Chains of Sand

by Jemma Wayne

  CHAINS

  OF

  SAND

  JEMMA WAYNE

  Legend Press Ltd, 175-185 Gray’s Inn Road, London, WC1X 8UE info@legend-paperbooks.co.uk | www.legendpress.co.uk

  Contents © Jemma Wayne 2016

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  Print ISBN 978-1-7850797-2-6

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-7850797-3-3

  Set in Times. Printed in the United Kingdom by Clays Ltd.

  Cover design by Simon Levy www.simonlevyassociates.co.uk

  All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Born to an American musician father, and English mother, Jemma Wayne grew up in Hertfordshire and studied Social and Political Sciences at Cambridge University and Broadcast Journalism at the University of Westminster. She began her career as a journalist at The Jewish Chronicle, and later as a columnist for The Jewish News. She is now a regularly featured blogger at The Huffington Post and continues to contribute to a variety of other publications. Her first play, Negative Space, was staged in 2009 at Hampstead’s New End Theatre, receiving critical acclaim.

  Jemma’s debut novel After Before was longlisted for the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction, longlisted for the Guardian Not the Booker Prize and shortlisted for the Waverton Good Read Award.

  Visit Jemma at

  jemmawayne.com

  or on Twitter

  @writejemmawayne

  For Audrey and Alice

  I will not cease from Mental Fight,

  Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:

  Till we have built Jerusalem,

  In England’s green & pleasant Land

  William Blake

  ‘Jerusalem’

  Prologue

  The house is on top of me. Under me. Around me. Darkness is everywhere. Like a coffin. I am not scared. I am used to darkness. In Gaza, when blackouts come as often as they do, you have to get used to it. My mother’s hand is on my ankle but it has not moved for at least an hour. She is dead, I think. In our coffin. Above us, I can hear them scrabbling through the rubble. Their voices are muffled but my father knows we are still here, he is the one who told us to stay. Where could we go anyway? They will be calling our names. I think I hear mine: Farah. I cannot answer. The second I open my mouth there will be dust in my throat. I must concentrate on shallow breaths, on staying calm.

  Stay calm, says my mother, be good. Now that I am 12 she takes me with her to her cleaning job. If it is quiet I am allowed to help, if not I have to do my homework in the back room. The health centre where she mops the floors is run by the UN. The manager is Swiss. She wears a covering on her head, too, and my mother points this out to me – see, even this woman – but I still dislike the hijab. I am made to wear it, but I would not choose to. Then again, choice is not a staple for me. I do not choose to live with a father who now that he is back home beats my mother. I do not choose to hide weapons under my mattress. I do not choose to be trapped in a place where such lack of choice is commonplace, all I should expect. When I was a child, I disobeyed my father. I would not say the Jewish soldier had hurt me. He had given me chocolate. And he had smiled. And I did not feel like laying still. So my father taught me the importance of the cause.

  At the centre, I talk sometimes to the American nurse. He does not seem like a criminal. He is not the way the TV shows say. He has an iPad and on days when it is quiet, I see him take it out to play games upon. His favourite is a strategy game. There are objects you have to find and then codes and puzzles and riddles to decipher. I am good at this and he lets me help, though I am not meant to be noticed, because I am not meant to be there. He has started bringing me tokens from his trips into Israel. Sweets. A magazine. An iPod. My mother tells me I am jeopardising things. She tells me this money is vital. She tells me the UN centre stands less than 100m from land once tilled, and owned, by her grandfather. She smiles. Unlike my father, she does not want to quash my disobedience. Disobedience, she tells me, is the beginning of free thought. When she can, she feeds me with books, and pretends that one day these will be my route out, away, up.

  Up. Above me, a shaft of light blasts through the darkness. I cannot touch it but it illuminates my mother’s rigid fingers at my feet.

  Farah.

  I hear my name again. It is my brother Saad. The one at university. The one who tells me I can go there too. The one who has sat with me every night for the past two weeks as missiles dot the sky and cars explode outside our door and soldiers rip through the streets. Saad is the quiet one. But he is shouting. Shouting for me.

