Bone Ash Sky (73 page)

She pronounces the word
French
with distaste. I kneel in front of her, try to convince not only her but also myself of the wisdom of this decision. Rowda's presence is only making it worse. She stands aside, arms folded across her breasts like a bodyguard.

‘You don't have to go, Inam,' she says to the sky. ‘Nobody can force you. You can go to the Hezbollah orphanage with all the other Palestinian kids.'

‘Listen, Inam,' I whisper. ‘It'll only be for a short while. I'll try and get you into a good Muslim school where you can board as well. Chaim will help me.'

I know I've made a mistake mentioning Chaim when I see Inam's face. She's flounced away, kicking at stones with her scuffed and broken sandals.

‘I don't want anything from him,' she calls over her shoulder. ‘I'd rather die.'

Rowda snorts, unfolds her arms.

‘I'll go after her.'

‘You won't.'

I'm standing face to face with her now.

‘Look,' I say. ‘I've spoken to Bilqis and she agrees. We discussed this months ago, before her illness got so bad. This is none of your business. We don't want Inam going to a place where there's no clean water or food and she could catch anything. Bilqis has signed the papers, okay? So you can just leave now.'

‘What?' Rowda rages. ‘What are you going to turn her into with your expensive, private-funded fucking orphanages? A Palestinian Uncle Tom?'

She sticks her head into the open door of the hut, leaning against the jamb.

‘Did you hear that, Umm Issa? Your granddaughter's going to become a Jew.'

I rush up to her, smack her hand away from the door.

‘You idiot! Are you trying to kill her? Come away.' I pull her into the yard. ‘Can't you see that Chaim and I are trying to help you people? What more do you want?'

‘We don't need you!' she snarls. ‘You and your Jewboy trying to come in here and telling us what to do. We're perfectly capable of looking after ourselves.'

‘Look around you,' I say. ‘Look at this place. Are you serious? Of course you need help. Stop hating everyone and take a good, long look at yourself.'

Inam stares at me and Rowda. I can see she doesn't know who to turn to, what to believe.

I can't sleep anymore. I lie awake on my back listening to Inam's murmurs, Chaim's increasing snores, Julius's whimpers and yelps as he dreams. I've brought Inam to Chaim's apartment until there's room for her at the orphanage. Now that she's here, sleeping on a mattress on the floor, I can't face sending her away. But where would we both live? Chaim's home is out of the question. I'd hate to be so much in debt to him. Over these past few weeks I've watched myself detach, as if to sabotage my own happiness. I've seen myself bicker, shout, be nasty. I've pushed him out and he's helpless.

Could I find an apartment to rent, settle for a while in Beirut? A few days ago I was offered a permanent position at
The Daily Star;
they like my work, said they could trial me as an Arts writer, also a few pieces in the Politics and World sections. I asked for a week to think about it. I could still write for
The Globe
, feature pieces that would build on those I write for the Beirut paper. Saying yes would mean I'm committed to a year in Beirut at least. But with a permanent job I'd be able to help Inam.

I'm still not entirely sure why I want to save her. I'm so tired. They're all so noisy. I fight the urge to kick out at them, even though they're not the ones keeping me awake.

I turn over, sigh, finally sit up. I look at Inam's serene, oliveskinned face, striped by moonlight coming through the gaps in the curtains. Could it be possible that I want to adopt her? Once I've entertained the thought, it builds. Soon the pressure is so great I want to wake Chaim and tell him. But I don't. I keep watching her. If I adopt her, if I help her now, everything could change. For the better, for all of us. It could be our only chance to set things right. But how can it be done? Aside from the practicalities of money, schooling, geography, is it wise? Am I ready to look after a child? And such a child! So aggressive, wilful, even uncontrollable at times. Is it in her genes? Can I trust myself not to blame her for what her father did? She may be violent when she grows up, unpredictable. Will I look at her and say, this girl is the daughter of the man who killed my father? I get up, walk to the windows, open the curtains an inch. Inam is quiet now, deeply asleep. She sleeps with both arms raised over her head like an infant. The moon rises over the sea, a lugubrious eye. It watches me watching it.

I entertain the brief fantasy of me and Sayed, out of prison and prosperous, bringing up Inam in the thick of her culture. A nice, easy ending. Surely I can't be serious. But part of me wants him as well as Inam. Yet how can I leave Chaim, after we've been through so much together in such a short time? But I can't see Inam being happy with a Jewish stepfather. I can raise Inam with Sayed, and we can, all three, comfortably stay in our boxes of ‘us and them', Jew and Muslim, Israeli and Palestinian. Or I can raise her with Chaim and bridge the divide. I can teach her what Chaim has shown me. But how? Go back to Boston? Can I take Inam away from her language, culture, shared identity? And what of her grandmother?

