Crescent Star

by Nicholas Maes

  “I know what you mean,” Shosh said approvingly. “It makes me feel secure as well….”

  These comments led a new discussion about the value of sticking to the old traditions even if you weren’t that religious. Avi had heard these arguments too and found them just as tedious. Why couldn’t they discuss something positive, like music? Thank God the telephone intruded just then. And he guessed who it was before he picked up the receiver. His dad had remembered, as Dan had promised he would.

  “Happy birthday, Avi.”

  “So you did remember!”

  “Have I ever forgotten? My keys I forget, or my secretary’s name, but birthdays, never. What’s it like to be fifteen?”

  “It’s the same as being fourteen but I get to stay up later.” If only it were as simple as that. “I’m sorry you’re not here. We missed you at Pesach.”

  “Things didn’t work out. It’s too bad too because the weather has been awful. It’s snowing here, even as I speak. We had a blizzard last week and it’s storming again. Why people ever settled here is way beyond me.”

  As he went on to say he would be there for the wedding, Avi pictured him in his downtown condo, with snow burying the city alive, and the traffic on Yonge Street brought to a standstill. Every tree would be coated in white, the city’s sounds would be beautifully muted, and everything would move in slow motion. He realized with a pang that he missed the winter. Far from being inconvenient, the snow was padding against the … crap out there. And his father knew as much. As sorry as he was to live far away, Avi could hear his relief even as he complained.

  Why was he relieved? For the same reason Avi regretted that he’d turned fifteen.

  “… Are you going to that music festival in England?”

  “As far as I know,” Avi said, returning to the conversation. “We were told to have a valid passport ready. That means it’s still on.”

  “Great. And have you opened your present?”

  “I have. Thanks a million. The Artie Shaw music book was just what I wanted.”

  “Use it well. Your mom emailed me that you’ll be playing soccer against an Arab team. Is that true?”

  “Yeah. Our first match starts in a couple of days.”

  “I ask because I ran into a friend last week. Do you remember Phil Matthews? He’s a freelance reporter?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, he’s looking for a story with a Jewish-Arab angle. I mentioned something about your match and he’d like to interview a player from each team. Interested?”

  “I guess.”

  “Great. I’ll tell him. Now pass me to your mother. And remember: you’ll see me in just under four weeks.”

  Bidding him goodbye, Avi handed the phone over. For a moment he felt an emptiness engulf him. It was the thought of his dad living far away, and his brother’s fatigue, and the news on TV, and the fact another year had passed, and soon, very soon, he would have to do what all men do. He closed his eyes. The feeling wouldn’t pass. To stabilize himself, he sat next to Dan who, sensing his mood, passed some pistachios over.

  “How’s Abba?” he asked.

  “The same. It’s snowing in Toronto.”

  “I’d love to see it snow,” Dan said.

  The siblings began discussing the stuff they missed most in Canada. Between them they mentioned diners, hockey, thunderstorms, forests, lakes, and summer camping. Rachel mentioned the trips they’d taken, and Dan agreed he missed them most, jumping in the car and heading down a highway, to P.E.I., B.C., or south of the border, on and on, seemingly forever.

  Dror asked about P.E.I., and Dan and Rachel clued him in. Still reeling from his empty feeling, Avi grabbed some nuts and passed outside.

  It was beautiful out. The rain was like a whisper in his ear. Water was streaming in drops from a drainpipe and the tempo reminded him of Artie Shaw’s “Temptation.” Glancing into the street below, he spied a cat clawing around in a dumpster. Thinking it might like a pistachio nut, he cracked one open and tossed it down. It only made the creature jump and, with a growl of suspicion, it ran into the shadows, leaving its cache of chicken behind.

  Avi smiled and caught a raindrop on his tongue. He hoped the rain would never let up.

  It was 2:00 a.m. when he finally stretched out. His shelves were empty and the walls were bare. His model planes and Lego set had been packed into boxes and stuffed away. He hadn’t touched these things in ages but, until that evening, had wanted them around. He still wanted them close at hand but … enough was enough. They had to go. If they weren’t staring him in the face each day, it would probably be easier to do what men do.

