Ishmael's Oranges

by Claire Hajaj

  He knew she was asking him again for his business here, and he answered in English.

  ‘My name is Salim,’ he said. ‘Salim Al-Ishmaeli.’

  ‘Yes?’ she said again, her English accented and slow, the question in her face. ‘I can help you?’

  He reached out his hand to the white walls behind her, obscured behind the branches. She stepped back startled, and he felt the words surging to his lips despite himself.

  ‘This is my house. Was my house – once.’ He saw her face contract, puzzled, and then her eyes widened in surprise. He shook his head – he did not want her to be frightened. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay.’ His throat felt tight. ‘I just wanted to see it again.’

  She held her hands to her mouth, and her English came through them, carrying the heavy lilt of Europe, like Jude’s mother.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘When? When did you live here?’

  ‘Before the war,’ he said. Tears came to him then, and he put his face in his hands. ‘Oh God,’ she said again, and he felt her hand tighten on his shoulder.

  Instantly he straightened. What do we do now? She was holding her rubber glove to her chest, her blue eyes sorrowful. She doesn’t sound Israeli. ‘When did you come here?’ he asked her.

  ‘Not so long ago,’ she said. ‘From Hungary. My parents moved here after the war. I came to be near them.’ He realized that when she spoke about the war, she meant a different one. Their war, with Germany. For each of their peoples, there would only ever be one war.

  She was standing holding the door open now, her face creased in sympathy. ‘Do you want to come in? I can show you the house, or make you some tea?’

  He felt a sudden disgust at the idea of going inside. Shaking his head he said, ‘No, thank you. I just… I have to go.’ If he won this case, then she would be the one leaving. Somehow, that did not feel like a victory.

  She gave him a rueful smile, and held up her hand to wave him goodbye. He turned to leave, and heard the gate begin to close.

  Suddenly he turned back, and said, ‘One thing! Please. Could I…’ He pointed to the orange tree in the background. One of them was his, but he could no longer remember which. ‘Could I take an orange? It was something we used to do, as boys. A… a tradition.’

  ‘I will get you one,’ she said, keeping the gate half-shut. He saw her walk to the nearest tree, stretch her long, slim frame up into the boughs and pull until the branches shook. When she came back, an orange lay in her palm, rich and round.

  She held it out, at the edge of the gate, and he took it from her. They stood silently for a moment, then she nodded and said, ‘Well, goodbye.’ The gate shut. Salim stood, rooted to the earth. The orange weighed down his hand, as heavy as all the sorrows he’d carried away from this place. He could smell the sharpness of it, and the sweetness. He bowed his head.

  He was still standing there when he heard the car behind him. Turning around, wiping his eyes, he saw Tareq’s Nissan pull up, and his brother-in-law leapt out of the door.

  ‘I thought we might find you here,’ Tareq said, hurrying towards him and grasping his arm. ‘Are you okay? You didn’t do anything stupid?’

  Salim returned Tareq’s grip with his other hand, to reassure him. He was dimly aware of another person standing behind the open car door. Tareq was saying, ‘Listen, we should get back. There’s much to discuss. And I have your surprise here. Didn’t you see him?’ He pointed back towards the car.

  The stranger came into focus. He was tall and pale, his hair was thinning but his eyes were as dark as a hawk’s. He smiled when Salim looked up, and instantly he knew. But now he was a grown man, and he stepped forward to grasp Salim’s shoulder. Elia.

  ‘Salim, how are you?’ he said, in Arabic. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Tareq said you’d come.’

  Salim’s hand reached up to Elia’s arm and clung on, feeling the strange solidity of bone. The confusion of joys and sorrows made him nauseous, as if all these memories were never meant to walk again.

  ‘Elia.’ He tried again, but the name was all that came to him. ‘Elia.’

  ‘Salim.’ Elia was smiling too, his eyes wet. ‘You know, I’m a lawyer now? A long way from the tailor’s shop. I handle property cases. If I can, I will help you.’ He grasped Salim’s other shoulder, steadying them both against the earth. ‘I promise, my friend. I will help you get some justice.’

