“My string has broken . . . my string has broken . . .” repeated Halim’s voice.
For a moment, Amed thought the young man with the belt was in his room, back from the land of the dead.
“My string broke . . . it’s not the wind’s fault . . . an awful noise has broken my string . . . my ears are bleeding . . . I can’t hear anything any more . . .”
Amed sat up in bed and looked around. He saw no one in the half light of the room. There was no one but his brother sleeping beside him.
“I come close to the sun . . . I climb . . . I climb . . . it’s not the wind’s fault . . . it’s because of the noise . . . I don’t hear anything anymore and I can’t see the earth anymore . . . the white clouds swallow me up . . . no one can see me anymore . . .”
Amed held his hands over his ears, but the voice only got stronger.
“A cruel noise has broken my string . . . I’m burning . . . alone in this huge sky . . . I’ll return no more . . . I’m burning . . . alone in the absence of the wind . . .”
Amed got up and went to his bedroom window. Dawn. The sun’s first rays were touching the tops of the orange trees. For a long time he watched the sky turn blue. The voice calmed down bit by bit. When it had gone totally silent, he went back to bed. He heard his heart beating. He hugged Aziz tightly. He pressed his body against his brother’s, as if to merge with him.
Had he dreamed it, or had his mother really said that his brother’s bones were melting? Had he dreamed it, or had his mother really said that it would be better for his brother if his bones exploded on the other side of the mountain? The body he was embracing suddenly seemed so brittle . . . no, he would not let Aziz wear the belt in his place.
Aziz woke and pushed him away abruptly.
“What are you doing, Amed?”
“Nothing. Get up, it’s late.”
The cruel death of his parents had not changed Zahed’s routine. On the contrary, he worked with even more determination. In his eyes, the orange grove had increased in value. It was now the sanctuary where the bodies of his parents lay. He went over every tree, removed rotten branches, irrigated the soil, all with the sense of performing sacred gestures. The perfume that rose from the earth comforted him, helped him believe that the future still had meaning. He felt safe among his trees, as if no bomb could breach the armor of their greenery. His heart knew it: these fields of oranges were his only friends.
Leaning back against a tree, Zahed had nevertheless let his tears flow that day. He thought of his father. What would he have done? Would he have chosen Amed or Aziz? Sitting beneath the foliage of an orange tree he had just pruned, he waited for a sign from his dead father. All morning Zahed pondered what he would say to Amed.
“In any case,” he said to himself at last, “there’s no point in sending one to his death, knowing death has already touched the other one with his invisible hand. But what else to do?”
He dried his tears and left the orange grove. Near the house, he saw his sons playing in the garden. They had just left their mother and her improvised class in the kitchen. Hesitant, he approached them. Amed and Aziz felt his presence and went to meet him, astonished that their father was not working at this hour. Zahed looked on his two sons in silence, as if he were seeing them for the first time, or the last. He didn’t quite know what to call the emotions that were constricting his throat. He took Amed by the hand and led him away, leaving Aziz confused.
“Where are you taking me?”
But Amed knew what his father had in mind. Zahed maintained his silence, gripping his son’s hand more tightly. They walked to the toolshed. His father gave him a key and asked him to open the big iron padlock. Amed obeyed. Then Zahed pushed open the heavy wooden door. When they went into the shed, two birds escaped through an open skylight above their heads. For a moment Amed was afraid. The door closed behind them. A ray of sun shone down from the roof, millions of dust motes dancing in the long blade of light. It smelled of oil and wet earth. “This is where I’ve stored it,” murmured Zahed. He went into a corner and lifted up an old tarpaulin. He came back to his son with the canvas bag Soulayed had brought. He crouched down and had Amed sit near him.
“You have to shut the dead into the ground,” he said, as if every word he articulated was itself rising from the earth’s depths. “Because that’s how . . . that’s how the dead enter heaven. By being shut into the ground. That’s how I buried my parents. You saw me, I took my old shovel and I dug a hole. You saw the worms arriving to celebrate the burial. The hardest thing wasn’t throwing earth into the hole to cover it up. You saw me, I covered the hole completely. The hardest part was searching through the debris. My mother, I saw her head cracked open. I could no longer see the goodness of her face. Blood, there was blood on the broken walls, on the shattered plates. With my bare hands I scooped up what was left of my father. There was no end. I asked you, your brother and yourself, not to come near. I asked it also of your mother. No one ought to have to do that. No one, not even the guiltiest of men, ought to have to recover what’s left of their parents in the ruins of their house. I dug the hole that splits the sky in two, as our ancestors said. And I heard the deadly boring buzz of flies, as our ancestors also said. My son, one must not fear death.”
From sentence to sentence, Zahed’s voice softened in the semidarkness of the shed. Amed found it unsettling and at the same time comforting to hear his father talking to him this way.
