House of Many Tongues (7 page)

Time passes. ABU DALO, slightly more sober, typing.

Shimon:
What are you writing?

Abu Dalo:
I’m
writing
your
biography.
The Story of a Nation
. And I’m using my writerly flourish.

Shimon:
We’re taking the day off.

Abu Dalo:
Absolutely not.

Shimon:
You’re not in any shape for this; you’re in mourning.

Abu Dalo:
I want to work.

Shimon:
We can work tomorrow. Be sensible.

Abu Dalo:
I am sensible. I am so full of sensibility, I’m hypersensible. And my hypersensible senses are saying: I don’t want to think about my dead wife.

Shimon:
(a beat)
But I’m not telling you what to write.

Abu Dalo:
I know.

Shimon:
Read me what you’re writing.

Abu Dalo:
(still typing)
“The General’s fear was his humanity: but his job demanded he keep it buried, deep within. Hidden. Even from himself.”

Shimon:
What do you think you know about me?

Abu Dalo:
I’ll read you everything when it’s done.

Shimon:
I’d like to hear it now.

Abu Dalo:
It’s not finished.

SHIMON picks up the gun.

Put that down.

Shimon:
Read to me.

Abu Dalo:
No.

Shimon:
I want to know what you’re writing.

Abu Dalo:
“The General was afraid of the enemy. But he was more afraid of not having an enemy. Because if he started to see the enemy as human then he’d have to put down the gun, and without the gun he’d have to look at his miserable self.”

Shimon:
I brought you coffee. I offered your daughter a place to live.

Abu Dalo:
Peace is not a fucking cup of coffee.

Shimon:
You’re writing lies.

Abu Dalo:
No, I’m not writing lies. In fact, I’m avoiding the lies.

Shimon:
(a beat)
You’re writing your story.

ABU DALO stops typing.

Abu Dalo:
You know, we could finally start to talk about peace if you actually acknowledged that I even have a story, that my family’s story in this house is possibly worth writing, that people might want to read it.

Shimon:
Are you going to publish this book?

ABU DALO resumes typing.

Abu Dalo:
I’m a writer. What do you think I’m going to do?

Shimon:
I negotiated with you. I let you stay here. I didn’t have to.

Abu Dalo:
You were going to shoot me last week when I knocked on the door. You’re pointing a gun at me right now.

Shimon:
I wish I’d shot you last week. I wish I’d taken care of this
problem
right then. Read to me!

Abu Dalo:
Why don’t you just shoot me right now?

SHIMON puts down the gun.

Shimon:
That would be too easy
.

Abu Dalo:
No, just shoot me. Come on, shoot me.

I’ve had enough of this problem. Enough of
being
the problem. I’ve had enough of this world full of problems.

Shoot me in the fucking eye!

Shimon:
No.

Abu Dalo:
Shoot me or I’ll shoot myself.

ABU DALO struggles with SHIMON for the gun. ABU DALO grabs it.

Fuck this book. Fuck this house. Fuck these four walls. Fuck my wife fuck my daughter fuck the bathroom fuck the fig tree fuck my great-grandfather. Fuck and fuck and fuck!

Shimon:
Abu Dalo, be reasonable—

Abu Dalo:
I tried to be reasonable. I tried to be good. But you just took advantage of me. I turned in my own cousin. An entire apartment block in Gaza went down because of me. Five years I worked for you Israelis, for your Shabak. Enough.

When I blast this bullet through the back of my head and my brain splatters like guacamole, I hope the bullet travels to the other side through my eyes and nails you. When we’re both dead, then there’ll be no problem.

Shimon:
Put down the gun. You’re being irrational.

Abu Dalo:
My wife is dead. This is a perfectly rational response. So please. Fuck off. And good riddance.

ABU DALO cocks the gun and aims it at the back of his head. He shoots. Nothing happens. Again. And again. And again. And again.

Have you been pointing an empty gun at me?

Shimon:
Yes.

Abu Dalo:
Why would you do that?

Shimon:
Sometimes the gun is enough.

Abu Dalo:
You inconsiderate asshole.