  The Al-Ishmaeli initial court hearing was set for the first week of November. Nazareth’s mornings were already grey and chill. But Salim knew that down by the sea the skies would be a perfect winter blue.

  He pulled on a shirt and a tie and a light wool blazer. The mirror in the spare room was dark and scratched. He stood before it for a moment, wondering at the face that looked back out at his.

  Not old yet. The cheeks were thinner than he imagined, and shadowed with stubble. For the first time, he saw flecks of grey at his temple. He touched them with confused reverence.

  Elia had promised to meet them at court. He was a family man himself now. His wife did social work for poor families, while her husband tried to tug pieces of Arab land back from Israel’s iron fist. It was an uphill task; Elia said Israel had spent years passing laws to make sure cases like Salim’s never came to court. ‘It’s not enough that the land is theirs now. They want to make it so that it was never yours in the first place.’

  Still, there were small reasons to hope in this case. ‘Your father’s name is recorded on the Ottoman Land Registry. The registry proves that the deeds used to sell the house were false. And that there is a case against the State for negligence, for compensation for what you lost.’

  But, as he reminded Salim repeatedly, he was no miracle worker. ‘I’ll tell you the difference between Arabs and Israelis,’ he said. ‘Arabs want to be judged by the pure law – the one we learn as children where right follows wrong and punishment follows crime like night follows day. But in Israel we have another kind of law. This one is a matter of articles, clauses and sub-clauses, with many interpretations and a heavy bias against you. God has nothing to do with this kind of law. Nor does justice.’

  Salim had struggled with this. Compensation for what I lost. What could that mean to me now? He’d lost so much more than money, more than land. Sometimes he imagined opening his old bedroom door and seeing all the might-have-beens that waited there – another self brimming with confidence, a laughing wife and children, his mother with her arms outstretched.

  Tel Aviv’s courthouse was a grey set of squares and rectangles, conveying just the right mix of officiousness and impenetrability. The courtyard before the Magistrates’ Court had been decorated with metal sculptures shaped like nothing recognizable – foreshadowing the myriad confusions waiting inside.

  As Salim and Tareq walked to the compound entrance, the older man said, ‘Well, that’s strange.’

  He pointed to a crowd, small but vigorous, held away from the entrance by three security guards. Salim could make out two placards in Hebrew and Arabic. One read: Justice for the Al-Ishmaelis! The other read: Justice for Jaffa!

  Jimmy. They had talked the previous day. ‘Don’t worry, my people will be there,’ he’d said. Salim pushed through the crowd, as they cheered and slapped him on the back. He wanted to talk to them, but Tareq pulled him through. He was just about to remonstrate, when he saw Elia moving towards them.

  ‘Did you see the people at the gate?’ Salim said, his delight spilling over into a new confidence.

  Elia raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s nice, but unless they are all lawyers… Anyway, I hope the judges come in the other entrance. These riots in the West Bank have given people a poor view of Arab activism.’

  ‘This isn’t a riot,’ Salim said, looking back at the placards waving over the walls. ‘It’s publicity. What’s wrong with that?’ Elia shrugged, dismissive.

  The courtroom itself was low and poorly lit. The judge came in with no ceremony. He was thin, with drooping eyes and chin folds. His black robes hung loosely
over a white shirt and pencil-thin black tie.

  The younger men standing on the opposite bench were from Amidar Housing Corporation. ‘They are the administrators of the property, owned by the State,’ Elia whispered. ‘The government in business suits.’ Salim looked over at them. When I lost my house, these men were boys, barely able to read and write. He was struck by the lunacy of it. The children of the war had grown up to fight each other over things that they scarcely even remembered.

  The proceedings were in Hebrew and lasted less than fifteen minutes. Elia laid out the grounds for allowing the claim originally filed by Salim’s father to continue. Amidar’s lawyers contended that the claim had expired, like old milk left too long in the sun.

  The judge sat hunched in his black robes. He spoke only once – to ask Elia a question and point at Salim. Even when he spoke Salim’s name, his eyes remained fixed on the lawyers. He imagined he heard shouts outside the courthouse. Justice for Jaffa!

