Olives

by Alexander McNabb

  I looked at Mariam. ‘Shukran.’ One of my precious few words of Arabic. She was delighted.

  ‘Alhamdullilah, Ferriyah, houa etekellum Arabi,’ she said to Aisha.

  And I understood her, too – ‘Praise be to God, little bird, he speaks Arabic.’

  Aisha smiled sadly at me. ‘Yes, little bird. You remembered. My father’s name for me, given me by Mariam.’

  Mariam pulled us inside to drink cool water mixed with lemon juice and honey.

  ‘The lemons grow wild on the hillside here,’ said Aisha as we followed Mariam. ‘We have a few citrus trees in the yard but it’s not always possible to get enough water for them.’

  Mariam fired off another burst of Arabic, chuckling.

  ‘She says they keep the water for the olives but try and spare some for the citrus. It’s good for her teeth.’

  Hamad, Aisha’s uncle, was expected back at the farm later on. As the guest of honour, I got to sleep in Hamad’s bedroom, while Aisha was downstairs on the sofa. Hamad was relegated to the floor in Mariam’s room. The old lady would hear of no other arrangement and had obviously been preparing for our visit. She rooted delightedly through the two bags of supplies Aisha had brought with us, damaged though they were by the inspection and hours rattling around in the back of the car. Almost half the tea had spilled out, mixing with the fish oil to create a noxious paste.

  Aisha and I left Mariam chewing contentedly on a liquorice allsort and went out for a walk around the farm as the daylight started to fade. We wandered hand in hand through the olive groves and over the hill behind the farmhouse. The setting sun cast long, spindly shadows from the olive trees in their rows, each smooth-barked and heavy with fruit.

  Aisha held out her hand to brush against the leaves as we passed them. ‘I used to play in these olive groves as a child. They were monsters or soldiers in my army, sometimes they were courtiers in my court,’ she said, smiling.

  We crested the hill to confront the shocking scar greyly dominating the green-flecked earthy brown landscape. The Israeli security wall.

  I gazed down at the continuation of the olive stands beyond the ugly monstrosity snaking its way through the land, a dust track running alongside it on this side, blacktop on the other. It was built up in huge concrete slabs, topped with barbed wire, immense, incongruous and monolithic.

  I was surprised to find myself angry at the sight of it. It symbolised an abnegation of hope, a rejection of humanity. Whatever the rights and wrongs, whatever the history, surely humanity had discovered walls and barriers weren’t the answer? We’d knocked down Berlin just to stand silently by while this thing was built: bigger, more sophisticated and far, far more final. Aisha was quiet at my side, holding my hand. She shook herself free of me. I blinked, focusing on her with difficulty.

  ‘What’s up?’

  She laughed nervously, grasping her hand. ‘You’re hurting, Paul.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise. This is bad.’

  She gestured across the land. ‘There’s a gate a few kilometres to the left of here, a bigger one past Kirbat Al Aqaba, the village over there to the right. We’re lucky to have two so close, the gates are few and far between. Some families have to travel a long way to get to the rest of their land. When they’re allowed through of course. It’s not always as easy to get through it. The olives don’t do well over there, Hamad can’t get to them often enough. And the crossings are always shut when they need to harvest. Always. The fruit often just rots on the trees. There is a stream on the other side. It comes from a spring, but we can’t get to that, either. Water’s scarce this side. The wall always follows the water.’

  A perverse desire to get closer to it seized me, compelled me to walk down the hill towards the wall until it blocked out the land beyond, capped with the last of the blue sky and tendrils of dark cloud reaching across from behind me.

  Aisha called my name, urging me to stop. I saw the cameras on the wall, the motors whining as they moved to focus on me, the afternoon sunlight glinting off their white casings. I stared up at it, now scared to go too close. It blotted out everything, a surreal barrier above and to either side of me, a show of power, of absolute will made of concrete. I faced it, overwhelmed by the frustration and humiliation of that barrier, locking these people from their land, from the water they needed to irrigate their crops. I turned, shaking my head and walked back uphill towards Aisha. She smiled bitterly as she saw my expression.

  ‘Ah, now you understand.’

