Ishmael's Oranges (10 page)

He tore the paper from the ledger and passed it to Abu Hassan. Salim was reeling from shock. From wealth and independence to three hundred pounds! He clutched the back of his father's chair.

‘This is a joke,' Tareq protested. ‘Even if these were your lands, which they are not by the way, the market value would be considerably higher today than four hundred and fifty pounds. I don't know where you get these numbers from.'

Livnor made a small gesture with his shoulders and hands, between a shrug and a dismissal. ‘I'm sorry. This is the law. If you want to appeal the amount it's up to you. Or you could take the money and save your family more difficulties.'

Abu Hassan was holding the paper without comment and looking at it through unfocused eyes. He was silent so long that eventually Tareq said gently, ‘Baba?'

The word seemed to jerk him out of a stupor. Abu Hassan's head snapped up and he said, ‘What about the house?'

Livnor looked back at his papers, this time more thoughtfully, and drew two identical-looking deeds out of the
file.

‘I'm seeing this deed today for the first time, Mr Al-Ishmaeli,' he said, waving the yellowing document that Abu Hassan had just given him. ‘It says that you are the freeholder of the house in Al-Ajami district.

‘But I have another document here, lodged with us many years ago, before my time,' he pointed to his file. ‘It tells me that you were just a tenant in the house. The legal freeholder, according to this paper, was Hamza Abu Mazen Al-Khalili.'

This time Abu Hassan sat up straight. Salim gasped.

Livnor took his glasses off again, leaned forward on the table and tried to catch Abu Hassan's eye. ‘I'm sorry, sir,' he said, with a trace of sympathy. ‘This house is no longer yours.'

Isak reached over and took the paper out of Livnor's
hand.

‘Mr Livnor, I don't know about these papers,' he said, ‘but I can promise you that Abu Hassan here was the rightful owner of the property. I have known his family for many years.' His voice was wheezy and cracked in distress. ‘I can personally vouch for
him.'

Abu Hassan put his hand out across the desk in what looked strangely like supplication. ‘I gave copies of my deeds to Abu Mazen, before the war ended,' he said. ‘There has been some mistake. The house is mine. My family built it. There has been some mistake,' he said again, putting his palm on his forehead and rocking his head back and forth under the glare of the strip light.

‘This document is damaged,' said Tareq. ‘It's been forged or altered. Your people must have seen that. You can't make out the proper names clearly. And everyone would have known the house belonged to Abu Hassan.'

Livnor shook his head. ‘As I said, it was before my time.' His hands tapped the desk. ‘There was a lot of confusion after the war. Arabs were still making trouble in Jaffa. Perhaps the checks were not as vigorous as they should have been.'

Salim felt his breath coming in shallow pants. He willed his father to speak. But Abu Hassan's arms were slumped in defeat. His eyes seemed fixed on Livnor's paper, the only sign of emotion a sudden heave of his chest.

Livnor sat back in his chair and wiped the sweat off his forehead, like a doctor delivering terminal news. ‘I'm sorry,' he said again. ‘There's nothing to be done.'

‘So what does this mean?' Salim said, light-headed and dry-mouthed. ‘What does it mean for us
now?'

‘It means,' said Livnor, ‘that the house has already been sold to the State. By Mr Al-Khalili. The money has been handed over.' He took off his glasses and spoke directly to Abu Hassan. ‘You must take it up with him yourself, sir. Because this is now out of our hands.'

Salim could not remember getting back down the stairs. The lobby was now grey and oppressive, the air outside fierce and hostile. There was still no sign of Abu Mazen. Abu Hassan walked off to the nearest payphone, leaving the others standing wordless in the shadow of the City
Hall.

Tareq stood straight with his hand on Salim's shoulder. Isak spoke hesitantly, his eyes on the ground.

‘I'm no lawyer,' he said, ‘but surely there must have been collusion somewhere. That document Livnor had was not right. The government probably just wanted to take the house and be done with
it.'

Abu Hassan came back ten minutes later, and told them they would meet Abu Mazen at a coffee shop by the beach boardwalk. Salim did not ask why they were not meeting in Jaffa. Suddenly, he did not want to go near the place. Jaffa had betrayed
him.

