A Little Piece of Ground (27 page)

“That's right. Don't say a word. Brothers—you should stick together. But you tell him from me to be careful or he'll end up with more than a bullet in his leg. Is your father there? I want to speak to him.”

Karim passed the phone to his father and, responding to a nod from his mother, sat down reluctantly on the sofa.

“Joni was telling us, Karim,” Rose said, “about this wonderful community work you two have undertaken with boys from the refugee camp.”

Karim's eyes shot up into his hairline and he turned for clarification to Joni, who had followed him out of the bedroom.

“Yeah,” nodded Joni, trying to sound casual. “That's right. I was telling them, Karim, about how we'd been trying to make a sports facility so that we—I mean, you know, the kids from the camp and everywhere—could have somewhere to go and play soccer.”

Lamia was beaming at Karim.

“So that's where you've been slipping off to all this while! Why didn't you tell us, darling? We'd been imagining all kinds of awful things—tangling with the Israelis, getting in with rough company, putting yourselves in danger.... ”

Karim tried not to look at Joni.

“Why didn't we tell you? I dunno.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “We wanted it all to be a surprise, or something. But it's all wrecked now. The tanks came in and churned up the ground and pushed loads of rubble back down onto the space we'd cleared.”

“No! No!”

Joni almost shouted the words, with a force unusual for him. Everyone turned to look at him and Karim saw with surprise that there were tears in his eyes.

Karim looked away, embarrassed for his friend, and became aware that beside him Farah had stiffened with excitement. He looked down at her. She was staring at the sofa opposite, where Jamal and Violette were sitting. Jamal's hand had been edging towards Violette's and his fingers were surreptitiously closing around it.

Farah opened her mouth, about to draw this to everyone's attention. Karim dug her sharply in the ribs and pointed to Joni, who had stood up and was walking into the kitchen. Through the open door, the drying sheets could be seen on the balcony beyond.

Farah gasped, looked up at Karim and put her hand over her mouth. Karim hesitated, not knowing what to do.

In the corner of the room, the newscaster had reappeared on the TV screen.

Several prisoners were released this morning from al-Muskobiya in Jerusalem. Crowds have been gathering at the Manarah in Ramallah to celebrate their homecoming.

“
Joni!” Karim called out. “Did you hear that? Come and see. They've released some prisoners. What about Salim? Will he be with them? Did Hopper say?”

Joni came back to the sofa and sat down, his eyes on the TV. Farah flashed Karim a smile of pure gratitude.

“No,” said Joni. “He didn't say anything.”

Karim felt a surge of joyous energy. The news of the prisoners' release had set his heart on fire. He reached for his crutches.

“I want to go there now, to the Manarah, and see what's happening. Please, Baba, will you take me in the car?”

“Go downtown? With that leg? In all the crowds? What are you thinking of, darling?” Lamia said with a little laugh.

But the idea of going out, of being in a crowd, of celebrating something all together after the long lonely days of curfew had taken possession of everyone's mind.

“If I dropped you off quite close, if you use your crutches and take care—” Hassan Aboudi began doubtfully.

“Don't think I'm going to carry you,” interrupted Jamal, with a sideways glance at Violette. “Never again. My back still hasn't recovered from the last time.”

The mood of the moment had infected even Lamia.

“Wait while I do my hair,” she said, disappearing into her bedroom. “I refuse to be seen downtown looking like this. Everyone's going to be there.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Hard bright sunlight bouncing off the white stones of Ramallah's buildings made Karim blink as he struggled out of the car, which had hooted and squeezed its way through the crowded streets right into the centre of town, with the Boutros car following close behind.

They parked in a narrow side street and joined the crowds making their way to the small central square of Ramallah, where the Manarah, a pillared monument rising above four crouching stone lions, stood in the middle of a roundabout. Traffic usually choked the place, but today the mass of people allowed few cars and buses through.

As he swung around the corner with a deft turn of his crutches and saw the monument in front of him, Karim heard the drums. A procession of Scouts in sand-colored uniforms with green scarves around their necks was pushing its way through the crowd, their drummers banging out a sonorous rhythm on their huge bass drums. The sound, echoing through the narrow street, resonated right inside Karim's chest. It made him feel solemn and sad, proud and defiant.

Joni was beside him, and their fathers were following close behind.

“Look at our two boys,” Hassan Aboudi was saying.

“Inseparable. I always thought they'd grow up together, like we did.”

George Boutros cleared his throat.

“I know, Hassan. I know. I'm sorry. But what can I do? The future here...well... ”

His voice trailed away.

Joni's fists were clenched.

“I—don't—want—to—go—to—Amman.”

He spat each word out separately.

Karim said nothing. There was a distance already between him and Joni. However Joni felt about it, whatever he said, the fact remained that his family was running away.

We're not, Karim thought, with fierce pride. We're staying right here, whatever they do to us.

Borne along by the flow of people, they came out into the open square.

“Karim! Joni!”

Hopper's voice rang out shrilly over the din of the drums and the crowd.

Karim and Joni looked around. Joni burst out laughing.

“There he is! Look!”

Hopper, whose sleeve bulged where a bandage was still wrapped around his injured arm, had shinned up a lamppost so that he could look out across the crowd. He slid down again as he saw them wave, and a moment later was beside them.

“Hey, Karim,” he said awkwardly. “You've gone and become a hero. War-wounded. Cool crutches. When are you going to be able to walk properly again?”

Karim grinned at him.

“I dunno. Soon. Listen, I saw you, with the eggplants, swinging on the gun barrel and everything. Awesome, Hopper. They were shooting at you like crazy. I saw the bullet hit you too.”

