Ishmael's Oranges by Claire Hajaj

was before my time.’ His hands tapped the desk. ‘There was a lot of confusion after the war. Arabs were still making trouble in Jaffa. Perhaps the checks were not as vigorous as they should have been.’
    Salim felt his breath coming in shallow pants. He willed his father to speak. But Abu Hassan’s arms were slumped in defeat. His eyes seemed fixed on Livnor’s paper, the only sign of emotion a sudden heave of his chest.
    Livnor sat back in his chair and wiped the sweat off his forehead, like a doctor delivering terminal news. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘There’s nothing to be done.’
    â€˜So what does this mean?’ Salim said, light-headed and dry-mouthed. ‘What does it mean for us now?’
    â€˜It means,’ said Livnor, ‘that the house has already been sold to the State. By Mr Al-Khalili. The money has been handed over.’ He took off his glasses and spoke directly to Abu Hassan. ‘You must take it up with him yourself, sir. Because this is now out of our hands.’
    Salim could not remember getting back down the stairs. The lobby was now grey and oppressive, the air outside fierce and hostile. There was still no sign of Abu Mazen. Abu Hassan walked off to the nearest payphone, leaving the others standing wordless in the shadow of the City Hall.
    Tareq stood straight with his hand on Salim’s shoulder. Isak spoke hesitantly, his eyes on the ground.
    â€˜I’m no lawyer,’ he said, ‘but surely there must have been collusion somewhere. That document Livnor had was not right. The government probably just wanted to take the house and be done with it.’
    Abu Hassan came back ten minutes later, and told them they would meet Abu Mazen at a coffee shop by the beach boardwalk. Salim did not ask why they were not meeting in Jaffa. Suddenly, he did not want to go near the place. Jaffa had betrayed him.
    The Tel Aviv beach boardwalk was the light of western modernity turned up to full flood. Men and women laughed arm in arm and raced along the beach together, playing with balls or sunning themselves in a great tangle of limbs. Sheltered from the glare by the shop awnings, Salim felt a confused mix of emotions as he watched them – creatures from another world, the noon light glistening on their skin.
    In the distance, Jaffa rose up from the coast in a jagged row of yellow teeth. He searched inside for a hint of desire, and found nothing. That is not Jaffa. That was somewhere else, a defeated, dirty place where all the gardens were dead and the orange trees cut down.
    The worst had already happened to him, and yet he was beginning to feel lighter, like a bird on the wing. He could almost see his possible futures separating, like two bubbles waiting to be freed. There was this broken cart of Palestine, and a life hitched to it with men like his father. And then there were other dreams, worlds not yet in focus.
    â€˜Looks like fun, eh?’ Isak’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘I take Lili to the beach on Sundays sometimes. She likes to get a tan.’ He shook his head and smiled. ‘Tel Aviv is always moving and changing, while old Jaffa has changed so little. Lili says time stands still for us Arabs, no matter what our religion.’
    Before Salim could reply, he heard a boy’s voice shouting in Arabic. ‘Salim!’ Turning, he saw a young man coming towards him – paler than Isak with an earnest expression and Lili Yashuv’s long nose.
    A smile surged onto Salim’s face in spite of himself and he shook the hand that Elia offered.
    â€˜Dad told me you were coming, I could hardly believe it,’ said Elia, breathless. ‘I got out from school and ran all the way. How are you? What’s up? Are you coming back to Jaffa?’
    The question pierced Salim, bringing him back to the moment; he dropped Elia’s hand, suddenly noticing the pinkness of his skin, like the cold Eastern