The Tel Aviv beach boardwalk was the light of western modernity turned up to full flood. Men and women laughed arm in arm and raced along the beach together, playing with balls or sunning themselves in a great tangle of limbs. Sheltered from the glare by the shop awnings, Salim felt a confused mix of emotions as he watched them
–
creatures from another world, the noon light glistening on their
skin.

In the distance, Jaffa rose up from the coast in a jagged row of yellow teeth. He searched inside for a hint of desire, and found nothing.
That is not Jaffa.
That was somewhere else, a defeated, dirty place where all the gardens were dead and the orange trees cut
down.

The worst had already happened to him, and yet he was beginning to feel lighter, like a bird on the wing. He could almost see his possible futures separating, like two bubbles waiting to be freed. There was this broken cart of Palestine, and a life hitched to it with men like his father. And then there were other dreams, worlds not yet in focus.

‘Looks like fun, eh?' Isak's voice broke into his thoughts. ‘I take Lili to the beach on Sundays sometimes. She likes to get a tan.' He shook his head and smiled. ‘Tel Aviv is always moving and changing, while old Jaffa has changed so little. Lili says time stands still for us Arabs, no matter what our religion.'

Before Salim could reply, he heard a boy's voice shouting in Arabic. ‘Salim!' Turning, he saw a young man coming towards him
–
paler than Isak with an earnest expression and Lili Yashuv's long
nose.

A smile surged onto Salim's face in spite of himself and he shook the hand that Elia offered.

‘Dad told me you were coming, I could hardly believe it,' said Elia, breathless. ‘I got out from school and ran all the way. How are you? What's up? Are you coming back to Jaffa?'

The question pierced Salim, bringing him back to the moment; he dropped Elia's hand, suddenly noticing the pinkness of his skin, like the cold Eastern Jews. ‘Maybe,' he said, turning away. He sensed Elia standing behind him, felt his hurt even as he tried to wound. He remembered their last day together at the souk.
Elia was right after all. Things can never be as they were.

Elia was clearing his throat to say something, but then Abu Hassan looked up sharply and said in Arabic, ‘Enough, you boys.' Abu Mazen was walking towards their table. Behind him came Mazen. The plump child had disappeared completely behind walls of rolling muscle and a tight, modern suit. Only the tight fleece of black hair was the same, curling down his
neck.

As they drew near, Mazen lifted his head; when he saw Salim he recoiled with something that looked like guilt.

‘
Ya
Salim,' he said
–
an indeterminate greeting that merely acknowledged his presence. ‘Still hanging out with the
Yehuda
, I see.' His voice touched memories that made Salim shiver. But he saw the older boy was quick to look
away.

Abu Mazen had taken a seat at the table and ordered a coffee. Salim waited impatiently for someone to begin the discussion, to accuse Abu Mazen of his crime, but this was not the Arab way. First coffee needed to be drunk and pleasantries exchanged. Only then could something real be
said.

Finally, Abu Mazen stretched his arms over his head and said, ‘So, tell me how it went today at the City Hall.'

‘You were supposed to meet us there, I thought?' Tareq said, his voice
cold.

‘But it looks like you had good help already.' Abu Mazen favoured Isak with a smooth smile. ‘I would have been one big body too many.'

Salim's father was toying with his coffee cup, swirling the thick, sweet liquid round and round. Without lifting his eyes from the table, his voice came in a hoarse whisper. ‘Why did you sell my house, Hamza? What right did you have?'

Abu Mazen's face turned a shade darker, and he leaned forward in his chair. ‘Do I understand you,
Saeed
?' He stressed Abu Hassan's forename, a gesture of disrespect. ‘Are you feeling someone has wronged
you?'

‘You wronged me,' said Abu Hassan. ‘You made a forgery with the Jews. You pretended the house was yours. You sold it to them.' His voice shook, but he still could not look Abu Mazen in the face.
He's afraid of him
, Salim realized. All Abu Hassan's bluster was reserved for his family.