  When he turned the light off in his room, he felt he was saying goodbye to an old trusted friend.

  Chapter Two

  The rain was tapping against the metal awning. Two potted almond trees were drinking greedily, as if they were knew that this was the last storm of the season. In the distance, merging with the hiss of trickling water, Moussa could hear music playing — the popular song “Habl el-Ghiwa” was coming from a radio. The air was chilly because of the rain and he embraced himself tightly, gazing across the rooftops of the Muslim Quarter. Beyond a network of satellite dishes, solar panels, and stone-cast domes, he could see the outline of the Damascus Gate, its pitted blocks lit up by spotlights from below. Even before the sun began to rise, day labourers would gather at the far side of the gate hoping to be employed by some Israeli; the stalls on Al-Wad Road would open shortly after, and the scent of sada coffee would fill the air. At seven, the day would formally begin and the streets would parade the usual roiling crowds, chatting, laughing, and hurling curses at each other.

  How many humans had lived in this region, he wondered. Never mind since ancient times, but from the days of Suleiman 400 years back: how many souls had lived in this corner of Jerusalem? A recent census stated there were 26,000 Arabs in the Muslim Quarter. If there’d been an average of 12,000 since Suleiman’s day, and if a generation lasted twenty years, the sum of inhabitants was … 240,000. How impressive for a region that was less than two square miles! And he hadn’t considered Mameluke times, Crusader times, Byzantine times, Persian times, Roman times, Maccabean times, Hellenistic times, not to mention the Biblical era. How much food had all these people eaten, how much water had they drunk, how much blood had they spilled…?

  “You’re buried in thought,” Ahmed, Moussa’s older brother, said. “Are you playing with your numbers again?”

  “I was wondering how much water we’ve consumed since ancient times.”

  “Only you would think of such a question. I’ll bet you know how many days you’ve been alive….”

  “That’s easy,” Moussa answered. “Because I turned fifteen today, I’ve been alive 5,479 days. This includes four leap years since 1991.”

  “Ya’allah, you have an interesting brain.” Ahmed lit another cigarette, his fourth since they’d climbed to the roof to rest after supper. Moussa was surprised: Ahmed didn’t smoke that often but, when he did, it was because he was feeling cheerful. Had he received good news that day?

  “Yes, I’m feeling cheerful,” Ahmed said, puffing away.

  “You read my mind!” Moussa gasped.

  “The logical mind is easy to predict. But you’re right. I’m feeling happy. It’s your birthday, for one, and I love celebrations. At the same time I’m thinking about Alisha’s wedding and how, insha’Allah, Douad will be visiting soon. And a delivery arrived so our shelves are full.”

  “I don’t understand. Our shelves aren’t always full?”

  Ahmed studied Moussa closely. Their father had been arrested two years back when the police had found explosives in a sack of produce, one destined for his dry goods shop. Despite his protests that he was innocent, he’d been tried and sentenced to four years in prison. In his absence, Ahmed had l
eft his studies and taken over the family business. He purchased produce from West Bank farms and sold it from their stall on Al-Wad Road. While Moussa would sometimes help with the deliveries, he didn’t show much interest in its details otherwise. This was why he didn’t know how the business operated.

  “At fourteen you could ignore our hardships,” Ahmed said. “But in one short night you have reached the adult realm.”

  “You’re saying I should know why our shelves are sometimes empty?”

  “I am. And I’ll tell you why. Our supplies arrive from the West Bank and beyond — olives, lentils, peanuts, pistachios, spices, chick peas, and other wares. These goods must be transported into the city, but you can’t travel far without encountering a roadblock, manned by teams of Israeli soldiers. These roadblocks consist of concrete blocks, and stop trucks moving in both directions. The only way for the goods to continue is if trucks meet on both sides of the roadblock and the goods from one are loaded onto the other. If the soldiers are suspicious or feeling spiteful, they can turn a truck back before it’s been emptied. With nowhere to go, these goods can sit in limbo.”

