Ishmael's Oranges

by Claire Hajaj

  As the Jezreel Valley ended Salim began to sense the tang of the sea. The wide coastal plain stretched out before him – a bare and hard world where Arab and Jew had once worked side by side, draining swamps and raising great plantations from Jaffa to Acre. But then the Zionists came, Nadia said. And soon no Arabs were working on the colonies springing up along the plains. Nadia told him that foreign landlords and even the ay’an, men like his father, had sold dunam after dunam to the Jews, transforming tenant farms and pastures into mountains of fodder for the Jewish dream. ‘They let the land slip away from us,’ she said. ‘It slipped away until only stones and bitterness were left.’

  On the intersection of the Plain of Sharon and the Philistine Plain stood Tel Aviv. Salim saw it rising out of the haze less than an hour after leaving Nazareth, the sun glinting sharply off its razor-thin edges and smooth, eyeless façades.

  It was blisteringly bright and, as they got nearer, snarled in traffic and smoke. As they slowed to a crawl, Salim began to worry that they would not make their appointment at noon. Tareq was tapping anxiously on the steering wheel as the horns blared all around them. ‘Insha’Allah we’ll make it,’ he said.

  Salim pressed his nose to the window, his breath coming back to warm his cheeks. The roads were wide and full of expensive-looking cars, surrounded by a world of angles, glass and glare.

  By the time Tareq parked the car across the road from the City Hall it was already five minutes to noon. Salim jumped out of the back seat and opened the door for Abu Hassan.

  The building was a quaint old hotel, sadly dilapidated next to its newer neighbours. It was thronged with a mass of motorbikes and people pushing past them. Salim and Tareq both had to elbow their way through, pulling Abu Hassan behind them, until they reached the cool of the lobby.

  Tareq started looking around for Abu Mazen. ‘We’re on time,’ he said, shaking his watch to his ear. ‘So where is he, by God?’ Then, something made him catch his breath.

  Standing at the receptionist’s desk was a tall figure, almost as shabby as the building itself. On seeing the Al-Ishmaelis coming up the steps, he walked towards them, speaking the Arabic greeting: ‘Ahlan wa sahlan, Abu Hassan’ – you’re as welcome as my family. Salim could not believe his eyes. It was Isak Yashuv.

  Abu Hassan looked dumbstruck too. He took Isak’s hand in a daze and stuttered the traditional return, ‘Ahlaeen.’

  Isak then turned to Salim and said, ‘How’s life, Salim? How’s your mama? Elia wanted me to say hello to you. He misses you.’ Salim nodded and tried to smile. It was wonderful and painful to see him again. But what in the world could bring him here?

  ‘Forgive me for coming here without an invitation,’ Isak said, spreading his hands to Abu Hassan and Tareq. ‘I am working now, as a… liaison, you might say, between this municipality and the Arabs in Jaffa. I guess because I speak Arabic and, frankly,’ he ducked his head, looking embarrassed, ‘I’m not much use for anything else these days, with my eyes too bad for sewing. Anyway, I saw your name on the appointment list and I wanted to ask if I could help you at all. I know the man you’re seeing – he’s not a bad one, but young.’

  He looked from Abu Hassan to Tareq, his dark eyes narrow as ever but more clouded now. With his dusty and deeply lined face, Isak looked more like a fellah than anyone else Salim knew.

  Abu Hassan shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’re welcome to help if you can, Abu Elia,’ he said. ‘My son-in-law here,’ he motioned to Tareq, ‘is a lawyer, and he tells me he understands your laws.’ His emphasis was clearly deliberate but Isak didn’t blink.

  ‘Help would be wonderful.’ Tareq’s reply was instant and firm. ‘Thank you for your kindness.’

  ‘All right then,’ said Isak. ‘Well, let’s go up. I’ll show you the way.’

  The sign on the door of their appointment read: Office of the Custodian, Tel Aviv Municipality. A young, pale man sat at a cluttered desk inside, wire-rimmed glasses over his blue eyes and sweat beaded on his receding hairline.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, in Hebrew. ‘You’re on time, that’s a good start.’ Hebrew was now compulsory in school; Salim was now reasonably fluent but he had yet to hear Abu Hassan utter a single word. It put them at a disadvantage now. Doing business in Hebrew was like trying to do arithmetic while balancing on a log.