  Suddenly, as quickly as he came in, the judge stood up and walked out. Salim understood that the proceedings were at an end – but how could it be? They had not decided anything. He’d not even been given a chance to speak!

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Elia said with a smile, seeing Salim’s expression. ‘Actually, it’s good.’ This is the preliminary proceeding. I know this judge, and he will move quickly to determine one way or the other whether we can go forward. We’ll have a second hearing. Maybe in a few weeks, maybe less.’

  Patience. It was a word Salim breathed to himself every morning when he woke. But it was easier to say than to practise.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said to Elia, swallowing his hurt pride and reaching over to grasp the man’s hand. ‘You’ve done so much for us. I don’t know why, but thank you.’

  Elia began packing his papers away into his briefcase. Without looking up, he said, ‘My mother, God rest her, used to talk about your mother all the time. She would come into the shop and they would chat about things – nothing special, just women’s things.’ A smile crept across his lips. ‘We thought she was the most beautiful woman we had ever seen.’

  ‘She was,’ Salim said. ‘But it didn’t last.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Elia said, straightening up. ‘Nothing lasts. But for that time, you helped us feel less lonely. The Jews in Tel Aviv treated my father like garbage. Our neighbours in Jaffa didn’t trust us. But your mother, and you – you were our friends. We remember.’ He laid his hand on Salim’s shoulder. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ Salim watched him square his narrow shoulders, and walk out of the court.

  The next day, Jimmy called. ‘Did you like the crowd at the courthouse?’ he asked.

  ‘Fantastic,’ Salim laughed. ‘Who were they?’

  An echoing laugh down the other end of the line turned into a barking cough. ‘I told you,’ he rasped. ‘Our organization has many friends – Arabs, Jews. Buddhists!’ The cough came again. ‘Now we do some interviews for the press. And I’d like you to speak at some meetings – just a small group of helpful people.’

  ‘And when would this be?’ Salim asked. Talking to Jimmy was like the rhyme he used to watch the twins skip to. Eeny meeny miny moe. Catch a tiger by the toe. If he squeals, let him go! But he had a feeling that anyone letting this tiger go would quickly become dinner.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ Jimmy said. ‘And by the way, watch the news tomorrow. Maybe there will be something for you there, too.’

  As it happened, Salim did not need to watch the news. Tareq delivered it personally, banging fiercely on his bedroom door the next afternoon. He jerked awake from a dream of Jude; she had been young, with her Star of David necklace and the golden lights in her hair.

  ‘Hey, Salim!’ Tareq sounded furious.

  ‘What is it?’ he called out. The door opened and his brother-in-law stood at the doorway, lips pursed primly.

  ‘It’s your friend, this Jimmy.’

  ‘What about him?’

  Tareq’s nostrils flared and he threw his hands up in the air. ‘I got a call from Elia. There’s been an incident at the house.’

  Salim felt sleepy and stupid. ‘What house? What are you talking about?’

  ‘The house, the house!’ Tareq looked as if he wanted to shake him. ‘There was a protest. It started at the old Clock Tower, with some group making speeches about land rights in Jaffa, and then these people marched over to your father’s house and painted the walls with this Justice for Jaffa nonsense. The police came and arrested some of them.’

  ‘That’s incredible.’ Salim had to look at his hands, to hide his secret delight.

  Tareq shook his finger. ‘Incredible is not good. Remember what Elia said. When people see angry Arabs they don’t think activist. They think terrorist.’

  ‘Jimmy is Rafan’s friend,’ Salim said. ‘I’ll speak to Rafan. I’ll make sure it doesn’t get out of hand.’

  That night, he watched the protest on television. The Orange House was unrecognizable. Red paint was splattered across its walls and a crowd blocked the gate with young and eager faces. One woman was gesticulating to the camera, speaking in Hebrew. She wore a Palestinian keffiyeh around her. Her skin and hair were as olive as Sophie’s. The thought caused a stab of pain so vivid that he put his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes.