  “Does that happen often?”

  “More often than it should. And the drivers must have up-to-date permits, there are tariffs to pay, and the timing must be perfect. Many things can go wrong and it’s lucky when they don’t. And that’s why I’m grateful our shelves are full.”

  Ahmed eyed him. He was waiting for something, but Moussa didn’t know what. No, that wasn’t true. Ahmed was expecting him to squint his eyes, to clench his fists, and yell something like, “How dare they! How dare they!” The problem was he didn’t feel these stirrings. He wished he did; he knew it was time. His teachers expected it, and his friends could often meet these expectations. Most were capable of doing what men do. Hadn’t Amir been throwing stones at Israelis and insulting them and spitting as they sidled by? But this fire wasn’t in him yet. It would come, he kept thinking; but sometimes he suspected that, when it did arrive, something precious would die, if it hadn’t died on him already. Perhaps that was why he had postponed his angry feelings until then.

  “Come,” Ahmed said, sensing his brother’s turmoil. “Let’s go downstairs. I could use some coffee.”

  That said Ahmed flicked his butt into the rain. It flickered briefly and sputtered out. The pair descended a flight of stairs, passed the second level with the family’s four bedrooms, and emerged on the ground floor where the smells from dinner lingered still. They entered the living room with its couches and carpets. The walls paraded an array of pictures — the el-Haram mosque over in Mecca, an official portrait of Chairman Arafat, and three plaques that spelled Allah in golden script. Opposite the central couch the TV was playing the news. Alisha and their grandmother were glued to the screen, both identically dressed in thobes. At one time Alisha had worn skirts and dresses, but since her engagement she had adopted this traditional style.

  “Why are you watching the Israeli news?” Moussa asked. “Your Hebrew is weak. Why not switch to Al Jazeerah?”

  “There was an incident at Qalandia. You heard about Nasir?”

  “Who’s Nasir?”

  “Really Moussa! You should know your own family! He’s Um’s second cousin and lives near Ramallah. His son is sick and needed a doctor. Nasir was rushing him to the al-Makassed Hospital but was held up at the checkpoint. His temper boiled over and he was arrested.”

  “And his son?”

  “Alhamdulilah, the Israelis let him pass.”

  Alisha and Ahmed discussed the event. Both of them were angry. Whereas Ahmed kept shaking his head, Alisha’s anger kept growing and growing and she was insisting the soldiers must pay. She even said she wished she were a man, so that she could help in the exaction of justice. When Ahmed joked he couldn’t see her with a slingshot, she laughed long and hard, but she was still white with anger.

  As always, Moussa moved away, as if he hadn’t heard their exchange. He approached his grandmother and grasped her hand. He crouched before her and smiled widely. Her skin sat loosely upon her bones and was so thin the veins in her hands showed through. Always a frail woman, age had reduced her to nothing, as had the arthritis that had plagued her for years. Moussa brought his face in close; her eyes were starting to go as well, and she was practically deaf in one ear.

  “Moussa?” she asked, in a voice that sounded like paper rustling.

  “Teita, it is raining outside.”

  “I can smell it, habibi. It is such a blessing. I remember my brother once dancing in our fields, he was so glad for the rain. That was Mustafa. He would buy me chocolate whenever he could.”

  “I wish I’d met him.”

  “I wish you’d met him too. If I close my eyes, I can see him as he was, as if he were dancing in front of me still. Time likes to trick a helpless old woman.”

  Moussa squeezed her hand. For a moment her wrinkled face relaxed as she indulged this memory from a bygone era. She mentioned it often. It was her happiest one and more precious than gold because her happy memories were all too rare. Moussa smiled and sat in an armchair. He saw Alisha was looking him over.

  “You do that often,” she said, as if accusing him of something.

  “Do what?”

  “When bad news is discussed, you walk away?”

  “I heard every word you said about Nasir.”

  “I could have been describing the foules at breakfast.”

