The Inheritance

by Sahar Khalifeh

  The food stuck in my uncle’s throat when he heard that. He said to Kamal, “On Friday? I thought that you were staying for two or three more months.”

  Kamal didn’t reply and continued to eat as if unconcerned, but his heart was torn as he thought about life and how it doesn’t give a person all he wants. He found his fulfillment in the West and it gave to him generously, but what did he get from here? What did he give—an abominable project that will be remembered for generations to come. People will say that his son cheated them, they will tell his father that God gave him three sons, one like a bull, a stupid son, and a go-getter who limps.

  My uncle said, “On Friday? You mean there’s no way you can postpone your departure date?”

  Kamal said, tersely, “I received an interesting offer.”

  Mazen snorted derisively revealing his sarcasm and his understanding of his brother’s true nature. He was convinced that someone who was trained in the West, shaped in the West, and married in the West, would never come back to his people.

  Futna asked him in a hoarse voice, “Is it possible that you’ll leave before the festival and my delivery?”

  He turned to her and looked at her belly. He smiled but didn’t comment. He pondered on women who think that their delivery is an important event and a great achievement, a victory for them and for us. He was leaving a more important project and a failed achievement, a terrible failure, a huge one.

  Nahleh asked with veiled sarcasm, “When are you due?”

  Futna touched her belly and said, proudly, “I’m entering my delivery month in a few days,” then she turned to Nahleh and told her, “Well, Nahleh, what gift will you give the baby and me?”

  Nahleh replied, laughing sarcastically, as if reminding Futna of what she was trying to forget, “I offer you a sincere wish, from the bottom of my heart, for a safe delivery.”

  “How generous you are!” said Futna.

  Nahleh said wickedly, laughing, “Dear Futna, a woman your age and in your situation shouldn’t think of gifts. The best gift from God is for you to have a safe delivery and a healthy and normal child.”

  Futna glared at her, controlling her anger. She was reminding her for the one thousand and tenth time that she was old and that her son might not be normal, that she might encounter difficulties. There wouldn’t be difficulties or surprises, both she and her son were safe and everything was fine. Her doctor in Hadassa had said that everything was normal and that there was nothing to worry about. She didn’t care what her mother, Nahleh, or the heirs thought—the baby was a boy, and the boy protects the inheritance.

  Mazen asked his sister, “How many invitations do you need?” But Nahleh continued to eat as if the matter didn’t concern her. Futna said, “I need four or five invitations, for my mother and my brother and the Bey, of course, can I get them?”

  He didn’t reply but continued to stare at Nahleh eating slowly and pensively; he asked her, “Well Nahleh, are Abu Salem’s sons coming?”

  She replied sternly, “How would I know? Ask their father. It’s none of my business.”

  Her father commented, trying to win her over, “What do you mean, it’s not your business? You’re better than they are and the crown jewel of the family.”

  She twisted her lips and smiled at her father’s words, but only Kamal noticed her expression; their eyes met, yet in the dim light of the place he couldn’t tell if her smile was meant for him. It didn’t matter anyhow, everything was over and things were clear now, she was the child of this milieu, the outcome of Kuwait and Wadi al-Rihan, she lived in both places and nowhere else, she saw nothing of the rest of the world. Would she have remained silent had she been like him, in a similar situation, with a similar mind and similar experience and thinking? Would she have accepted this midget, this illiterate, backward man, with his heirs, a bunch of mafiosos? And then this Mazen, what a creature he wasn't any different, or if he were, the difference was insignificant.

  Mazen asked her again, "How many invitations do you want, how many seats?”

  Kamal smiled reflecting on his brother’s question, and how he was taking into consideration Abu Salem’s sons. He was concerned about their seats, not mine, not ours. I will be in Frankfurt, Jaber is in Dubai, and Jamal is in Morocco. You, count Abu Salem’s sons but you forget me and Jaber and Jamal, we have neither invitation cards nor seats, we aren’t part of the celebration, just photos on the shelf, as if we weren’t part of the family, just photos.

