The Attack

by Yasmina Khadra

  “We haven’t arrived yet.”

  “Oh, yes, we have. End of the line! You get your sorry ass out of my car or I’ll tear the skin off of it with my bare hands!” Whereupon he utters a curse, leans across me, furiously opens my door, and starts shoving me outside.

  “And you’d better hope our paths don’t cross again, you son of a bitch,” he says threateningly. With a vicious yank, he slams the door closed, guns the car backward, makes a half turn toward Bethlehem, and roars away amid a dissonant flurry of backfires.

  I stand agape in the middle of the road and watch as the car disappears from sight.

  Then I sit down on a rock and wait for a vehicle to pass. When nothing comes, I get up and continue on foot until a carter catches up with me several miles farther on.

  Yasser goes weak in the knees when he sees me standing on the threshold of the shed, where two teenagers are bustling around the press and keeping an eye on the thick streams of olive oil cascading into the collection vat.

  “What a surprise!” he exclaims between two exaggerated bouts of hugging and kissing. “Our surgeon, in the flesh. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? I would have sent someone to welcome your arrival.”

  His enthusiasm is too embarrassed to be credible. He consults his watch, turns to the teenagers, and tells them loudly that he’s going to have to absent himself for a while and that he’s counting on them to finish the work. Then he takes me by the arm and guides me to an old van parked under a tree at the foot of the mound the press is on.

  “Let’s go to the house,” he says. “Leila will be delighted to see you again. Or have you seen her already?”

  “Yasser,” I say, “let’s not beat around the bush. I have neither the time nor the inclination. I’ve come here for a specific reason.” I’m brusque with him, hoping to surprise him into saying something. “I know Sihem was in Bethlehem and at your house the day before the attack.”

  “Who told you that?” he asks in a panicked voice, all the while casting terrified looks in the direction of the pressing shed.

  I take the letter out of my shirt pocket and lie: “Sihem told me, that very day.”

  A spasm begins in the area around his cheekbone. He swallows hard and then begins mumbling. “She didn’t stay long. It was just a quick visit to say hello. Leila wasn’t home—she was with our daughter in Ein Kerem—and your wife didn’t even want to take a cup of tea. She left after no more than a quarter of an hour. She hadn’t come to Bethlehem for us. That Friday, Sheikh Marwan was expected to speak in the Grand Mosque. Your wife wanted him to bless her. It was only when we saw her picture in the newspaper that we understood.”

  He takes me by the shoulders like a wrestler and speaks confidingly: “We’re all very proud of her.”

  I know he’s said that because he’s trying to treat me gently, or maybe because he wants to cajole me. Yasser doesn’t know how to keep his cool; the smallest unforeseen problem unsettles him.

  “Proud that she threw herself away?”

  He jumps as though he’s been bitten. “Threw herself away?”

  “Or blew herself away, if you prefer.”

  “I don’t like these phrases.”

  “All right, I’ll rephrase my question: What pride can you take in sending people to die so others can live free and happy?”

  He raises his hands in front of his chest, imploring me to lower my voice because of his teenage helpers—we’re still too close to them for his comfort. He signals me to follow him around to the other side of the van and walks ahead nervously, stumbling a little with every step.

  I keep harassing him: “And besides, why?”

  “Why what?”

  His fear, his destitution, his filthy clothes, his badly shaven face, and his rheumy eyes fill me with a brutal, growing anger. My body vibrates from head to foot. “Why,” I grumble, upset by my own words, “why sacrifice some for the benefit of others? It’s generally the best and the bravest who choose to lay down their lives for the sake of those who hide in their holes. So why favor the sacrifice of the righteous in order to permit the less righteous to survive them? Don’t you think that’s a way of weakening the human species? What’s going to be left of it in a few generations if it’s always the best who are called upon to exit the scene so that the cowards, the counterfeits, the charlatans, and the pricks can continue to proliferate like rats?”

