The Orange Grove (7 page)

Then the expert held the belt out.

“Here, put it on.”

“Why?” Amed asked nervously.

“For the photo,” Soulayed explained. “Go and stand near the wall. Hold yourself straight. Turn toward the light. That's it. Don't lower your head.”

Blinded and dizzy, Amed began to tremble.

“What's wrong?” shouted Soulayed. “Look at us! Think of our enemies! Think of what they did to your grandparents!”

Amed couldn't think of anything. He wanted to vomit.

“Lift your head and open your eyes! Look at your father! Don't dishonor him!”

Soulayed took a photo, then a second one.

“Think of Paradise.”

Amed forced himself to smile, holding back his tears.

“Be happy, be blessed, you have been chosen by God.”

Soulayed took one last photo.

“Put your shirt back on. Your parents will be proud of you when they see your photo with the belt.”

Zahed took his son's hand: “The moment has come to say farewell to your mother and brother.”

They left the shed. Tamara was waiting with Aziz on the threshold of the house. Aziz had around his hand a handkerchief stained
with blood. He quickly explained to his father that he'd just hurt himself, cutting oranges.

“Say good-bye to your brother,” Zahed said to him.

“Not right away.” Aziz ran back into the house and returned with a little tray on which stood a large glass.

“Look at what your brother has prepared for you,” said Tamara in a hesitant voice.

“Here, drink, that way you'll leave with the taste in your mouth of the best our land produces,” added Aziz.

Aziz approached his brother and let the glass fall on him. The little accident had been devised by the twins some days before. As Amed had told his mother everything in advance, Tamara knew what was going to happen. As planned, she slapped Aziz for his clumsiness. The expert began to laugh. Soulayed silenced him. He carefully removed Amed's soiled shirt to see if the belt had come in contact with the orange juice. The expert explained that there wasn't any problem: “Water, juice, or blood, it doesn't make any
difference, you still have to make contact with the detonator.”

“I know,” said Soulayed, irritated. “You don't have to remind me.”

“Go and change,” Tamara said to Amed.

“I'm going with him,” Aziz added at once.

The two brothers swiftly went up to their room. They took off their clothes. Aziz helped his brother free himself of the belt.

“What's all this business about the contact?”

“It's for the detonator. Look, Aziz, it's like a little box. The expert attached it to the belt just here, you see, with the yellow wire.”

“And the red wire?”

“Soulayed said in the shed that he'd take care of it.”

“But when?”

“When you're at the mountain.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“No.”

“Aziz . . .”

“What?”

“Don't put the dirty shirt back on!”

Once they'd finished exchanging clothes,
Aziz gave his brother a little knife that had belonged to their grandfather. He'd found it in the ruins of his house.

“Cut your left hand, don't make a mistake.”

Amed made a slash at the base of his thumb.

“Here, Amed, this is for you.”

“What is it?”

“You'll see, it's a letter. You'll read it after I'm dead, all right?”

“I promise.”

“No, swear to me.”

Amed let a little blood from his wound drop onto the envelope.

“I swear it.”

With his finger he enlarged the red stain on the envelope, as if it were a seal that secured his brother's letter, at the same time making the switch irreversible. Aziz gave Amed the handkerchief that had been dipped in sheep's blood. He wrapped it around his wounded hand. Their hearts pounding, the two brothers went back downstairs.

From this point on, Aziz was Amed and Amed was Aziz.

AZIZ

“Aziz, what's wrong?”

Mikaël had to ask a third time before the student looked up and gave him an embarrassed smile.

“Nothing, sir.”

“I'm not so sure.”

Mikaël had picked Aziz to play the role of Sony, a child about seven years old. It was not a difficult choice. Aziz's eyes were still those of an awestruck child, alert to everything. His voice was unusually soft for a young man of twenty. Often, Mikaël had to insist that Aziz project his voice instead of keeping it to himself. His fragile and elusive presence was a good fit with the role in which he was cast.

Mikaël had written the text especially for the
students' graduation show, which would mark the end of their four years of theater training. In a few months they would all be professional actors seeking auditions to launch their careers. As time went on, Mikaël would recognize some of them in ads for beer or shampoo. A few would get small roles in television series. Most would still be working as waiters in restaurants. But the luckiest and most talented would one day catch the eye of successful directors, who would offer them major roles as leading men or beautiful ingénues.

In Mikaël's play, Sony found himself in the hands of an enemy soldier. The child had been a helpless witness of his parents' savage killing. The soldier had cut off Sony's father's hands and shot him. Then he had raped Sony's mother and had thrown her, dead, onto her husband's mutilated corpse. Disgusted by his crimes, the soldier was reluctant to get rid of Sony, who, as scene followed scene, reminded him of his own son. The play ended after the soldier asked the child to give him one good reason why he should not suffer the same fate as his parents. Sony remained silent. Other scenes, where the two enemy camps were shown to be interchangeable,
made clear the play was denouncing the absurdity of war.