  The shaft of light grows thicker. It is a tunnel now. A lifeline straight to the sun.

  Farah.

  I open my mouth to reply.

  The dust hits my lungs.

  ***

  Now

  1

  Udi sits hunched over a pile of papers. It isn’t his natural stance. His neck aches and his finger has calloused from where the pen has been balanced too long. Still, he has spread the sheets carefully across the wooden table on which he used to do his homework and now contemplates his life. His mother, Batia, is in the next room so he opens the first booklet quietly. She’d be sure to ask what it is he’s studying so intently, thrilled that he’s finally interested, focussing. He doesn’t want to disappoint her. Besides, he has to complete the forms before anything of substance can be announced. He has been pouring over them for days but is yet to concoct what to write in the box that calls for the title of the occupation he’s meant to have already secured but hasn’t, or the section that asks how long he intends to reside in the UK. There is no option, it seems, to write ‘forever’.

  He peels the sticky white vest from his back and closes the Entry Clearance application form. The air conditioning isn’t working, again, so he’s resorted to a fan propped up next to the window, which seems only to move the hot air around the room in an ever-more oppressive cycle. Ramat Gan is less than five miles from the sea but there is no breeze in the city, no movement, only this constant, unyielding heat. It is 34 degrees outside, a typical summer, but this year it feels hotter, harder to bear. Udi re-opens the guidance booklet that came attached to the form for a UK work permit and offers little real guidance. He abandoned it in frustration the day before but perhaps there is a note of explanation he missed. If there is, he will find it. He has always been good at tracking down things that are hidden, like cockroaches in his mother’s kitchen cupboard, or tunnels in Gaza.

  He could have asked for help – Tomer’s brother is a lawyer, he would have done it for nothing – but Udi isn’t yet ready to tell his patriotic friend about his intention to leave. To deconstruct it. The economy’s shit and that’s all there is to it. He has been living at home with his parents since he left the army two years ago and of course there have been jobs, and more jobs, but: ‘The only way to make a fortune in Israel is to come to Israel with a bigger fortune.’ This is the joke bandied around to new immigrants and still he laughs, though he no longer finds it funny. His mother wants him to study, but the army left him dumb. It leaves everyone dumb. They arriv
e aged 18, finally adults, still in the throes of working out what they believe, who they are, what they will and won’t do; and the army erases them. They are taught to say yes. Only yes. Udi’s commander had been clear: You don’t question, you don’t think. You say yes and you do. And then, three years later, they were all given tests for college and they had to learn to think again and to dream again, and by then Udi was unable to imagine that. He said he wasn’t interested anymore, which in some ways is true because what’s the point in spending money and energy and time, or even trying to start his own business which is what he really wants, when at any moment until he’s 45 the army can intervene, calling him away to the reserves for months at a time and leaving him with fuck all? His father thinks he should return to the army permanently. “You did well there,” Oz reminds him. But Udi has had enough of Gaza and Nablus, and every other shit hole they send him to. He’s ready now for the rest of his life. To live it. He has a cousin in London.

  Udi hears his father arriving home and quickly sweeps the papers into a drawer. He has never been able to persuade Oz of the virtues of knocking, or of locks. Hurriedly he adopts a posture of nonchalance at the empty desk, then feels ridiculous; he is 26. Oz’s footsteps linger in the kitchen and he considers retrieving the forms, but Oz has only paused to talk to Udi’s mother, or perhaps to eat one of the sambousak she has spent all day cooking, and suddenly he appears at Udi’s door.

  “Y’allah,” Oz tells him. ‘Let’s go,’ it means in Israeli-appropriated Arabic, this time as a practical instruction, often as an accentuation, sometimes when there is a silence and nothing else to say. He nods only fleetingly at Udi before returning to the kitchen, suspecting nothing.

  Udi gets up and reaches for a cotton shirt to wear over his jeans. He chooses long trousers always, no matter the heat. The scars on his legs have faded now but he prefers not to see them, or, perhaps, he prefers others not to see. He rolls his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and slips his feet into the worn sandals that have taken him to Thailand, to Mexico, to the park where he and Ella once made love. They are tattered and Ella wants him to throw them away, but these shoes know the shape of his feet perfectly; they understand the length of his stride and the slight roll of his big toe that has carved out a comfortable dent in the leather.

