Martyrs’ Crossing (37 page)

He kissed her back, and stood up slowly, and said, “I'm kicking them out of our room.”

“Okay,” she said.

“I'll tell them I need to take a nap.” He smiled. “I'm tired—from prison, you know. Exhausted.” He yawned dramatically.

“Ah,” Marina said.

He went through the door, and she heard laughter and complaining and then the silence of the television set. In a few minutes he returned.

“I have kicked them out of our room.” He was smiling.

She stood up and walked over to him and they went into their bedroom like a bride and groom. He held her tightly around the waist as if he might fall if she weren't there, and she leaned against him.

•  •  •

“A
HMED AMR.”

Ahmed whirled around at the sound of his own urgently whispered name, his keffiyeh making a trail of light behind him under the streetlamps outside Hajimi's house. The voice was low and desperate.

And there was its owner, that moustachioed, old-fashioned-looking West Banker, standing next to the green dumpster. He looked familiar, like someone you've seen before but only in a photograph. He had a bit of a hangdog look to him. Who was he, again? Ahmed hoped the fellow was not about to assassinate him. A shame, at a moment of triumph like this one. Maybe I should hire a bodyguard after all, Ahmed thought. Of course, that
would
be my dying thought. That thought, and the taste of those wonderful pink pickles.

He looked at the man.

“Yes,” Ahmed said.

“You are Ahmed Amr.”

“Yes,” Ahmed said again, wondering, Should I admit to being myself?

“I know the name of the soldier.”

“What soldier?” Amr asked.

“What soldier?
What
soldier?” Sheukhi looked at Amr, and then began to laugh through his nose.

When he caught his breath, Ahmed was still watching him.

“Okay,” Ahmed said. “You've had your fun.” Ahmed remembered now who this odd man was.

“My God,” said Sheukhi, “your arrogance astounds me. Your cynicism is breathtaking. Your indifference is
royal.
You don't even care. The soldier isn't even remotely on your mind. Forgotten, eh?”

“You don't understand. There is no soldier anymore. What soldier? It's over, my good man,” Ahmed said. Perhaps he was being a little grand, but he could afford it. It seemed clear that he was not about to be killed. And it
was
over, as far as Ahmed was concerned. Hajimi was released. Ahmed had had his political victory out of Find the Soldier. He was on to other, bigger things now. Making a new stand on a disputed hill outside Jerusalem. This afternoon, he had pitched a tent near its summit. Bit like the old days.

“ ‘It's over, my good man,' ” repeated Sheukhi, in a mocking tone. “Who the fuck do you think you are, effendi?”

“Listen, Sheukhi, I know who
you
are,” Ahmed said, tightening his keffiyeh and pulling himself up to his full height. “I know where you live, I know who your family is, I know your practice, I know your upstanding brother, and you had better watch your attitude toward me, sir.” Ahmed had never before delivered a speech like this, and it thrilled him, although he would have regarded his behavior as distasteful and embarrassing and even politically incorrect in someone else. We are so forgiving toward ourselves, he thought. He was particularly proud that he had remembered the man's family name.

“Are you threatening me, Excellency?” Sheukhi glared at him, and Ahmed thought, This man is brave. He is capable of action. Who knows what he could do? The glare reminded him of George back in Hajimi's living room. Poor me, Ahmed thought, no one likes me tonight.

“The Authority will take care of the Authority's business,” Ahmed said. “
Habibi,
I am not threatening you. I am simply advising you to leave things to us. If we think the matter requires further attention, we will certainly see to it.”

“But I know the name.” Sheukhi pointed a finger at Ahmed's chest and thrust it forward with each syllable. “I . . . know . . . the . . . name. . . .”

“Well then, out with it, patriot,” Ahmed said.

Sheukhi told him.

Ahmed's face registered nothing.

“Not only do I know it,” Sheukhi went on. “Raad knows it, his daughter knows it, and her husband, too, now.”

A flush began to color Ahmed's face. He was shocked, and even hurt, that George knew the soldier's name and hadn't told him. And now this man knew that George hadn't told him. Embarrassing.

