Текст книги "Let It Be Morning"

Автор книги: Sayed Kashua

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

5

My wife and mother-in-law burst into tears when they see each other. They hug each other tightly and sob. My father-in-law paces nervously and mutters, “What good is that going to do, what’s the point of crying now?” Ashraf comes out of his room, looking very tired. He hasn’t shaven in days. He tries to give his usual smile but it looks different now. I’ve never seen him this way. He shakes my hand and asks, in Hebrew as usual, “What’s up, Uncle?” Then he asks if I’ve got a cigarette, and I can tell how uncomfortable he is having to ask.

“Yes,” I say, and pull out a pack that’s almost full. “I’ve got plenty of cigarettes. I guess it’s the only thing I won’t be short of,” I say in an attempt to make him feel better about it. I want to make sure he’s not embarrassed, because I really do have enough.

My wife and her parents are sitting on mattresses on the living room floor, discussing the events of the past few days. Ashraf and I go outside. We sit on the steps and smoke our cigarettes. He looks shattered, which isn’t too surprising.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Things will work out okay.”

He watches me exhale and breaks into tears. It’s the first time I’ve seen him cry. “What’s going to work out okay? They must have brought in someone to replace me in the phone company by now,” he says. “It took me forever to find that job and now, just like that, because of something that has nothing to do with me, I’ll lose it.” He wipes away his tears. I know how hard it was for him to find that job after he graduated from the university, and that he couldn’t find anything in his field. Far from it. Customer service doesn’t require any education, but I can still remember how happy he and his family were when he finally found it. To tell the truth, I was kind of surprised that in our situation a person would still be thinking about the problem of losing a job. People barely have enough to drink. Every trace of a normal modern life has disappeared, and here he is, crying over the possibility that he may have lost a job that had paid him minimum wage.

“It’s all because of those sons of bitches,” he says. “I’m telling you, it’s all because of those thugs who’re walking around waving their Uzis like heroes. I know a lot of people think what the Israelis are doing to this village is on account of the Islamic Movement or terrorists who are hiding out here, but that’s bullshit. What the government is looking for are gangs. They’ve figured out that there are more weapons in this village than in the entire West Bank. It’s probably beginning to get to them by now, because the gangs have begun selling weapons to the Hamas. The government used to do everything possible to make sure that everything involving crime or drugs or weapons and every kind of shit the country had to offer would stay in the Arab villages, and now they’ve realized it’s gotten out of control. They gave them free rein, not a single damn cop came into the village. You could call the police and report a dead body in your backyard and it would take them five hours to get there, after they’d made sure it wasn’t dangerous and that there was no chance anyone would object. Now they know that only the army and the tanks and roadblocks can solve the problem.

“Now they understand, the sons of bitches, that what they’ve created here is more dangerous than any Palestinian or Muslim organization that exists. All they want is for the gangs to hand over their weapons. They won’t dare come into the village because they know how much ammunition we have here. Some of the criminals have LAU missiles. The army won’t come in. They’ll wait for those guys to surrender. The problem is that by the time this happens, our lives will be completely ruined. Not that the gang members will run short of food or water. They just barge into people’s houses and take whatever they want. They have a whole army of flunkies who get hold of food for them. Now they’re God. The truth is that they’ve always been God.”

Ashraf stops for a minute and takes a puff on his cigarette. My mother-in-law asks if I’d like something to drink. “No,” I say. “No, thanks.” I don’t know what the supplies situation is like in my wife’s parents’ house and I know she’s only asking to be polite, because normally they would just serve something without asking. I look at Ashraf. He’s scratching his head; his eyes are still puffy. “I don’t know,” I say. “Doesn’t it seem like too much, all on account of a few criminals?”

“A few criminals,” he mocks me. “You’ve got no idea what goes on around here. This whole village is one big crime district. Who do you think calls the shots here, huh? The religious leaders? The mayor?” He sniggers. “You have no idea what goes on, because you don’t have the real picture of how things work. It’s all about power, about who has more weapons and more men. Did you know that all of the gambling joints in Israel are controlled by Arabs? Did you know that every Arab region is in charge of a Jewish one? Who do you think controls the prostitution, the casinos and the money changing and anything you can think of in Tel Aviv or Kfar Sava, huh? Who? The police? They run the protection business in the entire area and God help anyone who messes with them or refuses to pay them protection money. Now the state is beginning to think about it, now that they’re tripping all over us in their cities. People like Bassel scare them more than Bin Laden, believe me.”

