Martyrs’ Crossing (36 page)

I
T HAD BEEN SO LONG
since George had actually set eyes on Hassan Hajimi that he had forgotten the effect his son-in-law's presence had on people. Hassan was so dazzlingly handsome—George had forgotten. The fellow walked in the door and the guests who had assembled there and were chatting drew their breath audibly. Was it because Hassan had done the unbelievable, and had managed to win release? Was it because he was a legend? Was it because of those eyes? Was it because he was good, or because he was evil? Hassan walked through the door and went directly to Marina and touched her shoulder softly, then reached down for her hand. He stood next to her, looking around the room.

George knew that another man in Hassan's position and from his background would probably have greeted his friends and supporters before he would have gone to his wife, but Hassan was different. For others, this would have been a political meeting to reconnect with backers and adherents. George wondered if Hassan had planned a political strategy for dealing with this occasion. He wondered what Hassan was feeling about Ibrahim; George felt connected in a new way to Hassan because of their shared loss. Looking at him, George could see traces of the child's face in the father's smile, in his high cheekbones, his serious eyes. (The thought came to George painfully: Perhaps Ibrahim's blue eyes came from Hassan and
not
from George's mother. . . .)

What a sad homecoming this must be for Hassan. George doubted he was thinking of anything but his family. It seemed unlikely, from his behavior. Standing there, holding tightly on to Marina, Hassan smiled at a few friends, and then saw his father-in-law across the room. He whispered something to his wife and came toward George.

Wish I could disappear, George thought. Wish I could sink beneath the floor. He felt overpoweringly that he had nothing to say that would be right. He felt he had nothing to say at all.

“Hassan,” he said.

Hassan embraced him.

“Hassan, congratulations,” George began.

Hassan smiled sadly. “Thanks. I'm not feeling much joy.”

“I know,” said George. George touched his arm gingerly. “The worst thing.”

“Coming back to this house,” Hassan said. “It's too hard. It's not how I ever thought it would be. When I permitted myself to imagine.”

George looked at him. “Life seldom gives us what we imagine it will.”

Oh, really, George? Oh, my, how profound. George's discomfort prompted him to issue declarations, but that was no excuse. How like a father-in-law he was, he thought. How despicable. Pompous blowhard—why did he say such a stupid thing? He was wary of Hassan, mistrusted him, but still, they shared so much now. How he must irritate Hassan, who was so immediate and so seemingly intimate. But Hassan's face betrayed no annoyance. His blue eyes looked on his father-in-law with undeserved equanimity and friendliness. Life seldom gives us what we imagine it will.

“That is very true, Doctor,” a deep voice said from behind him. He turned. It was Ahmed. Out of the corner of his eye, George saw the big Palestinian photography book he'd been reading the other day. It was still sitting on the coffee table. Although he had read almost every word of it already, he wanted more than anything to pick it up now and rush off into a corner with it, alone.

“ ‘Life seldom gives us what we expect,' ” Ahmed intoned. He had a tight smile pasted on an otherwise forbidding expression. He and George had not spoken since the Ramallah rally two days earlier. “Such a profound observation. As we have all come to expect from you, Doctor. Very true. I remember you saying that you yourself did not expect that your son-in-law would accept the terms of his release, for example.”

George glared at Ahmed. He recalled how certain he had been that Hassan would not accept a brokered freedom. Then he recalled the car ride after the rally, the thick, stupid-looking back of the driver's neck.

“How are you, George?” Ahmed asked.

“As well as can be expected,” George said. George stood next to Hassan, as if there were solidarity between them. Hassan was watching George and Ahmed closely, with that little smile he had that looked so amused and yet was barely even a smile. George could feel the intensity of his son-in-law's observation. “Who invited the television cameras to my house?” George asked.

“
Your
house?” Ahmed smiled. “Your house is in America, George.”

“
This
is his house, Uncle,” Hassan said.

Ahmed shook his head at the two of them in feigned wonderment. He held a single decorative piece of pink pickled holiday cauliflower between his fingers, and now he waved it over the two of them like a censer.

