The Inheritance

by Sahar Khalifeh

  As soon as Kamal heard her words, his heart sank and his face turned pale. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. They were dividing the inheritance while the owner was still alive? His sister, despite being in this dump, this prison, under the threat of torture, was fighting over her inheritance like a man, like a dog, a hyena. Kamal and Said remained silent but Nahleh said with unusual audacity and boldness, “The shares in the company belong to me because they were my dowry.”

  “Well, well, well, your dowry, madam? Who do you think you are, Georgina Rizk?” replied Saadu.

  Kamal, who still looked pale and frightened, intervened saying, “Wait, wait, I have a solution, take my shares in the company, I don’t want this partnership anyhow.”

  A voice in the back said, “Careful Saadu, he’s bluffing, his shares are worth nothing because he did not participate in the capital.”

  Kamal remembered that he hadn’t contributed to the capital and that his shares were worth nothing without him. His presence would reinforce his position or hers, but he wondered whether her position was worth the effort. She wanted the shares and the company, what does this woman know about a sewage company, she has enough of that in her head. If she wants it, she’ll have to do without him as a partner. He remained silent, observing them and growing paler and more disheartened.

  “You talk about your father as if he were dead, he might live longer than you,” said Nahleh to the sons.

  Saadu smiled and said contemptuously, “No lady, he could die at any time, and when he does, my stepmother, what would you say?”

  At those words, Kamal stood up suddenly, despite his dizziness. He said, fearful and disgusted, “I can’t believe it, why have we come to this? What’s happening in the world?”

  The man nicknamed ‘the hyena of the valleys’ rebuked him saying, “Sit down, sire, sit down Mr. Engineer, Doctor, do you think that we’re Like you, that we speak a foreign language, walk straight, and eat cake? We, sir, have endured all sorts of hardships to get what we have now. Do you see these?” he asked Kamal, showing him his hands, “We stand in blood up to the elbow, and do you see this head?” he asked, uncovering a head as gray as fog Then he described his life: “I am a young man whose life was hijacked early on. I endured humiliation for twenty-eight years and I was trampled underfoot, I’ve had my share of beatings. I spent my youth working in factories, ports, and restaurants, and now, dear engineer, if you want to know, I don’t give a damn. Those assets belong to all of us, I worked for them, and so did Salem, Marwan, and Aziz, you’d better keep quiet. To make a long story short, I want to tell you that the assets belong to us and not to the old man, though he is in the lead position, but in a split second he could disappear into a thousand pieces. Do you think this is a game? We are too old to play games. We’ve left our youth and our life behind us, we thought the struggle was over, but it’s not over and everyone gets what he strives for, do you hear me, sir? You are worth something if you have money, that’s how life is and this is what we get from hard work. Don’t ever believe what you’re told, Abu Salem’s sons are neither crooks nor thieves and no woman can fool us. How can a woman fool us, we are streetwise children, we worked with people and for people, we won’t let anyone play games with us, do you hear me, sir? Do you hear me. Dr. Engineer? What do you say?”

  Kamal wondered about the people who surrounded him, their logic and their way of thinking. Were these the persons he was about to do business with? Would he ever be able to reach an agreement with them, his future partners? Would he be able to deal with the hyena who has stood in blood up to his elbow and his knees? How would he be able to deal with such savvy dealers? They’ve been in the country all their lives and have never left. Their roots and ties with the street and with the people have never been broken. They understand the people well and speak their language. What does he know about his people? He was always different. He remembered Nahleh’s words: “You’ve always been different.” Therefore, his character hadn’t been shaped by his life abroad or by Helga and Germany. He was different and he will different, he will never be able to understand them and they won’t understand him. The sewage company is only an idea, a beautiful idea but difficult to execute. He won’t stay, and if he does, he won’t take a partner or partners, he’ll work alone, just as he has since his childhood. He’ll then return to loneliness and a life of exile inside his own country Is this what he had dreamed of finding here, exile inside his own country? He turned to Nahleh and said, “Listen to me, sister, give them the shares and the company and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  She said, cautiously, “How many shares?”