Mikaël had divided the class into three groups: the father, mother, and child; the enemy soldier; the chorus of enemy soldiers. They were making good progress. The students were conscientious and focused. There was no question yet of playing out the whole range of emotions, it was still too early in the rehearsal process. They had to learn to position their bodies in space, direct their gaze, control their movements, and deliver their dialogue, unrushed but with cadence. Mikaël sensed some difficulties with the rape scene, but it unfolded without too much tension. However, an almost religious feeling took hold of the entire class when the enemy soldier approached the child after killing his parents. One had to be blind not to see that this emotion came from Aziz, and not from Sony.

“Aziz, what's wrong?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“I'm not so sure.”

“I can't play this role.”

“Why?”

Without another word, Aziz left the class.

The next day, Aziz did not show up to class. Mikaël was very upset. Two days later, he called Aziz to propose that they meet at a café near the school. Mikaël got there early and waited impatiently for his student to arrive. On the phone, Aziz had seemed uncertain. Clearly, something was troubling him. He was already half an hour late when Mikaël caught sight of the young man's silhouette through the café's wide window. His face partly hidden by a large red scarf and a hat that was too big for him, Aziz was pacing back and forth in front of the café. Mikaël went out and gestured to him.

“Why don't you come in?”

“I don't know.”

“Shall we walk a little?”

“OK.”

They walked together in silence for some time. Mikaël was not at ease, Aziz even less so. It was snowing lightly, one of the first snowfalls of winter. Mikaël watched the weightless flakes spinning around him. The Latin Quarter was fairly quiet, with most people hard at work in offices, boutiques, and restaurants. Mikaël loved these vacant moments when the city caught its breath before being overrun by hordes of people hurrying home.

“Why does the child have to die?”

Mikaël was so surprised by Aziz's question that for a few seconds he didn't understand its meaning.

“The child?”

“Yes. The child in your play.”

“Because . . . because it's war, Aziz.”

“You want to show the cruelty of war?”

“Yes, I think that's part of the purpose of my play.”

“I don't want to be impolite, but I don't agree.”

“Agree with what?”

“It's not enough.”

“What, Aziz? Tell me.”

“To show that, all those cruel things.”

“You don't want the child in my play to die, is that it? But what could he do, faced with this mercenary?”

“It's not fair.”

“I know. But that's what war is.”

“You don't know what you're talking about!”

Aziz's cutting tone, from someone usually so reserved, left them in silence once more. The student began to walk more quickly, and Mikaël could barely keep pace. They stopped at a street corner to wait for the light to turn green. Mikaël caught his breath and despite the snow suggested they go and sit in a little park on the other side of the street. Aziz said nothing, but followed Mikaël. He cleaned the newly fallen snow off a bench, and the two sat side by side, their arms crossed over their laps. Their breath transformed itself into little clouds of white vapor that quickly dispersed in the air.

Mikaël dared not resume the discussion. He felt attacked. Why should he not have the right, as an artist, to talk about war?

Turning to ask if Aziz was cold, Mikaël
saw a tear roll slowly down Aziz's cheek, then come to a halt, frozen.

“Give my role to someone else.”

“But why, Aziz? Tell me why.”

“It's not fair, I already told you.”

“Of course it's not fair. The audience will feel that just like you do, and that's what I'm aiming for. I can see that you're upset. Tell me, Aziz, what happened at the last rehearsal?”

“My name is not really Aziz.”

“What do you mean?”

“Amed. That's what I was called before.”

“Before what?”

The daylight dimmed, and a few neon signs lit up tentatively. Since they'd left the little park, Aziz had told Mikaël the story of his childhood in one breath, his words following the rhythm of his strides. They walked through the city for a long time without quite knowing where their steps were leading them. The snow was still falling, and it gave Aziz's account a layer of protection, distancing it in space and time, lending it the texture of a fragile dream about to fade away.

“What happened after you changed places?”

“I'd sworn to my brother that I'd wait until he was dead before reading his letter. That's what I did, I waited. And that's what we did, my parents and I, we waited for my brother's death, silenced by our torment, as if we were waiting for rain or for morning to come. Two days later we had to
welcome Soulayed's return as if it were a happy event. He got out of his jeep with a large package wrapped in newspapers. We all knew what it was. We sat down in the house's big room. My mother prepared tea, but no one touched it except Soulayed. We waited for him to speak, waited with our hearts in our mouths for him to tell us what had happened on the other side of the mountain. ‘Your house has given our people a martyr,' Soulayed began in a ceremonious voice. ‘May God bless you! Amed is now in Paradise. He has never been so happy. His happiness is eternal. Rejoice! Yes, I know your pain at having lost a son, but rejoice, lift your heads and be proud. And you,' said Soulayed, turning to me, ‘cry no more, your brother is with you, do you not feel it? He has never been so close to you, never. Before the mountain, before leaving me, he told me again of all the love he had for you and your parents. Be happy and blessed.' Soulayed was silent a moment, then finished his tea. We didn't dare question him. My mother offered him more tea. He pretended he hadn't heard, and spoke again in a whisper. ‘You will not hear any talk of Amed's mission from those people, that I
guarantee. They are too ashamed of their defeat. Amed's deed was extraordinary. Yes, I tell you, he achieved the goal with which we entrusted him with rare efficacy. God guided him. God guided his steps on the mountain. God gave him light in the night so he could wend his way to the warehouses full of munitions. He exploded everything.' Soulayed's face then cracked open with a wide smile. His teeth gleamed with an immaculate whiteness through the dark smudge of his beard. His body was suddenly animated by new energy. He seemed taller, stronger, and he rose to strip the package he'd brought with him of its wrappings. He presented his gift to my father: the framed photograph of his dead son, his son the martyr, that Soulayed had taken in the shed. He held it up, triumphant, like a trophy. My mother shot me a pleading glance. When I saw myself in the photo, I ran from the room. A few moments later I heard Soulayed's jeep start up. Leaning from my bedroom window, I watched it drive away, hoping never again to hear its noise floating over the orange grove.”

