by Mona Yahia
Going over the spice and herb jars in the kitchen, I remove the lid of a cracked teapot standing on the same shelf, and hit upon a wad of green banknotes tucked inside. Two notes of a quarter-dinar and some coins. Mother must be keeping them at hand for occasional street vendors. On the upper right corner of one banknote, a name is scribbled in red ink. Imad. A name on a banknote, how unusual! Who is this Imad? When did he part with his quarter? Banknotes circulate all their lifetime, change hands day in day out, without bearing the personal traces of a particular owner.
Would it occur to a security man to check a quarter folded in the purse of a schoolgirl?
Grateful for his tip, I kiss tiny red Imad and steal him into my pocket. Back in my room, ready to copy Laurence’s address under Imad’s name, I unfold the paper slip:
I was walking through the desert
when I saw a mirage. Instantly
I reach for my camera
and shoot
the sheet of water.
In the darkroom, to my
wonder,
your figure emerged
on the sheet of paper,
swimming in the water.
I read it a second, a third, a fourth time, but detect no cipher or covert address between the lines. Laurence has left no trail behind, only a keepsake, a poem that questions my reality, and veils my face behind the mystery of the Orient.
Mother calls for dinner. I pull myself together, get up, and cast a look outside the window. Our English neighbours have lit the candles in their dining-room. Why light candles when the IPC pays their electricity bill? I will never understand. Have I been listening all alone to Frank Sinatra at night on the roof? I will never know. The address in London has itself turned out to be a mirage. But one load is off my mind: I have nothing to hide any more.
The Star
—Hey, weren’t you supposed to be back in the afternoon? Father asks Shuli as the latter unlocks the door.
He barely finishes his sentence when two men follow my brother into our sitting-room. The room suddenly appears crowded, as if a stranger occupies double the space a family member does. They are young, neatly dressed, perhaps they are only university friends, I tell myself, using the last moment of doubt to our advantage.
—Lunch is ready, mother calls from the dining-room.
Shuli’s face is pallid. He smiles wryly at me the way he does when he loses a bet or admits an error.
—We want to go over his things, explains one of the men, as if he needed father’s permission.
Father opens his mouth, but finds nothing to say. Shuli leads the two security men to his room. Father follows. Mother darts from the dining-room, alarmed by the unfamiliar male voices and the multiple footsteps thronging the stairs.
I tell her.
—Sa’at al soda! Our black hour has come! she murmurs and clatters with me upstairs to Shuli’s room, her kitchen apron still tied around her waist.
The taller of the two men is ransacking Shuli’s books, stacked on the floor, under the window sill. His hands are smooth and delicate, as if they have never beaten anybody up. He is wearing a wedding ring. The other security man has pulled the desk drawers out. Shuli is leaning against the wardrobe, his arms behind his back, silently watching. My parents are standing on either side of the door, like retired guards, no longer licensed to protect their offspring. The security man is reading admission letters from American universities. Under his left eye is an oukht, a patch of eaten up skin, as large as an eye socket, the scar left by the Baghdad Boil. His face reveals neither respect nor disapproval. He returns the letters to the drawer, and picks up a booklet illustrating signatures of famous people. He unfolds a paper stuffed between the pages, and examines the stylistic signatures which Shuli has been trying out. My brother’s hands slide inside his pockets. The man with the oukht pitches booklet and signatures aside. He looks neither puzzled nor amused. His gaze brushes the ziggurat, creeps up to the pictures pinned on the wall, inspects the coloured space ships and the two black and white NASA photographs of the moon. Suddenly he grabs the transistor radio and fumbles for the on–off switch. I hold my breath. It is too late to ask God anything. Shuli either followed father’s instructions or dismissed them as too cautious. He either did or did not change stations last night after he had heard the news from Kol Israel. Um Kalthoum’s voice rises, resonates like never before in Shuli’s room. I avoid my brother’s eyes, lest a sigh of relief gives us away. The security man looks neither disappointed nor satisfied. He turns the radio off and proceeds to the books on the desk, standard textbooks on the rudiments of architecture.
—What are you looking for, Brother? mother dares to ask.
As she speaks, she notices her apron and hastens to untie it.
—Zionist propaganda, he replies, in a matter-of-fact way, without interrupting his search.
The three of us gawk at Shuli.
—Fetch your father a glass of water, mother quavers.
I hurry to the kitchen and remove Laurence’s poem from between the sheets of kamardin, dried apricots, in the larder. Why have I hidden the poem in the first place? It evokes a vision in the desert and not a lure to Zion – even a security man can tell the difference. What am I up to now, have I lost my common sense altogether? One hand has turned on the tap while the other is drowning the piece of paper under the running water. The verses pale as blue ink oozes and flows down into the sink. His blue tears. His blue beard. His blue underpants. Our empty blue swimming pool. It is hardly the time for grief or regret. I bury the wet leaf in the bottom of the rubbish bin and race upstairs with a glass of cold water.
Father, slumping in Shuli’s chair, swallows two white pills with the water.