  “Amin, you’re not making sense to me. Things have always been this way since the beginning of time. Some die so others can be saved. You don’t believe in the salvation of others?”

  “Not when it damns mine. Look, you and your friends have fucked up my life, destroyed my home, ruined my career, and turned everything I built—by the sweat of my brow, stone for stone—into dust. From one day to the next, my dreams collapsed like a house of cards. Poof! Gone with the wind! I’ve lost everything for nothing. Did any of you think about my suffering when you were jumping for joy at the news that the creature I treasured most in the world was dead, that she’d detonated a bomb in a restaurant filled with kids? And you, you want to make me believe I should consider myself the happiest of men because my wife is a heroine, because she gave up her life, her comfort, and my love without even consulting me or preparing me for the worst? What did I look like while I was refusing to admit what everyone knew? A cuckold! I looked like a pitiful cuckold, that’s what I looked like. Like an object of ridicule. Like a man who works and slaves to make life as pleasant as possible for the woman he loves, while she’s cheating on him the whole time.”

  “I think you’re talking to the wrong person. I don’t have anything to do with any of this. I didn’t know what Sihem’s plans were. It would never have occurred to me that she was capable of taking such a step.”

  “Didn’t you tell me you were proud of her?”

  “What else could I say? I didn’t know you didn’t know what she planned to do.”

  “You think I would have encouraged her to make this kind of spectacle of herself if I’d had the least notion of her intentions?”

  “I’m really confused, Amin. Forgive me if I’ve—if I’ve—ah, I don’t understand anything anymore. I—I don’t know what to say.”

  “In that case, don’t talk. If you keep quiet, at least you don’t run the risk of saying something idiotic.”

  10.

  * * *

  Yasser. It pains me to look at him, distraught as he is, hunkering down inside his raggedy shirt collar as if he’s expecting the sky to fall on his head. He pretends to concentrate on the road so he won’t have to meet my eyes. Obviously, I’m barking up the wrong tree. Yasser’s not the kind of guy you can count on when things get hard, and it’s even less likely that he’d be associated with preparations for a slaughter. He’s past sixty now, just a wreck with red-rimmed eyes and a sagging mouth, liable to drop dead on me if I frown at him too hard. If he says he knows nothing about the attack, it must be true. Yasser never takes any risks. I don’t remember ever having seen him grumble, much less roll up his sleeves for a fight. On the contrary, he’s far more inclined to withdraw into his shell and wait until things settle down than to utter anything resembling a protest. His irrational fear of cops and his blind submission to the authority of the state have reduced him to survival on its most basic level: He works like a horse and considers every mouthful of bread a gesture of defiance in the face of bad luck. And now, when I see him crouched over his steering wheel, with his wizened neck and his low profile, already feeling guilty, if only because he was in my path, I realize fully the senselessness of my enterprise. But how do I put out these red-hot embers I’ve got burning holes in my guts? How can I look at myself in a mirror and not cover my face, with my self-esteem in shreds and this doubt that’s still here, subverting my grief, despite what I know to be true? Ever since Captain Moshé released me to my own devices, I can’t close my eyes without finding myself face-to-face with Sihem’s smile. She was so loving and so considerate, and when we’d stand together in
our garden, my arm around her waist, and I’d tell her about the wonderful days that lay ahead of us and the grand projects I was working on for her, she seemed to hang on my words. I can still feel her fingers squeezing mine with what I thought was indestructible passion and conviction. She was a firm believer in our bright future, and every time I lost heart, she redoubled her efforts. We were so happy; we had such confidence in each other. What spell has made the monument I was building around her vanish, like a sand castle under the waves? How can I continue to have faith, after putting all my confidence into a sacred vow that turns out to be as unreliable as a quack physician’s promise? It’s because I have no answer to these questions that I’ve come to Bethlehem to tempt fate, inconsolable as I am, and naked, and suicidal in my turn.

