Olives (23 page)

‘
What’s
up?’

She laughed
nervously, grasping her hand. ‘You’re hurting, Paul.’

‘
Sorry, I
didn’t realise. This is bad.’

She gestured
across the land. ‘There’s a gate a few kilometres to the left of
here, a bigger one past Kirbat Al Aqaba, the village over there to
the right. We’re lucky to have two so close, the gates are few and
far between. Some families have to travel a long way to get to the
rest of their land. When they’re allowed through of course. It’s
not always as easy to get through it. The olives don’t do well over
there, Hamad can’t get to them often enough. And the crossings are
always shut when they need to harvest. Always. The fruit often just
rots on the trees. There is a stream on the other side. It comes
from a spring, but we can’t get to that, either. Water’s scarce
this side. The wall always follows the water.’

A perverse
desire to get closer to it seized me, compelled me to walk down the
hill towards the wall until it blocked out the land beyond, capped
with the last of the blue sky and tendrils of dark cloud reaching
across from behind me.

Aisha called
my name, urging me to stop. I saw the cameras on the wall, the
motors whining as they moved to focus on me, the afternoon sunlight
glinting off their white casings. I stared up at it, now scared to
go too close. It blotted out everything, a surreal barrier above
and to either side of me, a show of power, of absolute will made of
concrete. I faced it, overwhelmed by the frustration and
humiliation of that barrier, locking these people from their land,
from the water they needed to irrigate their crops. I turned,
shaking my head and walked back uphill towards Aisha. She smiled
bitterly as she saw my expression.

‘
Ah, now you
understand.’

Her face was
sad and yet proud at the same time, the dying light of the setting
sun turning her brown skin golden. I kissed her, angling our faces
so the cameras would have a good view. As we embraced, the
gathering clouds obscured the sun and the light on Aisha’s face was
extinguished. I drew back and looked deep into her eyes and I saw
myself, falling into her richness.

R
aindrops started to
fall, impacts throwing up little explosions of dust from the arid
land, splashing on the leaves of the olive trees around us, a rich
earth-smell rising from the land. A drop fell on Aisha’s cheek and
I kissed it away. We hurried back over the hill towards the farm,
passing between the rustling olive trees, their shaking leaves
spattered by the heavy drops. The darkening soil drank.

SIXTEEN

We sat
talking in the kitchen with Mariam, a strange mixture of English
and Arabic, translation and comprehension. We smoked, Aisha and I,
while Mariam poured me
arak
, adding water to
turn the drink milky white. It was past nine and dark outside when
we heard the crunch of tyres on the stony ground in the yard. A few
seconds later, Hamad came into the kitchen with the odd, bobbing
posture big, shy men have. He seemed slightly taken aback to see
us, as if he had forgotten that we were to be there. He shook my
hand and smiled bashfully.

‘
Welcome.
Mariam has been look for to meet with you. You like the
farm?’

I couldn’t
help but smile back at him, he was so big and gentle.

‘
I do. It’s
very pretty and,’ I was aware of how silly it sounded, but my mouth
had already formed the word, ‘peaceful.’

He laughed at
my rueful expression, his quick eyes never quite staying in contact
with mine. ‘Yes, maybe it is like this.’

I handed him
the burgundy tin of pastries from Zalatimo and he took them,
dipping his head in thanks, bashful but delighted, putting them
carefully on a stone shelf at the back of the kitchen. He sat with
us and drank an
arak
, but he had
business to attend to in the village and left us soon after, asking
me if I would move the car around to the side of the house to make
room for his tractor in the morning.

Hamad laughed
at my hammed-up reaction to the temperature change from the warm
kitchen as I followed him out. ‘It will come more wind, the weather
she is change. Better to stay in house and make warm.’

