Ishmael's Oranges (3 page)

She was sitting on the porch as he reached it, Rafan at her breast. Behind her the sky was emptying, and the blue shadows made her red hair look black. Her head was bent to the baby and the hushed sound of her song was swallowed by the sea breezes.

Noor Al-Ishmaeli was a breathtaking woman. Even Salim knew it, from the whispers of the boys, and the deference of the Frères when she took him and Hassan to school. It was her remoteness
–
as still and melancholy as a sculpture, as scornful as Andromeda tied to her rock. Her white forehead and olive-green eyes were the legacy of a noble Lebanese family, fallen on hard times, who bargained away their fifteen-year-old daughter's virginity to Saeed Al-Ishmaeli for the equivalent of two new cars and her father's retirement
fund.

Now, despite fifteen years in Palestine, with three children born and raised there, she still lived like a stranger. But to Salim she was the source of all wonder and love. He had always been her favourite
–
until the new baby
came.

He put his chin over her shoulder, suddenly desperately tired. She tipped her head to rest her forehead on his, and he closed his eyes for a moment in peace.

‘Where have you been,
ya'eini
?' she asked. Salim was the only child who ever won that endearment from her, the mother's blessing that says ‘you are more precious to me than my eyes'. She chose to say it the old way, in the formal Arabic of imams and singers
–
words that distanced, that said
foreigner
. But to Salim it sounded noble; it stirred his daydreams of knights and queens.

‘Out with Mazen, Mama.'

She laughed, as Rafan snorted on her lap. ‘I don't know what you see in that son of a pig.' Salim felt guilt itch up his
back.

‘I don't like him either, but there's no one else still here,' he said defensively. It was true
–
many people had left Jaffa, saying they would be back when the ‘troubles' were over. Salim hesitated and then said, ‘He called Baba a peasant.'

‘
Aya
, maybe he's cleverer than I thought.' She lifted her head into the dying light and turned those vivid, searching eyes on him. ‘Did it bother you,
habibi
?' Salim hung his head, afraid to answer.

‘My beautiful boy,' she said, and he heard amusement in her voice. ‘So sad, a mosquito stung him. There are so many here, buzzing all over the place. But when morning comes,
ya'eini
, what happens to mosquitoes?' She opened her empty hand, and Salim imagined tiny puffs of shadow disappearing into the air. ‘One day, all these Mazens will mean less to you than that. You're going to be a bigger man than them.'

Then, just as quickly, she dropped her hand and turned back towards the horizon, where the pale darkness had settled over the
sea.

‘If you want to see what kind of big man Mazen is going to become, go inside,' she said, carelessly. ‘Abu Mazen is there, talking shop with your father.'

The kitchen was dark, with the evening meal prepared and covered on the table; warm smells of rice, lamb, hummus and little parcels of steamed cabbage leaves. The kitchen door opened directly into Abu Hassan's domain with its plush leather seats surrounding a coffee table of tortoiseshell lacquer.

From behind the door, Salim could hear his father's low, complaining rumble and Abu Mazen's smooth replies. Hearing the word
Jews
, he pushed the door open just enough to listen.

‘You can think what you like, my friend,' Abu Mazen was saying, ‘but these guys leaving now have their heads screwed on. Look at Heikal and Al-Hawari! Heikal is Jaffa's first politician and Al-Hawari is its first soldier. But are they here? No. They're waiting it out in Beirut and Cairo. They know the British have already dropped us like a rag. The Jews took Haifa and Jerusalem without the
Angleezi
firing a single shot. They're coming here next. And when they do, it will be like Deir Yassin all over again.'

Deir Yassin
. The words made Salim go cold. He'd seen the pictures of the bodies in that village, after the Irgun came. They said Jews had put whole families in front of the walls and filled them with bullets.

‘The Jews are cowards.' Abu Hassan's voice, a wheezy bass. ‘Haifa and Deir Yassin had no defences. We have the Arab Liberation Army here, more than two thousand
men.'