“George Raad and Hassan Hajimi. Who would have supposed? We are so glad to have you back among us, Abu Ibrahim,” Ahmed said to Hassan. Hassan flinched. It was a sign of respect to call a man by the name of his first son. Still, George was shocked. His eyes widened. No one had said Ibrahim's name aloud in George's presence since his return to Jerusalem. Ahmed popped the pickle into his mouth. He swallowed hurriedly, raising his eyebrows at George.

“Dah!” Ahmed said, smiling broadly. “George, I almost forgot to tell you. I saw the Chairman yesterday. He told me that he thinks you've behaved impeccably throughout this ordeal.”

An outrageous lie! The only question in George's mind was whether the lie came from the Chairman or from Ahmed. George knew from a dozen sources that the Chairman was furious with him for repudiating the Authority and rejecting its campaign to find the soldier. Yet perhaps the Chairman wanted some kind of entente with George. It was possible.

“And how do
you
think I've behaved?” George asked.

“It has been a very hard time,” Ahmed said.

“Thank you for working for my release, Uncle,” Hassan said. Ahmed leaned forward and embraced Hassan, and over Hassan's shoulder, he smiled at George. George wanted to punch him. It was bad enough that he had used Ibrahim's death for his own political profit. But now! Whom did he think he was kissing when he kissed Hassan Hajimi? Was he kissing his own rosy political future? Was he embracing Hamas? George noticed that all the hugging and kissing was done away from the eyes of the international and Israeli television cameras, but in front of the very local eyes of all the assembled backers and funders and supporters and checkpoint
shabab
and long-time adherents and militants and anyone else who would find it to Amr's credit that he had negotiated Hassan's release.

George had forgotten his son-in-law's charm, but now it was brought back to him powerfully, as Hassan, released finally from Ahmed's embrace, looked over at his father-in-law and smiled wryly. When you were near him, it was impossible to believe that this gentle, open man could really be some kind of monster, as the Israelis liked to portray him. But if you turned away from that smile and listened to the youthful purveyors of Hassan's legend, to his supporters, everything became clear. Of course—at the very least—he supported the bombings.

Look who his friends were, after all! George surveyed the room: Silent men standing in corners. Excited boys trying to get near the hero. Certain mayors and local pols. That idiot lawyer from Ramallah—what was his name? Businessmen whose businesses had died years ago but who were still wielding power for social and cultural reasons beyond George's exile understanding. George watched as Hassan and the lawyer talked. They put their heads together like two bad boys up to no good. George did not find it inconceivable that one or the other would eventually put a knife to the soldier's throat.

Blow up buses! Burn the land out from under the feet of the Zionist oppressor! Terror is the legitimate war of a people without a state, without an army! Slit the throats of the drunken infidel dogs! Yeah! Go for it! Christ, thought George, looking at Hassan's expectant welcoming face as he turned away from the lawyer and began the long job of receiving each of the guests. He must believe all the propaganda; he probably dreams about The Palestinian People. The passion and commitment of the young. Watch it burn and explode.

George's Jerusalem of olive groves and goat herds and
za'tar
salesmen and eggplant sandwiches and boys in school uniform playing tennis was now a Boys' World of fire and weaponry and destruction. From the other side of the room, the lawyer was watching George, now, trying to catch his eye. The lawyer had come here to hustle his little secret, no doubt. Lieutenant Ari Doron. Ready, aim, fire! Muskets, cudgels, cutlasses, catapults, battering rams!

George had forgotten the boyish delight of destruction. Now, he simply longed for one final unswerving belief. He felt his joints weakening as Sheukhi approached. Swaying slightly, George watched as the lawyer sauntered across the room—and in the end made his wandering way not to George, but to the table of sweets and pickles. George leaned back against the wall to steady himself, and closed his eyes. He could feel his bones failing, his heart leaping and thrumming like a drummer playing out of time.

