They liked being there in the fragrant kitchen, where bouquets of fresh mint hung from the ceiling along with strings of garlic. They even made progress. Amed’s writing improved, and Aziz, despite his hospitalization, took to his multiplication tables with greater confidence.
As the boys were out of books, one morning Tamara thought to make notebooks out of leftover wrapping paper, and they, little kitchen scribblers, blackened the creased pages of these odd volumes with their stories. The boys took to the game right away. Amed even invented a character who embarked on impossible adventures. He explored distant planets, dug tunnels in the desert, struck down undersea creatures. Amed called him Dôdi, and endowed him with two mouths, one very little and one very big. Dôdi used his little mouth to communicate with insects and microbes. He used his big mouth to strike fear into the monsters he battled. But Dôdi sometimes spoke with his two mouths at the same time. Then the words he pronounced were comically deformed, creating new words and jumbled sentences that made the little apprentice writers laugh. Tamara took enormous pleasure in this. But after the night of the bombing and the death of their grandparents, those makeshift notebooks told only sad and cruel stories. And Dôdi went silent.
A week after the visit of the men in the jeep, the distant voice of Zahed came to Amed and Aziz in the kitchen, where they were working, without much enthusiasm, at their notebooks. He was calling them from the orange grove, where he spent twelve hours a day pruning, watering, and checking every tree. But this wasn’t the hour when he stopped to rest. Amed and Aziz dropped their pencils and ran to join their father, anxious to know what he wanted. Tamara left the house. Zahed gestured for her to come as well. She shook her head and went back inside. Zahed insulted her in front of her sons, something he’d never done before. Amed and Aziz no longer recognized their father. And yet when he began to speak, his voice was calmer than usual.
“Observe, my sons, the purity of the light,” said he. “Lift your heads. Look, a single cloud is drifting in the sky. It’s very high and is slowly thinning out. In a few moments, it will be a mere thread dissolved in the blue. Look. You see, it no longer exists. All is blue. It’s strange. There’s no breeze today. The far-off mountain seems to be dreaming. Even the flies have stopped buzzing. All about us the orange trees are breathing in and out in silence. Why such calm, why such beauty?”
Amed and Aziz were silent.
“Halim. You know him? You don’t want to answer? I know that you’re acquainted with Halim. The other night, when Soulayed went silent, Halim’s father, Kamal, spoke to me. His voice was not as strong as that of Soulayed. He said to me: ‘Zahed, you have before you a great sinner. I do not deserve to be in your company. As Soulayed said, you are the worthy son of your father, Mounir, whose renown for a long time reached beyond the walls of his house. One must be in harmony with God to achieve what your father did with his two hands. How sad to look on his ruined house. How shameful. With what pain. Accept the poor prayers of the sinner I am. I strike my breast. I pray for the souls of your parents.’”
And Kamal, with his fist, had delivered three hard blows to his heart. Like this, Zahed asserted, reenacting in front of his sons Kamal’s gesture.
“Kamal also said to me: ‘God has blessed you twice, Zahed. Rejoice, that he has placed in your wife’s womb two such sons. My wife died giving birth to our only son. Halim is what God has given me that is most precious. Yet I struck him. Look, you can still see the marks on his face. I struck him when he told me what he had decided. I closed my eyes and I struck him as I would strike a wall. I closed my eyes because I could not have struck my son in the light of day. When I opened my eyes, I saw blood. I closed my eyes and I struck harder. I opened my eyes. Halim had not moved. He stood tall before me and his eyes were filled with red tears. May God forgive me. I am only a miserable sinner. I did not understand. I did not want to understand his decision.’”
“‘Now you understand your son’s decision,’ said Soulayed to Kamal before going to get the belt in his jeep.
“During Soulayed’s absence, Halim leaned toward me and spoke as if he were revealing a secret.
“‘Zahed, listen. Before my meeting with Soulayed, I cursed my mother. I cursed her because I did not die along with her. Why be born in a land that still seeks its name? I did not know my mother and I will never know my country. But Soulayed came to me. One day, he talked to me. He said: ‘I know your father, I go to his shop to have my boots resoled. Kamal is a good worker. He asks a fair price for his labor. But he’s an unhappy man. And you, his son, you are even more unhappy. Halim, to utter the word of God is not enough. I’ve watched you during prayers. Where is your strength? Why come to prostrate yourself among your brothers and beseech God’s name? Your mouth is as empty as your heart. Who wants your unhappiness, Halim? Who can profit from your lament? You’re already fifteen years old and you’ve done nothing with this life that God has offered you. In my eyes, you are worth no more than our enemies. Your softness weakens us and brings us shame. Where is your anger? I do not hear it. Listen to me, Halim: our enemies are dogs. They are like us, you think, because their faces are faces of men. That’s an illusion. Look at them with the eyes of your ancestors, and you’ll see what these faces are really made of. They are made of our death. In a single enemy face, you can see our annihilation a thousand times. Never forget this: every drop of your blood is a thousand times more precious than a thousand of their faces.”
“When Soulayed came back with the belt, silence had taken hold of the night,” said Zahed finally.
His two sons sat listening to him in the diaphanous shadow of the orange trees. Impressed by their father’s story, Amed and Aziz understood that life in the orange grove would never be the same again. It was the second time in just a few short days that Zahed had spoken to them so seriously, he who was sparing with his words. He rose painfully and lit a cigarette. He smoked slowly, and with each puff seemed to be turning over in his head thoughts that were weighty, tormented.
“Halim is going to die,” Zahed declared suddenly, butting out his cigarette. “At noon, when the sun is shining and at its zenith, Halim is going to die.”
Zahed sat down near the boys, and all three waited in silence for the sun to locate itself right over their heads. At noon, Zahed asked his sons to look at the sun. They did so. First their eyes screwed up. Then they were able to keep them open. They filled with tears. Their father stared into the sun longer than they did.
“Halim is near to the sun now.”
“Why?” asked Aziz.
“Dogs wearing clothes. Our enemies are dogs with clothes. They surround us. In the south, they have closed off our cities with walls of stone. That’s where Halim has gone. He crossed the frontier. Soulayed told him how. He passed through a secret tunnel. Then he climbed onto a crowded bus. At noon, he blew himself up.”
“But how?”
“With a belt of explosives, Aziz.”
“Like the one we saw?”
“Yes, Amed, like the one you saw in the bag. Listen to me carefully: Soulayed, before he left, came to me and whispered something in my ear. He said to me: ‘You have two sons. They were born at the foot of the mountain that closes off our land in the north. Few people know the secrets of this mountain as well as your two young sons. Have they not found a way to reach the other side? They’ve done it, no? You ask how I know that. Halim told me. And it’s your sons themselves who told Halim.’”
Having said that, Zahed suddenly grabbed his sons by their necks. He held Amed with his right hand, and Aziz with his left. He lifted them from the ground. It was as if he’d gone mad. Amed and Aziz felt as if the earth had begun to shake, as if the oranges around them were going to fall by the thousands from their branches.