I think of Bliqis lying in that rickety hospice bed, silent, uncomprehending, overwhelmed by the fluorescent lights and the constant clattering of feet, her demented, dying bedmates calling the nurses in querulous tones. Staving off the hour of death with the dubious comfort of strident young women. Women who at times can't even understand Arabic, sent by well-meaning aid agencies to further confuse the troubled journey into oblivion. From fretful sleep to the nightmare of being misunderstood. Annihilation itself.

Her right side was clawed and twisted. Her mouth constantly hung open, a trickle of saliva spreading over her chin. I leaned over with a tissue, wiped, kept wiping as the stream of dribble grew. I thought of Siran: another pang of grief and failure. I haven't seen her for more than two months now; it's easy to forget she's still alive. Here I am with Inam's grandmother and what about my own? I wiped Bilqis's mouth again, gave up after the tissue box was empty. The more agitated Bilqis became, the more she relinquished control of her failing body.

Inam stood at the end of the bed, not wanting to touch her unrecognisable grandmother, or to touch the blanket, the scratched bedposts, the peeling wall, nor the railings as she and I fled down the stairs. She held tight onto my arm and waist as if she too were falling into oblivion.

‘I won't do it,' Rowda says. ‘I just won't.'

The fan at her elbow whirs at a frantic pace. The desk in front of her is larger than life in its dustiness, its messiness and its mountains of billowing paper. On the far edge near the telephone I see a carefully rolled joint, with little wisps of grass escaping from the tight wad.

‘Please,' I repeat. ‘I've been to the lawyer, and I've nominated you as the home study counsellor. You have to come and make an evaluation of the apartment I've just rented before we can go ahead.'

‘I see. The apartment you've rented is in the very same building as your Jewish boyfriend. And I know the procedure. You don't have to explain it to me.'

‘Look, I've got all the paperwork.'

I empty my bag of photocopies: my and Inam's birth certificates, letters from a local doctor confirming my physical health, a psychological evaluation, confirmation of my freelance work with
The Globe
and my contract at
The Star
, bank statements, tax returns. Rowda waves it all away.

‘Why are you showing me all this? I'm not the one you have to convince. Anyway, have you thought of asking Sayed's mother if she objects? She
might
want to have the option of looking after her own flesh and blood.'

‘I've spoken to Amal and she agrees. She's too old now, she understands that. She has no money. Inam needs me and I can give her a better life than this.'

We're interrupted by a colleague of Rowda's, who stands behind her and sorts through documents until he finds what he wants, leaves with a kiss on her suddenly reddened, upturned cheek. She turns to me, unable to disguise the smile in her voice.

‘I'm not debating whether or not you have the funds. I'm sure you can get all you need from your Israeli boyfriend. What I object to is a white woman, such as you, presuming to know what's best for a Palestinian orphan.'

‘But you're white.'

‘I am not. I'm an Arab. These are my roots.'

‘Look.' I lean forward over the desk and try to catch her eye. ‘I'm not going to play these games. All I need from you is a simple reference after you've seen the apartment. Come on, you're a counsellor. You've known them both a long time. This is your job.'

‘Don't tell me what my job is or isn't! Whether you like it or not, Anoush, you're a white woman, with a white woman's education, privileges and prejudices. How do you think you can bring up a child like that? I'm only saying this for your own good. And most of all Inam's.'

‘It's Chaim you object to, isn't it? You haven't even met him, how do you know what he's like? You're a grown woman. And I hope with all my heart that Inam will see lots of him and that he'll be supportive of my decision. He'll be the best thing that's ever happened to her. So she won't grow up as narrow-minded as you.'

‘Say what you like. I don't care.'

I sigh.

‘Just write me the reference, Rowda. I can go to somebody else for one if you don't, you know.'

‘Not if I have anything to do with it. Not here.'

I let out another long, broken sigh that seems to spur Rowda on to new fits of anger.

‘You're a Westerner. You pretend you're just like these poor, oppressed people but you have no idea.'

‘What about you? You were brought up in Australia! At least I lived the first sixteen years of my life here.'

‘The difference is I don't presume to be the great white hope for them. Do you see me adopting any Palestinian orphans? I just help in small, modest ways – in any way I can. You're only interested in the grand gesture.'

I stand up.

‘Well, I tried. There's nothing more I can say to convince you.'

‘No, there isn't.'

‘How sad, Rowda, to be so young and yet so rigid.'

‘What did you say?'

‘Whatever. You live with it.'

Rowda gets up from behind the desk and sees me to the door.

‘Your lawyer will get a copy of my report in the mail tomorrow. Advising against you. I'll send another to the Camp Authority.'

I walk out of the Red Crescent office without looking where I'm going. Rowda's voice and face and her strident view of the world overwhelm the narrow street, the listing buildings, the people hurrying from kerb to kerb. Dust blows onto my face, hair, all over the crisp white trousers I put on this morning, thinking to intimidate Rowda with my linen freshness. Rowda is not to be intimidated by anything. Fearlessness seems to be one of the few virtues of doing away with personal doubt and replacing it with an iron-clad certainty.