  The father said, “You can’t leave before the festival. Attend the festival and then go.”

  Mazen commented, sarcastically, “Do you want him to attend the festival and miss out on the offer? Is that possible? The offer is much more important than the festival.”

  Kamal didn’t reply and smiled to him kindly. He knew that Mazen was jealous of him. One evening when he was drunk Mazen had opened up to him, saying, “You’re lucky, Kamal, that you didn’t squander your life. I squandered mine over nonsense and there’s nothing left in me but a breath of life. I used to swear at you and Jaber, calling you merchants and slaves. I used to call you opportunists, upstarts, and bourgeois. I used to tell myself that even Said was better than you because he stuck to the land, and I thought, naturally, that Guevara was the master of the world because he was the freedom fighter with the belt of death around his waist. I was the one whose life was in the balance for my homeland. Now there is no life left and no homeland, I lost the torch and I’m lost in a dark souq of stolen goods. There’s darkness from Mauritania to the Iranian borders, and from Cairo to Dhahran. I found out that all was useless, the belt of death, the candle that we carried, and the generations that melted away, the million and more martyrs, who was counting? Now that I’m wounded and exhausted and have come out of the feast empty-handed, I'm beginning to regret having squandered my life. I wish I’d done something meaningful in my life, something valuable, a small project, like you. I wanted to be larger than myself, bigger than the world and the limits of the wind, but I ended up like a paper kite tossed in the wind!”

  My uncle said, “What’s wrong Kamal, why aren’t you eating? Nahleh, serve your brother.”

  Nahleh looked at him in the darkness of the place and saw a tear in his eyes. She bit her lip and shivered, deeply moved. This man, this human being, this honest person had given her a lot, he had given her all he could. He had stood by her in difficult moments but she had moved away from him and ridiculed his honesty and his generosity. He had said words that hurt her but those were only words. He must know that a woman has no one but her husband, and though Abu Salem’s sons are a huge burden, it was the only solution. He was her husband and the husband’s children are always a source of trouble. She wondered whether Kamal’s tears were for her, for Said, or for the project.

  Mazen asked Abu Salem, “Abu Salem, how many seats do you want me to keep for you?”

  Abu Salem said, evasive, “As many as you’d like.”

  My uncle said, annoyed, “What a meaningless answer. Tell him how many invitations you need—five, ten, how many?”

  He looked at Nahleh sideways and said, “As many as Nahleh wants.”

  She replied, indifferent, “It isn’t my business. I don’t interfere between you and your sons, I’ve learned my lesson.”

  He looked at her and smiled cunningly, he said to himself: the sly girl hasn’t forgotten, her words have been as cutting as the edge of a knife. She had constantly repeated: Your sons, Abu Salem, did this and that, your sons imprisoned me and frightened me. They claimed the lands of Makhfiyeh, Sabastiya, Zwata, and Qalqilya, while you ran away from trouble and didn’t care what would happen to me. You ran away alone and left me to face them.

  Mazen said, “The governor will be inaugurating the Center and will be accompanied by the scouts. The flags will fly high and the sound of music and songs will reach Jerusalem.”

  Futna announced, “My mother will be coming to attend the festivities and will be staying a few days. She’ll be elated whe
n she learns what’s happening.”

  My uncle commented, sarcastic and indifferent, “What’s going to happen? Something good, I hope.”

  She explained with childish enthusiasm, “I mean the presence of the governor, the scouts, and the flags. My mother likes national songs and such matters, she has memorized all the songs dedicated to Abd al-Nasser and one of Umm Kulthum’s songs whose title I’ve forgotten. My mother sings very beautiful national songs all the time.”

  My uncle turned to her and asked, in a deep, sarcastic tone, “Your mother sings?”

  He said those words and visualized her mother, a petite, thin woman with brittle bones and sinking cheeks, singing. He smiled and said, “With God’s blessings.”

  Futna continued as enthusiastic as a child, “Don’t you believe me? Ask Violet and Umm Grace. My mother attended a nuns’ school, she plays the piano very well.”

