Fractured Destinies

open. He stuck his head outside, and inhaled the smell of summer, but paid it no attention. He heard the sound of a wooden drawer stuttering closed, and a little cough that told him that it was his father, not a thief. He remembered what his mother, Husniya, had kept repeating since his childhood: “If your father gets up in the night, he bangs around enough to wake up Lydda and Ramla, and if he shouts, he stops the waves in the middle of the sea!” Now he’d become like his mother, listening out for the sound of his father’s footsteps, always on the alert for a clearing of the throat followed by a cough.

“What are you looking for, father?”

He was met by a silence in reply.

He calmly called again.

“What are you doing, father, in the middle of the night?”

Silence. He repeated his question as loud as he dared, hoping not to wake anyone sleeping.

“What are you doing, father, in the middle of the night?”

Silence.

He begged him: “We want to sleep, man!”

Silence.

“All right, don’t answer. Just don’t go on disturbing everyone!” muttered Filastin, abandoning his exhortations. He collected up his frustration and took it with him back to his bed. It’s no use—my father’s a goat, and an obstinate one at that, he thought. Even a devil doesn’t do that sort of thing.

He tossed and turned for some time, then went back to sleep.

There was a nervous silence in the house. Husniya slipped out of her bedroom. The passage leading to the garden provoked a disturbed conversation between Husniya’s light slippers and the floor. Once outside, her slippers made their peace and stopped the conversation. As she approached the shed, she was lined with streaks of light and darkness.

In a faltering tone, she begged her husband to desist from what he was intending to do.

“No, please don’t go, Abu Filastin—the Jews don’t have mercy on anyone. My heart is tormenting me, I’m not happy, I’m afraid for you.”

No rejection, acceptance, comment, or murmur reached her from the wooden shed—not even a clearing of the throat. Suddenly, the tension between her silence and her expectation was shattered by a shrill cry from Aviva, the Jewish lady next door.

Afifa (Husniya sometimes turned the name of their neighbor into Arabic, making it approximate to an actual Arabic word, not necessarily related to its meaning) has been visited by a sudden German nightmare, which has scared her awake, she thought. May God grant us mercy, and grant her rest. The Germans burned the hearts of the Jews, and the Jews have burned ours in turn. What have we done that God burns both our hearts?

The Remainer had heard it, too. He gave a sigh of regret from inside the shed.

“Poor Rabia (he, too, would turn their neighbor’s name into Arabic, though his version was a play on meaning), no one asks after her, not her husband, not her two kids, while the state sells her tragedy and the tragedy of others wholesale and retail!”

Husniya gazed into the darkness, which was lined with streaks of light. She called out to The Remainer provocatively, “What you’re doing is stuff and nonsense, and it won’t bring you anything except abuse, and insults, and a sore head. Do you think the Jews will give you a roof over your head, Abu Filastin? Do you think they’ll sing and dance around you? Go and sleep, man—shut up and don’t be so stupid. Tomorrow, if you carry on with your plan, the Jews will beat you up!”

2

Basim returned from his errand, just as the night was preparing to keep Jinin company. He seemed relaxed, like he had left a lot of his problems behind.

“I called in at the Dunya café in al-Malik Faysal Street,” he announced, before Jinin could ask him. “I had an appointment with Dr. Ibrahim al-Zu‘bi,” he went on. “He’s a social scientist. We talked for quite a bit—I had a splendid meeting with him, in fact, very informative. Afterward, I went to Ramla, and passed by the Jawarish quarter. I saw Nawal Isawi, the head of the organization Women Against Violence.”

Jinin remained silent. He asked her if she knew Isawi.

“No. But I’ve sometimes read things about her in Yafa al-Yawm,” she replied. “Did she tell you anything useful?”

“She talked about their organization’s activities, and gave me information about the subject, with photocopies of some statements, articles, and analyses that she’d prepared for me. She told me things that I never imagined could happen in this country. What’s going on in the Jawarish quarter doesn’t bear thinking about. I thought people were exaggerating!”

“I know. The Jews are actually calling the quarter ‘Mikhbeset ha-kavod shel ha-Aravim.’”

“What does that mean?”

“‘The Arabs’ shame laundry.’”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t really obtained enough information yet about what they’re saying,” he muttered with regret.

“Do you want some food?” she asked.

“To be honest, I ate a cheese sandwich on the street as I was coming back. I bought two from the Abul Afiya bakery, and kept one for you.”

He put the small paper bag he was carrying onto her desk. Beside it, he placed a file containing some papers that he had had under his arm. He said that he was tired from the long walk, his head was stuffed with too much information for him to retain, and he wanted to sleep. He bent down over Jinin, kissed her, and went to bed.

So this is the ‘take away’ I’ve been waiting for since noon, she thought, with regret.

Basim got undressed and stretched out on the bed. He turned off the lamp beside him, and was soon asleep.

Jinin, her physical disappointment stinging her, looked from the cheese sandwich to the file on her desk, which was tempting her to turn its pages.

3

Jinin closed her eyes for a few minutes, listening to Basim’s breathing, which swelled calmly around her from the bedroom. His breaths were like waves creeping lazily over the shore before withdrawing, folded in on themselves in a repeated rhythm that invited sleep. That