  “Y’allah!” Oz shouts again from the kitchen.

  Udi appears in the doorway and Oz nods: “Good. You are driving.”

  They walk together towards the road and climb into Udi’s beat up Subaru. The exhaust fell off yesterday for the third time since he bought the car second hand a month ago, but he is glad that he no longer has to rely on his parents, for transport at least. Oz does not fasten his seatbelt. He is rounded these days, his chest always a little wheezy from too much smoke, his skin as dark and impervious as ever. He hands Udi Batia’s plastic container filled with sambousak. Udi surveys the perfect savoury pockets and takes two.

  “Abba, I still don’t know about this,” he ventures, nevertheless starting the engine.

  “What should you know?” Oz slaps his hands together then flicks them towards the road. “You haven’t tried yet. First you try, then you know.”

  Oz has arranged an interview for Udi at a friend’s construction company. It isn’t the kind of career that Udi imagines for himself, but Oz thinks it is better than the bar jobs he has been working so far. It is strange to Udi. Strange that his father, with his dark skin and his Farsi tongue and his lifetime of closed doors, should suggest this, this manual labour. Strange that he should not wish to end the cycle, believe things have changed, see it as possible. Strange that he should not notice that all of the other construction workers at the company are black, a band of Ethiopian Israelis who Udi is sure will not be paid as much as him. A new breed of Sephardim.

  “Okay, so we’ll go in. I’ll introduce you,” Oz says as Udi parks in the lot adjacent to the building. It is a tall, white structure, one of a host of impressive architectural creations that have sprung up in Ramat Gan over the past few years and somehow merge seamlessly into the city’s eclectic malaise: tree-lined streets covered with graffiti; a diamond district next to tired, un-landscaped parks; new ones, with colourful playgrounds beside modern, ‘affordable’, ‘family’ apartment complexes; neon lights; boarded up buildings; wild scraggy cats perching like crows atop the boards, surveying it all; black-hats almost rubbing shoulders with the illegal casinos of the night; ‘Baghdad Town’ in its full, amalgamated glory.

  Yacov, the owner of the company and Oz’s friend from back in Baghdad, is standing outside the entrance shouting orders into his mobile phone. He raises his hand when he sees them, then waves them inside. Udi and Oz find Yacov’s office and help themselves to water. Udi notices a photo on Yacov’s desk: a boy, younger than himself, and two women, neither of them as beautiful as Ella, who all wear army uniform and share the same muddy eyes. Eventually Yacov enters and sits on the other side of the photo. Twenty minutes later they emerge together. Yacov is making jokes and also laughing at them. Oz is smiling, and Udi has a new occupation. He is expected to start on Sunday.

  “Good,” Oz declares. They are back in the car and driving towards home. Oz has opened the container of sambousak and is eating with renewed gusto. He has un-tucked his shirt and his growing roundness spreads contentedly outwards. “This is good for you. This is something.”

  Udi doesn’t speak. He knows he is meant to thank his father for the introduction, for the opportunity, but silent assent is the best he can manage. He takes his sunglasses out of the glove compartment and puts them on.

  “Qus!” Oz shouts as the car in the neighbouring lane pulls in front of them.

  Udi’s foot is quick on the pedal. The driver of the car in front flicks his hand out of the window unapologetically and speeds off. Udi glances at his father whose own hand is still raised, his mouth still tasting the end of the profanity. It isn’t Hebrew, but Udi understands such insults, guesses that they feel comfortable on his father’s tongue. It is only a guess because Oz has worked hard over the years to become a new, true Israeli, to lay this foundation for his children, and it is only at moments like these – base, instinctual exchanges – that he will speak Farsi in front of them.

  Before, long before Udi was born, when Farsi came easily, Oz fled Baghdad. And was welcomed by Israel.

