Basim moved to the window that looked out over the harbor, and said with feeling, “Didn’t I tell you that the flag of democracy in this country only flutters over the heads of Samir Badran and his like?”
She opened the drawer of her desk, took out the Arabic Yafa al-Yawm newspaper, opened it at the third page, and spoke in a measured tone: “No, my darling, even he isn’t immune. The flag you speak of was just lowered over Samir Badran. Listen:
“‘On the evening of the day before yesterday, a corpse belonging to a man in his twenties was discovered on the hills overlooking the Kazakhanah graveyard in Jaffa. Police sources in Tel Aviv and Jaffa said that the victim had been subjected to twenty blows from a sharp implement on various parts of his body. His face had also been mutilated. An identity card was discovered in the victim’s pocket, issued by the Palestinian Authority in Ramallah, in the name of Samir Badran, a resident of Bethlehem in the West Bank. Preliminary investigations have revealed that he had most recently been residing illegally with Hayyim Anbari in his apartment in Tel Aviv. Ministry of the Interior records show that the dead man had submitted an application two months ago for the renewal of his residence permit, which was refused by the Ministry. For his part, Anbari, when questioned under police oath, stated that he had not seen his friend for several weeks, but that he had learned by chance from other friends that he had not left Tel Aviv, but had been working secretly, moving between different gay clubs and bars. The Palestinian security authorities have been informed of the incident. Yafa al-Yawm has learned from its own sources that Badran’s family refused to accept their dead son’s corpse, informing the Palestinian security authorities, who were supposed to receive the body from the Israelis, that they had disowned their son when he left home and no longer recognized him. Contacts between the Israelis and Palestinians are continuing, with a view to a decision being taken regarding the corpse, which no one wishes to accept.’”
Jinin closed the newspaper and threw it onto the desk. She turned to Basim, and noticed that tears were flowing down his cheeks. She didn’t venture to ask him what aspect of the strange story had made him cry. She heard him whisper, sharp as a knife, “Poor Samir, no one wants him, alive or dead.”
He went through to the bedroom, took off his shirt, and threw it on the bed. Jinin propped her chin on her hand, with her elbow resting on one knee, her legs crossed, and watched him through the doorway as he undid his leather belt, then unzipped his pants and pushed them down his thighs.
At least my husband is still healthy and strong, she thought. Her heart fluttered at the prospect of a quick ‘take away,’ as they called making love during the day; they sometimes did it before Jinin went out to work, or as they woke from an afternoon siesta during the summer. Basim extracted his legs from his pants one after the other, and threw the pants onto the bed. She looked with admiration at his legs, seeing in them the legs of an American cowboy, despite the fact that he had never in his life tended cattle. Watching his body was urging on her desire for a ‘take away,’ almost insisting on it.
Basim shaved, took a shower, and came out of the bathroom, stretching his arms wide. He sighed with exaggerated pleasure.
“Aaaaaah! How much I needed that shower!”
He seemed to himself to have washed away his troubles.
“God bless you,” she said, biting back her frustration.
He began to dress. “God bless you, too!” he replied.
He combed his hair, then tossed the comb onto the edge of the dressing table. Then he went into the kitchen and heated some food, which he ate quickly. He made a cup of Nescafé for himself, drank half of it in the sitting room, and left the cup on the edge of her desk.
“I’m going to Ramla,” he said in a neutral tone, as he headed for the door. “I may be late back.”
She didn’t ask him for details or demand any justification for his excursion. She knew he was looking for documents that he needed for something he was working on.
“God be with you, my darling. Be careful and look after yourself,” she called.
Basim crossed the threshold in silence, closed the door behind him, and walked off, as Jinin quickly gulped down the half-cup of Nescafé he had left behind him. She then began nervously cleaning and tidying the other parts of the house. She broke two plates before she had finished her work.
Then she sat down again at her desk and carried on reviewing her novel. The night was already half gone.
As ‘The Remainer’—this was his nickname, which everyone used, because it fitted him and his character—crept into the garden of the house, the garden surrendered to his footsteps. He stumbled with his secrets toward the wooden shed at the southern corner of the garden. He opened the door, which was dotted with holes, just as the geography of Palestine is dotted with Jewish settlements. He reached over and turned on the small electric light that hung from a nail that had been banged into the wooden wall facing the door. As he straightened up, the light falling on his face revealed the untidiness of his features. Light passed through the holes in the wooden door, shining outside. The clank of small keys could be heard, the ringing of a metal chain, and the grating of wooden drawers.
Some of those in the house turned in their beds, and a nervous tremor awakened Filastin. The eldest son of The Remainer leaped tensely from his bed. He hurried toward the rear door leading to the garden, and found it
