I’d forgotten about that house for years. I was four when they threw us out, or maybe five, I don’t know. When we ran away, they left behind the jug my birth certificate was in. For all the years since then, I forgot everything, and it was in prison, of all places, that I remembered. I wasn’t inside for a long time, only six months. I’m not an Intifada hero, not the chief of a fighting unit, all I did was ‘assist in terrorist activity’, and it wasn’t even on purpose. I gave a lift in my car to someone who wanted to stab a soldier at the gates to the military government office, and I didn’t even know he had a big knife under his coat or that the Secret Service was on to him already and waiting for him there. Not that they believed me when they questioned me. Why should they believe an Arab? They slapped me. Shook me. Twisted my arm and then every finger separately. But they didn’t have any proof, and they caught him before he stabbed anyone, so they only gave me six months. I got off cheap, like they say. But those six months, wa’alla, like a hundred years for me — those thoughts about my wife and my sons, and the time, the time that never passes when you’re in prison. Even though they have roll call in the morning and roll call in the afternoon, and even though I took two Hebrew lessons a day from the famous Mustafa A’alem, who was in for twenty years and knew Hebrew better than the Jews, even so, the time didn’t pass.
You’re lying there on your bed at night, you can’t fall asleep because of the fleas and the snoring, and the air stinks so much you can’t breathe, and because there’s nothing to do, you start imagining things. You see jinim, ya’ani demons, walking around the room, you hear voices talking into your ear and when the night’s over and you’re sure you’re majnun, completely crazy, and you’re so scared that you feel like crying, all of a sudden you start to remember things you didn’t even know you had in your head, the face of a boy who was your friend, a slap your father once gave you, and that house, the house you left. Like from inside the smoke of a nargileh, the rooms float up one by one, the small kitchen that was always full of pots, the bathroom with the door so low that Papa had to bend his head to go through it, the small step you had to walk down in order to go into the living room, the three mattresses on the floor, Monir’s, yours and Marwan’s, no, first yours, then Monir’s and then Marwan’s, the floor tiles that had drawings on them, the broken tile in the right-hand corner, the heavy door that creaked a little when it closed, the yard where you and your brothers used to play, and the window with the arch that looks so much like the window of the house I’m looking at now. The house that belongs to that family whose name I still don’t know.
Yesterday, on my break, I went to see what the name on the door was. A young woman with eyes like a tiger came out from downstairs and asked, can I help you? I was flustered, I didn’t know what to say, so I asked if I could have some water, and she asked, are you Madmoni’s worker? I said yes, and she said, so why doesn’t he give you water? But she went inside anyway and came out with a bottle, and I said thank you. I didn’t know what to do with my eyes, so I kept them on my shoes, on the spots of plaster, then I turned around and walked towards Madmoni, and I even drank from the bottle while I walked, even though I wasn’t thirsty, so she wouldn’t think I lied, but I don’t think she saw because I heard the door slam shut.
Yallah ya sheikh, back to work. Amin stopped the thoughts that kept spinning around in my brain like a cement mixer. He stood above me and held out his hand. I got up on my own. I’m no old man you have to help up.
*
She’s a good person, that Noa, really, that’s for sure. Yesterday, I had to go to Doga to get nappies and I didn’t want to leave the children alone, so I knocked on their door and she opened it wearing white pyjamas with little sheep on them — probably so there’d be something to count at night when they can’t fall asleep — and she said right away that she’d look after them, even though I saw from the open book in the living room that she was in the middle of something. All she said was, I’m warning you, Sima, I’m not too good with children, and I said, well then, sweetie, this is your chance to practise with other people’s kids before you have your own, and she laughed with her whole body — all the sheep moved — and said, it’ll be a long time before that happens, and I said, why, how old are you that you talk like that, and she said, twenty-six, I mean soon, my birthday’s in another month, and I said isn’t that funny, I’m twenty-six too, and she opened her eyes wide and said, no, you’re joking, and I pretended to be insulted on purpose and said, why, do I look that old? She blushed, poor thing, and started to stammer, no, of course not, I just thought, you know, because of the children, of course not, Sima, you look terrific, even Amir says so, and I said thank you, and posed like a model. I lifted my head and pulled my hair back with that gesture Moshe likes so much, and the sheep moved again, and then it was quiet while we made our comparisons in our mind. I think she felt sorry for me, I’m not sure, but I felt a bit bad then for not putting on make-up in the morning. Anyway, I finally said, get yourself together, sweetie, I’ll wait for you, and she said, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, just let me have a shower.
While I was waiting for her, I peeled an orange for Liron and thought: there’s no reason to feel sorry for me. It’s true that I don’t go to university every day, and I don’t wear beautiful skirts like she does (those legs of hers, like a model’s). It’s true that I don’t meet any gorgeous men and I don’t sit in cafés or walk around with a fancy camera that costs at least ten thousand shekels (that’s what Moshe says), but none of that stuff is worth one minute with the children, like yesterday when Lilach did research on my thumb, looked at it, pulled it, put it in her mouth. Then moved over to my little finger. I had a laughing fit about how thorough she was. Or when Liron says to me a week ago, his face all serious, Mummy, you’re more beautiful than all the other girls, when I grow up I want to marry you. Can anything compare to that? And besides, I will go back to college. Moshe and I have talked about it already. After they grow up a little. I’ll finish my degree and work in my field like a real career woman. Where’s the fire? Like they say, good things come to those who wait. That’s what I was thinking while I fed Liron the peeled orange. Lilach started whining. It’s always like that. Every time he gets something, she cries. Even if she doesn’t really want it. I tickled the bottom of her foot to calm her down and reached out to the bowl of oranges with the other, but then I heard steps outside and thought it was Noa. I put the orange on the table and got up to open the door.