PART ONE
Everything Has to Be Wonderful Here
1
The door gives a terrible screech as my mother opens it. The childrenās bedroom gives off a musty smell, like a secondhand bookstore that people hardly visit. She hurries over to the window and opens it, wipes some of the dust off the desk with her dust cloth, and says āSee, nothingās changed.ā And I look at her, so changed, so tired, so old. She gives me her usual look, the one that always says everything will be okay.
āThe food will be ready in a minute.ā
āIām not hungry, Mom.ā
āI bet you havenāt eaten since this morning. Come on, eat it while itās still warm. Itāll take a while. Go take a nap, and Iāll call you. Thereās pea soup too.ā
My mother is sensitive enough to close the door on her way out. I look around the room I left ten years ago. Nothingās changed, except for the fact that nobody lives in it. The three cots stand empty, evenly spaced. I was the first of the three brothers to leave this room, and now Iām the first to return. Nothingās changed, except perhaps the smell, which I still canāt manage to ignore, and now I can imagine what being forsaken smells like.
I put down my duffel bag, the black one thatās been with me ever since my university days, and lie down on the middle bed, the one that was always mine. The feel of the bed is further evidence that nobody has visited this room in a good many years. The mattress gives off a kind of dampness, and by the smell of the sheets and the pillow I can tell that my mother hasnāt changed them since we left for the last time. I look up at the high ceiling and see some green and black circles of mildew on the section right above me. Once my father would fix the leaks right away, climbing up on the roof and applying special sealants, then painting over them. Judging by the big stain, he doesnāt bother anymore, as if the childrenās room isnāt part of the house now. As if it doesnāt really exist.
I never imagined this room could be so quiet. This room, which once buzzed with life, with screaming and games and countless squabbles, is utterly still now, everything frozen in place, everything just so. The books on the shelves have been arranged in order of the grades in which we used them. My mother hasnāt thrown out so much as a single book, not even the ones from elementary school. Theyāre all there in the bookcase. And our three names are still written on the three drawers, as if weāre still liable to fight over who gets which one. Three chairs, side by side, evenly spaced, face the long desk that Father made especially for us. He forced us to do all our homework there, sitting stiffly on our chairs, which we werenāt allowed to move an inch. My father took exact measurements, and drew four circles on the floor for each of the chairs. Thatās where the legs had to stay. As we grew taller, he would move the circles, seeing to it that the distance from the desk fit our new size. Nothing pleased him more than to come home, open the boysā room and see us sitting in our set positions, our faces immersed in books and notebooks. We always made a point of assuming that favorite pose of his when we knew he was about to return from work. It was no trouble. In fact, it was kind of fun, and as soon as he shut the door behind him, no matter how much weād been fighting, weād almost always give each other the look, and giggle.
My chair was in the middle, the one farthest from the desk. I get up off the bed and look at it. I was the largest one in the family, taller even than my older brother. I take a good look at the floor and discover that the red marks are still there, and that the chairs are positioned right on the last circles Father etched into it. I take my seat, the middle one, and discover that my body hasnāt grown since I finished high school. The chair is exactly the right distance from the desk, and my posture is just right, almost completely straight. And as I try to pretend to be writing, my body leans forward in the chair at precisely the angle that Father claimed was the healthiest and the best one. I smile now, and the smile gives me a strange feeling, like when a muscle thatās been slack for a long time wakes up, coming back into use.
I reach out to the drawer that bears my name in thick red letters and pull it out till it nearly touches my stomach. The drawer is filled with papers, meticulously arranged, all the way to the top, till there isnāt room for even one more sheet. I pull out the whole stack and put it on the desk in front of me. My mother has kept everything in order. Even the picture they gave us when we finished kindergarten is in that drawer. A blue sky, a yellow sun with eyes and a smiling mouth, and red flowers. Itās all there, sorted by year, in sequence, every report card from first to twelfth grade, trimester by trimester. Class pictures of every single year. Right on top is my matriculation certificate, and below it the high school class picture. Every kid in my class, in little squares, row by row along the bottom half. Above them are the passport pictures of my teachers, in bigger squares. And in the top center is the principal, who got the biggest picture of all, right above the school name and logo.