Aziz undid his coat, plunged a hand inside, and took out a folded envelope.

“Here's the letter from my brother.”

The envelope was yellowed and crumpled. Unfolding it, Mikaël saw a brown stain from Amed's blood before he became Aziz. He felt an emotion that troubled him deeply. He felt that by touching and holding this envelope he was participating in the story of the two brothers. As if a fragment of their past had survived and materialized on another planet. He opened the envelope. Inside he found a short letter, written in what looked like Arabic.

“Can you translate it for me?”

Aziz read him the letter, translating as he went along. After a while, Mikaël noticed that Aziz was no longer reading. He knew it by heart, and Mikaël realized that Aziz must have recited this letter thousands of times, like a prayer.

Amed,

When I was in the hospital in the big city, I met a little girl who was our age. She was lying in the bed next to mine. I liked her a lot. Her name was Naliffa. While I slept, she heard a conversation. The doctor told Father that I would never get
better. Something was rotting away inside me. No one on earth could stop this rotting. Naliffa told me everything before leaving the hospital. I thought she was brave. She herself knew what was going to happen to her. Because she, too, was very sick. She told me that I ought to know. I wanted you to know also. But not before I left for the mountain. Because if you'd known, you wouldn't have let me go. I know you well, you'd never have agreed to the switch. But thanks to you, I will know a glorious death. I won't suffer, and when you read this letter, I'll be in Paradise. You see, I'm not as brave as you think
.

Aziz

Mikaël was shaken. The child who had written this farewell letter had been nine years old, the one to whom it was addressed the same age. Mikaël could see how war wiped away the frontiers between the world of adults and that of children. He gave the letter back to Aziz, unable to say a word.

The two men resumed their walk through
the city. The little Chinese neighborhood they were now passing through had been transfigured by the snow. The shops cast a reddish glow upon the men.

“My brother didn't know me. He was wrong about me. Even if my mother hadn't asked me, I would have made the swap. I was a coward.”

Aziz quickened his pace, as if he wanted to run away from something. Surprised, Mikaël didn't know how to react to Aziz's admission. For a moment, he watched Aziz disappearing into the snow, now falling more heavily. He felt as if he had already lived this scene: watching someone pull away from him, together with his mystery.

“Aziz, wait for me! You did nothing wrong. Everything you've just told me about your childhood . . . how you must have suffered . . . this war that's still raging after so many years . . . your mother didn't want to lose both her sons . . .”

“You don't understand. I was afraid of that belt, I was afraid of Soulayed. So I lied, I pretended to be brave. I didn't want to die! Can you understand that?”

Amed walked and walked for a long time. Yet his steps only took him to the solitary rock in the orange grove. In a single leap, he jumped onto the rock, light as a bird. All around, branches heavy with shining fruit were swaying in the wind. Amed closed his eyes and picked two oranges at random. Feverish, he placed them on the rock, one to his right, one to the left. He sliced through the one on his right with his grandfather's knife. He found no seed in either half. He cut the other orange. Blood spurted from the fruit. He found nine little teeth. He held them in the palm of his hand and they began to melt like wax, burning his hand. Then he woke from his dream.

When he was not lying in his bed, Amed spent his time looking out his bedroom
window. He told himself that by gazing at the horizon, he would eventually make his brother reappear, would make him return from the other side of the mountain, even in a thousand pieces. His mother knocked on his door and called for him, but he didn't answer. She came in anyway, and looked at him with all the sadness in the world.

“Eat something,” Tamara begged.

“I'm not hungry.”

“You're going to get sick. Do it for him, for your brother. Do you think he'd be happy to see you lying around like that in bed? So? You don't answer your mother? Talk to me, Amed. How do you think I feel? If there's anyone to blame, it's me. If there's anyone who ought to suffer, it's me. You understand, Amed? Leave all the suffering to me. And you, just go on living. I beg you, eat something and forget . . .”

Amed closed himself off in silence. Tamara shut the door.

The wound on his hand, though superficial, didn't heal. Amed kept opening it with his nails and making it bleed. Voices, ever more numerous, pursued him with accusations. They
echoed in his head like shovel blows on stone. They mocked and sniggered for no apparent reason. He couldn't sleep unless he clutched his brother's pillow to himself. One night, he was overwhelmed by the certainty that he held Aziz's recovered body in his arms. It was such a powerful sensation that he wept for joy.