The Almond Tree

by Michelle Cohen Corasanti

  I stared miserably at the floor. ‘Did she know she’d have to marry him?’

  ‘I think she did.’

  I struggled to breathe. She had only used me.

  ***

  On the bus home, I thought of Amani and got angry. Suddenly I realised that my family was waiting for me to bring news of my bride.

  When I arrived at the top of the hill, Mama and Nadia ran to me ululating. I could see Baba standing behind them, smiling. I put my head down. Mama and Nadia surrounded me, continuing to ululate. What would I tell them?

  ‘Finally, something good,’ Mama said.

  Mama and a very pregnant Nadia with her two children and seven stepchildren followed me into the house, still trilling. The smell of almond cookies was in the air. They had probably baked all day to celebrate my engagement.

  ‘Congratulations, son.’ Baba reached out his arms to embrace me and then stopped. ‘Give me a minute alone with Ichmad.’ We walked together to the almond tree.

  I stared at the ground.

  Baba put his hand on my shoulder. ‘What is it, son?’

  ‘There’s not going to be a wedding.’

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be.’ Baba embraced me.

  I pushed him away. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Success in life isn’t about the number of failures we think we have, but about how we react to those failures. This happened for a purpose. The one for you is still out there. All you need to do is find her.’ He patted me on the back. The weight of my crushed dreams bore down on me – Baba had to hold me up as we walked back inside. ‘Focus on your studies and be patient. Where you least expect it, you will find her.’

  ***

  For the next three years, Professor Sharon served as my PhD advisor. My thesis on building a non-silicon material from the bottom up garnered international interest and I was awarded the Israel Prize for Physics. Professor Smart, a Nobel Prize winner from MIT, contacted Professor Sharon about possible collaboration and encouraged him to take his upcoming sabbatical at MIT. Professor Sharon told him that he wouldn’t go without me.

  ‘I can’t go,’ I said to Professor Sharon. ‘My family needs me.’

  He looked across his desk at me. ‘I need you.’

  ‘I can’t abandon them,’ I said. Even though I was a full-time student, I was able to support them with the money I made as Professor Sharon’s research and teaching assistant. If I left, all they’d have to live on was Fadi’s measly job at the slaughterhouse. Professor Sharon knew my circumstances.

  ‘I’ve spoken with Professor Smart already.’ A smile crept onto his face. ‘You can work as our post-doc. We’ll pay you $10,000 a year. You know you could never make anywhere near that amount of money if you stayed here.’

  I knew he was right. There were no academic positions available and every job in Israel suitable for my qualifications required military service.

  ‘Let me think about it.’ I’d go home for the weekend and speak to Baba. After our fourteen-year separation, I was hesitant to move that far away.

  ***

  When I went home that weekend, I told Baba about the post-doc offer. He told me I had to go and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  ***

  As soon as I finished my PhD, Professor Sharon, Justice and I boarded a plane to America. I planned to live as frugally as possible so that I could send home every extra penny I had. I watched the airport buildings whizz by from my window as we picked up speed. The momentum increased and, before I knew it, we had left the earth.

  ‘Thank you, Professor Sharon,’ I said.

  ‘Call me Menachem,’ he said and smiled.

  PART THREE

  1974

  CHAPTER 35

  From the massive windows of Baker House, I could see the banks of the Charles River. Menachem and I strolled through the interconnecting buildings, columns and domes of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The open floor plan allowed us to pass from one building to the other without ever stepping outside – this was a feature I especially admired, because the New England cold was like nothing I’d ever experienced.

  ‘I’ve got something for you in our office,’ Menachem said. Justice was waiting for us. She dragged a present out from under his desk by its thick gold ribbon. I hadn’t received a gift in sixteen years, since my twelfth birthday when Baba had given me the lens for my telescope.

  ‘It’s for agreeing to tutor Nora,’ Justice said. ‘A little something from Menachem and me.’

  Nora was the president of Justice’s peace group, Jews for Justice. She was one of the Jewish women Justice was taking to Gaza in August. Justice had asked if I’d tutor Nora in Arabic. Although I could never refuse her anything, I was afraid the tutoring would cut into my research time.