“How long has Raad had this information?” Ahmed asked the man.

“Oh, days, days . . .” Sheukhi said. He sensed a vulnerability and pressed on. “I suppose he didn't want to tell you. Possibly, he was worried that you wouldn't do the right thing or that you might—”

“Thanks for your information, brother.” Ahmed interrupted him, turning to go, only remotely expecting to hear the crack of a gunshot.

“What will you do with this information,
habibi?
” Sheukhi asked, putting an extra accent on the “brother,” in imitation of Amr.

“Whatever we deem necessary,” Ahmed said without turning. Then he remembered—the compliment. He turned.

“Listen, Sheukhi,” he said. “I appreciate your coming to me with this. Really. Anything I can do for you, I will do. I think you are a very brave man. I will tell the Chairman what you have done for us. Surely it will not go without notice. Here is my card. You are a real patriot.”

Sheukhi took the card but did not look at it. He watched Ahmed depart but did not say thank you—or even goodbye.

I better hire that bodyguard, Ahmed thought.

•  •  •

M
Y FRIEND, COMRADE
, thank you for this important piece of the puzzle, Hajimi had said. You have helped me to see things more clearly. I am your servant.

His empty blue eyes were like portholes into the sea. Mahmoud had never seen eyes that were so removed.

And what will you do with what I've told you?

For the moment, nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothing at all?

No, nothing. There is the mourning period to be observed. And it is Ramadan.

Hajimi seemed not even to focus on the soldier's name, maybe he wouldn't even remember it come tomorrow morning. His face had turned blank when Sheukhi started explaining who he was. He shook his head unhappily as it became clear that if Sheukhi knew, then his sweet, lovely wife must know, also. Sheukhi tried to make
that
clear. But the fellow didn't want to hear about it, really. Invoking his religious excuses like a damned imam. Well, Hajimi maybe had other things on his mind for tonight. Marina Raad had color in her cheeks again. She would be a lot of fun, so Sheukhi thought. High-strung girls always were.

So Hajimi was another one who was not interested in finding this soldier. So many Palestinians not interested in doing their duty.

They were all a bunch of snobs, George Raad, Ahmed Amr—Hajimi, too, who had been, until this evening, Mahmoud Sheukhi's hero. Hajimi didn't care, even though it was his very own son who had been murdered. Snob. Sheukhi could read it right away in their faces, their immediate, instinctive cool disregard for him. And why? He came from a good family, a family with a name, a major clan, he had a college education, was a professional. And he could imagine and do what they were incapable of imagining and doing.

The problem was, he was too Palestinian for them, not enough of a citizen of the world. Fuck them. Oh, fuck them extremely and in every way. He spit on Ahmed Amr. He would show them all, even Hassan Hajimi, who had too much on his mind to avenge the blood of his only son.

It would be Mahmoud and Jibril, then, working together, uncle and nephew. Jibril respected him. You are the only adult who still understands the people's struggle, Jibril had said the other night, while Mahmoud was commenting on the news for his nephew in Adnan's office.

Right.

Adnan had snorted, but fuck Adnan, too, and his petty concerns. Mahmoud was sick of them by now. Glassblowers, all. Sitting by the fire and only puffing, blowing air into sand, making bubbles and globes and long, thin breakable necks. No more of that, no more of that prissy, hot, sedentary leisure. He was going to show them what you do with a fiery furnace. He was going to shatter their pretty transparent world. They were too good for the struggle, too pure, too removed. Not he. He was in it. He knew all about it. He would teach them. He was made to be a teacher. Learn your lessons, boys. Don't forget, now.

•  •  •

“W
E'RE GOING TO
leave you tomorrow,” George said, turning to Hassan. The reception had ended, and even the sisters had gone home. It was very late for all of them.