•  •  •

A
CONSTANT MURMUR
came from the living room. Marina sat with the sisters around the kitchen table, listening to their talk. They were eating sweets. The children were piled in the bedroom, watching television and drinking cherry syrup. Marina looked down at her hands, her sad old hands. Soon, Hassan would stop loving her, she thought. She would be sad and old, a virtual spinster, childless, who sat with her sisters-in-law in a kitchen in Ramallah while her dashing husband fought for the freedom of his people. She shook her head. What stereotypes people agree to live by, she thought.

And yet it could happen. The kitchen table, forever. The chipped cups. Ibrahim's bright drawing on the refrigerator door. She would leave it there, forever. She looked at the sisters again. This world, this fluorescent light, the rubble on the rooftop. Nihaya was chewing a nut. Fatima had the baby on her lap. These could be my companions for life, and the nieces, and the nephews. I will be a victim of politics. I already am.

Seeing Hassan out of prison was heartbreaking. He seemed like a refugee, out of place in his own home. She felt the tension in him. He was ready to be doing things, taking up where he left off. And where was that? She did not think that she could remain in Ramallah much longer. Dashing husband. She was afraid that she could no longer go along with the uses to which he put his courage and sangfroid.

Nihaya giggled at some joke of Tamira's, and Marina tried to listen. She had once been curious about the inner lives of these people whom she had known now for more than three years. They gave off few clues. Once, Fatima had smiled at a child on the street. Once, Marina had caught Tamira watching
The Brady Bunch,
by herself. That was about it. Now, Fatima was in on the joke with the others, and the sisters were almost touching heads, as if they were in a rugby scrum. They were laughing. Marina wondered what the joke could possibly be. The sisters were not usually funny. They made a practice of not laughing at Marina's attempts to lighten conversation, and nothing serious could be mocked. Nihaya had told Marina once that she did not like comedy—Marina wondered what that could mean. Not like comedy? Hassan's sister? Yet here Nihaya was, laughing, bent over with laughter; they were eating their sweets and nuts and almost cackling. And then suddenly they went silent and their backs straightened. Marina looked up to see what had caught their attention. Hassan was standing in the kitchen doorway.

Marina stood and went over to him. She put her arm around his waist and he kissed her lightly on the forehead. The sisters giggled, as if they had never seen such a thing. Maybe they hadn't, Marina thought. They stood, too, and awkwardly began clearing the table and putting on water for tea.

“Stop, stop,” Hassan said, beginning to laugh. “What are you doing?”

“Making you some tea,” Fatima said. She stood there, holding the kettle in midair.

“Tea is not what I want, sisters,” he said, smiling at them.

“What do you want, then, Hassan?” Tamira asked.

He still had his arm around Marina. He looked at Tamira and bent his head slightly, raised his eyebrows, and smiled.

“We'll leave you, then,” said Fatima, putting down the kettle with a thud.

She gathered the other sisters and the nuts and went into the bedroom with the children. Hassan sat down with Marina at the table.

“I feel I never leave this table,” Marina said. He was holding both of her old, sad hands.

“I love this table,” Hassan said. “I am so happy to be here with you. So happy. You can't believe it. I love this table so much.” He leaned over and kissed the table. He looked up and smiled at her. “What seems unbearable and boring to you is like a fabulous dream to me.”

“You are like a fabulous dream to me,” she said. She realized she had almost forgotten how much she loved him. “Kiss the table again.”

He kissed it with comic fervor. He raised his head after and looked at her. Her face seemed so calm, the Virgin of Notre Dame. He breathed slowly. He reached toward her and unpinned her head scarf. It sank down to her shoulders. Her hair fell around her face. She smiled and then pointed her chin at the table, and he turned away from her and kissed the table again. Doing as he was told. His shoulder blades were sharp under his white shirt. She could see his breath coming and going. His hair fell forward and she reached over to touch his bent head. She wanted to cry but she refused. He turned his face to her, resting his profile on the table's cool tin top. She wished the sisters and the children would go, would leave the bedroom empty, at least. She leaned down to him. As she bent her head to kiss him, she saw Ibrahim's old drawing rising over his shoulder: blue scribble that was sky, yellow stain for a sun, a few green lines of tree. This place will never be the same, was her last thought, and then she kissed the father of her child.