Abu Mazen gave a short, barking laugh. ‘Wronged you?' he snorted. ‘You should be thanking me on your knees, Abu Hassan. The Jews would have taken that house from under your feet and given you nothing. You can hardly even read a piece of paper
–
did you ever tell your boy here that? How could you have fought them? So I saved you, out of my goodness. I took all the trouble on myself. I sold it to them for what they would give
–
a good price, actually.'

Salim felt a surge of fury. ‘This was our family's decision to make, not yours,' he shouted.

Abu Mazen turned to smile at him. ‘Ah, the clever Salim! Maybe there are some things you should know about your family. They never did a business deal in their lives. Everything your father had, he inherited. You think you're a man, now? All I see here is a big mouth and a small purse.' Salim sprang to his feet, stopped by Tareq's firm
hand.

‘But don't worry, Abu Hassan,' he went on. ‘I've got the money here for you. It's not so much, but it was the best we could get. I would take it now, if I were you. Take it back to your beautiful wife and buy her something to cheer her
up.'

He slid a packet of notes over the table. To Salim it looked soiled and flimsy, like their dreams of a homecoming. He held his breath.

Abu Hassan was still for a moment. His hand jerked towards the envelope, as if it were hot to the touch. And then he grasped it, his head bowed low. Salim's heart wrenched. He could not bear to see him exposed so brutally, like a beggar without his clothes.

‘
Yallah
,' said Abu Mazen, standing up. ‘I'll see you, then. Next time you come, come for coffee in Jaffa. My very best regards to Umm Hassan. A beautiful wife is the only luck a man needs, eh?' And with that, he turned and strolled
away.

‘
Yallah
, Mazen,' he called back over his shoulder, and Salim saw his old friend flinch at the command.

Mazen paused for an instant, turning around towards the huddled Al-Ishmaelis. Salim saw his hand move outwards towards him, the fleshy palm open. And the thought came that the boy he'd known was still there, trying to reach beyond all this with an apology.

But the hand kept rising, and as Mazen touched his finger to his forehead Salim recognized the salute at once. It was the obeisance that a worker gives his master, the grateful thanks when the wages were handed over. And as Mazen's smile broke out, more confident now, Salim knew that the boyhood jokes had finally become real. He was the
fellah
with his hand out, and his masters had just given him his last payment.

The envelope and its pitiful contents nestled in Tareq's briefcase on the long, slow journey home, along with the now useless title deeds. Tareq talked during their weary drive, working hard against the persistent silence in the car. He came up with solutions and strategies, court battles and cases they could
put.

Abu Hassan grunted and nodded his assent. But Salim knew it was just for show. His father had acquiesced to fate. The world would have to go on, and Salim would have to find a new place in
it.

As they pulled up into the little, dark garage Salim was overwhelmed with a desire to see his mother, to feel her soothing hand on his forehead. He raced up the dim flights of stairs, through the sweaty heaps of dust, and burst into the flat calling, ‘Mama! We're home!'

Nadia came rushing out of the kitchen, a wet cloth in her hands. She was holding it in a strange way. ‘Hey,' he said. ‘Where's Mama?' She did not reply. A disconnected part of his brain realized that she held a wet tissue, and not a dishcloth at all. Her body and face seemed wrong too. Her eyes were red and her face bloated. She reached out her hands to him but he backed away, suddenly terrified.

Turning around, he ran into his mother's bedroom shouting, ‘Mama! Mama!' The room was dark, with the curtains closed. But even in the dim light Salim could see the gaping holes of open, empty cupboards where once clothes had
hung.

He pushed past Nadia's reaching hand, tearing into the bedroom he shared with Rafan. The small box of Rafan's clothes was gone. The blanket they'd shared for all these years was missing too, along with the old duffel bag that Salim had brought from Jaffa.

His legs gave way and he fell onto Rafan's stinking mattress, nausea filling his throat.
Now I understand you, Mama
. She had known how it would go. She had known they would fail. After years of pretending to belong to them, she had left at
last.

Returning from
Shul
one afternoon, Dora called her husband and daughters together to make a grand announcement.