‘They don't care about that rabble. They have the
Americani
at their right hand, and the United Nations. They have guns and artillery coming from Europe. In three weeks Palestine is facing a death sentence. When the British leave, the Jews will raise their flag and defend it. You think Ben-Gurion is going to wait while we hit his convoys and kibbutzim? For the Egyptians and Jordanians to invade his new Israel, to bed down in our cities then cross to Jerusalem and destroy him? No, the Jews won't risk it, I promise you. They're attacking first, and they'll take all they can get. Haifa's gone. We're next. Remember Clock Tower Square? They don't care what they have to do to us. Maybe we should all clear out, until our friends come across the border to help
us.'

Clear out?
thought Salim, just as his father said, ‘Why should I leave my own house because of the
Yehud
? Let the Arab armies fight around
me.'

And then suddenly Salim yelled in shock; a hand had clapped over his eyes and another over his mouth.

A giggle from behind him told him it was Hassan. He felt a hard pinch on his cheek as Hassan said, ‘What's this,
ya
Salimo? Listening at the door again? Shall I tell Baba or can you pay me not
to?'

Salim wrenched himself around in panic, trying to break from Hassan's grip. One flailing arm caught Hassan on the cheek. The older boy stopped laughing and started yelping ‘Baba, Baba!'

The conversation halted; footsteps approached and then the kitchen door swung open. Stuck in Hassan's furious arm-lock, Salim could just see his father's round cheeks and sunken eyes glaring at him over his white shirt and neck-cloth.

‘He hit me, Baba,' panted Hassan. ‘He was listening at the door and when I tried to stop him, he hit
me.'

The injustice made Salim choke; the words surged up before he could stop them. ‘You liar!' he screamed. ‘You're a lying son of a
pig!'

Hassan's eyes widened in shock and Salim realized what he'd said. Then Abu Hassan's ringed hand came sweeping out of the air, slapping him hard enough to drive his teeth into his lips. Saliva and the tang of blood mingled with tears running down his
face.

Looking up at his father's face he saw the lip thrust out, the same immovable lip that last week said no to the harvest, no to his orange tree, no to his mother's idea for a birthday party like the ones the British children had. He heard himself saying: ‘I hope the Jews do come to kick you out.' Then he ran past them, sobbing as he hurtled up the stairs into his bedroom and slammed the door
shut.

Gradually his tears gave way to stillness. Sounds beyond the door became audible once again; the evening meal went ahead without him, his mother's and father's voices raised in their nightly argument. Today it was about the pearls Rafan had broken, that Baba said were too expensive to replace. ‘Do you think you married a rich man?' he was yelling, in his fractured bass. ‘Wasn't it enough those Lebanese thieves beggared me when I took you, now you want to finish the job?' Then, ‘You want to dress like a Beiruti whore, go back there, I won't stop you,' before her cold reply, ‘In Beirut even the whores live better than I do.' Salim pulled the pillow over his
head.

After dinner, the door creaked open and he heard soft footsteps. A voice whispered, ‘Hey Salim, Baba said you were to stay here without any food
–
but I brought you a plate.' It was Hassan, contrite. Salim turned on his side to look at him, but did not speak.

‘By God, it was just a joke, Salim. You take everything so seriously, you ninny. But why did you have to go and upset the old man? You know what he's like.' He reached out and ruffled Salim's hair, a shamefaced touch.

After Hassan left, Salim tried to ignore the food. But his tummy rumbled so badly that he ended up pulling it towards him and cramming it into his mouth, gulping each furious
bite.

Thoughts twisted through his mind like snakes. The burning unfairness of it, of Hassan's proud day at the harvest, of Rafan arriving to occupy their mother's arms and time. And him, Salim
–
not a man to be respected nor a baby to be loved. Then came Abu Mazen's words, slipping down his hot throat with the taste of ice and fear. Why were the Jews coming here next? Why would they need to leave their home?
It will be like Deir Yassin all over again.
The story of that massacre had blown through Palestine like a red wind
–
fifty dead, one hundred, two hundred. The rice in his mouth was gritty as dust and he heard the woman screaming
–
Omar! Omar!

