile. She was still in her nightgown and housecoat, with curlers in her hair. She glanced at me from behind the door, and I saw that she was holding a broom and a garden hose. She looked at me and smiled apologetically. As soon as she heard my heavily accented Arabic she understood who I was and rushed to welcome me, throwing the door wide open, repeating, “Zayna, Zayna!” She set aside the broom, threw away the hose, and reached out to take my suitcase, insisting on carrying it despite my objections. She kissed me warmly, as if she had known me for years.

  The tiled floor was still moist from the washing and the recently watered plants, and the flowers glistened in their containers. The air was filled with the smell of cleanliness, the scent of jasmine, and other flowers. A fence separated the narrow entrance from the land around the house, and I noticed a garden with more flowers, trees, beehives, and flying butterflies behind the house. I was amazed at the difference between the inside and the outside of the house, as all along the road I had seen nothing but garbage, walls splattered with white and black paint, paint covering writing on the walls, streets filled with scrap metal, sewage, and more garbage. Inside there was an abundance of water, flowers, and overwhelming cleanliness. I later learned that this is the way things are in this country, or rather these countries.

  Excited, the woman asked as she welcomed me, “How did you manage to pass during the curfew? Didn’t they see you, didn’t you see them? And you walked? It’s bizarre, truly bizarre!”

  I told her about my trip and the mean taxi driver. She laughed, explaining that taxi drivers fear stone throwers. She added that the stones are thrown at Israelis only, recommending that I be careful lest people suspect me of being one.

  Why should people be suspicious of me? Am I not a brunette and aren’t my eyes chestnut black, like all Arabs?

  She turned and looked at me from head to toe and smiled ruefully, saying, “It’s true that you’re a brunette and that your eyes are chestnut black, but your clothes . . .”

  The mystery behind the “shalom” was then revealed and I resolved to become aware of the way other people saw me.

  She took me to the guest room. When she opened the locked door, the air felt heavy, still smelling of furniture, tobacco, and the weight of time. The brown furniture was arranged in a cluttered line like the buildings in the street. Despite the abundance of fresh flowers in the garden, there was a plastic bouquet of roses. The walls were covered with Qur’anic verses with golden frames, cross-stitched embroideries representing a Spanish dancer, a young child, and a red rose. A dining table and six chairs, an engraved desk with a large mirror, and a tea trolley stood in the other half of the room. I had the same feeling I had experienced in Abu Faleh's house in Brooklyn.

  Nahleh and I sat near the wall in the garden to avoid the blaze of the sun and the garden bees. We were getting acquainted. She was my distant cousin, single and unemployed. She used to be a teacher in Kuwait, but she was expelled like everyone else because of the Gulf War. She passes her time with embroidery, knitting, washing the floor, and sweeping. I, on the other hand, am a university professor and a writer. Wasn’t I afraid of writing? Of being read by people? she wondered. But I was American, brought up as an American, and Americans are different. She had heard that American women have a different way of life—much like men, they take strange jobs, marry and divorce easily, and have boyfriends. Nahleh was certain that I would do nothing of the sort because I am an Arab, the daughter of an Arab, and one is guided by one’s origin, as people say. But America is very beautiful, isn’t it? Tell me about it.

  I asked about my distant uncle, her father, and learned that he was a farmer. He had a farm where he planted seedlings, raised bees, and sold honey in small jars under the brand name ‘Honey of the North.’ My uncle’s health was declining now; he was diabetic and allergic to flower pollen. He takes injections in the spring, traveling to Germany for his treatment. Five years ago he had a stroke and forgot the matter. He regularly visits his three sons, one of whom lives in Germany and two in the United Arab Emirates. The first is a civil engineer and the second a chemical engineer; the third son works as a lawyer for a powerful sheikh. A fourth son is in the candy business. He has a factory in Nablus and lives there with his wife and children. The fifth son was the real problem, as he was the victim of a small mine explosion during his resistance years. It had destroyed his foot despite the treatment he had received in Moscow and the U.S. Thanks to the intervention of an Arab member of the Knesset he had managed to return to the West Bank. But what about my father, I wondered? She looked away, then at the clock, and said anxiously, “Your uncle will tell you the story. He’ll be back in an hour at the most.”

  He did indeed return an hour later accompanied by his wife, Shahira. My uncle was in his early seventies and his wife in her mid-fifties. He was tall, with a beautiful figure for a man his age and with his health problems. His hair was thin and he wore eyeglasses, a set of false teeth, an American shirt, and a Swiss watch bought with Gulf-earned money. He talked, breathing heavily, and his greeting was warm and lively. He shook my hand with a granite grip. As for Shahira, who was not the mother of the children, she was fair and plump and had green eyes. She spoke only when necessary and looked adoringly at her husband, approving every sentence he pronounced, constantly saying, “Alright, as you wish, Abu Jaber, and may you prosper.” She sat under the walnut tree, cleaning okra and stuffing grape leaves, filling the refrigerator with goodies.

