The Woman From Tantoura (33 page)

She said, “Think about the other half of the glass—you have four men as beautiful as roses.”

I looked at her in surprise. “Four?”

“Sadiq and Hasan and Abed and Maryam!”

I laughed.

“In reality they are six: Sadiq and Hasan and Abed, and Maryam counting for two men. And Maryam’s husband.”

“And where is this husband of Maryam?”

“Somewhere.”

“There’s a young man I don’t know anything about on his way?”

“When I choose the chosen one, who might be a charming elder or a matchless, cheerful young man, I’ll choose to tell you, also.” She jumped to the old question: “How many
ch
’s did I use in my sentence?”

“Maryam, stop playing games. I’m asking seriously, is there a young man?”

“Young men, not just one!”

“Tell me about them, and I’ll help you choose.”

“That would be interference in state sovereignty and the right of peoples to self-determination!”

I laughed, and noticed that she had cleverly moved the direction of the talk far away from my fear and from the four I had lost.

“Since we have become a small family, just a mother and a daughter, what’s to prevent your showing me the long line waiting for you?”

“Mama, I’m joking. I’m twenty-one. I have two years ahead of me to finish medical school, and the year of internship, and several years of specialization. Serious decisions will have to wait at least five or six years, possibly seven, and maybe …”

I groaned. “I was engaged before thirteen years of age.”

She knew the story of the son of Ain Ghazal.

“And I married your father when I was fifteen.”

She laughed, “It was another time.”

“I know, but twenty-six is a lot. You’ll have missed the train.”

She chuckled. “The Egyptians say, ‘If you miss out on government work, then roll in its dust.’”

“Meaning?”

“The proverb is about the importance of government work and of getting a government job at any price.”

“And what relation does that have to do with what we were talking about?”

“If I miss the marriage train I’ll run after it and hang onto it. Isn’t marriage like a job? A government job, Umm Sadiq. Imagine Maryam running after the train and hanging onto the door, and then falling from it and rolling in its dust. That’s if luck is with her, and if not, she’ll cling to it under the wheels!”

“God forbid.”

“I should sing you a song.”

“Yes, please sing.”

We were in Alexandria and Maryam was studying in the university there. Why am I getting ahead of events? I haven’t finished with the story of Abu Dhabi, we are still there.

44

The Project

On our way to the airport to meet Abed, Sadiq said, as he was driving, “I bet Abed intends to get married.”

I said, “Has he hinted at that?”

He said, “He hasn’t hinted, but I haven’t seen him for three years. Every time I travel to Europe I get in touch with him so we can meet, and he says he’s busy. Last year I urged him to come to spend the vacation with us in Austria, and he said he was busy. I said, at least come to see your mother and your sister, have some consideration for them! Then he contacts me suddenly and says, arrange a visa for me as fast as possible, I have to see you. He must be intending to get married.”

Sadiq’s criticism of his brother irritated me, but I did not comment. Perhaps Abed actually does intend to get married and has come to tell us about it, or to ask his brother for help with his finances. I know Abed; and Sadiq, I know him too. He acts as if he is the master of the family, he intervenes and criticizes and objects and says, “I don’t agree, you are free to do what you like but then it’s your responsibility.” Then you find that he’s standing next to his
brother, shoulder to shoulder, carrying the load with him, or he says, “Let me help you, Brother,” and lifts the heaviest part of the load.

On the way back from the airport, I asked Maryam to sit in the front seat next to Sadiq, and I sat in the back seat with Abed. Sadiq remarked, scoffing, “Does it make any sense, Abed, to come from Paris without a suitcase? I thought you were joking when you said that you didn’t bring a suitcase. Are you going to spend a week in Abu Dhabi in the same jeans and shirt?”

“I don’t carry suitcases when I travel.”

“You only carry a backpack!”

“It has everything needed: two shirts and socks and two changes of underwear.”