  I slid the gold ribbon off my gift carefully, not wanting to rip the white wrapping paper with its gold peace signs. Inside was a tweed blazer with suede patches on the elbows, a black wool turtle-neck, black wool trousers and a long black wool winter coat. The tweed blazer was similar to the ones Menachem always wore; he had the same turtle-neck and coat as well.

  ‘It’s too much,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not enough.’ Justice opened her arms and embraced me. ‘Put them on.’

  I changed out of my jeans in the bathroom.

  ‘Now you look like a post-doc at MIT,’ Menachem said.

  ***

  We were going to meet Justice’s friend and my future pupil at Habibi’s restaurant. Outside, the American flag waved in the cool autumn breeze. Normally, I dreaded walking outdoors because I was always cold, but with my new clothes, I was toasty and the breeze on my face felt refreshing.

  The weather started getting cold in early November and Menachem must have noticed that I was often shivering. Even though I had enough money to buy a coat, I didn’t. I saved everything I could for my family. No one wanted to hire Baba because of his prison record. His only source of income was from playing at weddings, but most of the time his playing was his wedding gift. Abbas couldn’t work and Fadi made very little at the slaughterhouse.

  Candlelight cast a glow over the mosaic tile and dark wood at Habibi’s. I was dressed in my new outfit, and the music of Fairouz was emanating from hidden speakers, when the loveliest girl I’d ever seen entered the restaurant. Heads turned. Light seemed to radiate from her. Spun-gold curls cascaded down her back. Her skin was luminous, like the moon.

  As the girl walked towards us, I felt the blood rush to my face. The room seemed to part like the Red Sea. We stood.

  ‘This is Nora,’ Justice said. I stared at the girl with the golden hair. Her dress reminded me of my people’s traditional embroidered clothing.

  Justice introduced Menachem and then said, ‘And this is Ichmad, your new Arabic teacher.’

  I couldn’t believe I’d had to be convinced into tutoring her.

  ‘Tasharafna.’ Nice to meet you, Nora said in the sexiest Arabic I’d ever heard. ‘Inta takoun moualami?’ Are you going to be my teacher?

  For her, I’d make myself available day and night. I’d be her slave.

  We sat and Justice raised her water glass.

  ‘Let’s make a toast,’ she said. ‘To new friends.’

  We raised our glasses.

  ‘To Jimmy Carter’s victory,’ Justice added. ‘To peace in the Middle East.’ We clinked glasses. Nora could have been a beauty queen, but instead, Justice informed us, she was a first-year law student at Harvard.

  ‘Two days a week Nora volunteers in Dorchester, helping abused women get restraining orders. On weekends she works in a soup kitchen. Last summer, Nora taught English in a Palestinian refugee camp in Jordan,’ Justice said.

  Nora blushed and lowered her head. ‘It was no big deal.’

  ‘I’ve read about that camp,’ Justice said. ‘The conditions there are atrocious.’ She shook her head and then looked over at me. ‘Nora has led the most fascinating life.’ Justice looked at Nora, clearly waiting, but Nora didn’t spe
ak. ‘She’s always been an activist. She and her parents went to South Africa to protest against apartheid. She’s an inspiration.’

  ‘I haven’t done nearly enough,’ Nora said.

  ‘Did you know that Ichmad is a brilliant scientist?’ Justice continued.

  My eyes met Nora’s, which were the colour of a spring sky after the rains. Her face was flushed and she lowered her eyes. Perhaps she was not just pretty and smart; perhaps she was a little modest, too. I smiled at the thought that she might have anything in common with the women from my village, where modesty was almost an art form.

  Nora leaned towards me. I could smell fresh flowers. ‘There’s a lecture this week on campus on Mahmud Darwish’s poetry,’ she said softly. ‘You might be interested.’

  Before I could even think what to do, I heard myself asking her, ‘Can I call you?’

  ‘Give me a pen. I’ll jot down my number.’

  ‘Tell it to me. I’m good with numbers.’