He pushed the plate away and lay down again, pulling the blanket over his head. Another hour went by before he heard another click of the doorknob. This time, Salim felt a cool hand come to rest on his forehead, and breathed in the reassuring smell of his mother's perfume. He lay still as he could, afraid that if he spoke a word, he would make her want to leave again.

A long silence passed. Finally he could hold back no longer. ‘It's not my fault, Mama,' he whispered. ‘Baba hates
me.'

‘Hate?' Her face was a white wall in the darkness. ‘You don't know about hate yet,
ya'eini
.'

‘Why should Hassan go again to the fields and not me? It's so unfair.'

‘What's fair in this life?' she said, her voice low. ‘Not even God is fair. Only fools say different
–
but you'll learn, Salim. If a man wants something, he must find his own
way.'

‘
I
want to take the harvest,' he said, pulling himself upright. ‘It's my right. My turn.'

She laughed softly. ‘So you want to be a
fellah
too, my clever boy?' The words pricked him into shame, just like Mazen's.

‘I'm not a
fellah
,' he said hotly. ‘But they're my trees as much as Hassan's. And now I'm seven, it's my turn. You and Baba promised.'

She took his chin in her hand, fingers smooth as marble. ‘Well,
effendi
. There's one thing we can thank God for. He gave you a clever mother
–
w'Allahi
, just as clever as her son. Too clever for your Baba, anyway. We spoke tonight, after the shisha calmed him down a bit. Go downstairs tomorrow morning and kiss his hand
–
and you'll have your harvest. There
–
that's your birthday present,
ya'eini
.'

He clutched the edge of the pillow. The surge of joy was so unexpected, seizing his breath like the slap of cold surf on the beach. His arms were around her neck, and the words
Mama, Mama
came into his throat but he swallowed them in case they brought tears too, like a
baby.

She held him against her. ‘Never worry,
ya'eini
,' she said softly, her breath warm against his hair. But then something shifted
–
she disengaged his arms, pushing him back to the bed. ‘
Bookra, Insha'Allah
,' she said to him, her face turning towards the door. Tomorrow, if God wills it. ‘Tomorrow,' he said in reply, feeling the old tug in his chest.

She leaned over to kiss his cheek, and he remembered at the last minute, in a rush of anxiety.

‘Mama,' he said urgently. ‘What about the Jews coming?'

She stopped in the doorway, framed softly against the light in the hall. ‘What about them?'

‘Abu Mazen was talking about it. And Mazen, and the Frères. Will it be like Deir Yassin? Why did they do that?'

At first she did not answer, and he feared he'd angered her. When she spoke at last, the words were slow, as if she drew each one from a
well.

‘They are all dreamers here, Salim,' she said. ‘The Jews dream of a homeland, the Arabs of the way things were. Your father dreams of being rich. Even me.' She sighed and looked away. ‘When dreams become more important than life, you don't care what you have to do to grasp them.'

He lay motionless, the pillow still tight in his hand, his chest still light with happiness. When she spoke of dreams, all he could think of was the trees in the garden.

She turned to go, but he saw her hesitate
–
and her hand reached down to touch his
face.

‘Salim, if someone calls you a farmer, don't deny it,' she said. ‘The
fellahin
are the only honest men in Palestine. They truly own this land
–
not the Jews and not the
ay'an
. They built it with their hands and sweat. They would have saved it if they could. But they were betrayed. Do you understand?'

Salim nodded, determined not to disappoint her. In truth, her words were as bewildering as a song. They left him confused, tired and entranced.

Her hand left his cheek and she said, ‘Sleep now.' But Salim lay awake long after she left. Then, the day slipped from him into the well of exhaustion and his eyes fell
shut.