  Yasser explains that he has to leave his van in a garage because the little alley that leads to his house is inaccessible to cars. He’s relieved that he’s finally found something to say that entails no risk of blundering. I tell him to park his heap wherever the hell he feels like. He nods as though delivered from an unbearable burden and turns into a street teeming with people. We go through a chaotic neighborhood before reaching a broad, dusty esplanade, where a kabob vendor is busy keeping the flies away from his meat. The garage in question stands at the corner of a narrow little street, across from a lot littered with broken crates and shards of glass. After Yasser blows the horn twice, we have to wait several minutes before we hear the sound of bolts being drawn. A large sliding door painted a distressing shade of blue moves aside with a metallic shriek. Yasser backs and fills, aiming the nose of his van at a sort of covered yard, and slips adroitly between the carcass of a miniature crane and a mutilated 4X4. The hoary-headed, slovenly watchman greets us with an enervated wave of his hand, closes the door again, and goes on about his business.

  “This used to be an abandoned warehouse,” Yasser informs me, glad of a new subject. “My son Adel bought it for a song. His plan was to turn it into a mechanic’s shop. But our people are so resourceful and so indifferent to maintaining the jalopies they ride around in that the shop went broke pretty soon. Adel lost a lot of money in that business. While he’s waiting on some other opportunities, he’s transformed the warehouse into a parking lot for local residents.”

  A dozen automobiles are waiting quietly here and there. Some are out of commission, with burst tires and bashed-in windshields. My attention is drawn by a large, powerful car parked a little off to one side, in a spot shaded from the sun. It’s an old cream-colored Mercedes, half-covered by a tarpaulin.

  “That belongs to Adel,” Yasser informs me proudly, following my gaze.

  “When did he buy it?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Why is it up on blocks? Is it a collector’s item?”

  “No, but when Adel isn’t here, no one takes it out.”

  Voices overlay one another in my head. Captain Moshé’s comes first—He didn’t get the car’s license number, but he says it was an older-model Mercedes, cream-colored—drowned out by Navid Ronnen’s—My father-in-law has one like that.

  “So where’s Adel?”

  “You know how these wheeler-dealers are, one day here, the next day somewhere else, always tracking down the big score.”

  My relatives rarely visited us in Tel Aviv, but Adel was an exception; he stopped by frequently. Young and dynamic, he was always determined to succeed, at whatever price. He wasn’t yet seventeen when he proposed that I invest in some telephone-related deal with him. Seeing my reluctance, he didn’t press the issue, but not long afterward he returned to present me with a second project. This time, the business he wanted to go into was the recycling of spare parts for automobiles. I was at great pains to explain to him that I was a surgeon and that I had no other vocation. In those days, he would come to my house every time he passed through Tel Aviv. He was a fantastic, amusing fellow, and Sihem adopted him without a struggle. He dreamed about starting some sort of enterprise in Beirut, from where he would spread out to conquer the entire Arab market, particularly including the monarchies of the Persian Gulf. Lately, however—for more than a year, in fact—I haven’t seen him.

  “When Sihem came to your house, was Adel with her?”

  Yasser nervously strokes the bridge of his nose.

  “I don’t know. When she showed up, I was at the mosque for Friday prayers. The only person who saw her was my grandson Issam, who was house-sitting.”

  “You said she didn’t even stay for a cup of tea.”

  “Just a manner of speaking.”

  “And Adel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does Issam know?”

  “I didn’t ask him.”

  “Did Issam know my wife?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And since when? Sihem had never set foot in Bethlehem before, and none of you has ever come to our house.”

  Yasser becomes confused; his hands get lost in vague gestures. “Let’s go to the house, Amin. We’ll have a nice cup of tea and talk about all this calmly.”

  At the house, things become more complicated. We find Leila in bed, with a neighbor standing by. Leila’s pulse is weak. I suggest that we take her to the nearest clinic at once. Yasser refuses, explaining to me that my foster sister is following a course of treatment; it’s the pills she takes in large quantities daily, he says, that have reduced her to this state. A little later, after Leila falls asleep, I tell Yasser that I insist on having a chat with Issam.