  He replied, sickened and dismayed, “All of them.”

  Said objected, “You would give her all the shares? Take it easy.”

  Someone standing behind Saadu shouted, “You fools!”

  But Saadu rebuked him with a loud growl, saving, “What business is it of yours, they’re brothers working things out among themselves, why do you interfere?”

  “What do you mean this is not my business?”

  The man who uttered those words moved forward and his face appeared in the circle of light. He was elegant with big eyes and silky hair. He said, “What do you mean it’s not my business, if he leaves, who will be our partner?”

  Said seized the opportunity of his brother’s withdrawal and offered to replace him as a partner. There was no comment, so he continued, “I can be a partner. What do you need, machines? I have machines. Do you want experience? I have experience. Do you want someone who knows the market? I do. I also have a very successful factory and can hardly keep up with demand; even the Israelis buy ray products. Ask my father about it, ask Samaan, tell them, Samaan, about the factory.”

  Samaan said, meanly and slyly, “Even the Israelis buy your products.”

  “What about the machines?” asked Said.

  “As punctual as a watch,” replied Samaan.

  The elegant man interrupted again, “This is nonsense, a candy factory isn’t a sewage factory. What are you talking about?”

  Said objected, “Why, which one is better?”

  The handsome man became irate and turned to his brothers to explain the consequence of the situation and its tragic aspect, “Do you understand what’s happening? We would lose a scholar, a mind, and a project. Do you understand?”

  His brother, ‘the hyena of the valleys’ rebuked him again, “Enough, Hamzeh, sweetheart, dearest. We can do without you. Let this morning go by peacefully and pronounce God’s name, say that nothing would happen to you except what God willed, say that there might be good in what appears to be bad.”

  Hamzeh shouted in a voice that cracked with frustration, “Do you understand, do you realize the impact of what’s happening?”

  His brother, ‘the hyena of the valleys,’ growled, “Enough, Hamzeh, calm down and pronounce God’s name. Why are you purring stones in the middle of the stream? Are you the only one who has studied overseas? It’s Abu Salem’s fault, he wanted his children to get university degrees, what degrees? In moments of crisis when knives are used and business shows huge losses, who helps you? When you were overseas, we were up to our elbows and knees in blood, do you understand what I’m saying? Let’s stay friends. Let everyone mind his own business. You’re worth what you have, whether in money or in power, and if you have nothing you’re worth nothing, you can be blown away easily. And you Dr. Engineer, what do you have? If you have shares, you’re worth shares, and your brother,” addressing himself to Said, “You have a factory, then you are worth a factory and, you, madam, what do you have? You’re worth nothing but this power of attorney, you either sign it or I’ll make the birds in the sky hear your voice, by God I will.”

  At this moment Kamal lost his balance and fell to the ground, unconscious.

  We spent hours discussing the meaning of exile and return, the meaning of growth and modernization. Kamal gave free voice to his pain. He couldn’t understand what had changed people’s a
ttitudes and wondered whether in the face of such change, he should return home. He then turned to me and asked, “You, why did you come back?”

  I said, with both doubt and understanding, “Because I’m hopeful.”

  He made fun of me while Violet objected to his comments, since she was torn between her decision to leave the country and her nostalgic attachment to her love for Mazen. But Mazen was busy with his companion, or comrade, or friend Abd al-Hadi. Both were planning to bring about a change of taste through education to pull us out of this low state of decay. Kamal’s abandonment of the sewage project pushed the Bey away from the issue of the environment, which he replaced with my project, an Art and Culture Center. The Bey proposed that Violet sing, and that he read poetry. When he saw us whispering, however, he changed his plans and said in his usual courteous way, “Violet must leave her mark before she leaves.”