  The meal was over, but I had Nora’s telephone number and she gave me another wondrous smile before she disappeared into the night. She was beautiful, compassionate, sweet. She was a law student at Harvard. She could have anything, live anywhere when she finished; why would she want to go to Gaza?

  CHAPTER 36

  Her blonde hair made her an orange in a basket of apples. Nora was sitting in the front row wearing a red blouse studded with mirror work. She waved, motioning me over, her silver bracelets tinkling. Her smile sparkled.

  ‘I’ve just started taking a course on Arab poets. Mahmud Darwish is so powerful.’ She removed the notebook in the seat next to her and motioned for me to sit.

  I had no idea who Mahmud Darwish was.

  Professor Elsamooudi, a visiting professor from Birzet University, stepped up to the podium. The students applauded.

  According to the flyer on my seat, Mahmud Darwish was born in Palestine, fled in 1948, and returned illegally a year later. He missed the day that Israel counted the Palestinians who remained in what became Israel, so they labelled him an internal refugee and gave him the status of ‘present-absent alien’. After being imprisoned several times for travelling without a permit, and harassed for reciting his poetry, he finally left in 1970.

  ‘Not even by erasing his village from the face of the earth could the Israelis smother his feelings of nostalgia for his homeland, Palestine,’ Professor Elsamooudi said. ‘Now I’ll read Mahmud Darwish’s poem “Identity Card”. This poem became a rallying cry for the Palestinian people. The Israelis actually arrested Darwish for writing this poem.’

  When Professor Elsamooudi finished reading the poem, I clapped with all my might. I couldn’t believe how much the poem moved me. Mahmud Darwish had put my feelings into words. I didn’t know it was possible. I looked over at Nora, grateful.

  ‘He’s so powerful.’ She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘I’m embarrassed that I’m crying – the words were so potent.’

  I had no idea words could have so much power and beauty. I wished my brother Abbas could read this. Maybe he could use poetry to channel his anger, instead of quoting Dr Habash. I wouldn’t dare try to get him a copy of this poem though – it was surely illegal in Israel.

  ‘”Identity” and “identity card” were highly charged words in the 1960s in the Arab world,’ Professor Elsamooudi explained. ‘And this was especially true for the Palestinians, who struggled to maintain their national identity. The Israelis still use the identity card system today.’

  ‘Ichmad!’ I heard my name in a loud whisper. I turned and saw Justice. Menachem sat next to her. I waved to them and they waved back.

  After the lecture, Menachem, Justice, Nora and I went to a café called Casablanca. Justice and Nora spoke of the oppression in Israel and the Palestinians’ resistance and what they could do to bring about peace. Menachem and I discussed ways to better control and manipulate atoms to suit our purposes. Our lives felt worlds apart, yet Justice and Menachem seemed so happy together. Perhaps they never talked.

  Justice and Menachem left after our first pot of tea, but Nora and I stayed at the café until closing. I kept adding more hot water. By the end of the night my teabag no longer gave off taste.

  Nora told me more about her incredible life; how she and her parents had once lived in a tent with nomadic Moors in the Sahara desert for a month when she was twelve years old. Each time they moved, the women dismantled the tents, made from wooden poles, palm mats and heavy strips of cotton, and loaded the camel in less than an hour.

  ‘Did you like living in a tent?’ I asked.

  ‘It was groovy,’ Nora said. ‘What an adventure.’

  I didn’t want to tell her about the flies and mosquitoes that found their way into our mouths as we slept or the torrential rains and scorching summers. Nora was sincere, but she had never known suffering: hers was the vision of a tourist, a visitor to the agony of others, then onto a plane or a Jeep for the next escapade. I felt that she had so much to learn; not only about Arabic, but also about life. I wanted to teach her.

  Nora told me that I needed to laugh more and eat pizza. We agreed to meet the following Sunday.

  That night I dreamed I was being driven on a bus through the desert towards the edge of the earth, when Nora arrived wearing a flowing white robe on a camel and whisked me away to a nearby oasis.

