Ishmael's Oranges by Claire Hajaj Page A

Jews. ‘Maybe,’ he said, turning away. He sensed Elia standing behind him, felt his hurt even as he tried to wound. He remembered their last day together at the souk. Elia was right after all. Things can never be as they were.
    Elia was clearing his throat to say something, but then Abu Hassan looked up sharply and said in Arabic, ‘Enough, you boys.’ Abu Mazen was walking towards their table. Behind him came Mazen. The plump child had disappeared completely behind walls of rolling muscle and a tight, modern suit. Only the tight fleece of black hair was the same, curling down his neck.
    As they drew near, Mazen lifted his head; when he saw Salim he recoiled with something that looked like guilt.
    â€˜ Ya Salim,’ he said – an indeterminate greeting that merely acknowledged his presence. ‘Still hanging out with the Yehuda , I see.’ His voice touched memories that made Salim shiver. But he saw the older boy was quick to look away.
    Abu Mazen had taken a seat at the table and ordered a coffee. Salim waited impatiently for someone to begin the discussion, to accuse Abu Mazen of his crime, but this was not the Arab way. First coffee needed to be drunk and pleasantries exchanged. Only then could something real be said.
    Finally, Abu Mazen stretched his arms over his head and said, ‘So, tell me how it went today at the City Hall.’
    â€˜You were supposed to meet us there, I thought?’ Tareq said, his voice cold.
    â€˜But it looks like you had good help already.’ Abu Mazen favoured Isak with a smooth smile. ‘I would have been one big body too many.’
    Salim’s father was toying with his coffee cup, swirling the thick, sweet liquid round and round. Without lifting his eyes from the table, his voice came in a hoarse whisper. ‘Why did you sell my house, Hamza? What right did you have?’
    Abu Mazen’s face turned a shade darker, and he leaned forward in his chair. ‘Do I understand you, Saeed ?’ He stressed Abu Hassan’s forename, a gesture of disrespect. ‘Are you feeling someone has wronged you?’
    â€˜You wronged me,’ said Abu Hassan. ‘You made a forgery with the Jews. You pretended the house was yours. You sold it to them.’ His voice shook, but he still could not look Abu Mazen in the face. He’s afraid of him , Salim realized. All Abu Hassan’s bluster was reserved for his family.
    Abu Mazen gave a short, barking laugh. ‘Wronged you?’ he snorted. ‘You should be thanking me on your knees, Abu Hassan. The Jews would have taken that house from under your feet and given you nothing. You can hardly even read a piece of paper – did you ever tell your boy here that? How could you have fought them? So I saved you, out of my goodness. I took all the trouble on myself. I sold it to them for what they would give – a good price, actually.’
    Salim felt a surge of fury. ‘This was our family’s decision to make, not yours,’ he shouted.
    Abu Mazen turned to smile at him. ‘Ah, the clever Salim! Maybe there are some things you should know about your family. They never did a business deal in their lives. Everything your father had, he inherited. You think you’re a man, now? All I see here is a big mouth and a small purse.’ Salim sprang to his feet, stopped by Tareq’s firm hand.
    â€˜But don’t worry, Abu Hassan,’ he went on. ‘I’ve got the money here for you. It’s not so much, but it was the best we could get. I would take it now, if I were you. Take it back to your beautiful wife and buy her something to cheer her up.’
    He slid a packet of notes over the table. To Salim it looked soiled and flimsy, like their dreams of a homecoming. He held his breath.
    Abu Hassan was still for a moment. His hand jerked towards the envelope, as if it were hot to the touch. And then he grasped it, his head bowed low. Salim’s heart wrenched.