He drove a
battered old Suzuki four-wheeler and I waved him goodbye as his
tail lights snaked away up the drive to the road, before returning
to the warm clatter of the kitchen, where Aisha and Mariam were
chattering as they cooked dinner. I sat at the table watching Aisha
and listening to her translations of Mariam’s comments until Mariam
brought the dishes to the table and we ate lamb and rice, spiced
with cardamom and dried limes, steaming plates served with fresh
yoghurt and bread.

After the
meal, Mariam got up and covered a dish of food for Hamad, putting
it in the warm oven.

‘
He will be
back late,’ Aisha translated. ‘He is late often, they have much
difficulty with the crops and the border controls and so the men
work together, but it is not easy for them.’

Mariam wiped
her hands on her apron and chattered brightly to Aisha, who laughed
and turned to translate as the old lady lifted my hand and put it
to her cheek, smiling, before leaving the room.

‘
She says she
is old and has to go to bed and we are young and have to stay up
and that we are to behave and not take advantage of her
sleepiness.’

Aisha
sketched, sitting cross-legged on the cushion-covered seat built
out of the wall. I sipped at my
arak
, growing to like
the strong liquorice heat of the drink.

‘
What
happened today with the helicopter? I still can’t believe it,’ I
whispered across the table at her.

She didn’t
look up from her sketch, the pen flying across the heavy paper. ‘I
don’t know. Maybe they had got a warning or a tip-off and mistook
us, I just don’t know.’ She stopped drawing and looked up at me. ‘I
was so scared, Paul.’

‘
A mistake?
Not just intimidation?’

She shook her
head, focused back on her sketch. ‘No, they’ve never done it before
as far as I know. They must have been looking for someone. But I
thought it was the end.’

I moved to
sit next to her. ‘No, don’t let that happen. I couldn’t bear to be
without you. That was my fear, my worst nightmare in front of my
eyes. Why didn’t they point the gun at me?’

She was
drawing a helicopter, dark, brutal and so lifelike it seemed to fly
out of the page. She finished it and tossed the pad aside and I
kissed her.

We sat in the
warmth of the kitchen, kissing and cuddling, playing around and
tracing patterns on each other’s lips with our fingers before the
heat came from within us and our play became passion. Aisha’s
breast cupped in my hand, her lips against mine, her slow, rhythmic
movement against me and her soft, flickering tongue; light kisses
turned into deep, reaching open-mouthed ardour. Aisha’s hips were
moving against my hand on her inner leg when something hit against
the side window of the kitchen, startling us. We sat, stilled by
the noise for a few seconds. I got up and peered out of the window
to see the dark shadow of a tree waving in the wind outside and its
branch near the window.

‘
It’s just a
tree. The wind’s getting up out there.’

Aisha stood.
‘Just as well it wasn’t Hamad. Come on,
ya
Brit, time
for bed.’

I held her
face in my hands and kissed her, tasting her sweetness, her eyes
flickering between mine, a bruised look on her face.

She gasped
and pushed me away, her voice husky. ‘Go. For the love of God go
before I do something I’ll regret.’

I went to bed
filled with a sexual tension that could only find one outlet and so
I was still lying awake, my breathing slowing, when I heard two
cars crunching down the driveway in the early hours of the morning.
One parked around the side of the farmhouse near my car, out of
sight beyond the shed.

I looked out
of the window, but I could only see Hamad’s Suzuki. I heard voices
and caught the movement of shadows, watching the pale shapes of two
faces turn towards me in the scant, blue-grey moonlight before the
red flare of a match lit them for an instant, snuffed out to leave
two red pin-pricks of light dancing in the darkness. There were
muffled sounds of activity to the side of the house, near my
car.

I dressed
quietly, wearing the darkest clothes I could find in my bag and
carefully picked my way across the creaking floorboards,
randomising the rhythm of my movement so the sounds blended with
the natural sounds of the old house in the wind. With a silent
curse for each tiny creak, I inched down the stairs.