The man with the oukht is now searching the wardrobe, examining Shuli’s jumpers, shirts, pyjamas, fiddling with his balled socks and underwear. When he pauses to light a cigarette, mother beckons me to bring him an ashtray. I feign not to notice her gesture. He is not our guest, and he will not be treated as one.
—Excuse me Brother, but can you be kind and tell us what wrong did our son do? she asks.
The man with the smooth fingers sends her an astonished look, as if she has asked for a search warrant.
—Spread Zionist propaganda, replies his partner, again in a matter-of-fact way.
Shuli frowns. Whoever asks ludicrous questions deserves ludicrous answers, he would have told his mother in other circumstances.
—For God’s sake, she says, imploring her son. Why don’t you open your mouth and tell us what happened?
Shuli glances at the two security men alternately, waiting for their permission. Both are ransacking the books now. Squatting amid the piles, the man with the smooth fingers looks like a bust placed on a stack of books. The other man is leaning against the window. They are checking each title, riffling through the book, then discarding it on to the heap in the corner. As they ignore his inquiring look, Shuli hesitates for a moment then relates his story. In the Moslem dialect – the way we usually speak in the presence of non-Jews.
Two days ago, a fellow student, an asshole of a nationalist (Shuli will save the last detail for mother, some hours later), asked him what the Zionist star looked like. Shuli drew his answer on the blackboard: a six-pointed star. No, quite a large one, but what difference does it make now? The student summoned two so-called witnesses from the adjacent classroom, pointed at Shuli and the star, and made his accusation. Shuli did not deign to argue or deny anything. He just told his fellow student to eat shit and went away. No, he didn’t tell us about it, what for? He considered it a trifle, a bad joke which he himself tried to forget. Today, at the end of the second lecture, the two security men were waiting for him outside the classroom.
—I’ve found something! the man with the smooth fingers flaunts the pale blue paperback while rising to his feet.
Shuli’s lips are shivering. He seems thrown off balance. Does he have anything to hide? A book which he borrowed from an American professor last
year flashes through my mind. The Dead Sea Scrolls. It contained pictures of ancient tattered documents, parchment I guess, as well as the photograph of an Israeli shepherd by the Dead Sea. The word Israel, appearing uncensored, dozens of times, filled me with awe. Although it dealt only with archaeology, father asked Shuli to keep the book at home for as short a time as possible.
—This pamphlet here. It’s written in Zionist! the security man gasps, speaking to his partner and dragging at his cigarette.
I recognise the cheap prayer edition issued by our school for religious instruction.
—Hebrew, you mean? the man with the oukht dryly corrects his partner.
Shuli glances at me and suppresses a mocking smile. I hasten to look away, for fear of bursting into hysterical laughter. Wait till they hear it at school. Written in Zionist … in correct Zionist spelling. It will be the joke of the month. I turn to mother. She does not seem to find the scene funny. On the verge of tears, she approaches the man with the smooth fingers.
—Brother, it’s a prayer book. Nothing to do with Zionism, by my life. It’s for elementary school children. The boy never throws anything away. Let me show you …
Smooth Fingers shakes his head with a snigger that says, “Don’t try to fool me, woman!” His partner snatches the book from him.
—The first page, Shuli coldly dictates, hardly concealing his scorn. The title’s printed in Arabic. At the bottom, there’s an authorisation stamp from the Ministry of Education.
Without looking up, the man with the oukht nods to acknowledge Shuli’s words. Smooth Fingers flings his cigarette to the floor and treads on it roughly, as if he were crushing a cockroach. His partner, still browsing through the Hebrew text, draws out a Rafidain packet from his pocket and hands it to him. Something in the prayer book seems to be giving him second thoughts.
—Let’s go! says the man with the oukht to my brother in a decided tone, as he lays, with care, the prayer edition on the window sill.
They went over three out of eleven stacks of books. They did not search his bed. They did not check the tubes and flasks in the chemistry box above his wardrobe. They did not dismantle his camera or listen to his tapes. They did not carry out a thorough search.
—Where are you taking him? father stands up, reasserting his paternal claims.
—To Rashid Camp. You can take him a mattress this afternoon.
He is saying they are not releasing him today. Without a word we accompany them to the gate. The man with the oukht sits at the wheel. Shuli waits, as he is told, until Smooth Fingers gets into the back before he takes the passenger seat. Nobody waves as the grey Volkswagen Beetle drives away. No sooner has the car turned into the main street than father bursts out.
—How foolish of him, he should have known better …
—Now you’re back to yourself! Your son has just got arrested, and all you do is blame him for it.
—Jews are being arrested for nothing these days. We can’t afford to be off our guard. And here he is, drawing the Star of David in public. He could have just as well turned himself over to them.
—He’s only a boy, nineteen years old …
—Nineteen’s long past childhood. At his age, I carried the responsibility of …
—You were hungry a while ago, what about lunch?
—How can I put anything into my mouth right now? I’ve got to find Zeki first, at home or at work.