They went on bickering and laughing, and Maryam joined in their talk. I only held Abed’s hand and looked surreptitiously at his face. The lock of hair on the side, which covered the right side of his eyebrow, did not hide how his hair receded from his forehead, nor did I fail to notice a few white hairs among the black. Now I could only see his face from the side; in the airport when he came toward us, I saw him fully. He had become thin, and with his height he seemed extremely thin. Doesn’t the boy eat, living away from home? What does he eat? He wears jeans and a shirt and a pair of the running shoes that are popular among schoolboys. It’s hard to imagine that he has passed thirty, and that he’s a lawyer with experience in his field. And that backpack, hanging from his shoulder! I nearly laughed; Sadiq is right. Another stolen glance: his hair is a little longer than usual. Did he forget to go to the barber, or was it a response to the beginnings of baldness? Oh Lord, when will we marry him? I squeeze his hand without noticing.

He looked at me, “What does our dear mother say?”

“I’ve missed you, Abed!”

He kissed my hand. I felt the blood rush to my head, and I didn’t find anything to say.

The topic of Abed’s clothes occupied an unreasonable share of the visit. Or was it just a longing on the part of the boys for their old
relationship, which was based on bickering? Sadiq said, “How will you meet my friends and acquaintances when you haven’t brought a suit? Why didn’t you bring a suit, a shirt, and a tie? You’re not my size.”

“I don’t own a suit.”

“Then we’ll go together tomorrow and buy you two suits and two shirts and …”

“God bless you, Sadiq, I can buy a suit but I don’t need a suit because I don’t wear one.”

Sadiq acted as he saw fit and came back the following day with bags and boxes: three suits, six shirts, three ties, and two pairs of shoes. He took them out of the bags and spread them out before us, saying, “This one is navy, for formal occasions. This one is light, you can wear it in the morning and for informal appointments. I liked the third one but I saw it after I had bought the other two, so I thought, it’s all to the good. These shirts and ties are for the navy one, and that tie is for the other. These shoes are for the navy one, and those …”

Randa added, “And
signé
, too!”

I leaned over to Maryam and whispered, “What does
signé
mean?”

“Literally it means that it has a signature, and what’s meant is that it was made by a company famous all over the world—that it’s a worldwide, expensive brand.”

Abed began to laugh, to laugh aloud. For a moment Sadiq was confused; maybe he had lost his way. It looked as if he didn’t understand, and I didn’t understand, either. I thought, Abed is laughing out of embarrassment; but when the laughter increased, I became anxious. It had all begun as joking and bickering, but it would turn into trouble—Abed would become angry and refuse the gift, and Sadiq would be hurt and embarrassed by his brother’s behavior.

“God forgive you, Brother. How much did you pay for these clothes?”

“Tell me first what’s making you laugh?” Sadiq was annoyed.

“It’s because you took it on yourself to spend a large sum on clothes I won’t wear. Now let’s act wisely—come with me to return
the clothes to the shop where you bought them and get your money back.”

“What’s wrong with my giving my little brother some elegant clothes?” His voice had begun to rise and it had an edge.

“Even if I need what they cost?”

“Take the gift and tell me how much you need and I’ll give it to you.”

“I need a million dollars, and if you could give me more, there’s no objection.”

“Slow down, Abed, stop joking. This talk is raising my blood pressure.”

“Since when do you have high blood pressure? No one told me. Do you take a pill every day?”

“It’s not the time for that. How much do you need? Why didn’t you tell me that you’re going through a financial crisis? Why should I work like a mule here if I can’t provide what my family needs?”

“First, I’m sorry to hear about the blood pressure—I hope you get better. Let’s talk calmly, and let’s not mix the subjects. The gift is one subject; the money I need is another, I came from Paris especially to talk to you about it. The problem is that your gift is expensive and its price could be added to the sum I came to ask you for.”

“Have you decided to get married?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Are you in debt?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“It’s the project. Listen.”

Randa withdrew. She said, “It will be a long night; I’m going to sleep.” It seemed to me that Abed might need to talk to his brother alone, so I said, “Let’s go, Maryam.”

Maryam said, “I want to know what the project is. I might be able to help Abed to convince Sadiq; didn’t Sadiq say that I would be a good lawyer?”

Abed said, “Sit with us, Mother, I want to hear your opinion. You stay too, Maryam, you might be able to help me defend the project.”

Maryam winked at him and said, “If I am convinced!” She laughed, but Sadiq did not laugh.