  Isak gestured for Abu Hassan to take the seat in front of the desk, while Tareq and Salim stood behind. ‘Saeed Al-Ishmaeli, this is Mr Gideon Livnor,’ he said.

  Mr Livnor reached out his hand to Abu Hassan; it was a second before the old man took it, and then dropped it quickly.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Livnor, briskly. ‘You’re welcome, Mr Al-Ishmaeli. I hope we can sort this issue out for you today. I have some records here,’ he indicated a folder in front of him, ‘and I believe you have some with you? The deeds to the properties?’

  Tareq translated quickly for Abu Hassan, who replied, ‘Yes, yes,’ and held out the papers from Tareq’s briefcase. Livnor took them, and looked them over, occasionally rubbing the steam off his glasses. Opening the file in front of him, Salim saw he was comparing another set of papers inside. It confused him for a moment before he realized – these must be the papers Abu Mazen protected for them all these years.

  At last Livnor sighed and took his glasses off again. Salim began to wish he would leave them alone. Grimy and misted, they seemed to bode ill.

  ‘I want to be sure I understand things properly here,’ he said. ‘Mr Al-Ishmaeli, you claim to own two pieces of land in Jaffa – a house in Al-Ajami district and fifteen dunams of citrus farm outside of Jaffa. Correct? And now you want to sell these lands to the State?’ Abu Hassan simply stared, but Tareq answered in Hebrew: ‘That’s right.’ Livnor looked from one to the other before turning back to his papers.

  ‘Well, there are two problems, Mr Al-Ishmaeli. First, our records show that you left your property here in Jaffa in May of ’forty-eight. This house and your other dunams have been vacant since then. Which classifies you under our national legislation as a “present absentee”.’ The words nifkadim nohahim sounded almost funny in Hebrew, like a child’s skipping rhyme.

  ‘I never left,’ interrupted Abu Hassan. ‘My family has been there the whole time.’

  ‘You may not have left the country, but you left your farmlands,’ Livnor said. ‘As a present absentee, your land defaults to the Custodianship Council. Our records show that your orange groves outside Jaffa have already been appropriated, Mr Al-Ishmaeli.’ His voice was flat, mechanical, and Salim found himself wondering how many people he’d delivered this bitter news to, and whether he wept for them later in his bed at night.

  ‘It is morally, legally and in all ways wrong, this thing you are doing,’ said Tareq, his voice thick and furious.

  ‘It’s the law. Many people left their homes. Hundreds of villages and farms were standing empty. They could have been fallow for generations. Now they are being put to good use, for all Israeli citizens.’

  ‘Did you take the homes that the Jews left?’ Salim asked, his voice shaking in his throat. Tareq shot him a warning look, but Livnor ignored him completely.

  ‘The State will give you the compensation to which the law entitles you,’ he said, eyes fixed on Abu Hassan. ‘Our taxation records,’ he brandished another paper from the file, ‘show that your orange groves were valued at four hundred and fifty Israeli pounds in ’forty-eight. Unfortunately,’ and here he glanced up at Tareq, ‘our records also show a large tax debt to Mandate authorities, which remains valid. Taking this debt into account,’ he scribbled on the ledger in front of him, ‘you can claim three hundred Israeli pounds in compensation for these abandoned lands.’

  He tore the paper from the ledger and passed it to Abu Hassan. Salim was reeling from shock. From wealth and independence to three hundred pounds! He clutched the back of his father’s chair.

  ‘This is a joke,’ Tareq protested. ‘Even if these were your lands, which they are not by the way, the mar
ket value would be considerably higher today than four hundred and fifty pounds. I don’t know where you get these numbers from.’

  Livnor made a small gesture with his shoulders and hands, between a shrug and a dismissal. ‘I’m sorry. This is the law. If you want to appeal the amount it’s up to you. Or you could take the money and save your family more difficulties.’

  Abu Hassan was holding the paper without comment and looking at it through unfocused eyes. He was silent so long that eventually Tareq said gently, ‘Baba?’

  The word seemed to jerk him out of a stupor. Abu Hassan’s head snapped up and he said, ‘What about the house?’

  Livnor looked back at his papers, this time more thoughtfully, and drew two identical-looking deeds out of the file.

  ‘I’m seeing this deed today for the first time, Mr Al-Ishmaeli,’ he said, waving the yellowing document that Abu Hassan had just given him. ‘It says that you are the freeholder of the house in Al-Ajami district.