  Violet sat at the far end of the terrace, far from us, watching the horizon. She felt that the world was moving ahead, leaving her behind. Her enthusiasm for the activities of the Cultural Center and the events of the opening day moved in waves, sometimes she was as enthusiastic as Mazen, the Bey and I, and sometimes she sided with Kamal. He had become pessimistic and was greatly discouraged since he had lost his battle over Nahleh and had abandoned the project. Today however, as the Bey reminded her of her departure plans, she experienced the same distress that she had felt when she decided to forget her love for Mazen. He didn’t seem to remember, but he probably did because he still had an inviting look. It was so unfair and irresponsible; as usual, he was playing with her feelings. He never uttered a word of blame, eluding promises and a misinterpretation of his intentions. She was looking for a commitment of some kind, but he had nothing to offer, and it was up to her to go on as they did before or leave.

  Abd al-Hadi Bey was looking for an opportunity to convince her that she had everything a man could wish for. He, a man, wanted to have what she had because she was an artist, she was beautiful, and she shared some of his feelings, in other words, they were very much alike. He didn’t tell her that in so many words but conveyed his thoughts to her indirectly, in a sweet, sticky way that angered and disgusted her. Was it because she played the guitar and openly expressed her feelings for the man she loved in her songs that he thought her easy and accessible to everybody? Or did he think, as he often implied, that a sensitive woman is doomed and would be unable to live without a lover?

  Violet was not the passionate type and she didn’t have a lover. She believed that love allowed her to fly across space, music, and the scents of April. Men didn’t understand that, however, none of them, whether it was Guevara or this man. This situation made her long to immigrate, to become emotionless like the Americans, or at least to have a foothold somewhere in a land that lives without dreams and illusions. If love meant humiliation and heartache, then let there be no love. Since this country didn’t provide her with an opportunity to search and fulfill herself, why stay here?

  The last time Violet had said those words and defended them passionately in my presence and Mazen’s, the Bey had been observing her intently. He had tried to convince her that the environment was not and, cold, or gloomy as she thought, the problem was with the observer, not the object observed. Had she looked carefully she would have seen that here was a man who had Hemingway’s strength, an adventurer who liked hunting and danger. Had she been in Washington and had she seen him or heard about him, she would have immediately realized that at his hand she could experience the most beautiful emotions.

  The Bey looked at her thighs from the corner of his eye as she sat beside him in the cafeteria drinking tea and listening to a light song. It reminded her of a delicate love that blows like a breath, a vision, willow leaves, and the whiteness of the horizon. She still hoped that Mazen would return to the table and order a mint tea for her and tell her that the homeland is all we have and that people are its most beautiful component and that she, of all people, is the dearest and the most gifted of them all, and it would be a pity for her to immigrate and leave the country. She was dreaming and looking for him across the terrace and the horizon, listening to Fairuz’s voice when she suddenly felt an arm lean on her thigh, as if by chance. She was startled and held her breath in order to find out what was happening. A few minutes later the elbow was moving in circles and meaningful pressures, rising then falling and plunging in her flesh. She looked at the Bey puzzled and surprised, but he was smiling and shaking his head to me and Kamal, while his arm moved up and down under the table. We saw her suddenly freeze, her eyes stared at the void and at Mazen who was standing very far away, by the cash register. She was overcome with a feeling of hatred, resentment, and disgust for this environment, and for Mazen in particular, because had it not been for his story and the humiliation to which he subjected her, this weasel wouldn’t have dared do what he was doing. Had it not been for his carelessness and his loss she would not have found herself in this situation. She felt the elbow tickle her, her intestines twitched and she-had a strong urge to vomit. She stood suddenly, causing his elbow to fall free. He looked at her to make sure that she had understood and searched for a special message in her eves but there was none. I said, puzzled, “What’s happening, where to?”

  She whispered in a voice that sounded like the whistling of the wind, “To hell.”