  My uncle repeated, “Very well?” and she confirmed, “Very well.”

  He blew out the smoke from his cigarette and said, “Well Mazen, what’s the matter with you, why do you bring in outside talent when you have local talent?”

  Everyone laughed, angering Futna. She said that her mother was quite a lady, a graduate of a nuns’ school. Her grandfather was the protector of the Haram al-Sharif and had the key to the Aqsa Mosque. She said that her mother knits and did crochet and she had been lately busy preparing the baby’s trousseau, all blue because it is certainly a boy.

  Nahleh said with obvious envy, “It doesn’t matter, Futna, whether it’s a boy or a girl, what’s important is to have a safe delivery and a normal, healthy baby.”

  Futna replied while smacking her lips, “When my mother comes to attend the festival you will see that all the wool she’s knitting is blue.”

  Nahleh whispered, envious and mocking, “It’s all blue!”

  Futna kept bragging, adding oil to the fire of Nahleh’s jealousy, “My mother is known, she comes from a notable family and I’m sure that the governor knows her.”

  Nahleh approved, laughing sarcastically, “Of course, of course, he’ll recognize her.”

  Futna said, addressing Mazen, “Surely, surely, when he shakes her hand he will recognize her and he’ll invite her to sit beside him, in the first row.”

  Mazen smiled and so did Kamal, while Nahleh guffawed, but my uncle said seriously, “Why shouldn’t she sit in the first row? Who is better than her or us?”

  Mazen laughed and Kamal smiled, and both agreed on the following: Sitt Amira would sit in the first row near the consuls and the journalists to engage them in polite conversation in English, while all the others would sit in the second row. They didn’t want the foreigners to say that the family took the front rows and gave them the back seats.

  A few days before the festival things suddenly changed in the street. The inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan became very active. An air of rejoicing dominated the place, helping the inhabitants to forget their oppression and the nauseating odors. They got involved in the action and seemed in the highest of spirits for no specific reason, in other words, they were happy without reason. The streets were filled with journalists and foreigners, and television cameras, The loudspeakers energized the vendors and the shopkeepers, forcing them to abandon their benches and their water pipes to check what was happening. They were curious about the male and female journalists roaming around in the streets, wearing shorts, taking pictures of children holding photos of the citadel, surrounded by dancers, singers, and ads for companies. There were ads describing Pepsi Cola as the favorite drink of the festival. Benetton made the same claim for its clothes and warned against imitations. There were ads for Toyota, Mercedes, Kolinos, and Cutex, among many others.

  The publicity, the ads, and the foreigners made the inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan feel the winds of change. They anticipated great benefits since, according to their thinking, the cameras, the publicity, the groups of tourists, and the journalists hadn’t come for nothing, there must be something worthwhile happening. This valuable thing is the citadel. How could people have forgotten throughout the centuries that they had a great citadel and valuable heritage on top of the hill, right before their eyes, but no one saw it. How could this great monument have been abandoned and forgotten when it was a piece of art and the pride of civilization and history?All the cameras, the journalists, the local newspapers, and the newsletters confirm that, so how could they have forgotten that here, in Wadi al-Rihan, there was a historical ruin like Petra and the pyramids? Why had no one ever exploited this lofty imposing structure? Do you know what this meant? It meant tourists hotels, restaurants amusement parks and money. Do you know what Petra’s income is from tourists and tourism? Do you know how many tourists visit the sphinx and the pyramids every year? Do you know the number of tourists who go to Granada Carthage and Jerash?

  How could it have escaped our attention that we were sitting on an oil well, on money and a great source of revenue? Why had we wasted rime with insignificant and silly incidents and considered them to be quite dramatic? Why had we demonstrated in front of the project and the municipality, complaining about a few rats and odors that would soon dissipate? This is history while those were innovations, this is a heritage for life and those were everyday, passing trivialities. How could we have forgotten this and remembered that? Had we been guided by awareness and ruled by glory, had there been revival and sacrifice, eternity and nobility of birth, had we been far-sighted, we wouldn’t have paid attention to insignificant words and events.