  On the way to my office the next day, I noticed the colourful leaves falling, the birds chirping happy melodies, students laughing and talking in the halls, glad to be alive. Why hadn’t I noticed this beauty before?

  ***

  On Sunday we met for lessons and tea, and then again the following weekend. The days between were agony. We began to meet more often; Nora took me to more lectures. We took walks through Cambridge.

  I waited for Nora at the shelter where she volunteered. I sat on a bench outside the old home that had been converted into a residence for women and children fleeing abusive husbands. She never spoke much about it, only to say that she was concerned for the children who were caught in the violence and slipped through the cracks in a system that could barely handle the mothers.

  Behind me was a small garden with a play set and swings. Four kids were there, running around. As I waited for her to come out of the front door I heard a fight erupt in the playground: two boys were shouting at each other. One hit the other in the chest, and the injured one started to cry. I turned back around.

  Then I heard her voice.

  ‘You’re safe.’ I turned and Nora was on her knees, holding the boy who had been hit in one of her arms as he cried on her shoulder, and the other boy, the one who had done the hitting, in the other arm. I wondered why she didn’t punish the hitting boy.

  ‘I know it’s scary to be here,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘I’m not scared, I hate him.’ The hitting boy tried to pull away from Nora, but she held him gently.

  ‘I hate you too. You’re worthless.’ The crying boy had regained his bravado.

  ‘You know, it’s okay to be scared. I’m scared lots of times.’

  The hitting boy seemed incredulous, ‘Why would you be scared?’

  ‘Sometimes I miss my home, and my dad. Sometimes I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I worry about a lot of stuff.’

  They both watched her. ‘You know, it’s okay to miss your dad. To miss your friends.’

  The hitting boy seemed suddenly melancholy. ‘I don’t want to be here. I wanna go home.’

  Nora sank down and sat cross-legged on the ground. Each of the boys sat on one of her knees, cuddled into a little pile of humanity. ‘I understand. Sometimes we have to do things that are hard. But when you feel angry, I want you talk about it. Tell somebody. You won’t be punished. It’s not bad to feel that way, only let’s not hit each other. Okay?’

  They nodded.

  ‘And if you stick together, it’ll be easier – you won’t have to be alone.’ She stuck her hand between them. ‘Pinky swear?’

  Both boys giggled and
reached in with their little fingers. A few seconds later and they were in the sandpit playing with big yellow lorries. I turned back before Nora saw me eavesdropping. She would be a wonderful mother someday.

  I was in love and I knew it. But I also knew that our relationship was impossible. How could I be with a Jewish girl? Still, I couldn’t stay away from her.

  Whenever Harvard had a Middle Eastern-related event, we went – a dinner at Habibi’s; a screening of a film about three Palestinian refugees who tried to make their way to Kuwait concealed in the steel tank of a lorry; a lecture by King Hussein of Jordan at the Kennedy School of Government; a talk on human rights violations in the West Bank and Gaza; a performance by a high school dabkeh dance group from Deisha Refugee Camp; an Arabic music night. Many times Justice and Menachem would join us, and at least once a week Nora and I ate dinner at their house. Nora brought pizza to my office. She invited me to a friend’s barbeque, to the movie theatre to see American Graffiti, to a Bob Dylan concert at Boston Garden. When I’d told Nora that I didn’t have any extra money to attend such things, that I had to support my family, she was so moved that tears filled her eyes. I’d thought my words might distance her, but they had the opposite effect. She insisted that she always received the tickets free of charge. I enjoyed it all. I began to understand that there is more knowledge in the world than just science.

  ***

  Four months after we met, we were drinking tea at Algiers Coffee House, one of our favourite spots. Nora sat across the table from me, holding my hand.

  ‘I want to be more than friends,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back to my room.’ She smiled and raised her eyebrows.

  Up until then, I’d held Nora’s hand, but nothing more. I suppose I knew this day would come – perhaps some part of me wanted it to come – but I’d never give in to that desire. I knew what was expected of me. To marry a girl from our village; to have children: to return to the family. I would never marry Nora, and I respected her too much to continue down this path. Only, I could not bring myself to tell her the truth.