Shimon:
Abu Dalo, you’re right. I do pity you. I pity your desperation. I pity your sadness. I pity your need to self-destruct.

Abu Dalo:
What do you want from me?

Shimon:
Read me what you wrote. Now.

THE CAMEL is now in Paris, smoking a cigarette and drinking café au lait.

The Camel:
Well friends, I’m a sneaky camel. I’ve done it. I made it to Paris.

I’m sure the house understands: I just needed to get away.

I get to enjoy my coffee in peace. Anonymity in a tragic and great city. The Seine at night. A little jazz. The fine derrière of a French woman.
(A waitress with a beautiful derrière walks by.)

It occurs to me. Maybe one needs the foreign to become familiar with oneself.

Say. Look over there. That’s the famous Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish. He looks a lot like Abu Dalo. This could be my big break.

THE CAMEL scrambles to put on a pair of Groucho Marx glasses. He grabs a microphone for the interview.

Mr. Darwish, what would it take for Israelis and Palestinians to agree to put down their arms?

Darwish ignores THE CAMEL.

(aside)
Hmm. He’s ignoring me. Maybe I need to ask a more original question.

If Israelis and Palestinians can’t even agree on history, then what hope is there for peace?

(aside)
No, too academic.

Mr. Darwish, what role do you see outsiders like camels playing in the future Middle East peace talks?

(a beat)
No. Not right. Not right at all.

THE CAMEL takes off his glasses.

Mr. Darwish, can the Israeli people change? Can the Palestinians? Can anyone change—for good?

How do you get two people who hate each other to live in the same house?

Is love important in any of this?

Mahmoud Darwish:
Love? I don’t want to talk about it. I only want to make it.

He snaps his fingers and leaves with the waitress with the beautiful derrière.

Suha:
The House is right. If I’m going to bury her here, I have to live here.

Alex:
Of course you can live here. I’ll move out of my room. I’ll sleep on the couch.

Suha:
But I can’t live with him. And I can’t live with you, Moses.

Alex:
Why not? I could be a Jew. I could be Muslim. Part goat. Part camel. I could be your sister. The great thing is nobody knows who I am. Not even me.

I’m loyal to no one. I have to be good to everyone. I have to save the entire Middle East or else risk complete purposelessness.

Suha:
Right.

Do you hate your father?

Alex:
Absolutely.

Suha:
Why?

Alex:
Because nothing he says is true. Do you hate your father?

Suha:
Hatred is too soft a word for what I feel about the man who donated his sperm to my mother.

Suha as Groucho:
Fathers are like matzo balls.

By the time you’re finished your soup they’re gone.

Alex as Groucho:
What was it like to have a mother?

Suha:
My mother was screwed up. She used to boil an egg for so long the shell would split and the egg white would get all stringy in the water.

Suha as Groucho:
She liked to watch things break.

Alex:
Oh.

Suha:
When there was a curfew, and the fighting would get so loud you didn’t know who was shooting who, when and if the door would break in, and who would live and who would die, we used to lie together on her bed. She’d hold me. And sing.

Alex:
And then what?

Suha:
Isn’t that enough?

Alex:
What did that do?

Suha:
It made me feel that even though I could die at any second, in that moment everything was all right. And that’s all we have. That moment.

Alex:
Well I could hold you.

Suha:
Why would you do that?

Alex:
Because nobody else will.

Suha:
But I don’t like you.

Alex:
Yeah, but you’re upset.

Suha:
I’m not upset. I’m just about to bury my mother.

Alex:
That means you’re upset.

Suha:
Shut up. You have no idea what I’m talking about. You never had a mother and your father never abandoned you.

(a beat)
Shit. What are we doing here? Why are you helping me? My father’s supposed to be here. Where the hell is he now? Why the hell was he never around?

Alex:
Are you trying to say I’ve never felt like shit?

Suha:
What?

Alex:
Yes you are. You’re totally saying that I’ve never felt like shit.

Suha:
No I’m not.

