8
In al-Majdal Asqalan, Julie had empathized with Roma, from her ‘Welcome, please come in’ to her ‘Ma‘assalama.’ She behaved as if she was on a visit to an old neighbor. For the whole time the four of them were in the house that had once belonged to the Dahman family, she had never stopped chatting to Roma with a certain obvious affection, until Luda’s impatience made it clear that she was tired of translating the two women’s chatter in both directions.
Now, in the airport, Walid thought it not unlikely that Julie had been trying to test, and get to know the feelings of, the woman she expected to be their nearest Jewish neighbor in al-Majdal Asqalan if he agreed to her proposal and they moved to live there. He told himself that his wife perhaps wanted to persuade herself that it would be possible to live in the country. Hadn’t she spent several days in Jamil and Luda’s house in Haifa, in a three-story building containing six apartments, five of which were lived in by Jews? There, Julie hadn’t woken up in a disturbed state. On the contrary, she had seemed happy with Jamil’s talk about friendly relations between neighbors he described as ordinary, and about joining a committee of residents of the block to deal with any disputes and day-to-day problems, and to organize any shared concerns.
Walid himself had never commented on what Jamil had said. Instead, he persuaded himself that Julie would finally discover that as soon as Jamil left the building, which was governed by the democracy of neighbors and the conventions of ordinary people, he would lose half his citizens’ rights, while his Jewish neighbors would continue to enjoy their full rights as citizens, inside their homes and outside them, including the right to choose the graves for their dead. When they left the country, Julie would realize that they had been wandering around like tourists who had seen only the rare beauty and holiness that belonged to the land.
Walid had to say something in answer to Julie, who had been waiting while reality grappled with his memories. In the end, he said to her, “This isn’t Gigi’s return. I won’t come back to this country to live in it as a stranger. When we get to London, we can discuss the issue away from the pressures of this moment of parting.”
Then, to hide his emotions, he turned in the opposite direction and noticed a black girl, who looked Ethiopian, lazily sweeping the long corridor leading to the airport departure lounge with a broom. She was cleaning the floor slowly, at a rate proportionate to the shekels being paid to her. Their eyes met for a few seconds, during which they silently exchanged undefined feelings.
Luda emerged from her silence, speaking with a measured expression of emotion. “Fully understood, Walid. Why not? Every Palestinian should come back to his country, he has to come back. But arrive home safely, and you can discuss the subject together as you said. It’s the step of a lifetime, and this isn’t the best place to talk about it.”
Still, she went on to recommend Haifa as their place of residence, where they could live as neighbors, and swore an oath, for which there was no need, that the city “drives you crazy and blows the mind.” Jamil hurried to support his wife’s invitation: “Come and live in our quarter—you’ll lend light to Haifa and the whole district, including the villages destroyed by the Jews. You’ll honor Carmel from its summit to the seashore. Is there anything nicer than sitting on top of the mountain and looking out over the waves washing its feet?”
Julie kissed Luda goodbye. “Of course! I love Haifa so much.”
Meanwhile, Jamil implored Walid: “Listen to me and to your wife, my friend, and sell your house. You’ve nothing to lose but your exile and loneliness. There’s nothing better than this country, either in this world or the next.”
Walid hugged him and Luda goodbye, and then he and Julie took their cases and hurried toward the departure lounge.
Second Movement
Nine Days Earlier
1
A Stubborn Palestinian
Jinin sat at her desk in the only room in her house that overlooked Jaffa’s old port, and continued to revise the chapters in her new novel. Basim called her just before two in the afternoon about the reply of the Misrad Hapnim in Tel Aviv to the application to extend his residency and allow him to work. Jinin recalled her total failure, which was still fresh. She told him that the Israeli Ministry of the Interior had once again rejected his application. Basim hung up in shock.
Jinin placed her own phone to the side on her desk, and tried to imagine the progress of his reactions. She followed him in her mind as he returned to the house as usual by al-Bahr Street, dragging with him his share of failure. He took advantage of the contraction of his shadow at this time of the day to attack it, cursing it, then trampling it with his feet. He punched the air and cursed the year he had returned home, thinking it was a homeland, while his head argued with the walls of the al-Bahr mosque.
The iron outer door opened, then closed. Jinin stopped following Basim with her mind—he was home.
The inside door opened, and Basim’s voice arrived before his footsteps.
“The bastards! If