Ashraf’s words send a chill up my spine. It’s not that I think he’s right. On the contrary, I think he’s wrong, in a big way. He’s always been prone to exaggeration when it comes to the power of the gangs. From the little I managed to get out of him since my return, I’ve learned enough to know that the crime situation really is bad and that most people are living in constant fear of the gangs, but still, it wasn’t a situation that would lead to a military operation like this. No way. The thing that scared me most in the whole story was when he mentioned Bassel. “Who’s this Bassel?” I ask him.

“He’s the strongest person in the village right now. You know him. He’s your age,” Ashraf says, and adds Bassel’s family name. “Believe me, if anyone is negotiating with the police or the army about this whole situation, it’s bound to be him and not the mayor.”

6

The village is completely still. The heavy midday heat has chased everyone indoors. Like us, most people must have discovered that the best way to avoid hunger and thirst is to take a nap. In our house everyone’s sprawled out, whether on the beds or on mattresses on the floor. My younger brother and I chose the living room sofas. Apart from the two small children, nobody is sleeping. Everyone seems to be deep in thought about the situation but prefers not to discuss it with the others. What good could it do to share our concerns? I try to think of ways of getting hold of more water. The use of force won’t help when it comes to a family that has no record of fights or violence. I wonder what would happen if we dug some water holes in the village. Maybe the groundwater would rise to the surface and give enough not only for us but for everyone. And maybe there are pipes running under our land, leading from the reservoirs and the rivers of the Galilee to the cities in the center and the desert in the south. If people here could get their act together, maybe they could still come up with a constructive idea for the water supply. Obviously it won’t be enough to have just one person or one family digging. There has to be full cooperation. Except that nothing could cause the villagers to cooperate now. They’ll only go for a quick fix. I hope the ones who stole our water die of poisoning!

Food is less of a problem than water. True, there’s hardly any land left in the village to plant things on – crops that could give us something to eat – but for now, we haven’t run out yet, and maybe we could hunt birds. In my mind’s eye I see scenes of our childhood – mine and my brothers’. We spent whole days trying to catch pigeons and other birds, using a box, a stick and a piece of string. All you needed was some patience. I try to take my mind off the food, I try not to think about water, because it only makes me thirstier. Actually I’ve had nothing to drink since last night. Everyone else has had one glass but I decided to do without, like a kind of model of sacrifice. Not that anyone paid special attention to me. Luckily, I still have some cigarettes, the only thing I don’t skimp on because I know very well that everything else will run out long before the cigarettes do. And what’s the good of having cigarettes when you’ve got no water?

I get up slowly, take the pack of cigarettes and go outside to have one. My younger brother sees me and gets up too without making a sound. The two of us light up. He’s much less scared of my father now. “If he catches me smoking out here, I’ll tell him I just started because people told me it makes you forget your hunger and thirst,” he quips, and I don’t say a word.

“What do you think?” my brother begins, and I nod and feel my whiskers with my left hand. “I don’t know, but it’s got to end. It can’t go on for even one more day.”

“What are they saying on the radio? You do still listen to the news, don’t you?”

“They aren’t saying anything. Judging by all the panels and the experts talking about Israeli Arabs, it’s obvious that there’s a big problem, because they keep referring to us as a threat, as something that calls for a solution, but they haven’t said anything about what’s happening.”

“Tell me, are they interviewing any Arabs?”

“Not a single one. Which is scary too. And it seems like everyone is in the same boat, not just our village.”

“What, even the MKs and the mayors?”

“Not a single Arab is being interviewed. Nothing. It must have something to do with the new security orders. Besides, maybe they can’t get hold of us. How can they get hold of the mayor? No chance.”

“Strange. The defense minister’s supposed to be a friend of his, isn’t he? How many plates of hummus did they share?” my brother asks.