“We live every day in the fear that it will be our last. We don’t sleep very well and when we do sleep, nightmares stalk us. Entire villages are destroyed every week. Our dead grow in number. The war gets worse, Amed. We have no choice. The bomb that destroyed your grandparents’ house came from the other side of the mountain. You know that, right? More bombs will come from that cursed place. Every morning, when I open my eyes and see that the orange grove is still there under the sun, I thank God for this miracle. Amed, if I could, I would take your place. Your mother, too, wouldn’t hesitate for a second. Nor your brother. Especially your brother, who loves you so much. Soulayed will return. It’s he who will take you to the foot of the mountain. He’ll come back soon with his jeep, in a few days or perhaps in a few weeks, but certainly before the harvest. It’s you who will wear the belt.”
Zahed opened the canvas bag. His hands trembled slightly. Amed saw this despite the shed’s dim light. Watching his father, Amed imagined that he was extricating something from the bag that was alive, grey or green, a mysterious and dangerous animal.
“I must tell you something else. Your brother is not yet cured. He could not wear the belt. He’s too weak. That’s why I chose you.”
“And if Aziz were not sick, who would you have chosen?” asked Amed, with a composure that surprised his father.
For a long moment, Zahed didn’t know how to answer his son, who was already regretting the question. Amed knew that his brother was very sick, and that he would never be cured. Tamara had left no doubt in Amed’s mind as to the seriousness of Aziz’s illness. He was going to die. Just like Amed, if he didn’t trade places with his brother.
“I would have asked the oranges to decide in my stead.”
“The oranges?”
“Here’s what I would have done: I’d have given an orange to your brother, and another to you. The one who found the most seeds in his orange, he’s the one who would have left.”
Amed smiled. Zahed stood up. The way he held the belt of explosives in his hands lent the object a solemn importance. Amed then saw that it was not at all like what he and his brother had cobbled together to amuse themselves. It seemed heavy and malign. Amed went near and touched it gingerly.
“Do you want to take it?”
“Isn’t it dangerous?” asked Amed, drawing back a step.
“No. It’s not connected to the detonator. You know, that’s what will enable you to . . . well, you know what I mean.”
Amed knew what a detonator was. His father handed him the belt.
&
nbsp; “Soulayed made me understand that you should love the belt. That you should see it as part of yourself. You can wear it whenever you like. You must accustom yourself to its weight, to its touch. But never take it out of here. You understand? And above all, don’t come here with your brother. That would only complicate things.”
“I promise.”
“You’re not afraid?”
“No,” Amed lied, “I’m not afraid.”
“You’re brave. I’m proud of you. We’re all proud of you.”
There was a long silence, during which Zahed no longer dared to look at his son.
“Here, this is the key to the lock. From now on, you can come here whenever you want.”
Zahed bent over Amed and placed a kiss on his brow. Then he walked away. When he opened the door, light streamed into the shed, blinding Amed. Once the door was closed, he found himself again in darkness, the belt in his hands. He hardly dared breathe. Suddenly, he thought he saw a face appear, floating in space.
“Grandfather, is it you?”
Amed was certain he’d seen his grandfather Mounir’s face. He knew he was dead and buried in the orange grove, but the vision was so powerful that he called out again.
“Answer me, grandfather, is it you?”
As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, Amed again made out the shed’s walls, and the tools lined up on makeshift shelves. The sun from the skylight made the scythes glimmer, along with the pruning shears and the ends of the shovels and saws. Amed glanced around him. The vision had vanished for good. He breathed deeply and placed the belt around his waist. His muscles tensed. He took a few hesitant steps.
“Now I’m a real soldier.”
Crouched behind a bush in the garden, Aziz saw his father leave the shed without Amed and go back to work in the orange grove. He wasn’t surprised at his father’s choice. He waited for Amed to follow him out, but in vain. After a long while, Aziz decided to go and join Amed in the shed. Slowly, he opened the big door a crack.
“Amed, what are you doing?”
His brother didn’t reply, so he stepped inside.
“I know you’re there. Answer me.”
“Don’t come in.”
“Why?”
“Leave me alone.”
Aziz advanced, slowly making out his brother’s silhouette in the half light.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t come near me.”
“Why?”
“It’s dangerous.”
Aziz froze. He heard his brother breathing noisily.
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t move.”
“Are you sick?”
“Leave.”
“Why?”
“I’m wearing the belt and if I move . . .”
“You’re ridiculous!”
“Everything will blow up. Go away!”
“I’m going to get Father,” said Aziz, frightened.
“You believed me? You’re stupid,” Amed shouted with a laugh, running at his brother so fast that he knocked him to the ground. “You’re really stupid. The belt has no detonator!”
Aziz grabbed his brother’s legs, and threw him to the ground in turn. The two fought wildly.
“I’ll kill you!”
“Give me the belt, I’m the one who should go!”
“I’m the one Father chose, I’m the one who has to go.”
“I want to try it, take it off!”
“Never!”
Aziz hit his brother in the face. Amed stood up, dizzied. He took hold of a long scythe leaning against a wall.
“Come near and I’ll carve you into little pieces.”
“Try!”
“I’m serious, Aziz.”