  The telephone rang, and Nadia came bustling in to pick it up. The newscaster had moved on to scenes of the riots they were starting to call the Intifada, and new emergency laws being passed in the Knesset. Something was troubling him, something not quite right about Nadia’s voice behind him. Then he realized. She was speaking English.

  He turned slowly and Nadia’s eyes met his. She said, ‘Yes, I give you him now.’ Slowly, she handed him the telephone.

  Her voice was wary, but he leaned into the sound of it. ‘I hope it’s an okay time,’ she was saying.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he replied. She paused, a catch of breath that he knew so well. They’d not spoken since he’d left for Israel.

  ‘I heard your case is going well,’ she said. ‘Hassan says you’ve had your first day in court.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were still speaking to Hassan.’

  ‘I’m still speaking to everyone, Sal.’

  He closed his eyes. Why does she call? Do we have anything left to say to each other?

  There was another pause, and then she said, ‘Didn’t you get my message?’ He looked over at Nadia working in the kitchen. There’d been a message about Jude’s call, left on his bed a few days ago. But he’d not found the courage to call her back.

  ‘It’s been very busy,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. What’s going on?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Sal.’ The tears in her voice surprised him. What had happened?

  ‘It’s Marc,’ she went on. ‘He’s been expelled from the Royal Ballet School. He got into a fight with one of the students.’

  Salim heard himself laughing despite his shock. ‘Marc, in a fist fight? I didn’t think he had it in him.’

  Jude’s voice was cold. ‘He scratched the boy’s face, enough to draw blood, Sal. Actually, I think you had something to do with it. It was a Jewish boy and Marc said he made some crack about the Palestinians. When I picked him up from the infirmary he was raving about how you told him all about how the Arabs were always a joke and that he wouldn’t be laughed at. Since then… I don’t know.’ He heard the strain in her voice. ‘I’m worried about him. He says he’s taking his medicine but I don’t think he is. Then yesterday the police brought him in for setting fire to that horrible old shack down the street. They said he threw a Molotov cocktail at it.’

  ‘Wow,’ Salim almost laughed again. ‘That place needed to be burned down. Good for him.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ She was almost shouting now. ‘It isn’t funny. This expulsion, it’s the end of a dream for him. A lifelong dream. God, Sal, don’t you remember what it was like to have dreams?’

  ‘I had so many over the years,’ Salim retorted, a hot wind sifting the embers of his p
ain and resentment. ‘This is just Marc’s first one. Believe me, he’ll get over it.’

  ‘Like you got over your losses, you mean?’ The sarcasm bit hard. He remembered Marc’s eyes filling that day in the bedroom. He’d felt nothing then, but now a trickle of grief for his son began to filter through him.

  ‘I’m sorry for Marc,’ he said. ‘But what do you want, Jude? He doesn’t need anything from me.’

  ‘You’re his father,’ she replied. ‘His future’s in the air, and he needs his parents. He’s confused, Sal, and ashamed. One day he tells me he’s going travelling, the next he’s asking me if you’re coming back. He wants you back, even if he can’t tell you to your face. Shouldn’t that make you happy?’

  It should. It could be so easy – just to say yes, to jump on a plane and surprise them. But then he heard the newscaster behind him, and remembered the red paint on the walls of the Orange House. Justice for Jaffa! He’d made a decision, he had a purpose. He could not give it up – not for Marc, not for anyone.

  ‘If you spoke to Hassan, you know I can’t leave now,’ he said. The words sounded harsher than he meant. ‘We’re in the middle of a battle here. If I leave, it will be all for nothing. I have to stay. Do you understand? You have to explain it to Marc.’

  She was silent, and he pictured her, the blue eyes wide and her face still so clear, like a glass of water. Then her voice came again, heavy and resigned.

  ‘I’m not sure that I can explain it, because I don’t understand it myself. Your son needs you. What could be more important than that?’

  ‘I am doing this for him,’ he said, over the guilt and frustration. ‘For his future, our legacy. He should care. He should understand.’

  ‘Okay, Sal,’ she said. ‘You stay and fight your battle.’ Her breathing was calm again. ‘I hope it brings you joy. You know where we are. Bye.’ There was a click and then the steady tone signalled the end of the moment.