  “Alisha has a point,” Ahmed said, in a tone that lacked his sister’s contempt.

  “Sayed says you’re old enough to know better,” she continued, “and suspects sometimes that you’re not patriotic.”

  Moussa cringed at these words, but he was glad to see that his brother was stung as well. He and Sayed didn’t get along: Alisha’s fiancé was too pious for his tastes, and Ahmed was too secular for Sayed’s pious ways. In the elections that winter, Sayed had supported Hamas. When asked if he didn’t find their tactics extreme, he’d said it was their piety that attracted him most. When Ahmed had protested they were strict and violent, Sayed had answered the Gazans needed discipline. Since that conversation, they’d been leery of each other.

  “I didn’t know,” Ahmed spoke, with a note of heavy sarcasm, “that Sayed was such a patriot himself.”

  “The shaheed fight daily to win our freedom! What do you do, besides running your shop? If Moussa doesn’t react as he should to our troubles, whom do you think he learned this from? When was the last time you protested? When was the last time you confronted the soldiers, not by counting people’s change, but by hitting back with sticks and stones and guns if necessary? And you’re surprised he’s interested in math and nothing else?”

  Moussa wanted to apologize but Ahmed shook his head.

  “For reasons of modesty,” he said calmly, “you seldom visit the shuk these days. This is why you’re unaware that many shops have folded, and the rest are like men on the verge of drowning. How do people eat if they can’t buy food? How can patriots fight if their stomachs are empty? I have nothing but respect for Sayed, but his prayers won’t keep the population fed; nor will the violence that his prayers too often lead to.”

  “Shame on you, Alisha,” Nadira broke in. She was standing with a laden tray of sweets in hand. “Where would Uncle Yusuf be, or your cousins Abdel, Bilaal, and Rashid, if not for Ahmed? Who do you think feeds them when they can’t find work or…?”

  “Um!” Ahmed cried, raising his hand, “You embarrass me. Let’s not speak of their troubles but count our blessings. And enough said already. On Moussa’s fifteenth birthday we should only smile.”

  There was silence as Nadira set the tray on a table and started serving the kanufa and coffee. Alisha helped her mother, her lips tightly pursed. Moussa was watching his mother’s gestures: he was calculating the ways she could pour coffee for five people. He had discovere
d combinatorics last week and greatly admired this branch of mathematics.

  “I’m sorry,” Alisha apologized to Ahmed, once he’d sipped his coffee, “I didn’t mean to be impatient with you. Please forgive your foolish sister.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Ahmed said. “And besides I have good news to announce. I was saving it for when we’d be eating our kanufa.”

  “What news?” Nadira asked. “Does it involve your father?”

  “It does indeed. We’ve received a permit to visit him in jail. We’ll see him in two weeks time, on May first.”

  “We’ll have to ride to Beersheva and back in one day.”

  “We can manage. We’ll get up at the crack of dawn.”

  As the family greeted this news with cheers and discussed the gifts they should bring to their father, Moussa leaned back and tried to join in. Of course he was anxious to visit his father; it had been four months since he’d talked to him last. The problem was, Ab would complain like the others, only his words would cut more deeply than theirs. If only the fires would catch inside him. If only he were ready to do what men must do, like his brother or Sayed or his friends at school.

  The wind blew a raindrop through the latticed window. Feeling it splash against the back of his neck, Moussa calculated the drops from that day’s rainstorm. Even as he reckoned the numbers, he knew the figure would fall short of many tears that his family had shed on behalf of his father.

  And still his fires wouldn’t catch.

  It was 2:00 a.m. when he finally stretched out. His shelves were empty and the walls were bare. His model planes and Meccano set had been packed into boxes and stuffed in a closet. He hadn’t touched these things in ages but, until that evening, he had wanted them around. He still wanted them close at hand, but enough was enough: they had to go. If they weren’t staring him in the face, it would maybe be easier to do what men do.

  When he turned the light off in his room, he felt he was abandoning an old trusted friend.