The two brothers eyed each other without moving, each listening to the other’s shallow breathing. They were still merely children. Something had changed, as if the darkness had imposed on their young bodies a density and a gravitas only an adult body could bear.
“I’m afraid to die, Aziz.”
Amed put down the scythe. His brother went to him.
“I know. I’ll go.”
“You can’t.”
“I will go, Amed.”
“We can’t disobey Father.”
“I’ll take your place. Father won’t know.”
“He’ll notice.”
“No. Believe me. Take it off,” begged Aziz.
Amed hesitated, then removed the belt with an abrupt gesture. Aziz took it and went to the back of the shed, to where the sunbeam from the skylight almost touched the ground. In the dancing light he scrutinized the object that would slaughter his people’s enemies and usher him into paradise. He was fascinated. The belt was made up of a dozen small cylindrical compartments filled with explosives.
Amed came to join him. “Do you think the dead can come back?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think I saw Grandfather a while ago.”
“Where?”
“There,” said Amed, pointing to a spot in front of them.
“Are you sure?”
“It was his face. He disappeared right away.”
“You saw a ghost.”
“When you die, maybe you’ll come back too.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Aziz said anxiously.
Amed put the belt back in the canvas bag he’d hidden under the old tarp. When the two brothers emerged from the shed, the light of day hurt their eyes.
Amed went to join his mother, who was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. She poured rice onto the page of an old newspaper, and asked her son to pick it over. Amed liked helping his mother cook, even if he was a bit ashamed of it. It was unusual for a boy. When he’d first begun offering to help her, Tamara, looking surprised, had refused. He’d asked again, and in the end she’d accepted. Since then, she had cherished and sought out these moments with her son. When Amed went several days without making a little visit to the kitchen, she worried and wondered whether Zahed had spoken to him. She knew that her husband found such behavior inappropriate for a boy.
Amed was concentrating on his task, picking little stones and pieces of dirt out of the rice. His moves were rapid and precise. Tamara dared not ask the question that was burning her lips. She waited for her son to break the unusual silence that was growing between them. These moments they shared were generally an opportunity for conversations they couldn’t otherwise have. The feeling of complicity between mother and son sometimes had them laughing out loud. Amed also took these opportunities to talk about his aunt Dalimah, whom he missed. Every one of the letters he received from his aunt was special to him. At first, his mother had read them to him. But since he’d learned to make out words, he would reread his aunt’s letters for hours. She told stories about her new life. She described the subway, a train that passed through neighborhoods under the city’s streets and buildings! She talked to him about the snow that, in just a few hours, covered the roofs of houses and brought a woolly silence down from the sky. The few photos she slipped into the envelopes astonished him and made him all the more curious. Amed especially liked the ones where you saw the city lit up at night, or those showing high bridges and the river they spanned with their steel structures, and the blinking ribbon of automobile headlights. She was careful never to send photos of her husband. His aunt once wrote that she thought of the orange grove every time she ate an orange. She would have loved to see it again, to walk between the rows of trees with her little Amed, breathing in along with him the perfume surrounding their white flowers in the summer.
“It’s done,” Amed said suddenly to his mother.
Tamara thought he’d finished sorting the rice. She looked at her son and understood, relieved, that he was talking about the switch.
“Did you ask him?”
“Yes, today in the . . .”
“You didn’t let on that he was sick?”
“No!”
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�You mustn’t.”
“No! I did like you said.”
“You said you were afraid, is that right?”
“Yes. I told him I was afraid of dying.”
“My poor Amed! Forgive me! Forgive me! I know you’re brave, just like your brother. It’s horrible, what I’m asking of you, so horrible . . .”
“Don’t cry, Mama.”
“What’s the use of bringing children into the world if it’s just to sacrifice them like poor animals being sent to the slaughterhouse!”
“Don’t cry anymore.”
“No, I’m not crying anymore. You see, I’ve stopped crying. And we’ve done this for Aziz, you mustn’t forget. Now finish sorting the rice.”
Tamara dried her tears and lit a fire under the big pot.
“You have to be careful about one thing, Amed.”
“What, Mama?”
“Your brother, since he’s been sick, has grown thinner.”
“Not really.”
“But yes! Haven’t you noticed? His cheeks are not as round as yours. He has less appetite than you do. Watch your brother’s plate, and make sure you eat less than him. I feel terrible having to ask you that, so terrible, but swear to me that you’ll do it, Amed!”
“Yes, I’ll do it.”
“Your father mustn’t be aware of the switch. It would be horrible if he discovered it. I don’t dare even think about it.”
“Don’t worry. In a few days, I’ll be as thin as Aziz, and no one will be able to tell us apart.”
“I will.”
“Yes, you, but only you.”
“I’d understand if you hated me.”
“Here, I’ll finish sorting the rice.”
“Thank you, Amed.”
“I’ll never hate you.”
“I’m going to cut myself with a knife.”
“Why?”
“We’ll do the switch at the last minute.”
“What are you talking about, Aziz?”
The Orange Grove Page 4