  ‘But I have another document here, lodged with us many years ago, before my time,’ he pointed to his file. ‘It tells me that you were just a tenant in the house. The legal freeholder, according to this paper, was Hamza Abu Mazen Al-Khalili.’

  This time Abu Hassan sat up straight. Salim gasped.

  Livnor took his glasses off again, leaned forward on the table and tried to catch Abu Hassan’s eye. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, with a trace of sympathy. ‘This house is no longer yours.’

  Isak reached over and took the paper out of Livnor’s hand.

  ‘Mr Livnor, I don’t know about these papers,’ he said, ‘but I can promise you that Abu Hassan here was the rightful owner of the property. I have known his family for many years.’ His voice was wheezy and cracked in distress. ‘I can personally vouch for him.’

  Abu Hassan put his hand out across the desk in what looked strangely like supplication. ‘I gave copies of my deeds to Abu Mazen, before the war ended,’ he said. ‘There has been some mistake. The house is mine. My family built it. There has been some mistake,’ he said again, putting his palm on his forehead and rocking his head back and forth under the glare of the strip light.

  ‘This document is damaged,’ said Tareq. ‘It’s been forged or altered. Your people must have seen that. You can’t make out the proper names clearly. And everyone would have known the house belonged to Abu Hassan.’

  Livnor shook his head. ‘As I said, it was before my time.’ His hands tapped the desk. ‘There was a lot of confusion after the war. Arabs were still making trouble in Jaffa. Perhaps the checks were not as vigorous as they should have been.’

  Salim felt his breath coming in shallow pants. He willed his father to speak. But Abu Hassan’s arms were slumped in defeat. His eyes seemed fixed on Livnor’s paper, the only sign of emotion a sudden heave of his chest.

  Livnor sat back in his chair and wiped the sweat off his forehead, like a doctor delivering terminal news. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘There’s nothing to be done.’

  ‘So what does this mean?’ Salim said, light-headed and dry-mouthed. ‘What does it mean for us now?’

  ‘It means,’ said Livnor, ‘that the house has already been sold to the State. By Mr Al-Khalili. The money has been handed over.’ He took off his glasses and spoke directly to Abu Hassan. ‘You must take it up with him yourself, sir. Because this is now out of our hands.’

  Salim could not remember getting back down the stairs. The lobby was now grey and oppressive, the air outside fierce and hostile. There was still no sign of Abu Mazen. Abu Hassan walked off to the nearest payphone, leaving the others standing wordless in the shadow of the City Hall.

  Tareq stood straight with his hand on Salim’s shoulder. Isak spoke hesitantly, his eyes on the ground.

  ‘I’m no lawyer,’ he said, ‘but surely there must have been collusion somewhere. That document Livnor had was not right. The government probably just wanted to take the house and be done with it.’

  Abu Hassan came back ten minutes later, and told them they would meet Abu Mazen at a coffee shop by the beach boardwalk. Salim did not ask why they were not meeting in Jaffa. Suddenly, he did not want to go near the place. Jaffa had betrayed him.

  The Tel Aviv beach boardwalk was the light of western modernity turned up to full flood. Men and women laughed arm in arm and raced along the beach together, playing with balls or sunning themselves in a great tangle of limbs. Sheltered from the glare by the shop awnings, Salim felt a confused mix of emotions as he watched them – creatures from another world, the noon light glistening on their skin.

  In the distance, Jaffa rose up from the coast in a jagged row of yellow teeth. He searched inside for a hint of desire, and found nothing. That is not Jaffa. That was somewhere else, a defeated, dirty place where all the gardens were dead and the orange trees cut down.

  The worst had already happened to him, and yet he was beginning to feel lighter, like a bird on the wing. He could almost see his possible futures separating, like two bubbles waiting to be freed. There was this broken cart of Palestine, and a life hitched to it with men like his father. And then there were other dreams, worlds not yet in focus.

  ‘Looks like fun, eh?’ Isak’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘I take Lili to the beach on Sundays sometimes. She likes to get a tan.’ He shook his head and smiled. ‘Tel Aviv is always moving and changing, while old Jaffa has changed so little. Lili says time stands still for us Arabs, no matter what our religion.’

  Before Salim could reply, he heard a boy’s voice shouting in Arabic. ‘Salim!’ Turning, he saw a young man coming towards him – paler than Isak with an earnest expression and Lili Yashuv’s long nose.