“Yes, but if this is everybody’s problem, maybe it’s a good sign. I mean, they can’t keep all the Arab villages in this condition much longer. They’re certainly not planning to starve everyone to death. Something enormous must have happened.”

“What? Israeli Arabs got control of the Defense Ministry?”

“Something like that.”

“And maybe someone from our village is holding the prime minister hostage with a knife and they’re holding on to all of us till he’s released,” my brother says with a laugh, and this time I laugh too.

“All I know is I’ve lost a year of school,” he says.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “They’ll schedule a special makeup exam for the Arabs.”

7

My younger brother and I sit on the front steps and look out over the village, which is waking up with a start. The midday nap has run its course, and everyone’s back on their feet. All at once, as if an alarm bell has rung, the streets are crowded. First the children and then the adults. The children are hungry. Luckily for our two, we still have some food left and they don’t feel the shortages the way we do. My wife goes outside carrying the baby and shaking a bottle of formula. I restrain myself, trying not to scream at her for doing something so stupid. I whisper softly in her ear that we don’t want the whole world to know we have baby formula left. As if she’s suddenly grasped a very deep idea, she rushes back inside. But it’s too late. A neighbor has seen her and rushes over to where we’re sitting outdoors. “I beg you, I have nothing to give my children. Please let me have some milk.”

“We have barely half a carton left,” I lie to her. “Not enough for the baby for even one more day.”

“Please, just two tablespoons,” she says. “For my little one. She’s starving.”

A crowd is gathering at the entrance to our house, watching the drama unfold. “We don’t have any,” I tell her. “I wish we did.” I speak louder to make sure they can all hear me. I know perfectly well that if I give her any, even a small amount, if won’t end there. Everyone’s going to want some. “You don’t understand.” By now I’m shouting. “Leave us alone. You’re the last thing we need now.” But she persists. The short, overweight neighbor who never visited us – and we never visited her either – is suddenly convinced that we owe it to her to give her some food. It isn’t a request anymore, it’s a demand, a right we’re depriving her of. “But I saw you had food,” she yells, well aware that everyone is listening. “If I hadn’t seen it, I might believe you.”

“And I’m telling you this is all we have. Our daughter has nothing left after this bottle.”

Now my entire family joins me outside, except for my wife – the one who’s really to blame for this new development, but I can’t really take it out on her. “What do you want?” my father intervenes now. “Go away. What is this, a public spectacle?”

“Give her some milk,” someone in the crowd shouts, and I recognize the voice of the polite grocery store owner, whom we’ve known for many years. “You bought out half the store yourself,” he yells, and the neighbor confronting us draws strength from this reinforcement. She looks determined, with no intention of leaving before her demand is met. Her eyes are mean, and I get the feeling that her real aim isn’t so much to feed her children as to increase her supply of food. Hungry children cry, and we haven’t heard any of hers crying yet.

Dozens of people are standing around, waiting for the show to run its course. The neighbor yells something that we can’t make out, curses and tries to force her way into our house. “I’ll get it myself,” she yells. I grab her fat body and try to stop her. She’s very strong and I have a hard time restraining her.

“Get the hell out of here, you lunatic,” I shout, and push her backward, but she tries again. More people are approaching the door now, trying to get in as well. My heart is pounding. My brothers block the entrance as the number of trespassers grows. I can’t keep them out and they’re going to break into the house. I feel stifled and flushed. With one hand, I push away the ugly neighbor and hate her more than anything in the world. And I think about my wife and how I’m going to let her have it later. I clench my fist, lower my right hand and shove it as hard as I can into the neighbor’s stomach. She recoils in pain, grasping her middle. I can hear myself scream.

