Ishmael's Oranges

by Claire Hajaj

  ‘Listen, Salim,’ she said and then stopped. Her hand reached over to touch his arm. ‘Please, Salim, promise me you won’t get all crazy.’ That word, majnoon, was his father’s favourite insult. That Nadia used it now told him there was some problem, something to do with Abu Hassan.

  A door opened behind them with a click. Salim turned to see Rafan emerge from the bedroom. His small face was sleepy and white, his mother’s green eyes hiding under pale eyelids.

  ‘What are you doing home?’ asked Salim, opening his arms for the boy.

  ‘I was sick so Mama let me stay home from school.’ Rafan came slowly, trailing his fingers along the chair backs. When he reached Salim, he curled his thin body into his brother’s side and looked up into his face.

  ‘Did Nadia tell you?’ he said, small fingers tapping Salim’s arm. ‘Baba is going back to Jaffa, to sell the house.’

  ‘What?’ Salim went rigid, panic rushing through him like ice water. ‘That’s impossible. Baba would never do that, never.’ He turned to Nadia, who spread helpless hands. She slapped Rafan on his forehead, half-loving, half-scolding.

  ‘Rafan, you’re a real troublemaker,’ she said. ‘What do you know about anything, you monkey?’ Then to Salim, ‘Habibi, don’t get upset. Nothing is decided. Your father is at the office with Tareq, talking to Abu Mazen.’ Tareq was a family lawyer, making a little living piecing together the broken parts of Arab lives.

  ‘But he can’t sell,’ Salim said. He felt seven years old again, pleading. ‘It’s the last thing we have, now all the money’s gone.’

  ‘That’s just it, Salim. The money has gone. Your father and mother want you to have something to live on, not just dreams.’ Nadia’s eyes were sympathetic, but life had taught her that sentimentality does not feed you, or keep you warm at night.

  ‘Where’s Mama?’ Salim asked. She would never let this happen.

  ‘She went to Al-Jameela’s for a haircut,’ said Rafan. ‘She knows about it, though. She told me.’ Salim stared at his brother in disbelief. Rafan was only eight, a baby still – what right did he have to her secrets?

  Nadia took Salim’s hand. ‘I know how important that place is to you, habibi, believe me,’ she said gently. ‘But please, don’t worry yourself sick. They’ll all be home soon. We’ll talk it through.’

  He nodded and detached himself from her. Hoisting his schoolbag onto his shoulder, he walked into their little bedroom.

  It was close and hot, the air motionless. He lay down on his mattress underneath the window.

  The boys had all shared a room until Hassan left for England two years ago, to live with Tareq’s relatives. Hassan’s bed was still just as he’d left it, his blanket patterned with little black footballs. Rafan’s mattress was on the floor beside it, filling the room with a sour stink. At first the little boy had tried to climb in with Hassan, who had no time for him. ‘He pisses every fucking night,’ he’d complained. ‘Pissing or crying is all he ever does.’ So Rafan had started crawling onto Salim’s mattress in the dark, whenever his own bed became too wet or full of pursuing dreams. Sometimes Salim woke up damp and smelling of urine, but he couldn’t find it in him to deny his brother’s need.

  Something to live on, not just dreams. It was all very well for them to say. But what was life worth, once all the dreams have become dust?

  After a while a key turned in the front door, and he heard Rafan’s shrill voice crying out ‘Mama, Mama!’

  Swinging his legs off the bed, Salim moved towards the door, opening it a crack. His mother passed him by, her copper hair shining in the sunlight as she leaned forward to scoop Rafan up in her arms. She looked fresh and even happy – perfumed and coiffured, wearing a light red dress with flowers stitched along the hem.

  He opened the door and said, ‘Hi, Mama.’ She turned, Rafan with his arm around her legs.

  ‘Salim, habibi. How was school today?’ She smiled, reaching out her hand for him. Surely, surely, this nonsense about the house could not be true?

  ‘Not bad. They think I’m doing well.’

  ‘So they should, that clever brain of yours. If only I had half of your brain, I’d be rich by now.’

  Salim shrugged to hide his pleasure. Nadia, standing in the kitchen door, came to put her hand on Salim’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s a very smart young man, for sure,’ she said, almost defensively. It irritated him; sometimes Nadia acted as if she didn’t trust his mother.