  Her face was sad and yet proud at the same time, the dying light of the setting sun turning her brown skin golden. I kissed her, angling our faces so the cameras would have a good view. As we embraced, the gathering clouds obscured the sun and the light on Aisha’s face was extinguished. I drew back and looked deep into her eyes and I saw myself, falling into her richness.

  Raindrops started to fall, impacts throwing up little explosions of dust from the arid land, splashing on the leaves of the olive trees around us, a rich earth-smell rising from the land. A drop fell on Aisha’s cheek and I kissed it away. We hurried back over the hill towards the farm, passing between the rustling olive trees, their shaking leaves spattered by the heavy drops. The darkening soil drank.

  SIXTEEN

  We sat talking in the kitchen with Mariam, a strange mixture of English and Arabic, translation and comprehension. We smoked, Aisha and I, while Mariam poured me arak, adding water to turn the drink milky white. It was past nine and dark outside when we heard the crunch of tyres on the stony ground in the yard. A few seconds later, Hamad came into the kitchen with the odd, bobbing posture big, shy men have. He seemed slightly taken aback to see us, as if he had forgotten that we were to be there. He shook my hand and smiled bashfully.

  ‘Welcome. Mariam has been look for to meet with you. You like the farm?’

  I couldn’t help but smile back at him, he was so big and gentle.

  ‘I do. It’s very pretty and,’ I was aware of how silly it sounded, but my mouth had already formed the word, ‘peaceful.’

  He laughed at my rueful expression, his quick eyes never quite staying in contact with mine. ‘Yes, maybe it is like this.’

  I handed him the burgundy tin of pastries from Zalatimo and he took them, dipping his head in thanks, bashful but delighted, putting them carefully on a stone shelf at the back of the kitchen. He sat with us and drank an arak, but he had business to attend to in the village and left us soon after, asking me if I would move the car around to the side of the house to make room for his tractor in the morning.

  Hamad laughed at my hammed-up reaction to the temperature change from the warm kitchen as I followed him out. ‘It will come more wind, the weather she is change. Better to stay in house and make warm.’

  He drove a battered old Suzuki four-wheeler and I waved him goodbye as his tail lights snaked away up the drive to the road, before returning to the warm clatter of the kitchen, where Aisha and Mariam were chattering as they cooked dinner. I sat at the table watching Aisha and listening to her translations of Mariam’s comments until Mariam brought the dishes to the table and we ate lamb and rice, spiced with cardamom and dried limes, steaming plates served with fresh yoghurt and bread.

  After the meal, Mariam got up and covered a dish of food for Hamad, putting it in the warm oven.

  ‘He will be back late,’ Aisha translated. ‘He is late often, they have much difficulty with the crops and the border controls and so the men work together, but it is not easy for them.’

  Mariam wiped her hands on her apron and chattered brightly to Aisha, who laughed and turned to translate as the old lady lifted my hand and put it to her cheek, smiling, before leaving the room.

  ‘She says she is old and has to go to bed and we are young and have to stay up and that we are to behave and not take advantage of her sleepiness.’

  Aisha sketched, sitting cross-legged on the cushion-covered seat built out of the wall. I sipped at my arak, growing to like the strong liquorice heat of th
e drink.

  ‘What happened today with the helicopter? I still can’t believe it,’ I whispered across the table at her.

  She didn’t look up from her sketch, the pen flying across the heavy paper. ‘I don’t know. Maybe they had got a warning or a tip-off and mistook us, I just don’t know.’ She stopped drawing and looked up at me. ‘I was so scared, Paul.’

  ‘A mistake? Not just intimidation?’

  She shook her head, focused back on her sketch. ‘No, they’ve never done it before as far as I know. They must have been looking for someone. But I thought it was the end.’

  I moved to sit next to her. ‘No, don’t let that happen. I couldn’t bear to be without you. That was my fear, my worst nightmare in front of my eyes. Why didn’t they point the gun at me?’

  She was drawing a helicopter, dark, brutal and so lifelike it seemed to fly out of the page. She finished it and tossed the pad aside and I kissed her.

