And I used to answer: ‘Mama, Maryam is beautiful and sweet, and every cousin would love to marry her, but now’s not the right time. I still have to finish my studies. I’ve got my future and the path before me is still a long one. When it’s time to get married, God will give her away, and each of us will take his share of what fate has in store for him.’
Maryam, this Nefertiti of a woman, makes me forget the other woman who’s come with her, whose name I still do not know. Eventually, Maryam notices that while I am studying the other woman, she is stealing sly looks at me. She rushes to correct things. ‘Abu Fadi, this is my neighbor Leila. Leila’s a distant relative, by the way. She’s the daughter of al-Hajj Hassan Darwish who used to live in Jabalia Camp West. She’s lived with her husband’s family ever since they were married. She lives right next door to me in Khan Yunis.’
Something inside me begins to stir. I cannot tell whether I have fallen into a dream, or am waking from one. There is something about Leila. She awakens my senses and confounds them too. This is Leila from my novel — the Leila that Adel El-Bashity fell in love with decades ago. The Leila that Adel returned to find. The Leila that I, following in his footsteps, hoped to find for both of us. Has she stepped out of the text to welcome me home?
The two women say goodbye and get up to go. Maryam walks out of the apartment, and with her, a real Leila.
12
We are a society of gossips, of chitchat as twisted as those slogans we repeat and repeat until we begin to think they are fact. We are a people convinced that our blather pierces through fog and strikes at the heart of the grandest truths of all. On the afternoon of my second day, I am instantly immersed in all this chatter, and I cannot find my way out again until the very end of the evening. This is the daytime version of the nighttime chaos that has kept me awake. Every last relative comes to welcome me, some of them to meet me for the first time. They have all heard so much about the only author the Dahmans ever produced. They are all impressed by the three novels he has written. They have seen him a few times on television, gesticulating wildly with his hands as he expertly discusses literature and politics, using the kinds of words some people get and some do not. And when they see their cousin the journalist, it gives them real pleasure to exchange glowing praise and knowing looks with one another. ‘That’s Walid — he’s our cousin.’ It is entirely possible that some have come only out of respect for my mother. Or perhaps respect is not the right word. It could be that they fear those broadcasts of hers that continue round the clock, except during those very early morning hours when she is sleeping. And even then, it is possible that her updates continue unabated in special dream coverage. She would not hesitate to ruin the reputation of a person who failed to arrive in a timely fashion to wish her well on the safe arrival of a son who had been absent for such an unprecedented amount of time.
The relatives continue to throng to the last bachelor pad whose sitting room, for this event, we have amply furnished with stuffed cotton mattresses and pillows for everyone to sit on. And meanwhile, my mother keeps repeating: ‘See, Walid. The son of Sofia, your father’s aunt, still has not bothered to come. Oh, he says he’s sorry, My son’s getting married. So what? Go marry off your son for all I care. Who could get mad at you for doing that? God help the man and help his bride. I hope the two of them give birth to a barnful of boys and girls.
‘But still, what’s so hard about coming over to greet your cousin? Couldn’t you at least come over before your son’s wedding to say hello to an old woman whose son has just returned? The bride’s not going to run away, is she? The earth isn’t going to open up and swallow her, is it? The wedding’s tomorrow — if he doesn’t come to see us, we’re not going to attend. It’s as simple as that. If someone doesn’t come to see you, it’s not right for you to visit them — no matter if all the kids in their family were getting married on the same day. Am I right, or am I wrong?’
My cousin Abul-Abd interrupts her. ‘Don’t be like that, Aunt. You know as well as I do what a pain a wedding can be. I married off five of my kids. Nowadays, people are so busy they don’t even have time to scratch their head when it itches.’
My mother is not convinced — she begins to complain about how there are others who have also not shown up. And she starts to rattle off their names one by one. And for each person on the list, she swears an oath that she is never going to speak to them again.
Emad tries to change the subject by bringing up an old joke — one so good, he swears, that he is sure I could not have heard it before. It is about an electronic device made in Korea, and an operation to implant it under my mother’s tongue. It was supposed to operate by remote control, but unfortunately, the device did not work so well. ‘I’ve been pressing the stop button this whole time, but it’s not responding.’
I laugh and my mother joins in, even as she wastes no time trying to show how wrong the remote control theory is. She tells everybody that it has been forty years since she sat with her son, and that she is going to say everything she has kept inside her all these years. ‘Whoever wants to listen can do so. And whoever doesn’t, can stick a finger in their ears. And whoever needs a device can go implant one in themselves.’
More than a couple of people in the room protest. ‘Don’t take it so hard, we don’t mean it. Go ahead and speak.’
Like an Israeli helicopter in the Gaza sky, my mother relaxes as soon as she realizes that she is in total control of the situation — and she seizes the opportunity to talk even more.
Abu Ahmad, my mother’s cousin who is a fervent Hamas supporter, steps in to change the direction of the conversation. ‘The men from Hamas have acquired anti-tank mines. I saw them planting some with my own eyes. I even saw them detonate one.’
He addresses his words to Abu Khalil, the cousin sitting next to him, who has been worn down by an unrequited devotion to Fatah all these years.
Abu Khalil is not having any of it. ‘You’re making that up.’
‘No, I saw one — it was an actual mine. Why is it so hard to believe, Abu Khalil? I’m telling you, it was an anti-tank explosive. I saw the cloud of dirt that went up when they detonated it under the tank. There was a plume of smoke and dust all across the sky. What do you expect our men to do? Plant mines and then put up warning signs that say: Danger, you are now approaching a Hamas minefield!’
‘Abu Ahmad, my friend, what are you talking about? I am sure that the explosion you saw wasn’t any bomb. And Hamas doesn’t have any mines to plant anywhere. What you saw was most probably just a truck hitting a wall. That would raise the cloud of dust you think you saw. If I’m wrong, then tell me this — where did the tank go when it got hit by the mine?’
‘The Jews came and towed it away.’
‘May God come and tow away both your tongues!’ my mother says. When my mother intervenes, she is like a multinational force parachuting into a conflict zone. And by the time she gets there, the conflict is done. Abu Ahmad and Abu Khalil swallow their tongues.