The studentsā pictures are so small you can hardly make out their faces. If it werenāt for the names underneath each one, in tiny letters too, Iād never find my own. I take a close look at the little square that contains me and remember how scared I was of leaving this room, this place. How Iād been 100 percent certain that this was where I wanted to stay forever. How Iād spent the whole night crying before moving to a different city, to study there and live there. And how the place that had always been home to me gradually began to seem menacing. I remember how on the day I left, carrying my black duffel bag, the only thing I wanted was for my three years of school to go by quickly so I could hurry back. How Iād sobbed when all the neighbors and all our relatives, who make a habit of coming to say good-bye during the week before someone leaves, kept congregating in our yard each evening, bringing presents, comforting my parents and trying to cheer them up. How Iād cried when I left, how I was crying now, when I had no choice but to return.
I look at the little square photos beside mine. I used to think Iād never forget my schoolmates, and now, as I look them over, I discover that I havenāt thought back about a single one of them. The kids in my class always seemed to me like a blob of faces following me wherever I went, but as I look at this class picture and study them one by one, they seem so odd, so distant. Even their names have been blotted out of my memory in the ten years that have gone by. I havenāt spoken with any of them in all that time, or before that either, but at least I used to see them almost every day. Why the hell do I imagine them now as more dangerous than they were? Why am I afraid of them, afraid of bumping into them?
I read the names out loud, and they grab me and take me back. God, who are all these people? What are they doing now? And I go on studying their pictures: Jamil Hazkhiyyeh, Nabil Nasser, Haytham Sultan, Hanan Fadilla. Iāve forgotten them all, the students, the teachers, the principal. But Iām back now, and Iāll have no choice. Theyāre nearby, practically next door, and Iām bound to bump into them. Iāve got to be careful. I stare at the papers, one by one, and read the comments the teachers wrote over the years. I didnāt receive a single bad mark, except in subjects like phys ed and shop and metalworking. I thumb through the pages in awe, turning them carefully and placing them one on top of the other, taking care not to do anything that would upset the order my mother had imposed.
2
I wake to the sounds of the TV. My parents continue to be early risers, even though neither one of them works anymore. Iāll stay in bed a little longer. I havenāt much to do anyway, and itās still too early to go see my little girl. My mother knocks softly and opens the door a crack before Iāve had a chance to answer. I see her eyes looking at me. āGood morning,ā I say, to signal that Iām awake.
āGood morning,ā she says, opening it some more. āThe workers are here, and your father would like you to go up there and keep an eye on them.ā
āNo problem. Iāll be up in a minute.ā
The room is chilly. The ceiling is high and the walls thin and damp. āThis has been the longest and rainiest winter in three decadesā was a sentence we kept hearing over and over again on the weather forecasts. Winter was officially over, and we were in the middle of spring. I pull a sweater out of the bag I havenāt even unpacked yet and go into the air-conditioned living room. My parents installed the air conditioner after weād left home, and didnāt see any point in opening a vent into the childrenās room. Just the living room and their bedroom. āGood morning,ā I say, and my father, sitting there with his cigarette and coffee, answers, āGood morning,ā without looking away from the screen. Heās watching the Hebrew news, and when thatās over, he zaps to Al Jazeera, where they have news all the time.
Breakfast is already waiting on the kitchen table. āCome to eat,ā my mother says. I look at my father and he looks at me. I know itās going to be difficult for the two of us to sit at the table together. My return must seem as odd to him as it does to me. āIn a minute,ā he says, and I go and sit down at the kitchen table, in my regular seat, the one farthest away from Father, with my back to the TV, sipping tea with naana mint. The tea is too sweet. I had forgotten how sweet my mother makes it. Itās a family rule, you drink tea with two spoons of sugar, coffee with none. Thereās no room for personal taste, itās a recipe handed down to her by her mother, who got it from her mother. āI donāt eat breakfast,ā I explain, and she frowns in unmistakable sadness. āBut Iāll have something a bit later,ā I say. āIn an hour or two.ā
Fifty steps separate my parentsā house from the one where I am about to live. The noise of the floor-polishing machine rumbles in my ears even before I go inside. Today theyāre putting in the stairs. For over five years, there was just the outer shell. Only recently, after Iād announced that I was returning home, did my parents resume working on it, full steam ahead. Itāll be ready pretty soon. In just a week, with any luck, or two at most, my mother said, and thereās money too. My parents cashed in a savings account and theyāre putting it all into the house now, so I can move in. Thatās the way it is around here: good parents build homes for their children.