  This is the entire mass of knowledge that Udi has gathered about his father’s youth. Even these details have been gleaned from his mother, but at moments like these, traces of Oz’s carefully trampled former self resurface. Udi guesses it is easier for him to swear creatively in the language of his formative years. It is easier for Udi, too. Somehow he understands his father better in this foreign tongue.

  “And fuck yourself!” Udi adds for good measure. He lifts his chin out of the window as he catches up and swerves around the offending vehicle whose driver returns the gesture. They pull to a stop at a crossroads and now another car to their right tries to inch forward. Udi flashes his lights. It is a signal everybody understands: ‘Do not dare go under any circumstances,’ it means. ‘I am going. Get out of my way.’ The car stays where it is and again Udi hits his foot to the floor.

  Oz seems satisfied.

  Oz and Batia met in a kibbutz in Dafnah. This much Batia has revealed. This much Udi knows. They had been living in the same refugee camp in tents just meters apart, but they didn’t meet until Dafnah.

  Oz shifts in his seat. Without speaking. Udi has long ago given up trying to talk to his father, his own high-pitched questions long since faded, and the demanding tone of Oz’s queries making any answers seem insufficient.

  Oz is not his name. It wasn’t his name. He chose a new Israeli one. A fresh name for a fresh identity. Once, when Udi was 11, on the day the news came that their grandfather had passed away, he had witnessed from a darkened window his mother caressing his father’s lowered head. She had slipped seamlessly in and out of Hebrew and a language he didn’t understand, and she had called his father Bekhor. So
metimes Udi thinks about saying it, using it, just to see.

  It is almost four o’clock so, for his father, Udi switches on the car radio. The final bars of an American song die out before the familiar hourly beeps herald the latest news: the Iron Dome has intercepted another rocket, this time fired from Sinai toward the southern resort city of Eilat; the government has announced another tax increase; there has been a four-car pile up on the motorway heading into Haifa. There have been no bombs. This is what they are listening for. Still. Music returns. It is a song with a Brazilian beat that reminds Udi of his time in Central America. Oz switches it off. There is silence again. Except for the sound of pastry between teeth.

  “Good,” Oz says as the house comes into view and Udi parks, badly. “So you should be early on Sunday.”

  “Okay, Abba,” Udi replies.

  “So okay. We’ll tell your mother. Y’allah.” Oz heaves himself out of the car, squinting in the sunlight as he looks towards the house, and then, glancing back at Udi, he almost smiles. The expression sits absurdly on his lined face.

  “You tell her Abba,” Udi replies. “I’m not coming in.” He hands his father the empty tub of sambousak.

  “You are working?”

  “No.”

  Oz’s smile fades. “Don’t drink too much Udi,” he says, before turning again towards home.

  ***

  Batia is in the kitchen alone. It is a luxury she used to long for, but now the house is empty too often. Avigail has been married for seven years already. She has two daughters of her own and lives in Jerusalem. It is too far to travel daily. Ari’s apartment is only three streets away but he is never there. Usually he is stationed near Gaza, where again the air is tightening, where Batia’s mind wanders when she cannot sleep. She is lucky if they see him once a month. Then at least it is for whole weekends at a time – he doesn’t flit and float across her radar like the others, he allows her to pin him down – but she isn’t privy to the daily nuances of his soul. Udi is the only one left at home, exposed. Udi, her baby. Whom, when he was a baby, so much younger than Ari and Avigail, she gave the time she hadn’t had for the others. By then the older two were at school so if the housework was done and Oz was at work, she would bypass the cot and bring Udi into her own bed for an afternoon nap. There she would inhale the gloriousness of his chubby hands and curled hair matted with heat across his forehead. And later, sit with under sheets propped up by kitchen chairs. Or sing into the whirring fan to hear their voices transform into reverberations. It is strange for her now to regard his tough, sharply contoured frame lifting things she cannot manage. And she has to check herself often not to enlist him in sharing some small wonder – the first flowers of spring, a sequel to the cartoon movie he once loved, his favourite chocolates now in mint flavour. Sometimes when she collects his washing from his room she senses that her presence is an irritation to him, and that he would rather be with Ella.