  I loved him immediately. He was strong and generous. I later observed him with other people. He looked them straight in the eye, laughed boisterously, and tapped their shoulder, repeating, “God be praised, welcome, welcome, you are here in your home, sir. What would you like to drink, coffee, tea? Come here under the walnut tree; it’s the best place in the whole world.” He sat there with his friends from evening until nightfall, then bade his guests farewell and walked them to the gate.

  I sat with him under the walnut tree and listened to him saying, “God be praised, by God you have grown so much. This world is truly strange. Have you eaten? Did you have something to drink? Did you wash your face and hands, are you well rested? The top room was ready for you two weeks ago. It is a beautiful room, we painted it anew, added a small bathroom and a sitting area on the terrace, a wonderful place to relax and see the shore and the sea lights. At night, when silence covers the place, you can even hear the surge of the boats. What can we do my child, this is our destiny, we lost the country and the relatives, and each one of us lives in a different place. This is our lot in life. Well Nahleh, has your cousin tried your jam yet? It is quince jam that Nahleh makes herself, the most delicious quince, the most delicious jam made by the most beautiful Nahleh. What about you Zayna, is your name Zayna or Zaynab? Zayna is nicer and easier to pronounce. Go ahead Zayna, tell me your story from the beginning.”

  We sat under the walnut tree until midnight. We ate, drank, and had a dinner of cheese, za‘tar, olive oil, olives, and Nahleh’s jam. I told him about the university, my work, and my grandmother. As for my mother, she disappeared in California and we lost touch, completely. I said to him, “My grandmother died, my mother died, and my father will soon die, and I know nothing about my family except memories and now you all. Tell me uncle, who are you?”

  The house filled with visitors, family members, and neighbors; every single chair in the house was brought to the garden and placed under the walnut tree. My uncle’s wife’s cousin came with his wife and daughters and
other relatives and neighbors. My uncle’s wife’s cousin is a realtor who struck gold recently, living a wild land-buying rush. This cousin’s urbanized peasant wife wore a dress with ruffles and a kilogram of gold around her neck. Each of his thickset daughters wore an ounce of gold around her neck, a miniature gold Qur’an, and a golden mashallah.

  There was also Grace’s mother, known as Umm Grace, after her first son’s name, and her daughter Violet, a hairdresser and Nahleh’s colleague and best friend. She had been a teacher with her in Kuwait and had been expelled with compensation. There was my cousin’s wife from Nablus as well, my cousin the toffee and candy maker. She came with her five children and her suitcase, because she wanted to spend the night. Late in the evening my cousin Mazen, the youngest, the land-mine victim, came. His older brother, the father of the five children and the owner of the toffee and candy factory, made an appearance as well.

  My uncle sat leaning against the walnut tree, and before him stood the barbecue, the big copper tray, and the water pipe with Persian tobacco. He sat on his throne in a glorious and grand manner and said, addressing his words to the realtor, “Zayna is American, ya Abu Salem. Her mother and grandmother are American and she is like those Americans, who are smart and capable, with many sources of income. God be praised! She has a house in Washington D.C., and one in New York, a yacht, a helicopter, and maybe half a dozen cars.”

  I opened my eyes in total surprise, since I didn’t own a helicopter, a yacht, or half a dozen cars!

  The realtor commented, indifferently, “God be praised!”

  My uncle resumed the conversation saying slowly and proudly, as he squashed the Arabic dessert, the knafeh, between his hands, “God be praised, she takes after her father! He was smart, ya Abu Salem. America attracted him at a very young age. We never heard from him again until people told us about him. He was mentioned during all our gatherings. God be praised! The man who used to carry the basket for the Christians in Bab al-Khalil, became somebody!”

  Umm Grace’s melodious voice rose, in objection, “What’s wrong with the Christians, ya Abu Jaber?”

  Realizing what he had said, my uncle looked at her from under his eyeglasses, then turned toward Violet and said quickly, “They’re the best of people, they’re all that is good and blessed.”

  He then turned to Nahleh and asked her to bring him some clarified butter.

  Umm Grace continued to mumble; I followed the action and the signs in order to understand. Umm Grace is a fair woman, of medium build, with short hair dyed lighter than its original color. She was wearing a short-sleeved summer dress with a white belt and an extremely clean American collar. Everything about her was elegant and orderly and carefully calculated, which made her look quite distinguished and neat among the other women. Compared to the rustle and frills of the realtor’s wife and my uncle’s wife’s long robe decorated with gold and silver thread, Umm Grace looked like a Parisian woman, as did her hairdresser daughter. Violet looked like a queen in the midst of the crowd consisting of Nahleh and the realtor’s heavy daughters wearing all their gold. It was not only their elegance that distinguished them, but I sensed that they were different, somehow artificial, with an exaggerated politeness and sweetness in articulating their letters and words to the point of affectation. I could not put my finger on exactly what distinguished them from the others, but they seemed different, curious. Trying to understand, I asked, “Did my father go around with the Christians?”