  It was clear and even certain, that America represented for Violet, as it did for many others, an escape from a world that hadn’t changed while they had. Though Violet had never been a social scientist or a highly educated person, she was nevertheless a woman who had known life both in her country and outside of it. She came originally from Bethlehem and grew up in Jerusalem, and for her Wadi al-Rihan represented a bleak world, which brought her nothing. At her work she had seen women in their real condition under the hair dryers and men without halos or greatness. She knew that men looked at women as mere sex objects, at least that’s how they saw Violet and those like her. Respectable women achieved respect only because they gave birth to a dozen children or because they covered their heads, sacrificed their spirits, and became colorless and tasteless, just bags stuffed with a strange substance, shapeless and senseless. They were looked at as mere sacks, similar to a sack of lentils, a sack of rice, a sack of potatoes, or a sack of barley, and barley eaters aren’t human beings. The men of Wadi al-Rihan on the other hand were, according to Violet, like monkeys with half brains and long tails that helped them climb trees and pick fruits, and whatever they could not eat, they would urinate on.

  This explains why American men such as Tom Selleck or Clary Cram seemed to her like saviors, though she was much younger than Cary Grant and those of his generation. She studied in a nuns’ school, played guitar, and sang adolescent songs, seduced by the April breeze. She dreamed of the handsome young man, affectionate and pious, who would love a virgin, considering her a flower with beautiful eyes that reflected the light inside. She dreamed about a man who would tell her that she was an angel in the shape of a human being. She wanted to be a man’s paradise, his rising sun, while he would be her shining moon.

  Reality was different, however, and there was neither a full moon nor did she become famous like the singer Fairuz. The men in Wadi al-Rihan were not princes, they were simple workers and farmers that Israel’s factories stole from barren, desolate farms. They too memorized the story of the revolution as they sang to the glorious leader, to the blood of the martyrs, to liberation accords, and to victory celebrations. Such were the people and the princes of Wadi al Rihan, and this was victory in the age of television, which transformed shame into liberation and a semblance of victory.

  That was the explanation that Mazen gave her when they were riding the tide, but he failed to tell her that he was one of them and that Violet was a naive and misled girl. He offered no explanation but Violet understood everything when she took time to think. However, the mind sends a message different from that of the heart. She continuously reminded herself that men in this coun
try were hopeless, and Mazen was like the rest of them, an extinguished flame, a mere illusion.

  She still remembered her reply when someone had asked her about men; she had whispered, “No one among them is a human being, I must have been crazy to have fallen in love with one of them.”

  She told Mazen her story with this and that one, to his amazement. He-commented in disbelief, “You, is it possible? How do you explain it? You must be either unlucky or stupid!”

  She agreed with him, and said, “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  Remembering the girls who had been with her and what had happened to them during the Jerusalem days in Salah al-Din Street, Violet realized that she was not stupid after all, since she had not slipped and fallen into the arms that were ready to receive her. Those were the hands of the politicians whose articles and poems stirred the crowds everywhere: on university campuses, in the theater, the halls of the National Hotel, and the YMCA. She was a member of that generation of the 1970s, when a girl would watch the leaders of the revolution with awe, listen to the roar of their voices resonating in the microphones, and hear people cheering them on. Then came the debates, the comments and strolling in the halls, listening to the praise of this leader and that poet, while she naively and stupidly saw everything through the lights and heard the voices through the uproar and the cheers of the people. She saw them as their nation’s leaders, the geniuses of their rime, uttering words of wisdom. She would follow them like their shadow, seeking their blessing, while they smiled and made her believe that she was the woman the companion, and the friend, the hope, and the element of change. They would ask if they had heard of Rosa Luxembourg, Maya Chekova, and Maya Goldman, but she didn’t know any of them, and embarrassed, she would remain silent and sweat heavily. Feeling sorry for her they would say, “Poor girl, how can you know so little! Come with me, come let me teach you how to live.”