We sat until four in the morning. Abed explained his project at length, Sadiq interrupting him to question and to ask for clarifications, or to pose objections or protest, or to shake his head suddenly, as if he had realized that he had to wake up after roaming in the imaginary. At the end of the session Sadiq surprised me, he surprised me even though what he did was completely like him. He said, “I agree. I’ll give you a quarter of what I own.” He added, laughing, “According to the canonical law: a quarter for me and my family, a quarter for you, a quarter for Hasan, and a quarter for Mother and Maryam.”

I wanted to ask, “What do you mean, ‘according to the canonical law’?” but I didn’t. My energy was taken up with trying to keep from crying. I didn’t want to cry and divert their attention, or wake up Maryam, who had put her head on my shoulder and gone to sleep.

Sadiq said, “On one condition—that you take the gift.”

Abed said, “According to the canonical law. I’ll take a suit and a shirt and a pair of shoes.”

“What law?”

“My own law.”

“And the two other suits and the shirts? They’re not my size.”

“We’ll take them back to the shop and trade them for one for you and one for Hasan, or you will get your money back. It’s agreed.”

Perhaps Sadiq was exhausted. He said, “Okay. Good night, all.”

Abed leaned over Maryam and said in a loud voice, intending to wake her up: “Maryam, shall I carry you as I used to when you were little?”

She opened her eyes. “What happened about the project?”

45

By the Law

How can I describe the scene? I’m trying to recall it, yet I know it’s hard to describe—not because memory drops some things and adds others, or highlights some and pushes others into the background, but because what happened went beyond the words that were spoken. I write what was said in order to tell what happened, well aware that what I am describing is closer to a dream of something than it is to the thing itself. It’s as if it were a well of which we can see only the small amount that the bucket has scooped up. Tension? Yes, there was tension in the scene. Alarm? Perhaps. The relationship between the brothers was like a ship’s rope, thick, showing how firm it is when it’s pulled taut. Roles were reversed in the flash of an eye, and then were reversed again, and then a third time and a fourth. Which one was the older, then? Sadiq is fragile in his relationship with those he loves; it’s a natural thing, that’s how lovers are. Abed rushes ahead blindly, like an engine without a driver. Sadiq says, “I’m the eldest!” and he suddenly seems tyrannical. Then the wave of arrogance breaks when it hits the beach and becomes calm and tame, like the water in a stream. And Amin? He
was present there, even if he did not appear, nor was his name mentioned. Was it a stormy session? Yes, but not sad; for when I was alone that night I cried, as if I had made peace with the world. As if it had accorded me what it had begrudged my mother.

Abed introduced his project with a long, expert speech about the back-and-forth contest taking place in Europe over internationally binding regulations. He said, “There is serious legal debate about the creation of an international court to punish individuals responsible for crimes of genocide or any crimes against humanity. There are groups actively pushing for this. Personally, I expect that in the next few years internationally binding regulations will appear, strengthening the Geneva Accords and the treaties concerning torture. This is in addition to the fact that the laws of some European states have clauses allowing that cases be brought against crimes not committed on their soil, in which the accused is not one of their citizens, and allowing the plaintiff to be an individual and not a state. And … .”

Sadiq interrupted him, “What does that have to with your project, Abed? What’s your project?”

“Have patience with me, Brother. Current regulations may not permit us to file suits, or else we haven’t studied these regulations enough to find the opening that would allow us to file suits. We have to prepare. Here’s the value of the project: I’ll sum it up for you now, in its essential elements.”

I nearly intervened. I wanted to say to Abed, what’s come over you, boy, do you believe that we can get our land back by bringing a suit before a European judge? But I said nothing. Sadiq said, “You’re nuts! You were one of the fedayeen, carrying arms. Why? Answer me, why?” He gave him no time to answer, but answered for him: “Because international law did not give you your rights, from the beginning to the end. No law or international society nor the United Nations guaranteed you the right of return, nor of reclaiming the lands occupied in ’67 or any right that had been usurped from you. How many resolutions were adopted by the
United Nations? How many massacres occurred afterward? Was Israel punished, even once?”