mattress laid out on the patio or the balcony, often with one of his children sleeping on his chest, leaving the opportunity to be alone with his wife to a remote chance.
One late evening, when Uncle Boulus had had one drink too many and Salman was already fast asleep, Basim was not only fully awake but seemed eager to have a private talk with Yousif.
“What time does the coffeehouse downstairs close?” Basim asked, glancing at his watch.
“It depends on business, I guess,” Yousif answered.
“Let’s go down for a smoke,” Basim said. “It can’t be too crowded at ten o’clock.”
They sat alone at the little coffeehouse below their apartment and ordered two nergilehs and two cups of coffee. A few men were playing cards or dominoes and arguing over who should pay. The radio was broadcasting a reading from the Qur’an, and the young waiter with suspenders and a soiled apron was bringing in straw chairs from outside and stacking them up against the walls. Yousif and Basim sat close to the door and watched refugees come in and out of the rows of tents on the other side of the street.
“I can’t imagine how they live,” Yousif said, expelling a deep breath. “Open sewage. No toilets or any place to bathe. I can’t imagine living like that.”
“All thanks to Israel.”
“The stories Mother tells about her visits to so many refugee camps are simply horrifying. You should hear her.”
Basim nodded, pulling on his water pipe. “I’ve been to too many of them and I know exactly what you’re talking about. That’s why I’m starting a political organization. And I want you to be part of it.”
Yousif listened and waited for more information.
“At first I hesitated to ask you because I knew your mother wouldn’t want you to follow in my footsteps. In a way, I don’t blame her. Look where all those years have gotten me. Besides, when you find Salwa, your mother will expect you to settle down and give her grandchildren.”
“That’s natural. After all, I’m her only son.”
Basim nodded his head. “But if we don’t all sacrifice, we might as well bid Palestine farewell.”
“You can’t possibly mean that.”
“Not forever, for sure. But for at least a generation or two. I can tell you this: if we want to liberate it, and we all do, each of us must be willing to face the challenge. To put his neck and pocketbook on the line. No other way.”
Yousif was in total agreement. “Palestine is worth it.”
“Damn right Palestine is worth it. And a lot more. That’s why I want you to join me.”
A five-year-old boy appeared out of the dark and approached them with an open hand. Both Yousif and Basim handed him a few coins, feeling sorry for him.
“Go home, son,” Basim told the young beggar. “You ought to be in bed.”
The boy did not answer, and made the rounds to other tables. Soon another destitute followed, this time a middle-aged woman. She did not ask them to give her anything, and did not thank them when they did. She just moved before them like an apparition.
“There’s nothing a mother won’t do to feed her children,” Basim said, motioning to the waiter for another piece of charcoal.
There was a long pause during which the garcon pushed the ashes of the nergileh aside and placed blazing pieces of charcoal atop the tobacco.
“Why me?” Yousif asked, his voice deliberate and even.
Basim took time to read his thoughts. “I need you. As simple as that.” The water in the nergileh gurgled.
The garcon returned with another pot of coffee, refilled their cups and left.
“I’ve watched you grow and mature politically far beyond your years,” Basim told him. “I saw in you leadership potential.”
Though disinclined to flattery, Yousif appreciated the compliment and said so. “High praise coming from you.”
“However I must warn you,” Basim told him, holding his demitasse cup in mid-air. “Politics is a serious—even dangerous—business. If you have any reservation, back off right now. But, if you do join the organization, I’m going to lean heavily on you and give you a lot of responsibilities.”
“Doing what?”
“To start with, I’d like for you to be our recording secretary.”
Yousif looked disappointed. “I’d like for you to think of me differently. A spokesperson for my unlucky generation would be more like it.”
“What?”
“I’m not a stenographer. If I join, I’d like to be an activist.”
“You’re jesting.”
“No, I’m not.”
Basim uncrossed his legs, pleased. “That’s one of the things I like about you. You know your mind and you stick to it.”
“How else would I have been able to marry Salwa?” Yousif reminded him.
“Stopping her wedding in church was quite a coup.”
“It’s the best thing I’ve done,” Yousif said. “I’ve been looking for her everywhere. I even left a message for her on radio. On the program for people trying to reunite. Still can’t find her. Any ideas?”
Basim assured him that in time he would find her. And that he would, of course, help him in his search. However, for the time being Basim was not to be distracted from his main mission: to build a liberation organization.
“Will it be strictly political or diplomatic?” Yousif inquired. “Electing candidates to the Parliament and influencing policies?”
Seconds after he had uttered the words, Yousif felt he had misspoken. He did not show sufficient grasp of what his cousin was contemplating.
Their long stare at each other was poignant.
“It would be both,” Basim assured him. “Political and military. With emphasis on the latter.”
“I thought so,” Yousif said.
“Mind you,” Basim continued, “we can’t possibly be the only ones planning to start a resistance or liberation movement. Others are doing just that right now. I’m sure of it. I only hope they won’t try to lure you away from us.”
“You have nothing to worry about, unless . . .”
“Unless what?” Basim said, amused.
“. . . you insist on my being a recording secretary.”
Basim’s face relaxed. “Do you prefer carrying a gun?”
“Eventually I