  ‘Mama,’ Salim said, as his mother turned to walk into her bedroom, ‘the house – our house in Jaffa.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Are we selling it?’ The words came out in a higher pitch than he’d wanted. His mother’s face smoothed into a blank.

  ‘It’s more complicated than that, Salim,’ she said – but then the sound of the door stopped whatever she had been planning to say. Abu Hassan and Tareq were home.

  Nadia hurried over to kiss her husband and help her sweating father to his armchair. Casting a glance over at Salim she said, ‘I think the boys are keen to hear what’s been happening, Baba. Can you tell us anything?’ Salim realized she wanted to keep him out of trouble, by asking the first question herself.

  Abu Hassan shook his head. ‘These Yehudin make it all so difficult,’ he said. ‘First it’s my house, then it’s not my house. Shit on these new laws! By God, what right do they have to say it’s not my house?’

  He reached for the salted sunflower seeds and began crunching. Salim had never seen him so flustered. He remembered that day, long ago in Jaffa, when Mazen had joked about their fathers. For all their money, he could see that Abu Hassan was drowning, like a flounder in the net.

  ‘Baba, why would you try to sell the house?’ Salim asked, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘We always said we would go back one day, didn’t we?’ He’d dreamed of it; the misery of the past eight years wiped out by the turn of their key in the lock.

  His mother answered. ‘It’s not a question of wanting or not wanting, Salim,’ she said. ‘We must think of our future. Who do you think can pay for that school uniform of yours, or that university you say you want to go to?’

  Salim looked from Tareq to Abu Hassan, his heart still racing and his fingers numb.

  Tareq said to Abu Hassan, ‘Maybe we should take Salim with us tomorrow?’

  ‘What’s happening tomorrow?’ Salim asked.

  ‘We’re going to the municipal offices in Tel Aviv,’ Tareq said, setting his briefcase down on the coffee table. ‘There is some dispute about the house, it seems. We’ve been on the telephone all day, to Abu Mazen and the Israeli authorities.’

  He gave Salim a wink and nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Let’s go and help your sister, habibi, and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  The kitchen was just big enough, Nadia used to say, for one person not to step on a cat’s tail. Nadia busied herself on the balcony hanging out the washing. Tareq put on a pot of thick, black Turkish coffee, adding four teaspoons of sugar and stirring. Salim waited, impatient. Finally Tareq sighed.

  ‘Okay, so here it is. When the war ended, the Israelis started planning how to claim all the land left empty by the Arabs. So they passed some laws saying the people who fled – well, they had no right to come back again. The State took their homes and gave them some money, to say it was fairness. Do you understand me?’

  Salim nodded, desperate to show he could follow it all.

  ‘To stop the Jews taking your father’s house under these laws, his friend Abu Mazen moved in and pretended to be his cousin. And now your father is thinking to sell up,’ this, very gently, ‘to get the money he needs for your education and your future. But, it seems there are some problems. So we will meet Abu Mazen tomorrow at the City Hall in Tel Aviv, to speak to him and the Israelis together. Then we’ll see.’

  ‘OK, habibi?’ His uncle squeezed his shoulder and Salim forced a smile. ‘Things will work out, don’t worry.’ Then suddenly Nadia was between them, complaining to Tareq about
another problem with the stove, cutting off Salim’s questions before they’d been formed.

  A strange atmosphere filled the flat as evening fell, like a thunderstorm brewing in the far distance. Supper was cleared and the men relaxed in front of the radio listening to General Nasser of Egypt rant about the Suez Canal. Rafan had his ear to the box, bewitched by its tinny sounds, his small fingers tapping and twisting. Nadia stayed in her room, mending clothes.

  Salim sat alone with his bubbling thoughts. A great desire to see his mother filled him. Rafan was distracted for once, and she would be alone.

  Finally he found her sitting out on the balcony. As he hurried towards her, her head twisted away and he faltered in sudden unease. Is she crying? There were lines on the sharp planes of her cheeks and her eyes were in shadow. A piece of paper lay open in her hand, yellow with black type. Salim thought it was a telegram. When she saw him, her hand closed over it, covering the sender’s name.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ She turned away from him, out towards the north. ‘A letter from an old friend.’