I walk into my future home, carrying a copper tray with two cups of tea for the men who are putting in the stairs. They turn off the machines for a moment. The one who seems to be in charge walks over to me, takes the tray and puts it down on the step heās just finished making. āAre you the owner?ā he asks, and shakes my hand. āIām Kamel.ā He gestures toward the younger guy, who puts down an enormous slab of marble and comes over to drink his tea. I study him and nod a greeting. He has a wide cleft all the way up from his lower lip to his nose. It doesnāt look like an accident, more like a birth defect, and if he hadnāt answered my greeting, Iād have assumed he couldnāt talk. His voice is strange and squeaky, reminding me of the deaf kidsā class at the far end of our elementary school. āThanks for the tea,ā he says. His boss must be used to it by now, because he quickly makes a point of offsetting any apprehension or uneasiness I might be feeling. āMohammed is an A-okay guy,ā he says. āWeāve been working together for two years. Like brothers, eh, Mohammed?ā Mohammed lowers his head and tries to smile. Iām uncomfortable with the whole thing, slightly embarrassed even, as if weāre dealing with some creature whose owner owes it to us to explain right away, before I panic, that heās just a harmless pet and not some wild beast, heaven forbid.
Iām going to have a big house, bigger than any of the rented homes Iāve lived in till now. Thereās no comparison. I try to persuade myself that the change might be for the better, that maybe Iāll make it after all, that it might actually be nice to finally have a home of my own, considering that Iāve been dreaming of one my whole life. I walk up the stairs, to the floor where the bedrooms will be. The contractors have put in the marble slabs on that floor already. They have just one floor left, the one with the laundry room and the roof. The steps are a bit crooked, and some of them stick out. A few others broke as they were being installed. I donāt know whether to say anything. To tell the truth, it doesnāt really bother me much. I go into the bedroom. The walls havenāt been painted yet. The en suite bathroom is all ready, and so is the one that will be for the children when the time comes. There isnāt much more work to do, actually. Once the stairs are in, theyāll put in the railing and then paint it all. The carpenter has put in the kitchen cabinets too, and heāll be installing the doors in a couple of days.
I wonāt even have to leave the house at all, I think, and have a cigarette in the bedroom. I wonāt even go to the grocery store. Iāll just sit here at home, oblivious to everything. I could easily disappear, easily fix my life in such a way that nobody will know Iām back, nobody will notice Iāve come back to this lousy village. At least I have a big house to bury myself in. Wasnāt it the oppressive feeling that I had run out of steam that made me come back here in the first placeāa whatās-the-point feeling that had been haunting me for the better part of a year and just kept getting worse? What was left for me in the big city anyway? Nothing, nada, just a sense of apprehension. Iād never felt secure there, even at home, and I donāt intend to deceive myself into thinking that Iāll feel any more comfortable here. But at least I wonāt have to pay rent for a place to be apprehensive in.
The stairs man and his worker are at it again. I stand at the bedroom door and watch. āHurry up, you idiot,ā the boss says, as he waits for the bucket full of brown slurry that the harelip with the submissive expression hands over to him. The whole scene makes me uneasy. The boss, who must be about my age, tries to make conversation, a big smile splashed across his face. āWe never see you in the village at all. I was surprised to see you, and of course I know everyone your age around here. The younger generation, the children, I donāt always know, because the village keeps getting bigger, but I know every single person your age. You must have studied in Germany. A doctor?ā
I shake my head.
āSo what did you study?ā
āJournalism,ā I tell him.
āSo youāre a journalist?ā
I nod.
āFor the Jews?ā
āYes.ā
And soon enough I find myself getting into a conversation and breaking the promise Iād just made to myself a minute ago, not to make contact with anyone. How can I keep that up in a place like this?
āIām telling you, thereās no place like home. Iāve worked for the Jews too, and believe you me, even though you make a lot more money, it still feels different, you know what I mean, the way you come in every morning with the tea on a tray, with them you could be working for a week and they wonāt come near you. Not all of them. Iām not saying theyāre all like that. But now, with the things getting more and more tense and all, itās just getting worse. They canāt tell the difference between people like us, living inside Israel, and the ones living on the West Bank. An Arabās an Arab as far as theyāre concerned. I bet you thought I was from the West Bank too when you came in and saw me in my dirty coverall. I bet you were scared,ā he says with a laugh.
