I love Leila passionately, the way the soul loves, and Love is a seducer!
O Exile of the heart, among the sons of the Dahman you shall find her!
I was stunned by the nerve of the man to ask me to help him in such a private matter — and one that concerned someone I did not even know. At the time, I did not take his story at all seriously. It was so strange — if it were true, it would only mean he was desperate and somewhat mad. It would raise suspicions to go around asking about a woman — a widow, no less! So I was not going to do it. Besides, how did he expect me to go asking around when it would only uncover the kind of old relationship that her family would hold against her? And what would the dead husband’s family think if they found out? If Adel wanted this done, he should go to Gaza himself and do it. Or was he smart enough to realize that he would be beaten to a pulp for asking? That may be why he wanted me to do it for him. The whole thing was probably a practical joke.
I wrote back to Adel and let him know that I was not willing to play matchmaker for him, or to stumble around in the dark looking for his lost bride. I told him to travel to Gaza and look for his old flame himself — that is, if she really ever existed.
Later, as time went by, I found myself using the story in the email as I began working on my novel. All I had was a premise for a story: after a long absence, a Palestinian exile returns to Gaza by way of Israel. The novel was going to be about how everything has changed in the years he has been gone.
At the time, I was just beginning the novel and had not yet got into the details. When I began to write, I made this fellow — Adel El-Bashity — into the protagonist, and made him take the advice I had given to the real Adel El-Bashity who had written to me. He goes to Gaza and searches for Leila. And it was only later, at my wife’s suggestion, that I decided to go to Gaza to retrace the steps that Adel takes in his journey — and to reflect on the hardships he would experience in his story.
And that is how I now find myself walking in Adel’s shoes — searching out Leila, for him and also for me. Looking for her in the novel and in the story I am living. Following her through the shadow of fiction and in the light of fact.
Remembering all this gives me a sense of relief, and begins to make up for all the sleep I have lost. I turn the lights back on and connect my laptop to the phone socket. When I open my email, I find four new messages waiting for me. The first is an advertisement for penis enlargements. I laugh to myself as I hit delete. No thank you — it’s fine just the way it is. The second email is about a credit card, so I ignore it. The third is from my friend Leah Portman, telling me she’s just come back from Germany and that her tour there has been a success from what she could tell.
The fourth email is a surprise. It is from Dana. I read it, not fully believing that this woman actually carried through on her promise to write to me.
Hi Walid.
I enjoyed meeting you. I hope you have arrived safely and been able to see your mother by now. I’ve been worrying about you since hearing about the bomber who tried to blow herself up at Erez. Are you OK?
Dana
I dash off a reply to Dana. I tell her that it has been a moving experience to see my mother again, that it has been intense and nerve-racking but also very beautiful. Being with family is like swimming in a deep sea of warmth and love. I thank her for thinking of me, and encourage her to hold onto her views about peace. Then I shut the computer, flick off the lights and get into bed again. I have no idea when I finally fall asleep.
14
‘Your cousin Abu Hatem is coming over in the afternoon,’ my mother tells me as we finish breakfast. ‘He’s going to take you to Khan Yunis just like he promised.’
Thus begins my third morning.
‘He’s taking you off to Khan Yunis even though I haven’t been able to spend any time with you yet, Walid. Don’t go off and stay too long. Maybe a day or two, and then come right back, OK?’
‘We still have a lot of time, Mama.’ I try to reassure her while I clear the dishes. After setting the dishes in the kitchen, I tell my mother I am going to go up onto the roof to see the view and catch a breath of fresh air.
Over on one side of the roof stand the cages — from which the chickens and pigeons trumpet their pre-crepuscular greetings. I walk over to the low wall on the southern side of the building where I see a Palestinian flag wrapped around a wooden pole. It looks as if a whirlwind has twisted the cloth around itself until it choked. I unravel it, then hold it out by a corner. As I let go, it begins to snap and breathe in the wind.
I stand there, my eyes wandering over the view of Jabalia and Beit Lahia. I look at the large open space between the Nasrite Building and the next one, to the west. I spy green and yellow and black flags fluttering here and there on the different buildings, each proclaiming the sympathies of inhabitants inside. The flag I used to salute is nowhere to be found among them.
Off to the north, behind a patch of empty land, I can just see some houses surrounded by a sparse thicket of trees. When I squint, I can make out the faint outlines of a tall mast—a radio antenna in Dugit, probably.
I breathe in the cool morning air and take out my mobile phone. Half sitting on the low wall, I dial the number I received in the email from more than a year ago.
‘Hello, is this Adel El-Bashity?’
‘Yes, it is. Who’s calling?’
‘Adel, it’s Walid Dahman. Do you remember—’
‘Of course! Walid, the journalist? Mein Gott! Where have you been all this time?’
‘Good morning, Adel.’
‘My God. I suspect you have something to tell me, otherwise you wouldn’t be calling.’
‘Adel — how soon can you come to Gaza?’
‘Where are you calling from, Walid?’
‘Jabalia.’
‘Really? I’m in Gaza right now myself. I arrived here three days ago.’ He is almost shouting into the phone. ‘I thought I was playing it safe to come through Egypt. Then I got stranded at Rafah for five days. Don’t ever go there. It’s nothing but sweltering heat and mosquitoes, and garbage and crowds. Screeching crowds. I’ve never been to hell, but I’m sure the entrance to it is nicer than the Rafah crossing.’
‘Listen, I need to tell you some news, but I want to tell you in person. Could we meet?’
‘Yes! I’m ready any time. Yours truly has nothing to keep him occupied.’
‘Let’s meet outside the Andalus Hotel at noon. How’s that?’
‘Perfect. I’ll see you then.’
‘Wait a second — how will we recognize one another?’
‘I have a copy of Jasmine Alley with me. I read most of it on the plane and in Rafah. I’ll be carrying the novel in my hand. And anyway, don’t forget — your picture is on the back cover.’
‘Right — see you then.’
I hang up, not believing that I am going to meet the real Adel, a man I have never seen in real life. He might just end up pushing the other Adel out of my novel.
I fly down the stairs to the apartment.
We arrive at the hotel at the same time, and take a small table next to a window overlooking the sea. We sit across from one another. For the first time, there we are — me and Adel El-Bashity, face to face.
Adel is completely different from the Adel in my novel. He is tall and broad-shouldered. His moustache blends into a closely cropped beard, the kind everyone seems to wear these days.