Ishmael's Oranges (23 page)

Children ran ahead of the car, cheering them along. He felt something stir inside him, watching them skip past them, yelling in the exuberance of young life. Fifteen years later, after the massacre that left dozens of small bodies red and limp on the ground here, he would think of those children again and wonder if they had vanished in the slaughter.

Abu Ziad, Rafan's friend, was playing backgammon on a plastic chair outside a stall selling falafel. His belly spilled over his knees like the worry beads tumbling over his fist. Parcels stamped with the United Nations logo were being carried into a block behind them. A sticker on the door said
Filastinuna
, with a Palestinian flag sketched next to
it.

They drank a short coffee while Abu Ziad bemoaned the Lebanese government and its Christian leadership. Palestinian Muslims couldn't get work permits, he said, while their Christian brothers and the rich could easily buy a passport. ‘We are less than dogs to these Beirutis,' he growled. ‘But one day dogs bite back.' They talked about the corruption of the official camp supervisors, the slowness of the UN and the prospects for Fatah out of Tripoli. Salim was asked about life in London, and the possibility of the British rejoining the fight on Palestine's
side.

Before they left, Rafan handed Abu Ziad some money in an envelope. A contribution, he said, to his children's charity. He was thanked and blessed, and the envelope disappeared into the old man's pocket.

On their way out, Salim breathed the air deeply, wanting to taste the stench of the place fully, to carry it out with him. His life in London
–
the accountancy job waiting for him
–
what did it mean, compared to this sink of human misery? At that moment he felt dirty, guilty for courting the supercilious
Angleezi
and for cherishing his British passport. Rafan had it right
–
he did not deserve to call himself a Palestinian. He had not yet paid the price.

He looked towards Rafan. His brother was unusually silent. Salim saw his mouth was a thin line and his knuckles white on the wheel.

After a moment, Rafan said, ‘You know that this is where we lived first, when we left Nazareth?'

Salim was astonished. ‘In one of those houses?'

‘In worse.'

She left us for that pit?
Salim could not fathom it. How could Rafan have survived here at just eight years old, with all his thousand fears?

‘But she's Lebanese.'

‘She's Lebanese but she came without papers. Israeli passports are no good here. Someone had to bring her in, to fix it for her. So we waited here.'

‘Who fixed it? Her family?'

Rafan shrugged. ‘A running woman has no family. Someone. Some
man.'

The telegram crushed in her palm
.
He remembered it, a yellow smudge against the dark sky above Nazareth. A name must have been hidden inside, a name worth leaving them for, worth waiting alone in a refugee camp while Salim wept for her, staring out northwards to the hills.
I hope it made you happy, Mama
. And yet last night she'd seemed alone still. Locked in a tower circled by marble and glass, like a captured queen from the old stories.

‘Why did she do it?' He spoke aloud, and the sound surprised him. ‘It makes no sense.'

‘That's what I told her,' Rafan said, answering a different question. Behind the sunglasses his face was stone. ‘God knows. Maybe she felt she had some debt to
pay.'

The very next day, after a night in Leila's apartment, Rafan woke him up by shaking his shoulder. ‘Good news, big brother,' he said, his unwashed face dark with bristle and his green eyes suavely gleaming again. Yesterday had been spat away with his toothpaste. ‘We're on our way to Tripoli.'

Salim raised himself on his elbows, shaking off the fog of sleep. ‘Why Tripoli?' But of course he already
knew.

‘Farouk wants you to come. He wants you to meet some people.'

‘Brothers.'

Rafan shrugged. ‘Brothers. Friends. Interesting people. And you get to see Tripoli. Okay, it's not as lively as here.' Salim saw a flash of Leila's dark hair and golden legs walking into the kitchen behind the open door. ‘But it's worth seeing even so. Particularly for
you.'