Hopper rolled up the sleeve of his green sweatshirt to show off the bandage wound around his arm.

“Lousy shots, those soldiers,” he said with grand carelessness. “Couldn't hit an elephant if they tried.” He dropped his lordly air. “Did you really see me, Karim? And were you really out there, in the car, all the time? That's what Joni said. I couldn't believe it. Actually, I saw you fall, and I thought they'd gotten you, for sure.”

Karim smirked.

“Too clever for them, I guess. They didn't get me till two days later.”

They grinned at each other in shared bravado, while Joni shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

“What about Salim?” he said at last. “Have they let him out?”

Hopper's face clouded over.

“Yes. He's out.”

“What's the matter? I thought you'd be skipping all over the place,” said Karim.

Hopper looked away.

“They did stuff to him in there. They beat him up, and kept a dirty sack over his head so he couldn't see, and he had to breathe in filth all the time. And they made him sit on a tiny little stool with his hands tied behind his back to his ankles. They just left him there. His muscles are all cramped up still. It hurts all the time.”

Karim shuddered. They'd have done the same to him, worse even, maybe, if he'd been caught alive.

“Is he here?” he asked Hopper timidly. He wanted to meet Salim—tell him—thank him, perhaps, though for what, he didn't know.

“No. He couldn't face all this. Grandfather was here with us. He took him home. I stayed in case you came.”

“Did you see what they did to our soccer field?” Karim asked, after a pause.

Hopper nodded.

“Yes. Did Joni tell you about Ginger?”

“Yes.”

Sorrows had accumulated in Karim's heart and they resonated with each boom of the tolling drums. The loss of Joni, the destruction of Hopper's ground, the wound in his leg, the death of Ginger, the torture of Salim, the ever-present, ever-victorious, ever-arrogant enemy, the endless, endless humiliations—all these churned together into a morass of sadness.

The others seemed to share his mood. They stood, uncharacteristically quiet and still, as the crowd swirled around them.

“And who's this, Joni?”

The voice of George Boutros, Joni's father, broke in on them. He sounded determinedly cheerful.

Karim looked up to see that their entire two families had caught up with them and were standing all around, looking at them. Even Sireen, up in Lamia's arms, her thumb in her mouth and her head tucked under her mother's chin, was staring down at Hopper.

“This is Hopper, Baba,” Joni said. “I told you about him. We've been working on the soccer field together. He's Karim's friend from school.”

“Ah, yes! The community project!”

George Boutros beamed down into Hopper's mystified face. “You must tell us more about it all, boys.”

“Not much point now,” Karim said shortly. “The place has been trashed.”

Hopper looked shocked.

“But we're going to clear it again, aren't we?”

Karim thought of the mess that had been made of Hopper's ground, of the rutted earth, the displaced rubble everywhere, the feeling that the place had been contaminated. But as Hopper's eyes held his, he remembered the moment just before the occupier's tanks had rolled back into Ramallah, when the other boys had come, and they'd all played soccer together, and he'd scored a magnificent, perfect goal, and everything had seemed worth it, anything had seemed possible.

“Yes,” he said. “I guess we will.”

“I'll help you,” Jamal said unexpectedly. “Wouldn't mind a game of soccer myself, as a matter of fact.”

Karim grinned at him, gratified, then looked away, feeling sickly, as he saw Violette give Jamal a sad, adoring smile.

“This place,” George Boutros said, frowning. “Who owns it?”

“The government,” said Hopper. “They were going to build something on it, my grandfather said, but they can't afford it now.”

“The government? Build something?” snorted Hassan Aboudi. “That'll be the day.”

“I'll have a word with someone in the ministry,” George Boutros said importantly. “A youth facility—good idea. Sports—fund-raising perhaps—once we're in Amman—good contacts there—set it up properly.”

He was thinking out loud, talking in businessman's code.

“I'll come along and take a look myself one of these days,” Hassan Aboudi said, anxious not to be outdone. “Half a day with a bulldozer and you'd clear the place properly. Get a decent playing surface.”

“Thanks,” said Karim, looking at Hopper. “But we'll manage ourselves.”

He hated the idea of the parents coming in and taking over. And he never wanted to see a big machine on Hopper's ground again.

“The others will help. Mahmoud, and Ali, and everyone,” Hopper said quietly, so that only Karim could hear. The Scouts had stopped their drumming and the loudspeakers beside the platform, which had been set up along one side of the square, burst into life. The music pouring out of them, in contrast to the sonority of the drums, was fast and cheerful.

Karim's leg had started aching badly, but he felt the sound pick up his spirits and lift them, wrenching him out of his sadness. Hopper seemed to feel it too. He darted away and disappeared into the crowd.

“What's up with him?” said Joni. “Where has he gone now?”

“Oh, you know Hopper,” said Karim. “Got some crazy idea in his head, I bet.”

“You're right! Look there!” said Joni, pointing.

Hopper had wormed his way through the crowd to the monument and was climbing the scaffolding erected above it, swarming up it with practiced ease, in spite of his wounded arm.

He reached the top and waved down at his friends, and the breeze caught at the tail of his old green shirt and it flapped out away from his body, like a flag.

Karim longed to follow him, to break free from his family and climb, but he was pinned to the spot not only by his crutches but by the strange mood rising and falling inside him, tipping up and bobbing down on a mental see-saw. Up it went at the thought of Salim, free from an unjust imprisonment, but down it came again, with the knowledge of all he had suffered. It dropped even further when he thought of Joni, leaving for a new life, outside Palestine.