Reaching the
kitchen, I finally appreciated the situation my curiosity had put
me in. Whatever happened outside, if anyone found me outside my
bedroom, their immediate assumption would be that I had been with
Aisha. They’d make mincemeat of me, let alone the consequences for
Aisha. The Jordanians still have honour killings, the families of
girls who’ve disgraced them closing ranks to protect the brother or
father who kills her in a rage. What would they do with me, the
lone Brit somewhere in the country between two of the most infamous
flashpoints in the West Bank? I stood in the dark kitchen, the
moonlight shining through the window casting cold bars of light
across the wall. I was sweating so much I had to wipe my
forehead.

I started
moving again, opening the front door with infinite slowness and
care and holding it against the sudden gust of wind that threatened
to slam it back against the wall. It blew the curtains in the
kitchen, making them billow and I waited, a long, heart-stopping
pause, for a vase or plate to come crashing down onto the tiled
floor before closing the door behind me, the cold air chill against
my moist skin. I slid along the wall towards the back of the house
with the idea of coming around the other side of the sheds. The
ground felt uneven and there were bits and pieces of farmyard
equipment lying around. It took me an age to walk those few metres,
gingerly pushing my way forwards and shivering with cold and
fear.

Aisha and I
had stopped here to kiss on the way to the olive groves. Now the
wind howled over the roof, the clouds obscured the moon and I could
only pick out the vaguest shadows.

I didn’t hear
the men’s low voices until it was almost too late, stopping just in
time by the edge of the shed. I could barely pick out the dark bulk
of my car. A Toyota was parked alongside it, three men standing
between the two cars. One of the men stretched his back, another
wiped his hands. Hamad’s bulky figure detached itself from the
shadows by the house and they talked for a few seconds in low
voices before they all shook hands and the three men got into the
Tercel, its dark blue paintwork highlighted for a second by the
opening of a door. The car made its way up the track to the road, a
dark shadow melding into the shadows beyond.

If Hamad went
back into the house before me, he’d lock the door behind him. I
cursed my stupidity as I stood, shivering and watching his bulky
outline immobile against the fading car headlights. Hamad turned,
scanning the yard and I moved my head back just in time, pressed
against the wall in the cutting wind, waiting and shivering and
feeling the coldness under my hands. I heard an outbuilding door
creaking open and the sound jerked me into life to grope back down
the wall towards the kitchen, the rough surface of the wall guiding
me.

I rounded the
corner by the kitchen door, scanning the yard for any sign of Hamad
before taking my chance and darting into the kitchen, pulling the
door closed towards me as quietly as I could, the sound of my
breathing harsh in my own ears.

The sight of
the candle on the kitchen table brought me to a standstill; I
almost shouted out in panic. Mariam’s wrinkled features were picked
out in the warm, small light of the flame. She shook her head,
whispering something in Arabic to herself and waving at me to go
upstairs, her finger to her lips, her eyes wide in fear.
‘
Yalla,
yalla.
’ – go, go.

U
ncertainty froze me
for a second before life returned to my limbs and I touched my hand
to my heart then my lips, an Arab supplicant’s gesture of thanks I
had seen before from the beggars in Amman and I went upstairs as
quickly and quietly as I could. I was freezing. Shivering, I
stripped off quickly and eased myself into the bed, which creaked
alarmingly in the silence. I lay in the dark, my heart hammering in
my chest. Would Mariam tell Hamad she’d seen me?

The wind
moaned softly outside and the house creaked. My sheets were damp
with my fearful sweat. I heard the sound of raised voices from the
kitchen turn into furious whispers. I imagined Hamad shushing
Mariam, pressing down on the air with his big hands.

A few minutes
later I heard a gentle knock on my door and Hamad’s voice softly
calling my name, but I stayed still in the bed, breathing deeply
and loudly. I heard his soft footsteps as he walked away across the
wooden boards to Mariam’s room, then Mariam’s slower, lighter steps
as she passed my door a minute later. I didn’t sleep, lying and
listening to the wind and thinking about groups of men huddled
together, hidden out of sight of the world in the midnight darkness
of the West Bank.