  “All right,” Yasser says without enthusiasm. “I’ll go find him. He lives two blocks from here.”

  Twenty minutes later, Yasser’s back, accompanied by a young boy with a sallow complexion. “He’s sick,” Yasser informs me.

  “In that case, you shouldn’t have brought him.”

  This is too much for Yasser. He mutters, “I thought we’d gone too far for that. . . .”

  I don’t learn a lot from Issam. Apparently, his grandfather rehearsed him before presenting him to me. According to Issam, Sihem arrived alone. She wanted to write something, and she asked for paper and a pen. Issam tore out a page from his school notebook and loaned her his ballpoint. When Sihem finished writing, she handed him a letter and asked him to post it for her. Issam left the house on this errand at once. As he stepped outside, he noticed a man on the street corner. He doesn’t remember what the man looked like, but he’s sure it wasn’t anyone from the neighborhood. When Issam came back from the post office, Sihem had left and the stranger was gone.

  “You were alone in the house?”

  “Yes. Grandmother was in Ein Kerem, at my aunt’s house. Grandfather was at the mosque. I did my homework while I was watching the house.”

  “Did you know Sihem?”

  “I saw some pictures of her in Adel’s photo album.”

  “And you recognized her right away?”

  “Not right away. But the pictures came back to me when she told me who she was. She didn’t want to see anyone in particular. She just wanted to sit down and write a letter before she left.”

  “How did she look?”

  “Beautiful.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Did she seem to be in a hurry or anything like that?”

  Issam thinks for a moment.

  “She looked normal.”

  “And that’s all?”

  Issam consults his grandfather with his eyes and has nothing more to say.

  I turn abruptly on Yasser and assail him. “You say you didn’t see her. Issam doesn’t tell us anything we don’t already know. So how can you tell me my wife was in Bethlehem to receive Sheikh Marwan’s blessing?”

  “Any child in the town can tell you the same thing,” he replies. “The whole of Bethlehem knows Sihem came through here the day before the attack. She’s become something of a local icon. Some people are even swearing they spoke to her and kissed her forehead. Reactions of that sort are common among us. A martyr is an open door to all sorts of tale telling. So the rumor ma
y be an exaggeration, but according to what everyone says, Sihem was blessed by Sheikh Marwan that Friday.”

  “They met at the Grand Mosque?”

  “Not during the prayer. Much later, after all the worshipers had gone home.”

  “I see.”

  * * *

  Quite early the next day, I present myself at the Grand Mosque. Some men are at the end of their prayers, prostrating themselves on the broad quilts that cover the floor; a few others are reading the Qur’an, each in his own corner. I take off my shoes outside the sanctuary and cross the threshold. When I ask an old man if there’s anyone in charge here I could talk to, he shrinks away from me, outraged that anyone would disturb him while he was at prayer. I look around to see if I can spot someone who looks likely to help me.

  “Yes?” snaps a voice behind my back.

  The voice belongs to a very tall young man with an emaciated face, deep-set eyes, and a hooked nose. I extend a hand, which he does not take. My face tells him nothing useful, so he’s mystified by my intrusion.

  “Dr. Amin Jaafari.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Dr. Amin Jaafari.”

  “I heard you. What can I do for you?”

  “My name means nothing to you?”

  He gives me an evasive look. “I don’t believe so.”

  “I’m Sihem Jaafari’s husband.”

  The religious young man squints a little, pondering my words. Then, all at once, his forehead creases and his complexion turns a shade grayer. He puts his hand over his heart and exclaims, “My God! What was I thinking?”

  There follows an effusive sequence of apologies. “My conduct was unpardonable.”

  “Forget about it.”

  He spreads out his arms and embraces me. “Brother Amin, it’s an honor and a privilege to meet you. I shall go at once and announce you to the imam. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to receive you.”