They divide their tasks. Father will seek Zeki, and together they will go over their connections. One of Zeki’s cousins is a high-ranking officer in the army, while a distant relative is married to the daughter of a prominent official. Father is acquainted with some magnates whose accounts he audited in the past. If we are lucky, we might reach someone who has access to someone among the top brass, who might in his turn be willing to pull strings. Otherwise, we must reckon with bribery. Whatever works will do, they both agree. In the meantime, mother will drive to the Rashid Camp and see to Shuli’s needs. By no means, he is not letting her walk into an army camp all by herself. No, she is not having him go with her, it’s out of the question, what if they took it into their heads to throw him into jail too? Far-fetched! Are they predictable?
They settle on an escort, a female one, Dudi’s mother preferably, due to the mass of experience she has assembled recently. For the last three months, our neighbour has been knocking at doors, lingering in dusty corridors, waiting for a minister or a party member to admit her for a few minutes, hear her pleas, and send her away with vague promises to intercede for her husband.
—What about you, Lina, want to come with me? mother asks.
—Who, me? I can’t … I’ve got homework. Geometry.
—I don’t know when your father or I will be back. Go to Dudi’s, or to Selma’s. Leave a note where you are and we’ll pick you up later. Don’t stay alone in the house, all right dear?
—Don’t worry, Mama, I’ll be fine.
The door bangs. A second time. Then silence. I have never been alone in the house before. I climb up and down the stairs, wander in and out of the rooms, erratically, as if I’ve lost my way, running into the same thoughts in each room. Another Jew was arrested today. This time I did not hear the news from anybody. This time, the news happened right here. They came, they searched his room, they took him away. All too fast, all too close for me to grasp.
They came, they searched his room, they took him away. The sequence recurs in the sitting-room, in the guest room, in the bathroom, in the dining-room. In the dining-room, the table is set for lunch. Food is served. We were supposed to have finished our meal by now. Unbroken by our spoons, the mound of rice stands intact, jeering at our timetable. It gives off no steam. When I was a little child, I once asked mother to cover the rice, because the white grains were turning into steam and flying away. All laughed, except Shuli.
—Count them, he suggested contemptuously. Find out for yourself whether they aren’t really escaping.
I climb up to his room. Squashed cigarette butts, still wet from their lips, are scattered on the floor and window sill. An ashtray would have saved us the mess, but these barbarians did not ask for one. I replace the drawers inside the desk and close the wardrobe, as if covering a naked body. As if rewinding the film, to the moment before they burst in, when their arrival was still a possibility hanging over us.
My fear is no more, it suddenly strikes me. Taken away, together with Shuli. All in vain, all that fear in vain, I repeat, as if the fear of this event was supposed to create an immunity against it.
I stumble, almost sprain my ankle, goddamit. The ziggurat? When was it knocked down? I pick it up and check that it is still in one piece. Its stairs are tickling the lines of my palm. A forgotten sensation. Now that he is gone, I can play with the statuette as long as I wish. My hands twitch at the thought, as if stung by it. The ziggurat slips and falls down again. I bolt out of the room. Let him pick it up himself when he is back.
Mother was right perhaps. I had better not stay alone.
I lean against the window. It is twilight. Khaled and Hassan are cycling in the street. I wonder whose mother will call out first to remind her son of his homework. It was not long ago that I used to cycle out there myself. We hardly speak to each other nowadays. Did they give me the cold shoulder after the war or did I keep my distance? I cannot remember. The street looks hazy. My breath has steamed up the window pane. With my forefinger I draw a straight line on the fogged surface. Connect it to a second line. A third. A fourth closes the quadrangle. A diagonal divides it into two triangles. The sum of the angles of every triangle equals 180°. So far so good. Anything else we can deduce about them or about their relationship? No idea. Geometry has never been my strong point. I wipe off the drawing, steam up a new patch on the pane, and start off with a straight line again. It meets a second. A third intersects them. A capital A comes forth. What next? Allah? Aaron? Adam? Adieu? A fourth line closes it into a triangle. No, two triangles, one enclosing the other. Back to geometry
. Let’s see now, a triangle within a triangle, they must have a few features in common. Their angles, if I’m not mistaken, but this lesson is not due before the end of the term. I rub out the drawing, and trace a larger triangle. What problem can I assign myself now? My little finger sneaks and draws a second triangle. Across the first. Equally large. Standing on its head. Khaled and Hassan are cycling in and out of the hexagram. If only they knew it! Look everybody, I have drawn the Zionist star. Up here! Above your heads. In spite of you and in spite of your fathers and your fathers’ fathers. Before anything happens I hasten to wipe off the outlawed star. Fool, why didn’t he erase it from the blackboard in time? Was he too proud or just too slow to react? I steam up the adjacent window pane and draw a six-pointed star again.
Shuli once said the hexagram was an ancient symbol of balance and harmony. The two triangles represented the above and the below, the divine and the human, spirit and matter, intermingled. I contemplate the interlaced triangles, but all I can see is a troublesome star.
I add a pair of thin triangles. A pair of fat triangles. Two triangles with zigzagged sides, like stamps. Two triangles with loose sides. A star with extended corners. A star with sharpened corners, like thorns. A star with convex sides, like a balloon. The window pane is replete with stars, as if it was Christmas. A Zionist Christmas.