Mohammed is standing there, and I hope he canāt hear any of what weāre saying. Maybe heās deaf after all. Our eyes meet and he quickly lowers his gaze as if I were a Border Policeman or who knows what. And the boss, who must have picked up on my discomfort and our mutual glance, smiles again and explains, āDonāt pay any attention to the way I talk about him. Mohammed and I are like brothers, right, Mohammed?ā He turns to him, and Mohammed smiles. āHeās been with me for two years now. An excellent worker. And I look after him, take care of everything he needs, food and drink, and my old clothes so they donāt stop him at the roadblocks. You know I could do time if they caught him in my car. Iām employing a ticking bomb, brother, a terrorist.ā He laughs. āAsk him. He canāt live without me. Isnāt that right, Mohammed?ā
3
Itās late afternoon, and the traffic is heavier than Iād expected. New cars are cruising along. The cars are full, of young men, mostly. Almost all of them have two passengers in front and three in back, well dressed. The cars look like theyāve just been washed. I merge into the lane. Traffic is slow, especially on the main road of the village, where my wifeās familyās home is.
Itās the hour when the high school lets out. Thatās how it was when I was a student, except that back then there would be lots of guys out looking for a bride, trying to impress the girls or use their only chance to see them close up, not from inside a car. I remember the dozens of guys waiting at the entrance to the school and joining the throng of kids streaming out.
The thought of it makes me smile, but the smile soon gives way to sadness, a fear that maybe I too, in my dirty old car, will be taken for one of the guys coming to impress the young girls. Iāve got to get to my in-lawsā house already, damn it. I remember well how I used to look down on those guys. Some of them even came to school with cameras and shamelessly took pictures of the girls they were interested in. Theyād take snapshots so they could get the motherās approval before asking for the girlās hand. There were even more people at the gate to the junior high. Getting engaged to a very young girl was considered a greater achievement. Half the girls in the ninth grade were engaged, and if it hadnāt been for the Israeli law, which doesnāt allow marriage before the age of seventeen, they certainly would have gotten married before they were out of high school.
A girl who was properly raised was supposed to walk straight ahead and pretend not to notice if anyone honked at her, to move firmly forward without turning to look in either direction. The ones who turned to look were loose, and the ones who smiled as they did were regarded as a lost cause, practically sluts.
I steal a glance, a few small peeks so they donāt suspect me of being one of the girl-watchers, and I see them, congregating at the edge of the road, older than children but barely into adolescence, looking different from what Iād expected. The boys look like Israeli high school students. Their clothes are so different from what we used to wear at their age, which was only ten years ago. Everyone wears jeans, everyone has gel in their hair, and their shirts are the latest fashion. When I was their age, we all dressed the same, in clothes that were made in the village, cotton pants and blue shirts. It wasnāt until Iād been at the university that I happened to hear about brand names like Leviās or Nike or Lee Cooper. The designer men march along the right side of the road, and the girls along the left. The number of girls wearing a veil is even more surprising. I donāt remember a single girl wearing a veil when I was at school.
Itās unbelievable what ten years can do. Actually, I hardly recognize the place. I know a place that answers to the same name, I know faces that continue to be known by the same names too, but for some reason I donāt really feel like Iām going back to an old familiar place. Iām going home, to a new place.
I greet my wife and she nods. Her mother is standing in the kitchen, which is right at the entrance, and when I hold out my hand, she extends her arm. Her hands are covered in oil. I shake her elbow. My wifeās father is wearing pajamas with blue squares and brown stripes. Heās sitting on a mattress, staring at the Arabic channel. He tries to get up to welcome me, but I hurry over to shake his hand so he doesnāt have to go to any trouble. āThe babyās asleep,ā my wife says, pointing to her parentsā bedroom. I go in and look at her. How Iāve missed her, even though itās been just one day since we returned home. Itās the first night I havenāt slept in the same room as my little girl. The beds in my in-lawsā bedroom are far away from one another. Twin beds, one on each side of the room. My daughter is on the bed on the we...