Ishmael's Oranges (42 page)

As he watched, she poured dark and crumbling English earth from the scarf into the lighter, warmer soil in her palm. Dust sprinkled away from her in glittering flakes, as she placed the mixed soils at the foot of the
tree.

He stood there, listening to the wind catch and blow through the scrubland. It sang to him, a sweet, wordless song he'd always loved to
hear.

Sophie walked to stand beside her mother, tipping a pitcher, one Nadia used to make yoghurt. Water streamed down, clear as the sky, onto the hard ground. The tree drank it like a baby at the breast, its soil turning dark with
life.

The ceremony was over, and the people started to move away. Sophie took Jude's arm and they both looked towards him. She kissed her daughter and Sophie's hand dropped. Then, Jude was coming down the slope, unbuttoning her dark blue
coat.

The light caught the chains around her neck. His gift to her was there, tangled with Rebecca's star.
My other gift to her is lying under the earth.
Marc was part of the land
now.

Finally, they stood opposite each other, across the path. The wind blew around them, catching at their clothes. He saw it then
–
a third chain in white gold. A child with butterfly wings, leaping for the
sky.

Jude tried to absorb the stranger opposite, the remains of the boy she'd loved for his sweetness, his easy warmth. Her husband was hunched, lifeless. A grey figure etched in pain. Part of her mourned, even as another part rejoiced it was
so.

‘Remember we once talked about coming here together,' she said, forcing herself to break the silence.

He nodded. ‘I told you it was impossible.'

‘And yet, here we are.' Her eyes went out to the billowing sea. ‘I guess you never know how things will turn
out.'

Behind her the crowd was moving towards the cars. Sophie was standing at the brow of the hill, her lover's hand in hers. Marc's tree stood on its own, a delicate sliver of life, its green arms waving in the sunshine. Beyond it, the two cities, old and new, rose into the distance.

‘I don't blame you for hating me,' he said. There were claws in his throat. ‘You were right. I killed
him.'

Her eyes were dry. ‘I did hate you, Sal. I would still hate you until my last breath, if it could bring Marc back. But he wouldn't want that.' Her hand touched the hollow of her throat, where the leaping boy lay still. ‘You know what he was like. He'd want us to say goodbye.'

‘I know.' His voice was soft. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a slim rectangle wrapped in white silk, the colour of innocence.

‘What's this?' she asked,
wary.

‘I was going to bury it,' he replied. ‘There, where he's resting. But I thought he wouldn't want me to come. I failed him.' Tears came at last, the first he'd cried. They burned his face as they fell. ‘He came to me for help, but I didn't understand. I missed my chance.'

She pulled off the silk, and held up the picture of the Orange House. The little boy's eyes stared up at them both out of the golden frame in sweet bewilderment. The tree seemed so fragile behind him, just like the one fluttering lightly above Marc's ashes.

She laughed at the sight of it, unlocking her own tears. ‘Wow, Sal,' she said. ‘After all this time, you can still surprise me.' She hugged the picture to her chest. In the bitterness of her grief, her one consolation had been that the Orange House had also burned
–
that it, too, had felt the searing pain of the flames.
Gone forever, like my child
. But from her hands the baby looked straight into her, back through the years of her life to her own girlhood. That face was Marc, was Salim, was herself in Rebecca's arms. It freed something inside her, an old weight
–
she felt it floating away from them, up to the
sky.

Salim saw her tears falling onto the frame.
My Jude. I'm so sorry. I don't deserve to weep.

‘Take it,' he said. ‘It belongs to you now. You and Sophie. You're the only things I want to remember.'

Her hand traced the child. Salim's last glimpse of the Orange House was through her fingers, as she slipped it quietly into her pocket.

‘I learned a strange thing from Nadia today,' she said, recovering. ‘She says Muslims believe it was Ishmael, not Isaac, who Abraham nearly sacrificed. That Ishmael was his true heir.'

‘We learned it at school,' he said. ‘Around the time of the Eid. I was never really paying attention.'