“What? Where are you going to go?” Hassan asked. He twirled a lock of Marina's hair around his finger, and untwirled it, then twirled it again. The automatic way he did it reminded George of the prayer beads of old tea-drinkers. Marina looked happy—happier, anyway. George wondered how long it would last, how long before she realized that her husband's identity and the choices he had made in life were inextricably tied to Ibrahim's fate. Philip had come up from the little guest bedroom, and was standing next to George. He held George's antique leather suitcase (one of his relics, Marina's mother had called it), the one with travelers' stamps on it. Marina recognized it immediately. It was like a prop from an old movie, but real; it was his grandfather's, of course, with stamps on it from Cairo and Alexandria in the 1930s, and from Suez and even the former Transjordan, for Christ's sake.

Philip put the bag next to the front door. He looked up at everyone.

“We're packing,” he said brightly, and disappeared again down the hallway.

“We'll go to the hotel,” George said to Hassan. “I think there will be enough happening here without me and Philip to increase your caseload.”

“We wish you would stay,” Hassan said, but George detected relief in his son-in-law's tone. And in his daughter's expression. Finally he was doing the right thing, and what was it? Leaving, naturally. Leaving was what he did best. It made sense that he should have this gift. He had started at a young age.

Hassan sighed. “I wish the celebrations would end,” he said.

“You can end them, Hassan,” George said. “One simple word from you, and they are finished.”

“Yes, yes,” Hassan said. “I know. But people feel the need, and then, there is so little to celebrate these days.”

“True enough,” George said, “true enough.” He felt a shocking swell of tears come into his eyes. My God, what's happening to me? Everyone's crying around here, but for God's sake, not me! Christ, was he becoming sentimental? After a lifetime spent in skepticism and hard brutal facts. Are my tears for Ibrahim? For myself, and my imminent departure? For Palestine, of all things? But he realized that it was something about Hassan, his voice. Hassan had the uncanny actor's knack of conveying powerful but inarticulate—and possibly nonexistent—emotion. And just then, he had again looked at George with something very like affection or at least sympathy. There was some new emotional connection between the two of them, George felt. This hard man and I: maybe we are more alike than I had suspected. They both had come to understand, and only recently, the futility of everything they had spent a lifetime doing. Or so George thought. Both were hanging on to a few last shreds of dignity.

George began counting the luggage Philip had been piling up. One, two, three, his typewriter (an antique, like me, he thought), Philip's knapsack, Grandfather's old valise . . . and then he saw that Marina hadn't moved. She might as well have been framed by an arched niche in the wall, her position was so still. He noticed, not for the first time, how beautiful his daughter was. She was standing there near the open door, looking out into the moonlit garden. Like some ancient form of jeweled adornment, tears sparkled down her cheeks.

•  •  •

SHE LOVED HASSAN
and she knew she had to leave him.

She was lying in bed earlier, looking up out the window at the moon. Hassan's hand was on her knee. Blue shadows moved over them.

“Beautiful sky, isn't it?” he said.

She nodded.

“Sheets are so soft,” he said. He moved closer to her.

She turned her head toward him.

“That was nice, wasn't it?” he said, smiling. “We're still good at it.”

“Yes,” she said, letting him kiss her.

He rested his hand lightly on her hip.

“Tell me about the soldier, Marina,” he said.

She was silent.

“You know his name?”

She put two fingers on Hassan's lips, then took them off. He kissed her again.

“I heard it, I'm sure,” she said. “But I don't remember it.”

“Ah,” Hassan said. “Effect of stress, maybe.”

She moved closer so that they were facing each other on their sides.

“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” he said, stroking her hair.

“Do you think you'd recognize the name if you heard it?” he asked.

“I don't know,” she said, turning her head again to look out at the sky. Her heartbeat quickened.

“It's Ari Doron. Does that sound familiar?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it does. That could be it.”

“Good.” He pulled her around to face him. “Again?” he asked, smiling.

“He tried to help us, Hassan,” she said. She felt she had to tell him that.

“Uh-hunh. Good,” he said. “Good for him.” He played with the ends of her hair, and smiled at her. She pushed his hand away gently.

“It wasn't completely his fault,” she said.

“Of course not, Marina.” He kissed her. “Of course not.”

She could feel him thinking, weighing, deciding.