The Inbetween People (16 page)

I
ENJA
CAME
to the house one day. It was the afternoon, and I lay with mother on her bed, my face was to the wall. It was cool in the heavy heat of the day, mosquitoes hovered around our heads so that she sighed and waved her hands around in the hot air. She lay against me, curled against my back, her breath hot on my neck. There was a knock at the door, she froze for a minute against me, raised her head, rubbed her eyes. Stay here, she whispered, then walked to the window and peered out. Ienja, she said. She hurried barefoot to the front door, flung it open, and laughter drifted up the stairs, her laughter, its delicate notes like music, followed by a deep manly laughter. She beckoned him indoors, through to the kitchen, they stood for a time by the French windows, overlooking the patio that Father had lovingly tended over the years. He admired the plants on the patio, his voice drifted upstairs through the heat of the afternoon, and presently there came the sound of her making iced tea, the smell of mint, and I yearned to taste it, for the day was hot, but I did not move from the bed. There was something about the intensity of their whispered conversation that frightened me, and I dared not interrupt or intrude, though my body tingled with curiosity to see this man who made my mother laugh like a girl.

He didn’t stay long, she ushered him out the door after a short time, you must go now, she said. And after he left she crept up to the room, her footfall silent upon the marble steps, she climbed into her bed and held me against her, fiercely, and I felt tears on my back, but I held my eyes closed tightly, so that she believed I was sleeping. After a time she began to read, she breathed deeply and turned the pages, until her breathing became calmer, or perhaps I just slept, for the afternoon became hotter.

Some weeks later I came upon the same laugh in the dining room, a Friday evening, and the kibbutz members and volunteers had gathered for the Sabbath meal. I heard the laugh, and turned instinctively; there was a group of men standing by the coffee machine, their backs to us, and I had no way of identifying the owner of the laugh. We had finished eating and people were lingering to talk to their friends. My mother heard the laugh too, she froze for a moment, before turning away from it towards my father and me. Gabi had joined us at the table, and they were discussing summer plants for the garden. Gabi was saying that people would like to see the area around the swimming pool being cultivated, and Father mentioned that he did not like a garden to become too manicured, and that often the secret was to keep an air of mystery about it, for Father still believed in mystery in those days. Later his gardens became more and more structured, but in those days he still believed that a garden was at its best when it withheld something from the casual observer, an air of secrecy or something that you could not find the words for.

My mother often referred to Ienja in her letters over the years, Ienja sends his regards, she would say, or Ienja has been wondering how you would look now; and I would remember him, or them, the dark-eyed bearded men from the dining room, their broad backs, the loud laughter and the warm smiles, the casual conversation between Father and Gabi, and the look in her eyes. If only I had understood it then, though perhaps I did, and I would see her there in his big house in Holland, for everything about him was big. I would remember her laughter in our home that day, how he made her laugh, and how she often looked at me, those melancholic eyes of hers devoid of laughter.

In July, her laughter and lightheartedness faded and a kind of despair descended upon her, she became broody and pensive. Or perhaps she didn’t, perhaps I’ve unwittingly contrived to convince myself of that over the years. Perhaps a person can make an earth-shattering decision in an instant, maybe she really did wake one morning and decide to leave, and leave the same day, without an afterthought or a glance over the shoulder.

S
AHAR
, I say, what story do you want to tell? Saleem’s, she says, I want to tell you what happened. Saleem’s, I say. But I know what happened. No, she says, no, you don’t know. How could you know.

Her eyes meet mine and the smell of her is all around me, coming to me through the gauze, and for a moment it is summer in this shabby room. There is a beach, there is the heat of the day, and there is the sound of the water against the rocks. Saleem has gone to gather wood for the fire, we are there, Sahar and I, sitting on a rock, and her eyes that follow Saleem as he wanders along the rocks are so full of life and beauty that I want to kiss her. I lean towards her, Saleem disappears into the rushes, but she looks at me then, and there is nothing at all in her eyes, so that I turn away.

C
HAPTER
22

Y
ou blink to adjust your eyes to the dim light of the coffee shop. You often stop here on the way home from work, stop by for a cigarette and a glass of Arak. Mohammed knows what you will drink, and slams it down on the counter in front of you. Drink, he says, there is only bad news today.

You drink, the aniseed-flavoured drink burns the back of your throat, and you remain with your chin turned up, for you enjoy the sensation. Mohammed smiles, his yellow teeth glistening in the glow of the television. He turns back to the flickering screen, shakes his head and shrugs his heavy shoulders.

Ramallah, he says.

You turn to the screen, the men sitting at the bar are watching the images: masses of people on the streets, waving Palestinian flags, facing towards a balcony where men in balaclavas are dancing around in celebration, their hands red with blood, splashes of red and brown on their clothing, the bodies of two soldiers splayed across the road before them, encircled by the crowd.

Nobody in the bar speaks. Their drinking glasses are placed along the bar, fingers linger on half-empty glasses, the last rays of sun glisten through the years of grime that have accumulated on the windows. You watch for a few moments, and then turn from it, I’ll have another Arak, you say, and Mohammed raises his eyebrows in question, for you don’t normally drink more than one.

It’s bad, he says, there will be trouble over this. He pauses as he fills your glass, gazes out the open doorway of his bar, it will get much worse now, he says, this is just the beginning. He is an old man, over seventy at least, his skin is wrinkled. Too many days in the sun, he says, his teeth are yellow and two of them have been pulled. Nobody at the bar speaks, they stare at the television screen with eyes that have seen this kind of thing before. Eventually the camera leaves the crowded Ramallah streets, the men with blood upon their hands, then people turn towards each other and talk in low voices, move away from the screen, until Mohammed raises the remote control and presses the mute button.

What happened? you say.

Lost, he says, they were lost. The words are stark, abrupt, his voice is hoarse and full of smoked cigarettes. Two soldiers on reserve duty, he says, they were trying to find their base and they took a wrong turn. Ended up in Ramallah. They were lynched at a police station. You saw the end of it.

Already he is turning away from you, for there is another customer at the bar, and around you the voices are raised again, murmuring to each other about what it will mean, and you order another drink, tilt your head back and feel the burning sensation in your throat, and sometimes Mohammed sits and talks and other times you sit just listening.

They walked to the police station, another person at the bar says. They walked in to ask directions. They never came out though, another voice says, and someone lights a cigarette, and someone else orders a Jack Daniels.

You light a cigarette and the smoke moves towards the windows, filthy in the dying evening light. You offer one to the man beside you at the bar, he nods in acceptance, places it in his mouth, raises the lighted match. Another Intifada, who knows, he says, and he shakes his head, like we need one, he says. And still, even now, it doesn’t feel as if anything has changed.

Your legs are shaking when you stand up to leave and, instead of taking your car, you walk through the streets of your town. Nightfall has descended, an orange moon hangs in the sky, stark and vivid, and exhaustion hits you, for hopelessness is exhausting; people nod at you and you nod back but you don’t see them, notice their faces or who they are. An Intifada. The man’s words are in your ears, and you stand still as the full force of his words hit you, for you know just then, in that moment of tangerine moonlight, as the evening air embraces you, you know that things have changed, that nothing is the same, and if they are somewhat the same now, they will be less so in the morning, and even less so the morning after that. You lean against the wall, this wall at the end of the street, this wall that stood here through other wars, you lean against it until you absorb its strength; and presently you walk down your street, towards home, up the steps, past your father’s house, and when you reach the door of your home, you don’t go inside, you sit on the steps, and you put your head in your hands.

Eventually she comes outside.

Where have you been, she says, I’ve been worried. I was going to look for you, ask your father where you could be, I wasn’t sure what. You move your hands away from your eyes, she stands in the doorway and moves towards you, then pushes past you, gazes down at the street, where is your car, she says, I did not hear your car.

Another Intifada, you say.

She pauses, you saw the news, she says.

You cover your eyes with your hands again, for the light of the moon is glaring and your head is throbbing.

Where were you, she says. Mohammed’s? All this time? Is that where you saw it?

Things will get worse, you say.

Yes, she says, she places her hand on your shoulder, but this is not the first time, she says. It was horrible, she says, what they did. Did you see it?

Yes, you say, and she starts to cry then. You shouldn’t watch, you say, you shouldn’t watch images like that, it’s too upsetting.

Saleem, she says. Saleem I’m pregnant. I just found out.

The world is quivering now, the moon is darker, almost red, pregnant, you say, and she wipes her tears, tries to smile, but it’s a crooked smile, not real.

Yes, she says, I am pregnant. It was confirmed today. Her words come in a rush, I didn’t want to tell you until I knew for certain. I know how you wanted this once I completed my studies.

You raise your eyes to her. Your eyes, she says, they are all red, Saleem, did you drink too much? What is wrong.

A baby, you say, a baby here, in this place, now, you wave your arm in front of you, out towards the mountains of Galilee, beyond them the blood red moon.

Yes, she says, a baby. You are drunk, she says. Perhaps you should go to bed. She holds her hand against her stomach.

Slowly you get to your feet and stumble inside, towards the bedroom, the alcohol hits you now in a way it didn’t when you were in Mohammed’s. You fall forward onto the bed and you close your eyes, the room spins, you see the blood on the men’s hands as they stood in front of the police station and waved them in the air, you see the brown marks of human flesh on their clothes, and you see the dead soldiers on the street, surrounded by cheering crowds, children with flags, mere boys laughing and leering. You don’t want a baby, not here, not now, a child to ask the same questions that were never answered for you, that may never be answered, you know that now, for this goes on, much in the manner of a river overwhelming many streams along its way, overpowering them, until eventually they leave their own path and instead adopt the course of the river, the course that is carved out for them, the course that defines them.

The next morning you wake and your head is sore, she lies beside you, on her back, watching the ceiling, her hand on her stomach.

She does not turn to you; it’s okay, she says, I understand. But life is always good, even here, even after yesterday. She moves away from the room to the kitchen, and then there is the smell of coffee, the sound of the spoon against the long glass. She brings the coffee to you, places it on the bedside table, sits down hard on the bed.