“When you’re about to leave with Soulayed, I’m going to arrange to wound myself with a knife. But not really. You, on the other hand, have to do it for real.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“You only have to make a little cut. On your left hand. Don’t make a mistake, Amed, it has to be the left hand.”
“All right. But I still don’t see why.”
“I’m going to take blood from a sheep.”
“Blood from a sheep!” repeated Amed, completely perplexed.
“To make them believe I’ve hurt myself. I’ll put it on my hand and wrap it in a cloth. When we switch, I’ll wash it. No one will see the wound on my hand. But you, everyone will see yours.”
“Because I’ll really be cut,” said Amed, beginning to grasp what his brother was up to.
“That’s it. There will be no doubt. You’ll be Aziz with the wounded hand, and I’ll be Amed, ready to leave with Soulayed.”
“Aziz with the wounded hand,” repeated Amed with a sigh.
The two brothers were lying on the roof of the house. The first stars had just come out. They pierced the sky one by one, before riddling it by the dozen with sparkling points of light. Amed and Aziz had got in the habit of climbing up there to take advantage of the breeze. They lay on their backs near the big water tank, gazing far into the endless night.
“Don’t be sad, Amed. Soon I’ll be up there. Promise me you’ll come here every night to tell me about your day.”
“How will I be able to find you? There are so many stars.”
“Come, let’s go to bed. I’m cold.”
Amed touched his brother’s forehead. It was very hot.
“Are you sick?”
“Just tired. Come. Maybe Soulayed will be here tomorrow. Let’s go to sleep.”
Over the next days, Aziz behaved like a little general with his brother, giving him orders all the time. Amed let himself be guided, impressed by the boy who would soon be sacrificing his life.
Aziz kept saying that Amed shouldn’t worry, that everything would go well. It was very simple. They had to learn to do everything the same way. Though they were identical twins, their parents rarely mistook them. Only their grandmother had confused them all the time, to the point where they’d suspected her of doing so on purpose in order to make fun of them. And so their resemblance had to be not only physical, but also expressed by their behavior.
“You see, you move like a frightened bird.”
“Not at all,” retorted Amed.
“Yes you do! You’re nervous. You keep making little jumps instead of taking steps.”
“And you! You walk like a sleeping fish.”
“Idiot! Fish don’t walk.”
“No, but if they walked, they would walk like you!”
“Listen, I’m going to stop dragging my feet, and you’re going to put yours firmly on the ground with every step. Then we’ll be walking the same way. Let’s try!”
Aziz continued giving his brother lessons so that all the differences between them would disappear. He pointed out to Amed the gestures he had to avoid making, and the few intonations that might imperil their switch. It became a game like any other, except in this game there would be no winner. Curiously, Aziz made no reference to their most obvious difference, which would almost certainly betray them if anyone took the time to look at the brothers side by side: Aziz’s thinness. It was as if he were oblivious to the weight he had lost since he fell ill. As his mother had suggested, Amed made sure he didn’t finish his meals, and even went so far as to sneak some of his own food onto his brother’s plate. Tamara sometimes helped Amed by serving him less and giving Aziz a double portion. But she had to stop one day when Aziz asserted that she was being unjust to his brother. She was afraid he’d discover their collusion. Tamara cursed herself several times a day. She was ashamed and felt as guilty as if she had plotted with one of her sons to poison the other in small doses, whereas she loved them both with all her heart. But she was determined that this endless war would not rob her of both sons. And so when Amed was not losing weight fast enough, Tamara suggested he make himself vomit after the evening meal. After all, her husband had told her that Soulayed would be back before the approaching harvest. Amed pushed his finger down his throat and threw up his food, tears streaming down his cheeks.
They saw their parents leave for the village. Their father had borrowed the neighbor’s truck. They were going to buy pesticides. Tamara had insisted on going along. She liked trips to the village: breaking her routine, meeting other women who were also doing errands. She brought back treats for the boys and occasionally, though they were hard to find, illustrated comic books.
Once the truck had disappeared along the road, Aziz grabbed his brother by the arm and pulled him toward the shed.
“Come on, let’s not waste any time! You have the key?”
“I always have it on me.”
Aziz was anxious to see the explosives belt again. Amed opened the lock while glancing at the road to be sure his father hadn’t turned back. Aziz rushed into the shed and pulled the canvas bag out from under the tarp.
“Let’s go into the orange grove!”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“No it isn’t. They won’t be back for at least an hour. Come on, Amed, come!”
Amed followed his brother reluctantly. They sat down beneath the foliage of a big orange tree. Its perfume mellowed the air. Bees buzzed in the high branches. His breathing shallow, Aziz pulled the belt out of the bag.
“It’s heavy.”
“Father said you had to get used to its weight.”
“Give me the key, I want to keep it with me. As soon as I can, I’ll go into the shed to try on the belt. I have to be ready when I leave.”
With misgivings, Amed gave his brother the key. Aziz stood up to try the belt, and took a few awkward steps.
“You have to hide it under your shirt.”
“I know, I’m not crazy.”
“So do it!”
“I’ll decide when I want to do it.”
