The fear he felt toward his mother’s won’t/dontwanna made him revise his words. ‘Mama, the morning’s still young. I’ll make sure to go to his grave later.’
‘Does the memory of your father mean so little to you?’
‘Mama, Father’s dead, God have mercy on him. I have to go right now. I have to go to the market to buy some things for my trip.’
‘If you don’t go visit your father’s grave now, the whole day will come and go — and you’ll have lost your chance.’
She bent over the laundry tub again. She took out a dress shirt and, in her agitation, threw it roughly on the line. ‘Go see him right now. Go.’
‘OK. I’m going.’ He muttered to himself, As long as my father’s asking after me, I will go and ask after him.
Walid closed the door behind him. He walked along, intending to go just about anywhere or do just about anything other than start his day with a morning visit to the city’s dead. He had only taken a few steps when his mother’s voice caught up with him: ‘Listen to your mother, Walid.’
*
Walid thought about going to the market. But his thoughts were sidetracked by the familiar spectre of the barber Said Dahman, with his skinny lamppost frame and unruly curls flying in the wind. Using water infused with lime leaves, Said was washing down the cement bench in front of his barbershop. By the time the barber had finished carefully arranging the cushions on the bench, the air was saturated with the fragrance of spring and the place had taken on the appearance of a tourist spa. Said sat down and lit himself a cigarette, and let the resort appeal of the place do the work of pulling in customers from the main street.
The scene pulled Walid in. He drifted toward the shop where he knew his friend — and cousin — would welcome him warmly. ‘May your day be nothing but jasmine! All blessings on you, my magnificent friend!’ He would then start to tell Walid a great new story that would, like the fingers of dawn touching a flower, gently pry open his heart. And Said would assure him, as he always did, that he has never told this story to anyone else before. Then he would make Walid promise not to repeat it, since he might need to tell it again sometime, in the event he ran out of stories.
Walid referred to him as ‘Bard of the Camp’, and Said responded enthusiastically to the grandiose title. He gathered the stories of the camp from the lips of his customers and from others. He washed some of the sentimentality out of them to distil the essence of the words. Then he would add his secret blend of salacious innuendo. When it finally came out as a story told to his customers, it was always presented as brand new. Said would swear a thousand times over that it had never been told before.
Walid remembered that he’d already promised to meet Said in the evening. Their mutual friend Fawzi Ashour would be joining them too, and that was a sure sign they’d hear a newly minted fable. Or, if not exactly new, it would be one that had at least been cleaned and pressed in Said’s inimitable fashion. When Walid remembered all this, he changed his mind about going over to see him now. It’s not possible, he thought to himself, it’s not possible to listen to Said’s banter twice in one day, not even if it’s juiced up with irony and outrageous exaggerations. The thought gave him comfort and he turned away.
Suddenly, there was his mother’s voice again: ‘Listen to your mother, Walid.’ It occurred to him that he might try tricking his way out of the visit to his father’s grave with some brazen lying: ‘Oh yeah, Mama. I went to visit Dad today, and recited the Fatiha over his grave … He seems to be in excellent shape, by the way. He was wearing his old navy blue suit — the one with the grey pinstripes. Oh, and another thing: he gave me my allowance, right from his own pocket. He told me to say a big hello.’
What if she believed it and asked him to tell her more? ‘Don’t hide anything from your mother, Walid! What advice did your father give you?’
He would tell her, ‘Sparks were shooting out of his eyes and he asked me: “Has your mother remarried since my death, Walid?”’ The woman would lose the last bits of sanity she still had.
Yet, in that moment, his mother would not miss a beat. No, she’d reach into a store of curses so rare she only pulled them out on special occasions like this. ‘Want your mother wed? You’ll soon be good and dead. You’ll be buried before I’m married, boy. Go bury yourself next to your father and give me a break.’
The image in his mind made him laugh out loud. My mother is unbelievable — and so is that big bag of words she carries around. If you say, ‘Wedlock,’ she might reply, ‘Gets you in a headlock.’ Say, ‘I’m going …’ and she might reply, ‘To hell in a handbasket?’ Say, ‘We’re off …’ and she might answer, ‘To choke on your own drool?’ Say, ‘I’m falling asleep, I’m going to bed,’ and she might declare, ‘Hope the wall falls asleep on top of you!’ And do not say, ‘Mama, I’m on my way …’ because she will definitely quip: ‘To your funeral? Let’s go together!’
But when your mother is happy with you, her words turn from lead to gold. Say, ‘I’m going …’ and she’ll reply, ‘To be happy and secure in life!’ Say, ‘I’m going to go …’ and she will say, ‘To Heaven, my dear?’ ‘I’m on my way …’ becomes ‘To your wedding? We’ll go together — and I’ll sing for you, the happy groom!’
Fine. And when your mother asks you about the others you saw paying their respects at the graveyard? You are going to have to lie once or twice at the very least. And if you don’t get the story straight, you’ll get whacked by your mother’s bag of words!
Walid thought it over gloomily before he finally decided, Forget it, Walid. A visit to your father will spare you a visit from your mother’s tongue.
He continued walking until he reached the main street. When he got to the seed market, he leaned up against a wall and lit a Rothmans’ cigarette. He began to watch the scene in front of him through clouds of smoke.
He was about to leave. But when Mona suddenly appeared, he froze. Mona’s real name was Abdelhamid Awed. The city and its camps refused to recognize him as a gay man. Instead, they talked about him as a her. Mona was carrying one of the old black radio batteries on his left shoulder while walking, as people did, to the gas station at the roundabout. That was the only place where you could get batteries recharged.
Walid trembled. A deluge of old shame washed over his body. Why is Mona here, now? Why is that faggot so determined to damage my reputation? It only happened once, and that was a mistake. What does he want from me now?
He took a deep drag from the cigarette trembling in his fingers, and then exhaled it like a heavy load of remorse. Why did you have to mess with him, Walid? You used to hate the boys who talked dirt, and you used to keep your distance from the kids in the alley. Your father used to call out to you from his room while you were playing in the street. He would yelclass="underline" ‘Don’t play with those dirty kids, Walid!’ Your father’s words were sacred. He did not have to yell more than once for you to listen. What would you say to your father if he came back from the grave and heard what was going around? Do you want to kill your father all over again, Walid?
It had happened one stormy autumn evening. Gusts of wind blew the pedestrians and loiterers off the streets and alleys. They swept off all the chickens, cats and dogs too. As soon as Walid was sure that no one would see him, he had hurried along, his hands gripping the edges of his open wool jacket while the wind grabbed and played with it. He’d set off behind Mona at a short distance without ever taking his eyes off him. Walid had watched the man walking with the coquettish saunter of a peasant girl carrying a clay water jar on her head. His hips swayed back and forth as he walked. Meanwhile, Walid trembled, unsure of himself. More than once he thought about going back. In the end, it was not Walid, but desire that finally made the decision, and dragged him beyond risk. When, at last, they got to the culvert down by the fields, Walid could not restrain himself any longer. He gave in, and let himself be drawn to Mona’s neck. There, where the empty water pipe was nearly one metre deep beneath the train tracks, four hundred metres down from the Khan Yunis train station, the sound of Walid’s heaving breath was lost in the whistling of the winds. The trembling of his body melted in the shadows of the pipes.