‘How long have you known Leila Dahman, Mama?’
‘Leila Dahman? What made you think of her right now?’
‘I’m just asking.’
‘Well, I’ve known her ever since she was a girl. She’s only a couple of years younger than you, and she is a cousin of ours. She’s not a distant relative, you know. Why are you asking about her?’
‘It’s just that … did she ever marry?’
‘You think a woman like that would be left unmarried? God forbid! A woman as beautiful as the moon not finding a husband? No, no, no — not when any hag in this town can expect to find a ring on her finger! What are you trying to insinuate?’
My mother turns and looks away. As far away as she can, as if she wants to hide the expression that is on her face. She is just like me. Her face always betrays what she is feeling. She shifts in her seat and places her right hand onto her knee, then rests her chin on her fist. Then she falls into a silence that is, for her, completely unnatural.
I cannot stand her silence, and I decide to chase after it. ‘OK. So then why didn’t Leila come with her husband? He must be family too, right? Shouldn’t he have come with her to greet me?’
She shifts again, putting her left hand on her other knee. Now I can see her face. The sadness and gloom are as clear as day. She pauses for a moment, before relinquishing the silence. ‘Leila was married to her cousin Waddah. He was an exceptional young man — as handsome as she is beautiful. He was so upstanding that when people in Khan Yunis went to utter a serious oath, they did it on his name. His death was a complete shock. No one expected anything like it. One morning, he’s going to work, he’s walking out the front door, he’s shutting the door behind him. And then all of a sudden, he’s struck in the head by a bullet. No one ever found out whether it was the Jews or those armed men who run around in the street all day long.’
She stops and looks at me. Then, her tone even more grave, asks: ‘Now I’ve told you. So you tell me. Why are you so interested in her? I know you are. You can’t hide it. Have you got your eye on Leila now? Does that mean you’re thinking about divorcing Jala?’
‘Julie, Mama. My wife’s name is Julie.’
‘Jala, Julu — it’s all the same.’
My legs are sore from sitting so long, so I stretch them out in front of me. Reassuring her, I say, ‘The man who’s divorced his wife is someone else, Mama. It’s a Palestinian man who knew Leila when she was young, back in high school. A young man from the Bashity family. From Majdal-Asqalan, who lives in Germany now. His name is Adel. He contacted me, asking about her. He was going to visit Gaza and he wanted to find out where she was — but didn’t want to go around asking about her himself. He didn’t want people talking about her. Even though it’s an old story, you know how people can be.’
‘You think Leila would have fallen in love with someone from Majdal? No way! The girl was always such a prude.’
‘Mama, I don’t have to tell you that young people know how to keep a secret.’
‘OK, clever clogs. Who are you still in love with then?’
‘This isn’t about me. Let’s stick to the subject of Leila.’
‘Kids can be stupid — and that was a long time ago. Why is your friend thinking about Leila all of a sudden?’
‘He was married to a German woman for ten years. Then the marriage fell apart. He divorced her and that was that. They had one daughter, and she married an American and emigrated to New York with him. Every so often, he’d call home and ask about Leila. When he heard that her husband died, he thought of going back. He wants to spend the rest of his life with a Palestinian woman. And he and Leila were once in love with one another.’
My mother sits up like she is just waking up from a dream, ‘Listen. Listen. Maybe your friend is thinking about another Leila who also used to live in Jabalia Camp West. That Leila died though.’
‘Who died?’
‘Sheikh Khalil Dahman’s daughter — Leila Dahman. Her story is sad too. Her husband also died, you know. In a shoot-out between Fatah and Hamas, two years ago. He didn’t have anything to do with either faction, of course. The poor woman joined him in the grave two months later. People said she got stomach cancer from all the lead pollution and all the Israeli airstrikes. Who knows? Cancer’s all over the Gaza Strip. So many people have cancer now. Some of them get treatment at Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem. Some go to Ramallah. Others don’t get any treatment at all — God help them. And then—’
‘Mama, you said her husband got shot during a clash between the factions, and not by a stray bullet, right?’
‘That’s right. Though some put the blame on—’
Before my mother finishes, I interrupt her: ‘I’m going to bed, Mama. Sleep well.’
So the Leila who came with my cousin is the Leila that Adel’s looking for.
‘What did you just say, son?’
‘Nothing, Mama. I’ll tell you later. Sleep well.’
‘You too, my love. Sleep tight, Walid.’
I head to my bedroom and let my mother tell the rest of her stories to herself.
I lie down on the bed, exhausted from another day of meeting people and listening to strange and agonizing stories. These tales raced ahead of me and folded themselves in the sheets. They’re all here, waiting to retell themselves, detail by detail.
After a while, I get up and turn off the lights, go back to bed and close my eyes. I try to go to sleep, but I cannot. The story of Adel keeps me wide-awake. I’d made the story up for my novel but now key elements have begun to appear as facts in the stories my mother tells. In the shapeless gloom of this room, I watch as Leila steps out of my novel and takes her seat on the edges of reality.
I begin to regret the day I consigned the story of Leila to fiction. I had been thinking this whole time that it was something made up by a stranger. By a random person who wrote to me at the newspaper to tell me how much he liked my column. And to ask me for help. Now I regret that I jumped to the conclusion I did.
It was about a year ago when I got the email.
Dear Mr Dahman,
First, permit me to introduce myself to you. I am a fellow Palestinian. Exile has consumed half of my life, just as it has yours. When I was young, I knew a beautiful girl from your family. Her name was Leila Dahman, and I am pretty sure she is a relative of yours. We used to meet on the sly, back in Jabalia Camp. When night began to fall, we would talk to one another. During the day it was something else. We never did more than smile at one another from afar when I was walking home from school. I fell in love with Leila, and I have never felt the same way about any other woman in my life. I can honestly say that there’s never been anybody I’ve loved but her. Leila and I vowed to marry one day. But I left to study in Germany, thinking I would return when I graduated. I never did get to come back. As my life slipped away from me, so did Leila. Years ago, I learned that Leila finally married someone. But recently I found out that her husband passed away. I do not know where she is or how to find her. Every effort I’ve made to contact her has failed. And it is to ask for your help that I have come to you. As a well-connected journalist and writer, your ties to your family must be strong. I hoped you might be able to help me to find Leila. If you do manage to find her for me, I will personally go to Gaza to ask for her hand in marriage, even though I am almost sixty years old. If fate decides against me and she rejects my proposal, I will, of course, respect her wishes.
The poor man signed off by writing his mobile number and two lines of poetry that harked back to that epitome of that hopeless mad lover, Qays, who — like this man — had once lost his heart and mind to a woman named Leila: