The Inbetween People (6 page)

W
HEN
I was fourteen years old my mother wrote to me to invite me to visit. You have a brother and a sister, she wrote, it is time you met them, Avi, indeed it is important that you meet them. It was June and summer beckoned, scorching summer days, filled with soccer, the beach and the sea, the cornfields, followed by warm nights, spent in whispers under the eucalyptus trees that Father planted for my mother the summer I was born. You will come for a fortnight, she wrote, and we shall show you the Netherlands.

I stood there with the crisp white pages between my hands. Tell your father, she said, tell your father it is important that you see me, tell him that and he will bid you visit for a fortnight. Tell him it is necessary that you see me, for you do need to see me, my darling, even if you don’t realise it. She beckoned to me, my mother, casting her magic from afar, bewitching me with her tales of long summer evenings in Holland, enchanting twilights, the taste of her homemade lemonade on summer days, the smell of crushed mint all around the kitchen, wandering to the promenade by the sea in the evenings, surrounded by the cultured atmosphere of Europe. I imagined standing in her sun-filled, polish-scented house that would enfold me in its depths so that I belonged there absolutely.

I mentioned it to my father on a June evening. It’s important to her that I visit, I said, and struggled to find the words, it’s important to me too, I said. He flinched and looked away, towards the mountains that he always wandered to when he needed to think; but then he turned towards me and there was something in his eyes that I dared not analyse—she told you to say that, he said, and he let forth a hard, mirthless laugh. You need to see her indeed.

He turned away from me then, we were in the garden outside his home, he began to pick at the weeds that grew amongst his geraniums. He tossed each weed onto the path, gathered them into untidy piles, dusted his hands, before plunging them deep into the soil, fingers searching for the roots, for they were deep in the earth. He moved then to the lilies, and began to remove the weeds that grew around Mother’s lilies. Greedy feeders, he said, do you know how many plants suffer in return for these. They take all the goodness out of the earth. He waved his hand towards the great trumpet-shaped flowers that emitted an odour that spoke only of her.

Father, I said. He did not turn. I stood there for a time, behind him, but there were many weeds to be pulled from the ground and he did not turn, and the moon crept into the sky, it was bright, so that it seemed to be almost day. A perfect image of her came to me, sitting in her flat kingdom in Holland, I thought of her and the two children, I thought of them, my family, our family, and my soul yearned for her, my mother. Father, I said, Father, it is not important that I see these people. I have my family here, my friends are here, the kibbutz is my family. He did not turn, my father, he did not turn but his back relaxed, I saw the tension leave his shoulders. I walked away from him, kicked at a pile of weeds on the grass.

I did not write to her that summer, I did not write that June, nor July, even when August arrived I did not write. Until my first day at school. I wrote then, Mother, I said, dear Mother, the summer was fun here and I decided not to visit. I hope you don’t mind, maybe some other time. She didn’t reply, not immediately, and when she did, it was a day much like this one, it was October and it was raining; never mind, she said, Avi, my son.

D
AVID
, I say, David, let’s go inside.

He doesn’t move, keeps his head in his hands, and I see then that he is crying, and that there is a look of inexpressible sadness in his eyes. I never thought I’d be here now, he says, I never thought I’d be in a place like this. In years to come, what will I tell my children about what brought me here.

David, I say. I put my hand on his shoulder. Come in. He sits in the rain with his head in his hands, and finally when it is so hard it feels like it will pierce my skin, the wardens come and they are angry. What are you thinking, they shout, and I move inside, but David doesn’t, he sits with his head in his hands, until eventually they run through the rain and drag him inside.

C
HAPTER
8

P
eople have long memories, you said. When you looked back, you said, it seemed that much of your life was made up of other peoples’ memories. Is it the same with your people, you asked, and I couldn’t answer because for most of my life there was just me and Father.

You are walking home from school with Lafi, he is in the same class as you and because he lives on your street you always walk home together. Karim is behind you, kicking at a stone so that it bounces off your leg whenever he hits his target. You turn to him and raise your fists, but you keep walking with Lafi.

When you arrive at your house, you turn to leave Lafi, but you run after him then because there is something you remembered that you have to tell him, and the two of you stand for a time, laughing in the sunshine, until eventually you follow Karim down the driveway. Now you are kicking at stones, because you have homework to do, and the evening stretches long before you.

You walk into the kitchen, into the smell of baking bread, and Grandmother is there, and she is very stern. Come with me, she says when you arrive, reaching for you and Karim. You put your bag on the table but this was not the right thing to do. Not there, it’s filthy, your bag, she hisses, and you shove it to the floor. Come, she says. What did I tell you? Follow me. The other children are inside already.

You notice that her lips are redder than usual and that she is wearing a nice dress, too nice a dress for working in the kitchen, baking bread.

I’m hungry, Karim says, but she frowns at him.

You can wait, she says. Your generation knows nothing about hunger. She leads you through the kitchen, clutching each of you by the wrist, through the dark hall, before pausing outside a room that is always locked. Grandmother’s room, you call it, for she often sits there in the evenings, you see her there from outside, her silhouette against the shutters. Once Karim climbed up the wall and peered in the window, but you never dared to look at this room.

Karim says, why are we going here? We never go here. I’ve never been here. He is backing away from her, from the room, and you pull back too. Children, she says, without opening her mouth. She is trying to be quiet. Children, you absolutely must behave or you will be severely punished this evening.

We never go to this room, Karim says. I don’t want to go to this room.

Your father ordered us, she says. It is an important occasion and he wants us to use this room. He thinks we should use it more often. She releases her grip on Karim’s wrist and raises her hand to knock. It is all he needs; she realises his intention to escape and grasps for his arm, but he senses freedom and runs, footsteps hard upon the marble floor and disappears into the kitchen. She curses under her breath and grasps your wrist tighter, you feel her hands bruising your skin. She raises her hand. She knocks.

Yes, says your father’s voice. Come in.

In, she says to you. Get in. She opens the door and pushes you into the room in one movement, and you stand in front of Father, blinking, attempting to adjust your eyes to the bright light in the room. The door clicks closed behind you. You are confused; this room is just like the room in the Jewish lady’s house, large with white walls, a huge oak table before the window. There are two patterned chairs and a matching couch facing them, a small coffee table with a glass panel in the centre placed between them, a bunch of lavender hanging on the wall—the room is full of its scent—and there is a bowl of fruit on the coffee table.

You stand in front of Father. He is seated in one of the patterned chairs, an identical chair to the one you saw in the Jewish lady’s house, the same angle where she sat that day, the same streak of light cast across his face.

Father, you say.

The other boys are all crammed together on the patterned couch, where Grandmother sat that day in the house in Safsaf. Little Sulieman’s face is filthy, though he is wearing his best clothes.

Karim is not well, Grandmother says. I sent him to his room.

Father nods. Sit Saleem, he says.

You move to the couch and the other boys wriggle to make room for you. You sit. And then you glance at the woman. She is seated beside Father in the other patterned chair, her chair placed slightly behind his. Her eyes meet yours and there is a smile in them. Your father turns to her. This is Basmah, he says. Basmah, this is my eldest son, Saleem.

She looks straight at you. She says, I’ve heard about you, Saleem, you are a very big boy, bigger than I was expecting. You smile, and you wish Karim hadn’t run away.

I’m the biggest in my class, you say. Grandmother sighs, but Basmah is nodding and smiling.

It is then you notice that the vase is on the oak table, your vase, from the Jewish lady’s house, placed there in the same position as it was in the old house. You feel a leap of joy when you see it, a recognition, for you came to love it in the nights it rested between your hands as you slept, before your grandmother removed it from your bed.

Now boys, Father says, you will be getting to know Basmah in the next weeks. We are to marry next month. She will become like a mother to you all. You must be good boys, do you hear me?

You all nod in unison. You count the years in your head, the time that Mother has been dead. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. August, she died in August, you don’t remember the date, and nobody mentions Mother now, so instead you think of her harder all August.

Basmah will see what good boys you are. You nod. And if Basmah needs anything, you will all help her.

Grandmother coughs. You will be very good children, she says. She is turning to leave, and nodding to dismiss you, but there is something you need to tell Father before you go.

This room, you say. Father, this room is the same room as the room in Safsaf.

Grandmother is frowning. Saleem, she says, children only speak when they are spoken to.

But Father didn’t see the room, you say. The room in Safsaf. It is just the same as this. Why are we sad about Safsaf when we have the same room here?

Grandmother places a hand on your shoulder and squeezes it hard. Her lips are white with fury. Not now, she says, not now.

Basmah turns to Father. What room? she says.

I have no idea, says Father. What room in Safsaf, Saleem? His face is stern, his eyes too.

The room where I got the vase, you say, and you point towards the table.

Silence, says your grandmother, there is no need for this now. Her hand is squeezing your shoulder, and you stare hard at the plaid pattern on the couch, each swirl ending in a green curl. You place your finger against the pattern and you know then that this was her secret, this room and its contents, reconstructed with love and sadness, and an attention to detail that only the weighty memory of what was lost can bring, designed to mirror the room she loved, the home she once had, silently guarded and maintained, seldom used, but always there.