  We sat in the warmth of the kitchen, kissing and cuddling, playing around and tracing patterns on each other’s lips with our fingers before the heat came from within us and our play became passion. Aisha’s breast cupped in my hand, her lips against mine, her slow, rhythmic movement against me and her soft, flickering tongue; light kisses turned into deep, reaching open-mouthed ardour. Aisha’s hips were moving against my hand on her inner leg when something hit against the side window of the kitchen, startling us. We sat, stilled by the noise for a few seconds. I got up and peered out of the window to see the dark shadow of a tree waving in the wind outside and its branch near the window.

  ‘It’s just a tree. The wind’s getting up out there.’

  Aisha stood. ‘Just as well it wasn’t Hamad. Come on, ya Brit, time for bed.’

  I held her face in my hands and kissed her, tasting her sweetness, her eyes flickering between mine, a bruised look on her face.

  She gasped and pushed me away, her voice husky. ‘Go. For the love of God go before I do something I’ll regret.’

  I went to bed filled with a sexual tension that could only find one outlet and so I was still lying awake, my breathing slowing, when I heard two cars crunching down the driveway in the early hours of the morning. One parked around the side of the farmhouse near my car, out of sight beyond the shed.

  I looked out of the window, but I could only see Hamad’s Suzuki. I heard voices and caught the movement of shadows, watching the pale shapes of two faces turn towards me in the scant, blue-grey moonlight before the red flare of a match lit them for an instant, snuffed out to leave two red pin-pricks of light dancing in the darkness. There were muffled sounds of activity to the side of the house, near my car.

  I dressed quietly, wearing the darkest clothes I could find in my bag and carefully picked my way across the creaking floorboards, randomising the rhythm of my movement so the sounds blended with the natural sounds of the old house in the wind. With a silent curse for each tiny creak, I inched down the stairs.

  Reaching the kitchen, I finally appreciated the situation my curiosity had put me in. Whatever happened outside, if anyone found me outside my bedroom, their immediate assumption would be that I had been with Aisha. They’d make mincemeat of me, let alone the consequences for Aisha. The Jordanians still have honour killings, the families of girls who’ve disgraced them closing ranks to protect the brother or father who kills her in a rage. What would they do with me, the lone Brit somewhere in the country between two of the most infamous flashpoints in the West Bank? I stood in the dark kitchen, the moonlight shining through the window casting cold bars of light across the wall. I was sweating so much I had to wipe my forehead.

  I started moving again, opening the front door with infinite slowness and care and holding it against the sudden gust of wind that threatened to slam it back against the wall. It blew the curtains in the kitchen, making them billow and I waited, a long, heart-stopping pause, for a vase or plate to come crashing down onto the tiled floor before closing the door behind me, the cold air chill against my moist skin. I slid along the wall towards the back of the house with the idea of coming around the other side of the sheds. The ground felt uneven and there were bits and pieces of farmyard equipment lying around. It took me an age to walk those few metres, gingerly pushing my way forwards and shivering with cold and fear.

  Aisha and I had stopped here to kiss on the way to the olive groves. Now the wind howled over the roof, the clouds obscured the moon and I could only pick out the vaguest shadows.

  I didn’t hear the men’s low voices until it was almost too late, stopping just in time by the edge of the shed. I could barely pick out the dark bulk of my car. A Toyota was parked alongside it, three men standing between the two cars. One of the men stretched his back, another wiped his hands. Hamad’s bulky figure detached itself from the shadows by the house and they talked for a few seconds in low voices before they all shook hands and the three men got into the Tercel, its dark blue paintwork highlighted for a second by the opening of a door. The car made its way up the track to the road, a dark shadow melding into the shadows beyond.

  If Hamad went back into the house before me, he’d lock the door behind him. I cursed my stupidity as I stood, shivering and watching his bulky outline immobile against the fading car headlights. Hamad turned, scanning the yard and I moved my head back just in time, pressed against the wall in the cutting wind, waiting and shivering and feeling the coldness under my hands. I heard an outbuilding door creaking open and the sound jerked me into life to grope back down the wall towards the kitchen, the rough surface of the wall guiding me.