  The citadel is therefore a symbol of the world because we discovered the world and the world discovered us through an invincible heritage. This is what history, civilization, and culture are all about.

  The young boys rode around on their bicycles, distributing fliers, programs, and pictures of the citadel. People were so excited and enthusiastic that they printed the picture of the citadel on tee shirts and purses. Others made stickers to put on cars, shop windows, and mirrors, expressing their love for and affiliation with the citadel. This is how Mazen with me behind him became the true heroes of the citadel revival. People greeted us everywhere we went. Being a foreigner and aloof by nature, I stayed in the background and watched Mazen run the show. He changed Wadi al-Rihan into an oasis of friendly relations and love, visited by total strangers and family members. Anyone walking in the street would see Arabian robes from the Gulf, hats from Europe, saris from Pakistan, and straw baskets and shell lamps from Vietnam. We sold merchandise from all over the world at the expense of our own products, which we’ve forsaken, having decided to import what we like. We soon discovered that we had truly hurt our products, as candy, toffee, and the ‘Honey of the West’ could not compete with the imported items. We ended up eating them but their taste didn’t satisfy us, though we praised them in the local press and said that they tasted as sweet as chocolate and as delicious as dates.

  Mazen explained that it wasn’t our fault, rather it was history’s fault because history was younger than us and modernization required time, patience, and work. The populace didn’t know anymore whether we had a history on which to build or no history at all. They said that the citadel was a symbol of history, but then they asked how it was possible to modernize without history? My uncle wondered what to do with his strawberries, whether he had to export them or eat them? Said offered to take them to make a new kind of toffee for the festivities. This is why, on the day of the celebration, we ate a new toffee with a new cover showing the name of Wadi al-Rihan and the image of the citadel, and we thanked God.

  The citadel was bathed in flags, lights, and boy scouts. It looked like a bride on her wedding day. Pedestrians pointed it out proudly, saying, “Tonight is the night for our citadel.” My uncle was concerned, however, and said, “Please God, do not reveal our weaknesses and let this end well.”

  Mazen, on the other hand, declared anxiously that the weather report announced westerly winds, and asked for God’s protection. As for Futna, her mother, Nahleh, Abu Salem, a
nd Umm Grace, they were overjoyed and ecstatic because Violet was scheduled to sing before the governor, the notables, and the consuls. She would thus prove to them that in Wadi al-Rihan, we could compete in whatever we wanted, with world summits and superstars.

  Giving in to the pressure of the family and his own curiosity, Kamal postponed his trip to Frankurt till after the festivities. He didn’t want to abandon us on a great day of celebration, festivities, and the display of our gifts, but more important, he had heard the weather report and was concerned and curious about the outcome of events. He wondered what would happen if the westerly winds brought the odors, the mosquitoes, and the flies, and if the rats of the station came out, how the governor and the consuls would react. What would his brother Mazen, the man in charge, say about the arrangements and the success of the festivities?

  The success of this celebration would mean continuous cultural activity at the citadel, visits from intellectuals, the arrival of tourists, modernity, and setting the foundations of change. Though the sewage project had failed to get rid of the garbage, purify the water, and improve the environment, Mazen might succeed in generating light from the citadel. Though it is true that culture cannot replace the needs of the street or children’s food, it is still considered the nourishment of the soul. No people could rise without culture and intellectual activities. It was, therefore, his duty to provide art and food for the soul of each member of this population, he owed it to them. In other words, culture was for everybody and this celebration was for everybody, and so was the citadel, it belonged to all and everybody had a right to it.

  Mazen distributed thousands of invitations, fliers, and programs. Everyone in town and in the villages of the North was getting ready to attend this festivity, together with the children, friends, and relatives. They came in groups, they came by the busload, in trucks and taxis, early in the morning, and filled the streets of Wadi al-Rihan. My uncle went back home for lunch, breathing heavily from the heat, the noise, and the crowded streets and shops. He said to his wife, breathlessly, “Hordes of people are coming in huge numbers.”