  My uncle stopped squashing the knafeh and said, reluctantly, “He worked for them, that’s where he used to work.”

  Umm Grace replied with studied terseness, “He worked as a messenger for a number of souvenir shops.”

  I noticed Violet’s hand nudging her mother’s, as if to stop her from saying more.

  Curious, I persisted, “You said he went around carrying a basket?”

  My uncle replied gloomily, changing the subject, “This comes later, it is enough ya Abu Salem. Life is so strange! My brother came and went and wandered left and right, but returned to die in his homeland!”

  Then he looked around him and asked for the cheese.

  The realtor inquired, without looking at me, as if I were not present, “Did he have other children?”

  My uncle said, sadly, “He had many more! But poor man, praise be to He Who taketh away and giveth, she is the only one who has survived.” He added, “Bring the knafeh tray.”

  Everybody watched him in total silence, as he moved the knafeh from one tray to another. I looked at the color of the knafeh and at everyone’s face, including my uncle’s face, and wondered whether my father was as dark as them? Was he tall, as tall as them? Did he resemble them? I couldn’t remember the details; my father’s features had eluded me. They had become gradually distant and then had disappeared. So had he.

  The realtor asked, “What does your brother own? Did he leave any real estate?”

  My uncle muttered, still busy turning the tray of knafeh, “Blessed be God, he has plenty. He owns a great deal, a piece of land on the way to Nablus that is worth thousands.”

  The realtor stopped blowing the water pipe and puffed saying, “Hem . . . m . . . m . . . .”

  My uncle continued, “He owns also a hill on the way to Sinjel, worth one million and maybe more.”

  The realtor shook his head, mumbling, again, “Hem . . . m . . . m. . .”

  “He owns also two dunums on the road to Jerusalem, near the airport. When the problem is resolved and the airport opens, God willing, its value will climb as high as an airplane,” explained my uncle.

  The realtor turned to me, looking at me intensely as if discovering my human value for the first time, then said, “May God be praised, by God, your brother produced quite an offspring!”

  He continued to stare at me for a few seconds as if trying to decide whether, as a woman, I was worthy of all this inheritance. Then something occurred to him and he said, maliciously, “What about you Abu Jaber, do you get anything?”

  My uncle raised his head and looked in amazement as if surprised by such a strange and unusual question, “What would I get?” he asked.

  The realtor moved the tube of the water pipe left and right, then pointed it toward my uncle and said, “You must get something, according to shari‘a and the law.‘

  The room was semi-crowded, making it difficult to determine the identity of the motionless body stretched out on the bed. There were my second cousins, a blonde woman who looked like a movie star, and an ugly nurse with a mustache. My cousin, the father of five, was sitting with his back turned to the blonde woman, while Mazen, the land-mine victim, stood behind the patient’s head arranging the IV tube. The nurse watched Mazen, as if he were the one in charge and she were a guest. The blonde woman sat on a small chair near the bed, holding my father’s hand, the one which did not have tubes attached to it. As is customary, my cousin, the father of five, didn’t shake my hand lest he soils his ablution. Mazen didn’t shake my hand because he was busy adjusting the IV and the blonde woman didn’t shake my hand because she was holding my father’s hand.

  My uncle greeted them all and shook his head in the direction of the blonde woman in lieu of a greeting, then pushed me toward the bed, nudging Mazen’s shoulder to make room for me to see my father. I saw nothing but the skeleton of a human being with two large eyes, skin and hair, or rather some remnant of hair. His eyes were motionless and expressionless. He did not blink at all. I bent politely to kiss him and was amazed to find out that he was breathing. He smelled of baby powder, disinfectant, and urine. I felt dizzy. I was ill at ease and nervous. My feelings were dulled and I didn’t know what to do, what to say, and how to conduct myself. I stood in my place and watched him in silence. I saw nothing in my father’s face that revealed that he recognized me or was even aware, of my presence. I continued to watch him, emotionless and motionless. I stood aside to regain my composure and catch my breath, then looked around me to scrutinize the faces of the visitors.

&nb
sp; My uncle took me by the shoulder and sat me down in a chair, while he sat near my father and began talking with the others, asking the nurse questions about my father’s food, his clothes, his daily baths, and his medication. The blonde woman said, “This hospital is not suitable.”

  She looked around her waiting for a reaction from the others, but no one replied or acknowledged her opinion. A few seconds later, my uncle whispered, “This is his wife, his new wife.”

  His new wife! I looked at her carefully. She was my age or slightly younger, blonde, fair and heavily made up in a strange way. Then I looked at him, this sick man, incapacitated, paralyzed, motionless, a handicapped man, truly handicapped. That is what my uncle had written in his letter to me. He also said what amounted to, “You’d better hurry and claim your inheritance.” So, this is my inheritance!

  The woman spoke in a harsh voice that seemed inconsistent with her make up and her efforts to be amiable and fashionable, “The hajj spoke today and called me mama and I said yes.”

  The father of five shook his head without commenting, but Mazen said politely, “Really?”