A devout Muslim woman who covered her face with a black veil did not find it in the least peculiar to expose her ample breast to nurse her infant. To his utter shame and guilt toward Salwa whom he adored, he nurtured a secret wish that Leena had a baby so he could watch her pull out her magnificent breast and nurse it.
“I’d love to see Salwa’s picture,” she once told him as they strolled in their customary short walks together. “She must be gorgeous.”
“The only picture I have of her is in my head,” Yousif answered.
Leena was astonished. “You mean it?”
“Yes,” he answered, nodding. “The enemy soldiers rushed us out of the house at gunpoint with only the clothes on our backs. They didn’t give some of us time to get out of their pajamas. Besides, we thought we’d be back by Christmas.”
As they strolled back and forth, reminiscing and commiserating with each other, Yousif told her about the rape of Hiyam, the bride of his friend Izzat who had rented a room in their house. He told her how the enemy soldiers even blasted many of the birds in his aviary, and how they threatened to blow his head off if he tried to resist.
Yousif exhaled deeply and allowed painful memories to flood his mind.
“One soldier put his gun to Mother’s waist and shoved her out, saying, “Go to Abdullah . . . Go to Abdullah.”
Yousif exhaled and remained as quiet as the other two.
“Well, here we all are,” Leena finally said, “in King Abdullah’s country.”
“Indeed we are,” Yousif said. “That soldier knew what he was saying.”
“For sure,” Hikmat concurred. “He was following orders . . .”
Before long Yousif concluded that Leena’s relationship with her family was strained at best, for she seemed to get along well only with him and Hikmat. One afternoon she was in a rare good mood and Yousif asked how and where she had met her husband. Suddenly her mood changed. Her face became noticeably drawn, and she excused herself and went inside her apartment and did not come out. Another time she was joking and laughing with Yousif and Hikmat when her husband arrived. The poor slovenly one-eyed man felt the conviviality of the moment and tried to put his arm around her waist. She brushed it aside and walked away.
Yousif and Hikmat glanced at each other without saying a word.
Midnight often passed with Yousif lying wide awake thinking of Salwa and their whole dreary existence. Uncle Boulus and Salman were more accustomed than he was sleeping on the back patio. What would they do, he thought, when winter came? They would have to move inside no matter how congested their quarters became.
One night, Yousif was sleeping on the balcony when he heard a car stop on the street below and a door open and close. As the driver shifted gear and drove off, Yousif heard a knock at the door. He stood on the patio debating whether to wake one of the men. On the second knock he saw his mother already out of her bedroom and standing in the middle of the foyer clutching her robe.
“Who could it be at this hour?” she wondered in a low voice. “What time is it?”
Yousif did not know and did not answer. The third knock was louder, and the men and women stirred on their mattresses.
“Who’s there?” Yousif asked, weaving his way around sleeping children.
“It’s me, Basim.”
The name had a magical ring and pulled the men onto their feet and Aunt Hilaneh and Maha out of their rooms. But Yousif beat them to the front door and was the first to see Basim in the doorway, his necktie loose, his white shirt open at the collar, and his jacket hooked over his shoulder. Yousif was also the first to embrace him. The last one to embrace him was Maha, his diffident wife.
“Go on,” Yousif coaxed her. “Just once I’d like to see you two kiss.”
“Never mind,” Maha told him, putting her arms through the sleeves of her kimono.
“It’s good to be home,” Basim said, his soft eyes shining with happiness.
“You call this a home?” Yousif teased. “I’m shocked.”
Basim paid him no attention, and knelt to kiss the children on the floor. He woke everyone up, shaking a slender shoulder here and pulling a tiny foot there. The children jumped on him, their eyes still half-closed.
Because electricity was often turned off at irregular hours during the night, they all sat on the patio. At one o’clock in the morning they snacked on oranges, white goat cheese, and taboon bread. The children went back to sleep, except Basim’s youngest daughter, Reem. She wound herself around her father like a grapevine around a wooden post. Salman was tired and sleepy; Uncle Boulus was now in a talkative mood, full of opinions and questions. When he reached for his pocket and pulled out his masbaha and began clicking, Yousif headed inside to light a kerosene lamp, for he knew that his uncle was settling down to meet the dawn.
“Jordan’s Arab Legion,” Uncle Boulus began, reclining on his elbow and making himself comfortable, “is thoroughly trained by the British. One can see it by the way they’re occupying what’s left of Palestine. People sense what’s going on. The last time I went to Jerusalem, I saw with my own eyes how friendly the Bedouin soldiers were. They went around chatting and smiling so as not to antagonize anyone. Not heavy-handed, not obvious—just clever.”
Basim lit a cigarette. “The king learned well from his masters,” he commented under his breath. Then he seemed to stop listening to what the old man was saying.
The women, now fully awake, were noisily but happily busy peeling oranges and tiny cucumbers, slicing bread, and filling a small dish with black olives.
“Anyone up for coffee?” Maha asked
“Please,” Basim told her.
“This late at night?” Yousif remarked, already aware of the answer. He watched Basim enjoy the food, without letting go of his daughter. He kissed her cheeks between bites, and she hugged him and kissed his forehead.
“There are rumors,” Uncle Boulus continued, undaunted by the lack of attention, and clicking his worry beads, “that King Abdullah will soon annex what’s left of Palestine to Jordan. Is it true?”
“I’ve heard the rumor,” Basim said indifferently, wiping his mouth and pecking Reem on the cheek and purring in her ear: “That orange is sweet, but your kisses are sweeter. Much, much sweeter. How can that be? Let me kiss you once more to see if I have made a mistake.”
“Oh, Baba,” Reem said, giggling and nestling against his neck and letting him smother her with more affection.
Uncle Boulus’s barrage of questions did not seem to interest Basim in the least, but they dragged Salman into the discussion.
“I’ve heard,” Salman said his arms wrapped around his knees, “that they’re courting prominent Palestinians for more surprises.”
“Sure,” Yousif said, “wantonness must seem justified.”
For the first time that night Basim looked at Yousif with special regard. “Not bad,” he told him, and went back to teasing