Alex:
Well of course I’ve felt like shit. My whole life I’ve felt like shit. You had a mother at least. I’m sorry she blew up, but you have memories of her. You did things together. I don’t even have that. I have nothing.

Everything I do is to try and escape the shit that life is, this screwed-up “situation.” When I say I want to hold you, it’s because I’m hoping maybe you in my arms could be something different. Maybe there is a world that isn’t full of shit.

Suha:
That’s an interesting thought.

Alex:
Yeah well there you go. I’m an interesting human being.

Suha:
But I really don’t want you to hold me.

Alex:
Fine.

Suha:
No offence. We just met.

Alex:
I get it.

Suha:
I mean, my mother was the one who did that, and we’re going to bury her. And I can’t just replace her, you know?
(a beat)

Maybe you could do something else instead.

You could do your thing.

Alex:
My what?

Suha:
Do your thing.

Alex:
Down here?

Suha:
Yeah. Why not?

Alex:
But you have cataplexy.

Suha:
I know.

Alex:
If I give you cunnilingus, you could faint. If you faint, you could go unconscious. If you go unconscious, you could die.

Suha:
So.

Alex:
You want to die with me giving you cunnilingus on your mother’s grave?

Suha:
No, I don’t want to die. I want to beat death. I want to say, death, get lost. I want to say, give me life. Give me now. Give me you.

She moves toward ALEX. Kisses him abruptly, briefly.

Alex:
Ouch.

Suha:
I don’t know why I did that.

Alex:
My cheek is burning.

Suha:
I wasn’t thinking.

Alex:
That’s cool. I’d like to not think. To feel something. I’d like that. To feel.

She starts to laugh. She stops herself.

That wasn’t meant to be funny.

Suha:
I know.

Alex:
How are we going to do this? I can’t even unintentionally make you laugh.

Suha:
Go slow. So how do we start?

Alex:
I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.

Suha:
I thought you were some kind of expert.

Alex:
I have done extensive research.

Suha:
So you’re a scientist. You’ve got theories and now you have to put them into practise.

Alex:
You’re going to have to take off your pants.

Suha:
Turn off your flashlight.
(Flashlights turned off. Slowly she undresses.)

ALEX aside.

Alex:
Houston, I’m in the cockpit.

Houston:
Copy, Alex. Rockets. Lights. All systems go. Ready to commence countdown.

Alex:
Uhm, I’m a bit nervous.

Houston:
Copy, Alex. The entire Middle East is counting on you, Ilan Ramon’s counting on you.

Counting Voice:
10-9-8-

Suha:
Whoah.

Counting Voice:
7-6-5-

Suha:
Hold on.

Counting Voice:
4-3-2-

Suha:
You’re not a rocket ship.

Alex:
I’m about to travel to the mysterious cosmos. To the unknown of Palestine and Woman. To you. So much depends on this moment. On what I do to you. On us.

Suha:
Nothing depends on us, idiot. I just want to try this out.

ALEX fumbles around.

Alex:
Do you know where your clitoris is?

Suha:
What’s that?

Alex:
It’s a part of your body that exists only for the sake of sexual pleasure.

Suha:
Seriously?

Alex:
Yes. It’s very sensitive. It has like sixty-eight thousand different nerve endings. They say it’s the best way to please a woman. I read that in
Cosmo
.

Suha:
I hate
Cosmo
.

Alex:
It’s got good pictures. And maps. It’s very helpful. There’s this big controversy about the g-spot. People can’t decide whether or not it exists.

Suha:
People are idiots.

Alex:
You’re beautiful.

Suha:
You can’t see me.

Alex:
I like talking to you.

Suha:
No you don’t. Don’t you dare say that.

Alex:
Yeah. I do. And I like it when you talk to me.

Suha:
You’re lying.

Alex:
I’m telling the truth.

I’m speaking to you. And now I’m touching. You.

Suha:
I feel like I’m about to melt into a puddle of water.

Alex:
I think I found the clitoris.

SUHA gasps, almost passes out.

You’re not going to die, are you?

Suha:
No.

There’s a slight burning in my head.

Alex:
That’s normal when you leave the stratosphere.