By the time Salim was dressed and in the kitchen, Leila's Turkish coffee was bubbling on the stove. She poured him a cup and rubbed her eyes. ‘Have you ever been to Tripoli?' he asked her, sitting down at the table and swirling the thick liquid in its chipped golden cup. She shook her head. ‘I'm not a
Filastiniya
,' she said. ‘Although we support them here in West Beirut, not like the Christians.' She waved her hands. ‘But those people Rafan sees
–
they're something else. Tripoli is a crazy place, for crazy religious people.'

This is a crazy place
, he thought, but stirred his coffee silently. The bubbles went round and round, popping like his thoughts
–
this one the camps, this one Rafan's face as a child pale in sleep, this one his mother's cold eyes, this one Jude, always Jude and her faith in his dreams.

When Rafan came in, he kissed Leila and whispered something in her ear. She looked at Salim, and went out of the kitchen. Rafan came to sit next to his brother and pulled out a cigarette.

‘You took me to meet Abu Ziad,' Salim said to his brother. ‘And I already met Farouk. So, I guess they must have liked me. Or is it because I'm your brother?'

‘They liked you. What's not to like? You're smart, educated. You speak English like a native. You have an
Angleezi
passport. You could do great things for them.'

‘For us,' Salim said softly. Rafan smiled. ‘For us, then. For our family.'

‘So this Tripoli business, is for what? To see my new offices?'

Rafan laughed again. ‘Something like that, yes. Just a conversation, for now.' He leaned forward and handed Salim a cigarette. Salim took it in and felt the heat inside him. Rafan tilted that attractive face of his to one side, just like a hungry bird. He looked at Salim through narrow
eyes.

‘Think about it, Salim. Why do you want to be an accountant? The
Angleezi
might give you a passport, but in the end they'll spit on you just like all the other Arabs and Indians and Africans they've fucked. You're too dark for their clubs.'

Salim pushed his coffee back across the table. ‘You know nothing about my life,
little brother
.'

‘I know enough to see you aren't being true to yourself. Israel, England
–
it's all the same. You're just Arabs working for a white boss.'

‘You're wrong,' Salim said softly. All night he'd lain wrestling with it
–
two futures, one of them drawn by the brother sitting opposite him. But within, someone was whispering
–
this is not the boy you knew
. The sweetness and the mischief were gone; somewhere between Nazareth and the camps and his mother's penthouse, Rafan had become something
else.

‘I had a life in England,' he said. ‘I built it myself. Education, respect. Prospects.'
Love, too
. He thought of Jude. She'd loved him, and perhaps still did. A clean love, offering everything and expecting nothing in return. ‘You're asking me to give that up, to help
you.'

‘You say you helped me when we were children, Salim,' Rafan said, getting to his feet. ‘Now let me return the favour. Hassan is happy running his garage and humping his fat little wife. But Mama always said you had ambition. What we could do together
–
it's more than just revenge.' He tapped the table with one finger. ‘It's up to you, big brother. All these years they kept us apart. Now you must decide where you belong
–
with them, or with
me?'

He straightened up, and looked at his watch. ‘I have to go and finish some business,' he said. ‘I'm coming back at six. If you're with me, big brother, we'll go together.' He walked around the table, and Salim stood up as Rafan pulled him into a tight embrace. He heard the words brush against his ear: ‘I'll see you later,
Insha'Allah
.' And then his brother was gone down the dark hall, and Salim heard the slam of the
door.

After Rafan left, Salim washed his face, pulled on his clothes, said goodbye to Leila and walked out of the building.

The drab little flat was hidden in a maze of old streets that coiled away from the glitz and dazzle of central Beirut. He walked with the sun pounding on his head, like a hammer. By the time he came to the open sea, the sun had tilted into the western skies.

He looked up along the northern coastline, where the sea and land vanished together in the haze. Out there, the modern world waited. He imagined the shore racing up to Turkey and Greece, reaching the Riviera coasts of Europe. Behind him, the sea would sweep past Beirut, Tyre and Israel to the great deserts of North Africa. They really were at the crossroads of the world.