  I rounded the corner by the kitchen door, scanning the yard for any sign of Hamad before taking my chance and darting into the kitchen, pulling the door closed towards me as quietly as I could, the sound of my breathing harsh in my own ears.

  The sight of the candle on the kitchen table brought me to a standstill; I almost shouted out in panic. Mariam’s wrinkled features were picked out in the warm, small light of the flame. She shook her head, whispering something in Arabic to herself and waving at me to go upstairs, her finger to her lips, her eyes wide in fear. ‘Yalla, yalla.’ – go, go.

  Uncertainty froze me for a second before life returned to my limbs and I touched my hand to my heart then my lips, an Arab supplicant’s gesture of thanks I had seen before from the beggars in Amman and I went upstairs as quickly and quietly as I could. I was freezing. Shivering, I stripped off quickly and eased myself into the bed, which creaked alarmingly in the silence. I lay in the dark, my heart hammering in my chest. Would Mariam tell Hamad she’d seen me?

  The wind moaned softly outside and the house creaked. My sheets were damp with my fearful sweat. I heard the sound of raised voices from the kitchen turn into furious whispers. I imagined Hamad shushing Mariam, pressing down on the air with his big hands.

  A few minutes later I heard a gentle knock on my door and Hamad’s voice softly calling my name, but I stayed still in the bed, breathing deeply and loudly. I heard his soft footsteps as he walked away across the wooden boards to Mariam’s room, then Mariam’s slower, lighter steps as she passed my door a minute later. I didn’t sleep, lying and listening to the wind and thinking about groups of men huddled together, hidden out of sight of the world in the midnight darkness of the West Bank.

  The slow beat of a helicopter’s rotors sounded, its turbines’ whine steady alongside the rising and falling notes of the wind. It soon died away.

  I woke late to sunlight and the sound of birds. Mariam was in the kitchen, Aisha still asleep in the other room, a huddle of blankets and a tousle of hair. I left her sleeping and sat down to a breakfast of Arabic bread, olives and white cheese in blue-decorated dishes laid out on a white cloth.

  ‘Sabah al khair.’ A smiled ‘good morning.’

  I had enough Arabic for this, at least. ‘Sabah al noor.’

  She asked me a question, but lost me completely and so went through it again, speaking slowly and miming, hands together under her cheek, hands up and a quiz
zical look. Had I slept well?

  I nodded and smiled.

  She pointed outside, a warning finger, hands under head, finger on mouth. A touch of the heart, pointing to Aisha and to me before drawing a finger across her lips.

  I pointed outside and shrugged, a questioning look on my face and Mariam glared at me, putting her hands on her eyes, her ears and mouth. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

  I caught the moisture in her eyes before she turned to wipe them. She shook her head at me and again I only caught a fraction of what she said, but it ended: ‘Enta majnoun, habibi.’ You’re mad, my love.

  We ate together in companionable silence before Mariam cleared my plate. She touched the thin gold band on her finger and pointed to me and then the living room with an enquiring look. I grinned at her, then, ‘Insh’Allah.’ If it is the will of God. Aisha found two happy people laughing together when she came, yawning and fluffing her tousled hair, into the kitchen, Mariam repeating, ‘Insh’Allah.’

  Aisha caught my amused expression at her state of disarray and turned to regard herself using the base of a pan as a mirror, which you could get away with in Mariam’s spotless little kitchen. She growled at me and shook out her hair. Mariam loosed off a long stream of Arabic which made Aisha laugh.

  ‘She says I’m to teach you Arabic quickly because she’s tired of fooling around like a clown trying to get you to understand her.’

  ‘Tell her I’ll try, but it’s a difficult language.’

  Aisha translated, but Mariam just replied if I was such a very clever Englishman, everyone knowing the English were clever and cunning, I’d learn Arabic quickly. That she had the feeling I would learn their ways quickly and perhaps even make allowances for her people. Mariam looked at me as Aisha translated this, a particularly hard stare at the last bit. I got up and looked out over the yard.

  Mariam lifted a brass jug she had been heating on the range, pouring strong cardamom-flavoured coffee into little cups.