“All right, don’t get mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“So why are you shouting, Aziz?”
Aziz went off, snaking through the trees. He paused, hid behind a tree trunk, watched for enemies, ran to another trunk. He ended his game by scrambling with some difficulty onto an enormous rock. Long ago his grandfather, after many fruitless attempts to dislodge it, had reconciled himself to its presence in the midst of his trees. “After all,” he’d thought, “this rock might have come from heaven.” Zahed had sworn to himself that he’d break it down with a sledgehammer, but he, too, had given up.
With a scream that made Amed jump, Aziz blew himself up, in the hope that the orange grove would be rid, once and for all, of that solitary and stubborn rock. His arms in the air, he imagined a rain of little fragments striking him on the head, forgetting for a moment that if he followed this thought to its conclusion, his body would also be part of the debris falling from the shaken sky.
“I did it!”
“What?”
“Don’t you see? I blew it up.”
“Blew what up?”
“The rock.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Imagine it, stupid!”
“I don’t feel like imagining anything today.”
“What’s wrong, Amed?”
“Do you ever think about Aunt Dalimah?”
“What about her?”
“You never answer her letters.”
“I don’t want to talk about her. Do you know why?”
“Is it because of her husband?”
“He’s one of those people who shoot bombs at us from the other side of the mountain.”
“Maybe he’s different.”
“No. Father says they’re all dogs. You heard him. And you heard Soulayed.”
“We’d better go back into the shed now, don’t you think?”
/> As the two brothers were shutting the heavy shed door behind them, they heard a motor.
“Father’s back,” murmured Amed.
“No, that doesn’t sound like the neighbor’s truck.”
An instant later, a door slammed. Then they heard someone approaching.
“Come on, Aziz, let’s hide in the back.”
They had just enough time to slide under the tarp, near the tools, before the door cracked open with a slow creaking sound. A man entered, took a few steps, then stopped. The two boys held their breaths.
“I know you’re there. I saw you from the road. Why are you hiding? Ah, I think I’m burning!”
The man leaned over the tarp.
“There are some really big rats here. Fortunately, there’s an excellent shovel whiling away its time right there. All I have to do is to take it and slam it down on those nasty rats that think they’re invisible,” Soulayed joked. “Come on out, I have to talk to you. Go find your father.”
“He’s not here,” said Aziz, poking his head out from under the tarp.
“He’s gone to the village with our mother,” added Amed quickly.
The boys came out of their hiding place. In the shadows, Soulayed could make out the uneasy brightness of their eyes.
“So is it you your father’s chosen?”
Aziz nervously hid with his arms the explosives belt he’d not had time to take off.
“That belt you’re wearing is not a toy.”
“I know.”
“Are you Amed or Aziz?”
“I’m . . . I’m Amed,” Aziz lied.
“Amed. Well. Amed, be blessed.”
Soulayed took from his jacket pocket a bundle of money neatly tied up with string.
“Here, give this to your father. It’s a gift, compensation for what happened to your grandparents. Your father will need it. And your mother will be happy. You know, Amed, what’s going to happen is both sad and happy. You understand, right? But you, you must just be happy. You’re going to die a martyr. You are three times blessed.”
Aziz took the money without saying a word. He’d never seen so much.
“Prepare yourself, Amed. I’ll be back in two days.”
Soulayed left them in a heavy silence. He opened the shed door with a sharp blow and disappeared in a burst of dust-churned light. Amed and Aziz waited for the noise of his jeep to die away before emerging from their lethargy. Aziz took off the belt and put it back in its hiding place.
“Here, Amed, take the money. It’s you who’ll be giving it to Father.”
“You’re right. Now let’s get out of here.”
Aziz locked the shed door and gave the key to his brother.
“You don’t want to keep it?”
“Didn’t you hear Soulayed? I’m going to leave in two days. I won’t have any more chances to come back to the shed.”
Aziz then looked at his brother with such intensity that Amed turned away and started to run for no reason, disappearing into the fields of orange trees.
Sadness reigned in the house. The air was heavy in spite of the breeze from the open windows. The house gave off a silence, as the orange trees gave off light. It was as if the walls, the floor, and the furniture all knew that Soulayed would be returning the next day.
All day Aziz whispered to his brother that he was happy, that all would go well.
Amed wanted to fold his brother in his arms and make Aziz disappear in his embrace, so that no one could take him away. Aziz was going to die like Halim. Amed would never see him again on earth. Aziz had promised that he would wait for Amed at the gates to Paradise. He would even wait if Amed grew as old as their uncle Bhoudir, who had died at the age of ninety-seven. And then they would be together again.
When night came, Zahed brought them all together in the house. He’d invited some neighbors and the two employees who helped him in the orange grove. With ardent pride, he explained that his young son Amed would soon be a martyr. All saw this invitation as an honor being bestowed on them.
