Walid’s eyes filled with tears as he trembled again, apologizing to his father.
*
Walid threw his cigarette butt down on the ground and continued on his way to the graveyard. Within minutes, he was standing in front of his father’s grave, silently declaring his submission to the sovereignty of death. In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful…
This mound of cement is the resting place of Ahmad Nimr Dahman.
This is my father. An exact replica of myself, only older. His medium height, his slight build, his complexion, his piercing eyes (which people say that I also have, though I do not believe it). His temper, a tension in the body that you could almost smell. The way he walked, like he was marching in a military parade. I inherited all this from him. Anyone who knew my father would look at me twice and say, ‘This must be Ahmad Dahman’s son.’
My mother used to say, ‘You’re the spitting image of your father. Your hair, your eyes, your nose, even that chin of yours, dimpled like a Palestinian penny. The spitting image. When you get mad, your face turns red like his did and you start to rant and rave until none of us can understand a word you’re saying. But the way your throat tightens when you get mad — that part comes from me. You know, Walid, if one day you were to leave me and go away and not come back until you’d grown as old as he was — God have mercy on him — you know what? I’d probably say, “This is Ahmad, not Walid.”’
God have mercy on the man.
Ahmad Nimr Dahman had been an employee at the UNRWA distribution centre. In his youth, he had been a handsome, educated and gentle man. Wherever he went, people loved him.
On that July day when it was too hot to even talk, some of Ahmad’s co-workers had accused him of stealing clothes from the depot and smuggling them out via friends of his on the staff. The matter was brought to the attention of the director, Khamis al-Sawafiri, who promptly ignored it, saying that what had gone missing was not worth the bother of an investigation. But the thefts continued. When containers of food started to disappear every day, new accusations were born.
At the end of a week filled with more thefts and finger pointing, the director decided to put an end to it all. He sent a hand-written letter to Ahmad Dahman, accusing him of the thefts, and notifying him to stay home from work until they had completed an investigation into the matter.
Ahmad fired off a volley of complaints to the head of UNRWA in Gaza City. All of these memos were forwarded to his former boss — and became part of the file. In less than two weeks, Ahmad joined the unemployed, where he was warmly embraced by the prospect of life without sustenance. On the rasp-like tongues of the camp, the ‘Respectable Family of Abu Walid’ became the ‘Detestable Family of All Thieves’.
After losing his job and the respect of all, he did not survive for even a month. It was an eternity for him. Then something happened that took everyone by surprise. One morning, as he went off to Café Mansour in the city centre, he was followed by the spectre of death. Death chased after Ahmad Dahman as if it were hustling through a jam-packed schedule of appointments and interviews. It did not come for the man before he left his house in the morning. Nor did it wait for him to come home. It did not even wait for the poor man to finish drinking the mint tea he had ordered when he got to the café. No, Death arrived right then in the form of a massive heart attack that twisted his arteries before wringing them out again. When it happened, Abu Walid’s body shot up rigid, his right hand clutching at his left arm. He screamed in pain as he collapsed back into the bamboo chair. All the customers crowded round him, as did all those drawn to the scene by his shrieks. Ahmad Dahman breathed his last and died while his cup of tea was still piping hot. Carried on mint-laced wafts of steam, the man’s soul rose into the air and evaporated for ever.
After his death, Umm Walid became increasingly agitated and forgetful. Sometimes she would lose all consciousness of what was happening around her. She would sit in silence at the door to her bedroom for hours on end. Sometimes she would bring the chickens out from their cages, calling out, ‘Ta-ta-ta-ta-taaa,’ while she threw handfuls of barley on the ground. The chickens would race to snatch up the grains. She would sit and watch as they wiped their beaks on the ground and turned to beg for more. She would talk to them as if she were talking to neighbourhood women and confiding all her secrets: ‘They killed him. Those thieving sons of bitches murdered him. They were the ones stealing bags of food and splitting them up among themselves. Abu Walid must have been standing in their way, threatening to go public. Then they decided to get rid of him. God damn those sons of …!’
One day, about three months after Ahmad Dahman’s death, Walid’s grandfather, Nimr, asked Walid to accompany him when he went to the market to buy some tobacco. He told his grandson that the local farmers sold a wide variety at half the price the stuff went for in shops. He also told him he liked to mix different kinds together in ways that the cigarette factories could not manage. He beamed and bragged that his blend was as good as Rothmans and Kent and Craven A — maybe even better. He swore that his blend was better than the local brand Si Salem.
The two walked down the main street. Walid listened intently as his grandfather talked about the scents and flavours of all the various kinds of cigarettes. Since tradition dictated that Walid would never light one in the presence of the patriarch, his pleasure was confined to talking about them.
‘Walid, my son, do you know Khamis al-Sawafiri? Khamis is the one who was doing all the stealing. I heard that he had a fight with your father over a woman from Jaffa named Sawsan al-Ghandour. They say she is a beauty. Khamis had his eye on this woman. And some say — though only God knows if it’s true — that she had her eye on your father. Khamis started to steal the stuff from the distribution centre and one of his employees pointed the finger at your father. When Khamis fired your father, he planted the sickness in your father’s heart that eventually killed him. You know what, son? I never believed for one second that my son had anything to do with this Sawsan or any other lady. I am his father and I knew him better than anyone else.’
That is what Walid’s grandfather told him.
The story so stunned Walid he could only stutter, ‘If I’d known, I would have killed him.’
‘No, son. No, Walid — let God wreak His vengeance on those who oppress others.’
Walid looked at the cement grave. He stared at the shadows dancing on the leaves of the tree above. Here and there above the grave, small bags hung from branches. They fluttered in a breeze infused with the dankness of graveyard soil and the thirsty perfume of the desiccated wildflowers that grew here and there.