‘What a thing for us to argue over.' She wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘Which son to sacrifice.' He saw the white winter sun pouring through her fingers.

‘I was so in love with you once,' she went on. Not the words she'd planned, but they came flooding out like water. ‘Such an unlikely love, but it was amazing, wasn't it? That's what made our children. What made Marc.'

‘It was.' He pictured them through the light, the twins when they were little, the glory and the wonder of them as he held them in his
arms.

‘And when Nadia was telling me that story, I thought
–
all these old, hateful tales that we can't forget, they're the real enemy, aren't they?' She looked out to sea. ‘So whatever you've done, Sal, whoever's to blame
–
I don't want to be angry any more.'

He heard Sophie's voice calling from the hillside, and the rumble of car engines. Jude looked up; but she didn't turn to leave. Salim felt a wave of hope break in him, in time with the crash of the
surf.

‘So… what now?' he asked her. ‘Where should we go from here?'

Her eyes closed, and his heart sank
–
but he dared not look away; he sensed a turning coming fast for both of them, approaching with terrifying speed.
I missed so many, because I was always looking behind me. I lost her because I could not find my own way.

And then, to his wonder, her eyes met his. They were open as the day he'd first seen her, alone in a crowd at the party.

‘You used to tell us about the sea by your house,' she said, and he remembered.
Those days lying side by side like Marc and Sophie in a boat on the English river, sharing stories of home.
‘Why don't you show me, since we're here?'

He laughed. ‘It's cold. It's winter, in case you hadn't noticed.'

She bit her lip in the ghost of a smile. ‘So you swim, and I'll wave.'

Her fingers were still covered with soil. He wanted to reach out and take them, but shame held him back, just as grief held her. Away to the south, the muezzin began to call the noon prayer.
Maybe there are no roads left to try.
She sighed and started to turn
away.

‘Come on then, Judith Rebecca Al-Ishmaeli,' he said. ‘One walk with your husband. Before they send the search party out.' Her head came up, and he saw Marc's smile on her
face.

She set off ahead, towards the beach. He heard her calling, ‘
Yallah
, slow coach. Are you coming?' She was a small beacon in the wasteland, a boy chasing a football hurled up into the blue, carried onwards by the winds to who knows where.

He answered
–
I'm coming
–
and he followed, turning away from the land and its fruits, running to her through the blowing seeds, the watching world vanishing behind. As he reached her she turned, and he saw it stretching out ahead of them
–
the long-forgotten way. They set a course through the empty space, a single outline blurred against the light. And at the edge of the shore the winding path met them, carrying them downwards to the
sea.

So many thanks are
due.

First, with deepest gratitude and love, to those who gave me their blessing and everything else besi
‌
des
–
my family Rowan, Leila, and especially my beautiful mother. Her life tells a tale more extraordinary than fiction; she gave me
–
and this novel
–
a starting point.

To those already gone ahead
–
Ethel, Nouhad, Sayed, Max, Trudy, Gerald, Anne, Marwan, the Book sisters and brothers
–
and to those still with us on the road
–
Abla, Blanche, Polly, Mahmoud, Haj, Sam and my cousins, the generation born along the way
–
for carrying both tribes' precious stories forward to new worlds.

To my agent Gordon Wise, for his faith. To Juliet at Oneworld for rolling the dice and to my editors Ros, Eléonore and Jenny for helping me bring a long-sleeping story to
life.

To Paolo Hewitt, the Don of north London, for that all-important introduction, and to Jenny Fairfax for opening the
door.

To Adam LeBor, for his kindness to a stranger and the wonderful
Jaffa, City of Oranges
.

To William Goodlad, for taking the first
look.

To Stephen Vizinczey, for his friendship, for letting me steal that line from
An Innocent Millionaire
and for every other word he's written
–
which still dazzle me as they've dazzled millions before
me.

Finally and above all, to my husband
–
who, while saving the world, gave me the space and the love to take this long journey. Thank you, sweetheart. You know what it meant. And to my daughter, who at last gave me the reason. Delilah, my love. Here is your story.