Where do I go from here
? To Tripoli and the brothers? Did that road lead back to Jaffa one day? But Rafan had laughed at that idea. His brother neither had a home nor wanted one. He moved through Beirut's streets like sparks from a fire, consuming everything he came across.

Once Salim had thought home could only ever mean Jaffa. But when he closed his eyes he saw something unexpected: blue eyes, open arms and a sweet, frank
face.

He pressed his hands over his eyes, trying to make sense of it all. The towering palm trees above him leaned out west, their green dates ripe for harvest and clustering thickly, and a trickle of sorrow ran through him.
I never took in my harvest. I left the fruit on the bough, and it probably rotted and fell
.

It was five o'clock. He hailed a taxi and drove to Hamra. His mother's apartment building was sleepy in the late afternoon; even the concierge was nodding off at his
desk.

As he rang the doorbell his chest felt light, his heart weightless. She answered, in her dressing gown. Her face was bare and dull in the sticky evening light, and her forehead wrinkled in surprise.

Salim kissed her cheek and walked inside. She followed him slowly and stood at the top of the stairs, as if hoping he might leave again.

He turned towards her and took a breath. ‘Mama, you never apologized to me. You left your son and never sent him a single word. Then I turn up here, and you don't say you're sorry. Nothing. Why? Do I mean so little to
you?'

Her face hardened, and her chin went up in that old gesture of scorn. But he could see it now for what it was
–
guilt masquerading as defiance.

‘I have finished apologizing
–
even to you, my clever son,' she said. ‘I learned long ago
–
we are all alone in this world and we don't care about each other.' She moved to stand in front of him and he saw the loose skin around her mouth and eyes. ‘Your father cared only for his pride. You cared only for the house. Rafan cares only for his games. The Jews for their flag, the Palestinians for their acres of dirt.' She threw her hands up in the air and clenched her fists. ‘Should I be the only one? To care about the others, and sacrifice myself?'

In the background he could hear a turntable playing
–
a woman's voice filling the hollow space, echoing into dissonance between the marble walls. He took his mother's thin hand and held it hard when she tried to pull it away. ‘Did you ever love us at all?' he asked. This time, there were no tears.

‘How could I not?' she said. ‘But love brings nothing to people like us. Our roads are set and there's no escape.' He saw her eyes laced with age; they looked through him in fury, the present accusing the past. ‘I followed my road, and I don't ask for forgiveness. Now you go follow yours, as you must. Please,
ya'eini
. Run now, and stop wishing for things that could never have been.'

Run now
. Salim left her apartment before sunset and took a taxi back to Leila's flat. He packed his clothes into a duffel bag and left Rafan a note.
I'm sorry, but my road is not here
.

The taxi to the airport took two hours and cost him the rest of his Lebanese pounds. He waited in the airport overnight for the first flight to London.

Arriving at Heathrow in the gentle light of a late summer's afternoon, he took the fastest train he could find into the city. The chill of autumn was far away. All around him, people were sitting back in their seats after a long day's work; he imagined them thinking of home and a sweet night to rest with their loves.

He reached her door as the sun was starting its earthward fall, dousing the evening air in thick, yellow light. His heart raced as he knocked. And when the door finally opened, he thought for a second his legs might give
way.

Yet, faster than thought, her arms were around his neck and she was crying in his shoulder as he hugged her, held her to him so tightly and felt her heart through her shirt. She was saying, ‘Whatever you wanted, I should have given it to you. I should have been brave, I should have taken you home.'

‘No,' he said, taking her beautiful face and kissing it over and over. ‘You're my home,' he said, through his own joyful tears. ‘You're the only place I'm at peace.'

‘Our families.' Her fists pressed against his chest, half clinging on, half pushing away. ‘Those things you said…'

‘I was wrong.' His forehead was against hers, his senses full of the smell of her
–
her salt skin, her hair, the warmth of her breath. ‘Please. None of that matters any more. Nothing else matters, do you hear me? This is a miracle, what we've found.'