Mother gets behind us, cursing at the top of her lungs and brandishing a broomstick. I take it from her and use it to push away anyone who comes near us. I would never have thought myself capable of using such force. I’ve never had to be violent before. I push children down on the ground. I force my way to the front, leaving my brothers behind, and charge at the crowd, which keeps growing, though only a few of them actually try to get inside the house. I wave the stick at them and shout, “I’ll kill you. I’ll bury anyone who tries to get any closer.” And I pounce on them with the stick. It deters them a bit and they retreat. “Get out of here, you dogs. We have nothing. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Now my younger brother comes out and takes his place by my side with a spade in his hand, threatening to hit anyone who dares come closer. Some of the people start throwing stones at us and at the house. One of the stones hits me in the hand, and I stand there in a puddle of sewage feeling the pain in my hand and watching the stones fly in our direction. I know I have nothing to lose. Not that I have much time to think, but instead of the stones scaring me they only make me more angry and I run toward the stone-throwers, with my brother close behind. I yell as loud as I can and smash the broomstick down on the back of a little boy, who falls into the sewage. The others retreat, but the barrage of stones grows stronger and they’re hitting me all over, but that doesn’t stop me either. One of the stones hits me right in the mouth, and I lunge ahead.

A heavy round of shots causes everyone to stop. The people facing the house bend over and put their hands to their ears. They’re no longer throwing stones. I turn my head and see that my brothers are bending over and covering their ears too. I’m the only one still standing there, with my stick, breathing heavily, my chest rising and falling faster than ever and the blood dripping from my mouth onto my shirt. Two of the armed thugs from the morning’s victory march form a barrier between me and the crowd. They wave their weapons high in the air and shout, “What’s going on here? Enough!” And the crowd, ready to obey the new forces in control, shout out, “They have food.”

One of the armed guys, who’ll never miss a chance to fire, lets loose another round, and the other one shouts, “Quiet.” The one who appears to be their leader asks me what happened, and I explain that they tried to break into our house because they thought we had food. I calm down and speak to him with the respect due to a new master. I find I talk more simply in the hope that he’ll understand me better. “They have no shame, trying to break into a house full of women and children. My wife is inside, trying to feed our baby to get her to stop crying, and these people just break in. They have no consideration.” I know that to our new leaders shows of respect and honor are very important. “People have no shame anymore,” my father adds from behind me.

“They have food,” the grocery store owner shouts again. He’s facing them now. “The guy you’re talking to bought out half my store. He knew before everyone that there would be a war. People at his newspaper must have told him.” I shake my head. “I got ready just like everyone else,” I say quietly to the armed guy facing me, who has no idea what to do but still feels obliged to impose order. He’s even enjoying it. “If you do have food, you’ve got to share some of it,” he says. “People are starving to death. Give away some of it, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, and put down my stick. I realize I have no choice. There have already been break-ins at the homes of people who are considered wealthy. We’re not in that category, of course, but nothing is going to stop these people, who are convinced we lack for nothing. “All right,” I say again, speaking louder. “There isn’t a single piece of bread in my parents’ house. It’s all in my house.”

As soon as they hear this, the crowd starts running as fast as they can toward the new houses behind my parents’. The two men shooting in the air don’t deter them this time and they break into a wild gallop, bending over but continuing the race for the loot. The armed men follow, trying to get things under control. I turn around and, looking at my family, I see how sorry they’re feeling for me. We hear the sound of the door breaking, which doesn’t disturb us too much. Children and adults run out with big smiles on their faces, carrying sacks of rice, sugar, salt, coffee and flour. They break into my brother’s house too, but don’t find as much. We don’t need any of those things. Whatever we could use we moved to my parents’ house in the morning. I sit down on the front steps and look at the people. Most of them I recognize. They’re from our neighborhood, after all, some of them close neighbors. The commotion soon dies out, and everyone moves away, probably looking for the next arena. The two armed men come back to me. “I’m sorry,” the leader says. “We wanted you to share some of it, but they got it all. Don’t worry, I know the ones who took it, and we’ll bring some of it back. You have my word. And we made sure they didn’t take any of the furniture or appliances. The only thing they took is food. Don’t worry, we’ll be back.”

I stay sitting there on the steps. In our house we know we won. My brothers and father go to check out the new houses. I go inside and wipe off the blood with a dry piece of paper. My wife brings me a glass of water. I drink half of it and hand it back to her. I go into my boyhood room and lie down, my face in the pillow. My body is trembling and my face is on fire. I shut my eyes and cry in silence.