  ‘From Lebanon?’ he said, half-joking. Away to the north, the hills of the Lebanese border were split into red and black chasms.

  She stiffened. ‘Why ask me that, ya’eini?’

  ‘No reason,’ he said, surprised. ‘You just say sometimes that you miss it. I guess you miss it just as much as Jaffa. Do you?’

  Salim saw her glance at his face, a questioning look, hard to read. ‘I do,’ she said at last, her voice slow. ‘I was so young.’ A laugh came from her, scornful. ‘A young fool. My father used to call me the prize of the house. I was so proud, so special, and I thought he meant my life ahead was going to be the prize. But really he meant it was me. That I would be his gift to the highest bidder.’ Her eyes were almost black, looking past him to the empty horizon. ‘And now look what has happened to us.’ She reached out her hand, palm facing forward to the setting sun, a gesture of denial. Then she dropped it to her side. ‘No one understands,’ she said quietly. ‘I hope one day you can understand it, Salim. Why things had to be this way.’

  ‘What things, Mama?’ A torrent of love streamed through him and he went to hug her. Her arms were about him and all wondering left him. He was perfectly content.

  After a time, he asked her, ‘Why did Baba never go back to Jaffa?’

  ‘He did – once,’ she replied. ‘During the second truce. He went to see Abu Mazen, to give him a copy of the title deeds for the house. He was gone for three days,’ she laughed suddenly, ‘and you boys, you didn’t even notice. Then after that,’ she sighed, gesturing out at the deepening skies, ‘we were all in this Israel and it was very difficult to make sense of it. Things moved on – you were in school, Hassan left us for England… it needed an energetic man to sort it out. And your father is not an energetic man.’

  ‘But you want to go back, don’t you, Mama? It’s your home too, more than Lebanon.’

  She laughed again.

  ‘Ah, Salim, you know better. It’s not how long you live somewhere that makes it a home. Home is a feeling here,’ she tapped his chest, ‘that you belong somewhere and somewhere belongs to you. But, I’ll tell you a secret, habibi. Some people don’t feel they belong anywhere. No matter where they are, they are always unhappy.’ Her voice shook. ‘They go from place to place trying to find peace. And usually they find themselves back where they started. It’s the greatest curse under heaven.’ She took a breath, wiped her forehead and took Salim’s chin in her hands. ‘I pray you escape it, my clever son.’

  ‘But we know where our home is,’ he said, disturbed. ‘We were happy there. You were.’

  ‘Were we?’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Even in Jaffa, you and me, we had restless feet.’

  She stood up in a sudden, fierce movement, her body turning northwards like a needle towards the deepening shadows.

  ‘Let your father dream of Palestine,’ she said. ‘He’s the one who really knows where he belongs – with all the other useless ay’an, eating nuts and drinking coffee. Their time has passed for ever now. That’s why he’s selling up. But you, Salim. You’re made for better things. Don’t forget it.’

  ‘Okay, Mama,’ he said, softly. Then he watched her walk into the dark kitchen, the tall line of her back disappearing, the telegram clutched tightly in one elegant fist. And he suddenly thought of a felucca he’d once seen drifting on the sea, cut loose from its moorings, its white sail tall and straight against the falling sun.

  Later, Salim sat in his bedroom trying to concentrate on his maths homework. He was good at sums. They comforted him, hinting at a universe where rules right and wrong were clear and dependable, obedient to fundamental laws.

  But today the numbers swam before his eyes. What did it matter if one and one made two? The Israelis didn’t care about any laws but their own. They could claim one and one makes ten as easily as they said what’s yours is mine.

  Pushing his books to one side, he reached under his pillow. The hard edges of the picture frame met his fingers, cool and reassuring. For eight years it had lain with him while he slept, blending into his dreams.

  Now his fingers traced the pale tree under the glass, a dark sliver against ghostly white walls. It was a lifetime ago that they had left it, so sure that they would return one day in triumph.

  When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the terror of that day. Jaffa’s familiar streets had transformed into a locked labyrinth, threatening to trap them forever until they followed the thousands of others into the churning sea. The Al-Ishmaeli car had frantically hurled itself around, turning countless times, until at last they found their way into the quiet hills and Nadia’s waiting arms.

  Since then he’d never given up hope. When they heard Mayor Heikal on the radio saying that Jaffa had fallen, he wouldn’t believe it. Heikal’s an idiot, he’d shouted, like Mazen in the Square that day. Even when he heard Jews had rounded up all the Arabs behind barbed wire fences in Al-Ajami, he trusted Abu Mazen to keep their home safe.

  As the summer burned and the smell of dried sweat filled every corner, he’d begun to understand that the Najjada and the Arab Liberation Army and the five nations who’d promised to save them were all failing. And when the green-shirted Jewish army finally came marching into Nazareth, Salim had climbed onto the balcony and screamed Come on! Drive us out! Send us back! But Tareq came to tell them that the kindly Jewish commander had refused to expel them – and he’d wept in disappointment.

  Now he remembered the worst moment, how Hassan had been parroting something about driving all the Jews into the sea as revenge for Jaffa – for Clock Tower Square and Deir Yassin. Tareq had shaken his head, saying, ‘Talk like this will give us more Deir Yassins. Maybe it’s time for peace, before we lose the little we have left.’ Abu Hassan had slammed his fist on the table, making everyone jump. ‘Abadan!’ he’d shouted. Never!

  His voice sent a spear through Salim’s heart; at that very instant he’d been looking at his picture, planning his day of return. Abadan! Never! The word came back to him now, ringing through long years of waiting.

  He’d heard it in his dreams, seen it in the new world around him and the Star of David flying in their streets and schools. He would not believe it.

  Putting his hand on the fading image he whispered his promise: I will come back. It’s not too late. I’ll come back to you, and we’ll have our harvest.

  The great Tel Aviv adventure – as Nadia deemed it – dawned on a bright and scorching Thursday. Salim had the day off school; Tareq loaned him a smart pair of trousers and a clean, white shirt.

  In the gloomy basement, Salim, Abu Hassan and Tareq squeezed into the faithful old Austin. The deeds to the Orange House and lands were tucked safely away in Tareq’s briefcase. The two women and Rafan came downstairs to wish them all good luck. For the first time in his life, Salim felt like a man.

  He leaned his head out of the back window and smiled at his mother. Her cl
othes were so plain that day – a long black dress and clumpy black shoes – not her usual style at all. Salim thought it must mean she was going to miss them. She’d be spending the day in the flat on her own; Thursday was Nadia’s turn for coffee and chat at the market.

  He wished they were all going together, for a family trip somewhere wild and fun like the old carnivals in the desert of Nabi Ruben. Maybe they would do things like that again, once the business in Tel Aviv was done.

  ‘Goodbye, Mama!’ he called. ‘We’ll come back with good news, I promise!’

  She crouched down beside him. ‘I know you will, ya’eini,’ she said. ‘You’re such a man all of a sudden.’ She touched his cheek for a second. ‘Take care of him, Tareq,’ she said.

  ‘For sure I will!’ Tareq replied cheerfully, leaning back from the driver’s seat to slap Salim’s shoulder. Rafan pushed past his mother to press his gap-toothed mouth to Salim’s cheek. As they pulled away Salim saw the little boy waving, one half of his face alive with smiles, the other hidden in shadow. And then they all dwindled away, lost in the blackness of the garage.

  The drive from Nazareth to Tel Aviv was a journey from the old world into the new. At the edge of the Galilean hill country, ancient Arab towns and villages balanced precariously on the land’s broken bones. Heading south-west and downwards, these dark green, rocky slopes smoothed into the undulating yellows of the Jezreel Valley.

  At school they’d learned about the centuries of Turkish rule, when great Palestinian granaries were sown here in the Vale of Esdraelon. But that was before the Sursuk family from Lebanon sold out to the Jewish National Fund. They reached out their arms from Beirut, Nadia told him on one of their sad evenings, and cleared nearly seven hundred fellahin out of their farms. The Jews paid the peasants for their trouble – a pittance of silver for an easy conscience. And that’s why they came, she said, the fellahin – flooding into Haifa, and Jaffa and Nazareth, with nothing but their names and a handful of coins. Their fields were handed over to the Jews, empty but for birds and mice.