There she went again. As soon as she opened her mouth, bullets shot out in every direction.
It was no use. They changed the subject and began to think of excuses to leave for their homes or for work.
She seemed to sense she had disappointed them. She had to say something to make up for it. ‘I knew that Eliyya was coming this year, and specifically at this time.’
How could they believe her?
‘You said you received a letter from him saying he was coming back…’
‘Even before that letter arrived I was expecting him to come. I imagined him suddenly appearing without warning. And before Muntaha read me his letter, I was shouting “Who is it?” every time there was a knock at the door, hoping he would be the one to answer.’
‘How did you know?’
‘A mother knows.’
Exactly the type of thing she would say. She knew everything and no one could argue with her. Exasperated with her, they asked, ‘How so? He hasn’t come back once in twenty years.’
‘Because at the end of next April he will be the same age his father was when he was killed in the Burj al-Hawa incident…’ None of the relatives said anything further, did not even let out a sigh. They waited for a signal or a gesture to wink at each other and get up to leave.
‘Once again, thank God for his safe return.’
For some time now, Kamileh no longer got up to see her guests out.
Chapter 3
The day Farid succeeded in cutting the pattern of a pair of men’s trousers without seeking Master Tailor Boulos’s advice, and without damaging the fine wool fabric, he didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t boast about his achievement one bit. Silence was his idea of manhood, and in those days, being manly was big. But his ability to cut a pattern by himself did not earn Farid the title of Master Tailor. He still had a bit of a heavy hand when he cut into the fabric, and he had still not sat behind a sewing machine. Only time would bring him that title, when he opened his own shop and cultivated some customers of his own.
It was 1956 when Farid had that first success in tailoring, without guidance and without messing up, a time when thinly-pinstriped grey English wool was the pride of young men, along with Lucky Strikes, the soft pack proudly displayed and clearly visible through thin shirt pockets. That same year, Gamal Abdel Nasser was nationalising the Suez Canal, which he called ‘The International Suez Canal Company’ in his speech.
Farid Badwi al-Semaani
Age: 24
Registry No.: 65/124
Marital Status: Single
Mother’s Maiden Name: Susaan Wardeh
Occupation: None
Eye Colour: Hazel
Moustache: Thin
Hair: Curly, Black
Distinguishing Marks: Wart on Left Cheek
It was nearing election time. There were two open seats in the district and four candidates, four families. The competition was fierce. Farid would never leave his relatives in their time of need. They called him ‘Abu Ali’ from time to time, the kind of nickname given to tough guys. They depended on him. And the women — whenever he walked down the street past their open doors they ate him up with their eyes. He wasn’t going to let the women down, either. Everyone knew about his exploits; the stories circulated from one person to another, and he in turn obliged them with many more to talk about. Farid was a doer, not a talker. He rushed in headlong, without warning and without being asked.
Farid heard that the Mayor of Upper Almaat was threatening supporters of the Semaani candidate with dire consequences. The mayor was as enthusiastic in his support of the opposition as one of their own flesh and blood. Farid knew the mayor well. He went to the mayor’s house in the evening, all by himself. He asked one of his friends to drop him off at the entrance to the village and turn back.
The mayor was afraid the moment he saw Farid standing in the doorway. He was the same age Farid’s father would have been had his father still been alive. His wife and daughter cried and begged Farid to spare him.
‘Shave off one side of your moustache! Right now, in front of me!’
That was all Farid said. The man was nearly brought to tears with humiliation. The mayor’s moustache was famous. From the time his facial hair first started to grow, no one had ever seen him without the moustache. After much encouragement from his wife, he gave in.
The news reached Master Boulos. He warned Farid to stop. He went up to Farid and pulled the piece of fabric right out of his hands, forcing him to listen. ‘You come from a family of decent people, Farid…’ He meant his father, at least, his father and his paternal uncles. They were men who worked hard, who spent their lives rising before dawn and going to bed before sunset. They drove mules, hitting the trail day in and day out. Then his father sold the mules and worked in stonecutting — another decent profession, and a tiring one, too. His father’s tools were still at the house: the chisel, the pick and the hammer. Behind the door was his father’s greatest treasure: a mortar chiselled out of sumac-coloured stone.
‘…’ Silence.
‘That path won’t lead you anywhere, Farid.’
That same manly silence.
Farid often sat alone in his house in the room with no view. He would sit there in the afternoon facing the white wall, which aside from an out-of-date calendar, was completely bare. His mother would leave him to visit the neighbours and there he’d remain, sitting by himself, for an hour, two hours.
Likewise, in the coffee shop he sat away from others, choosing his wicker chair carefully. It had to be sturdy and clean, but even then he would wipe off what little dust was on it. People knew that about him. They knew how he liked to sit. When he sat in the chair, he always turned it around and rested his elbow on the chair back; he’d sit up straight, his back exposed, quietly toying with his amber worry beads, seeming to enjoy his own silence.
His hair was always neatly combed and shined with Brylcreem. That Farid sure was infatuated with himself.
Pictures of candidates began showing up on car windows and people’s caps. Some of the more fanatical supporters put them in gilded wooden frames and hung them in their homes next to pictures of the bleeding heart of Jesus. Farid loved his family’s headman, their ‘zaeem’, but he didn’t like the pictures. If ever he spoke, he called all that ‘mere appearances’.
Farid didn’t like appearances.
He was still concerned with himself, however, with his own appearance. Male fashion was going through uncertain times, the essential elements yet to emerge, since high boots, riding breeches and thin handlebar moustaches had gone out of style. He hesitated before buying an American hat, and only wore it tipped to the side, on Sundays. He started paying attention to details: plucking the hair from his ears, taking showers, choosing appropriate colours — acquiring the minute details of elegance a little at a time.
And then there was the revolver. Its Arabic name, musaddas or ‘sixer’, came from the six barrels the first models had when they came out. Then it spread like an epidemic, as did the terms for it and its varieties.
There was the fard or personal revolver, maybe meaning the weapon for one person, the kind you tucked into your belt on your right side, unless you were left-handed, and if it was too tight and you were worried it might dig into your skin, you could put it in your big jacket pocket and keep your hand on it. That is, before you discovered from watching American movies that you could keep it within easy reach, near your heart, or even tied to your leg for a quick draw when you needed it. You pulled it out, and if it was loaded or cocked, you shot point blank (at close range) or quick-draw (without taking aim through the crosshairs), otherwise your adversary would beat you to it and something regrettable might happen. They used bird metaphors such as al-deek (the cock) for the trigger, and called you ayn al-doury (sparrow’s eye) if you had good aim. They used plant metaphors such as al-qamha (the wheat kernel), the part on the top of the barrel used for aiming; animal metaphors such as al-booz (the snout); body parts such as al-qabda (the fist) for the handle, al-zifr (the fingernail) for the metal protrusion that distinguished old revolvers, and al-misht (the palm of the hand) for the cartridge clip. Al-bayt (the house) was the leather holster which in turn had two little ‘houses’ for the two clips. And from somewhere or another they came up with the term al-nishan (the medal) for the target. You insisted on getting several types of bullets to go with it — the kind that burned, the kind that penetrated, the kind that exploded — and you loaded it carefully, making sure none of the bullets went in crooked, which would cause it to jam when you tried to shoot. There were the nickel-plated (white nickel) or plain revolvers, the Abu Ukra (barellette), the 9-barrel, the Czech, the 12 and the 14 (referring to the Belgian Herstal make), and the American Colt, the best you could buy before the Smith & Wesson came onto the scene.