Tamara had prepared a meal worthy of a great celebration. She’d hung from the ceiling a garland of bulbs that washed the room in multicolored light. She now regretted having done so. This joyous light struck her as a sacrilege, a miserable lie. She served Amed, seated next to his father, first. He was ashamed. He didn’t dare look at his brother, who ought to have received the honor. Before starting to eat, Zahed thanked God for having given him such a courageous son. He could no longer hide his tears. Amed rose as if he wanted to speak out and admit everything. Tamara saw this. She came and held him to her. She murmured in his ear that he should say nothing: “Do it for your brother, I beg you.” Amed looked at his brother. Aziz was already another person.
The meal over, the plates put away, the guests came one by one to greet Amed, touching him, embracing him, weeping. Then they left in silence, their heads lowered as if there were nothing more to say or do. Tamara doused the garland of little lights, and the yellowish glow of candles reasserted itself in the house that seemed, suddenly, to lack air.
The two brothers climbed up to their room earlier than usual. Aziz stood before the window for a long time, studying the stars in the sky.
It was just before noon when the noise of the jeep tore the day in half. Zahed had not gone to work in the fields, and had given his two employees the day off. He, Tamara, and the two boys fixed their eyes on the horizon, incapable of doing anything else. All four waited in silence, sitting on the threshold of their house. As soon as the jeep braked in a cloud of dust, they all rose, but without taking a single step toward Soulayed. He walked toward them slowly. He was not alone. A man dragged his feet behind Soulayed, neither young nor old. He carried an old leather bag over his shoulder. Soulayed didn’t give them the man’s name. He just declared that the man was the “expert.” He had glassy eyes and gave off a sour odor of sweat. Zahed asked Tamara and Aziz to go and wait in the house. They obeyed, reluctantly. The expert approached Amed with a smile.
“Is everything good?”
“I’m good.”
“You’re not very big. How old are you?”
“I’m nine.”
The two men moved toward the toolshed, accompanied by Amed and his father. Amed gave the key to Zahed, who opened the padlock. Then he propped the door wide open with a plank of wood. The day projected a tunnel of light that formed a golden rectangle at the back of the shed. Soulayed asked Zahed to hand the belt to the expert, who gave it a quick examination. Satisfied, he showed Amed a little plastic-coated box that he pulled from his bag. The expert asked Amed if he knew what it was.
“No, I don’t know,” Amed replied timidly.
“It’s a detonator. You understand?” the expert asked, looking into Amed’s eyes.
“I think so.”
“When the moment comes, you just have to press here.”
“All right.”
“You understand?”
“Yes.”
“May God bless you!”
The expert attached the little box to the belt with a yellow wire.
“There’s a second wire. Look at it carefully. It’s red. Do you see it?”
“Yes, I see it.”
“That one, we’ll attach later.”
“Don’t worry, Amed. I’ll take care of that,” added Soulayed, who was standing behind him. “I’ll do it just before you go up the mountain.”
Soulayed said a few words to Zahed that Amed didn’t understand. He then left the shed and came back a minute later, holding a camera.
“Take off your shirt,” the expert instructed Amed, who obeyed, taken aback by his stern tone.
Then the expert held the belt out.
“Here, put it on.”
“Why?” Amed asked nervously.
“For the photo,” Soulayed explained. “Go and stand near the wall. Hold yourself straight. Turn toward the light. That’s it. Don’t lower your head.”
Blinded and dizzy, Amed began to tremble.
“What’s wrong?” shouted Soulayed. “Look at us! Think of our enemies! Think of what they did to your grandparents!”
Amed couldn’t think of anything. He wanted to vomit.
“Lift your head and open your eyes! Look at your father! Don’t dishonor him!”
Soulayed took a photo, then a second one.
“Think of Paradise.”
Amed forced himself to smile, holding back his tears.
“Be happy, be blessed, you have been chosen by God.”
Soulayed took one last photo.
“Put your shirt back on. Your parents will be proud of you when they see your photo with the belt.”
Zahed took his son’s hand: “The moment has come to say farewell to your mother and brother.”
They left the shed. Tamara was waiting with Aziz on the threshold of the house. Aziz had around his hand a handkerchief stained with blood. He quickly explained to his father that he’d just hurt himself, cutting oranges.
“Say good-bye to your brother,” Zahed said to him.
“Not right away.” Aziz ran back into the house and returned with a little tray on which stood a large glass.
“Look at what your brother has prepared for you,” said Tamara in a hesitant voice.
“Here, drink, that way you’ll leave with the taste in your mouth of the best our land produces,” added Aziz.
Aziz approached his brother and let the glass fall on him. The little accident had been devised by the twins some days before. As Amed had told his mother everything in advance, Tamara knew what was going to happen. As planned, she slapped Aziz for his clumsiness. The expert began to laugh. Soulayed silenced him. He carefully removed Amed’s soiled shirt to see if the belt had come in contact with the orange juice. The expert explained that there wasn’t any problem: “Water, juice, or blood, it doesn’t make any difference, you still have to make contact with the detonator.”
“I know,” said Soulayed, irritated. “You don’t have to remind me.”
“Go and change,” Tamara said to Amed.
“I’m going with him,” Aziz added at once.
The two brothers swiftly went up to their room. They took off their clothes. Aziz helped his brother free himself of the belt.
“What’s all this business about the contact?”
The Orange Grove Page 5
