Deep worry casts a shadow over his good looks. If I wanted to, I could put an end to his anxiety with two quick words. But instead, I decide to let him go on spilling his guts onto our little table. I ask him to update me on the latest developments in his search for Leila.
The waiter brings Adel a cup of coffee, and a cup of tea with mint for me. Adel sips his coffee while looking out at the sea, as if he might find refuge there. Finally, he turns to me and says, ‘All my efforts have sadly come to naught. I wish you had agreed to help when I asked. You would have spared me a lot of trouble.’
‘What happened?’
‘What happened? You tell me. On the phone, you implied that you had some good news for me. Can I hear what it is?’
‘Not until I hear what you’ve been through.’
‘Fine. I drove myself crazy looking for Leila. You know how touchy the issue is to begin with. Some strange man comes from Europe asking everybody about a fifty-year-old widow. And what I found out in the end was this. Some people told me that Leila died of cancer some time ago, but they couldn’t tell me where she was buried. Others told me that she was still alive, but they don’t know where she lives. I am exhausted and cannot go on like this. The people who say she’s dead can’t direct me to her grave. The people who insist she’s still alive can’t point me to where she lives. My Leila’s lost between two unknown addresses — one above ground, the other below — but I can’t find either. So here I am, still looking.’
I laugh.
‘Are you making fun of me, Walid? Of course you would — any writer would think my story was pathetic and laughable.’
‘I’m not laughing at you, Adel. The people who told you that Leila Dahman died were telling the truth. And so were those who told you she’s alive.’
‘Please don’t talk to me in riddles — I’m confused enough as it is, Walid.’
‘Look, by accident I just found out that there’s a Leila Dahman who’s a neighbour of my cousin. I met her.’
‘So Leila Dahman didn’t die?’
‘Meanwhile, in Jabalia Camp West, there’s a woman — also a relative of ours — whose name is also Leila Dahman. She died of cancer just like they told you.’
He pauses, and looks at me quizzically.
‘Look, I met the first Leila in person. She lives in Khan Yunis. She came with my cousin to greet me when I got here. When I asked my mother, she told me that the Leila who died of cancer was named Leila al-Sheikh Khalil Dahman. Her husband died shortly before she did — he was killed during a clash between Fatah and Hamas. The Leila who’s alive is Leila al-Hajj Darwish Dahman. According to my mother, her husband is also dead — killed by a stray bullet.’
‘That one is my Leila, Walid! The al-Hajj girl! That’s right — people called her father al-Hajj, not al-Sheikh. Can you tell me what she looks like?’
Adel seems more anxious now than he was when we first sat down. Maybe now that he can feel her so close, he also senses he might lose her for ever. As I begin to describe the attractive woman I met, his face begins to tremble, and his fingers tap nervously on the table. I tell him that even though the years have begun to erase some of her youth, she has held onto her beauty. She is tall, and full-figured. His fingers tap so hard that he nearly spills his coffee cup. I tell him that I did not get to speak to Leila, owing to her apparent shyness. I tell him that what I noticed most of all was how she talked. She liked to use the words, and then, as if they were a punctuation mark. ‘Hmm, and then …’ ‘She was, and then …’ ‘Because, and then …’ If Leila could, she would stick the words between every two words she said.
Adel jumps up from his seat and throws his arms in the air, clenching his fists as if by doing so he could hold on to the moment for ever. He shouts, ‘That’s her! And then … Adel, we’re going to get married! Let the whole world be damned, and then …! My Leila is alive, Walid!’
By now, Adel is jumping up and down, shouting: ‘Leila’s alive, Walid! Where have you been all my life?’ Fortunately, there is no one else in the café besides us and the waiter, who is standing at the door, stifling the kind of laugh that would cost him a tip. Adel lifts me up and hugs me. In the commotion, he knocks over our cups and coffee and tea spill all over the tablecloth. The waiter rushes over, a black cloud hangs over him as he wipes up our mess.
Embarrassed, Adel says: ‘I’m really sorry! I just heard the best news in the world. Give us a new tablecloth — if you want, I’ll pay for this one. And the table too. I’ll buy the whole restaurant if you want — anything to take that frown off your face.’
‘Don’t worry about it, sir,’ the waiter says, by way of apology. ‘We’re here to serve our customers.’
Adel sticks his arm into his pocket and pulls out a hand whose fingers dance gingerly around a green fifty-dollar bill. He gives it to the waiter whose mouth hangs open so wide it looks like the nearby port of Gaza. ‘This is for you. Keep the change.’
The waiter thanks Adel and walks off with much more than a week’s pay in his pocket. At the waiter’s suggestion, we move to another table that is clean, and he goes off to bring us fresh cups of coffee and tea, free of charge.
Adel cools down and savours the excitement. I begin to tell him that I will arrange a meeting for him with Leila’s father, al-Hajj Darwish, if the man’s still alive. If not, I can arrange for him to meet with another man from the family whose opinion matters as far as Leila is concerned, especially with regard to the question of marriage. It is a sensitive issue, especially given Leila’s age. But Adel is adamant about marrying her — that is why he came to Gaza, after all. The only thing that remains in this long melodrama is the last episode — and Adel will have to finish his story himself. I tell him that I hope it ends like any old Egyptian movie, with Leila standing barefoot on a windswept sand dune. Closeup on her face for a moment, then she flies down the sand calling out Adel’s name. And there is Adel, dashing down the opposite dune, calling out her name. Close-up on the two lovers as they embrace. Fade out. The end.
Adel laughs. It seems as if a great burden has been lifted from him. He begins to run his fingers through his trim beard, and his eyes gleam like those of a groom on his wedding day. He turns to me and begins to recite the lines of poetry:
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 will find her!
And together, like old friends, we laugh our heads off.
15
In the afternoon, my cousin Abul-Abd proposes that we pray together. He leans hard into his right hand and then, clutching his cane in his left, rises to his feet. As he goes over to the mats spread out on the floor, he asks, ‘Who’s going to lead the prayers? Everybody? Come on, Abu Meshaal, would you? Abu Meshaal, could you come forward?’
Abu Meshaal stands up and the others in turn rise to pray behind him.
The man leading the other cousins in prayer right now is my father’s cousin, whose full name is Samih Ismail Dahman. He is a midlevel Hamas organizer. Earlier, when he first walked into the room, people mentioned that he was preparing to nominate himself as one of the Hamas candidates for the Legislative Council elections. He earned his PhD. in economics from a university in the UK. Years ago, when he was in the final stages of writing his thesis, he sent me an email introducing himself. I was so happy to meet a cousin of mine, even though he had been born some time after I had gone away. It cheered me to know that there was another Dahman somewhere in Britain. His presence there somehow filled me with a feeling of real family. It was like having a glimpse of our country delivered to me. When he asked, I sent him a copy of my third novel. And despite being engrossed in his doctoral studies, he read it and let me know how much he admired it. When he asked me to send him a photo of my family, I did. When I asked him for a photo of his family, he did not hesitate. The person I saw in that picture was a young man in his early thirties. He had a long black beard and was going bald. There he stood, right between his young son and daughter. But that was all — the children’s mother, or as we like to refer to mothers, al-eila, was absent, or absented. I did not need someone to explain it to me.