  A smile surged onto Salim’s face in spite of himself and he shook the hand that Elia offered.

  ‘Dad told me you were coming, I could hardly believe it,’ said Elia, breathless. ‘I got out from school and ran all the way. How are you? What’s up? Are you coming back to Jaffa?’

  The question pierced Salim, bringing him back to the moment; he dropped Elia’s hand, suddenly noticing the pinkness of his skin, like the cold Eastern Jews. ‘Maybe,’ he said, turning away. He sensed Elia standing behind him, felt his hurt even as he tried to wound. He remembered their last day together at the souk. Elia was right after all. Things can never be as they were.

  Elia was clearing his throat to say something, but then Abu Hassan looked up sharply and said in Arabic, ‘Enough, you boys.’ Abu Mazen was walking towards their table. Behind him came Mazen. The plump child had disappeared completely behind walls of rolling muscle and a tight, modern suit. Only the tight fleece of black hair was the same, curling down his neck.

  As they drew near, Mazen lifted his head; when he saw Salim he recoiled with something that looked like guilt.

  ‘Ya Salim,’ he said – an indeterminate greeting that merely acknowledged his presence. ‘Still hanging out with the Yehuda, I see.’ His voice touched memories that made Salim shiver. But he saw the older boy was quick to look away.

  Abu Mazen had taken a seat at the table and ordered a coffee. Salim waited impatiently for someone to begin the discussion, to accuse Abu Mazen of his crime, but this was not the Arab way. First coffee needed to be drunk and pleasantries exchanged. Only then could something real be said.

  Finally, Abu Mazen stretched his arms over his head and said, ‘So, tell me how it went today at the City Hall.’

  ‘You were supposed to meet us there, I thought?’ Tareq said, his voice cold.

  ‘But it looks like you had good help already.’ Abu Mazen favoured Isak with a smooth smile. ‘I would have been one big body too many.’

  Salim’s father was toying with his coffee cup, swirling the thick, sweet liquid round and round. Without lifting his eyes from the table, his voice came in a hoarse whisper. ‘Why did you sell my house, Hamza? What right did you have?’

  Abu Mazen’s face turned a shade darker, and he leaned forward in his chair. ‘Do I understand you, Saeed?’ He stressed Abu Hassan’
s forename, a gesture of disrespect. ‘Are you feeling someone has wronged you?’

  ‘You wronged me,’ said Abu Hassan. ‘You made a forgery with the Jews. You pretended the house was yours. You sold it to them.’ His voice shook, but he still could not look Abu Mazen in the face. He’s afraid of him, Salim realized. All Abu Hassan’s bluster was reserved for his family.

  Abu Mazen gave a short, barking laugh. ‘Wronged you?’ he snorted. ‘You should be thanking me on your knees, Abu Hassan. The Jews would have taken that house from under your feet and given you nothing. You can hardly even read a piece of paper – did you ever tell your boy here that? How could you have fought them? So I saved you, out of my goodness. I took all the trouble on myself. I sold it to them for what they would give – a good price, actually.’

  Salim felt a surge of fury. ‘This was our family’s decision to make, not yours,’ he shouted.

  Abu Mazen turned to smile at him. ‘Ah, the clever Salim! Maybe there are some things you should know about your family. They never did a business deal in their lives. Everything your father had, he inherited. You think you’re a man, now? All I see here is a big mouth and a small purse.’ Salim sprang to his feet, stopped by Tareq’s firm hand.

  ‘But don’t worry, Abu Hassan,’ he went on. ‘I’ve got the money here for you. It’s not so much, but it was the best we could get. I would take it now, if I were you. Take it back to your beautiful wife and buy her something to cheer her up.’

  He slid a packet of notes over the table. To Salim it looked soiled and flimsy, like their dreams of a homecoming. He held his breath.

  Abu Hassan was still for a moment. His hand jerked towards the envelope, as if it were hot to the touch. And then he grasped it, his head bowed low. Salim’s heart wrenched. He could not bear to see him exposed so brutally, like a beggar without his clothes.

  ‘Yallah,’ said Abu Mazen, standing up. ‘I’ll see you, then. Next time you come, come for coffee in Jaffa. My very best regards to Umm Hassan. A beautiful wife is the only luck a man needs, eh?’ And with that, he turned and strolled away.