As for the man who was so fond of marrying, the new regulation did not stop him daring to challenge the authority of the President. At every gathering, event or meeting he attended, Muhammad would talk loudly to whoever would listen, saying that Arafat wished he could marry more. He never tired of repeating, ‘It’s not my problem if the President can barely handle one woman. But as for me, I could never be satisfied with just Suha. Being married to one or two isn’t enough for me. I swear, if Arafat could, he’d marry ten women — one from each political faction. And then he’d unite the PA and the PLO in a single household.’
*
Walid stood at the corner of the house overlooking the heart of the neighbourhood. He started to watch the sun as it set far, far away, dragging with it the remaining moments of his last day in Gaza until it, and those moments, disappeared behind the yellow sand dunes. He imagined that there the sun would rest its head on the horizon’s edge before it slipped, sleeping, into the sea — and then the features of the camp began to dissolve into the spreading twilight.
The lights in the city streets came on suddenly, as if they had just woken from an afternoon nap that had stretched on too long. With each light, the shadows of the place also awoke, as did everything else that sprang to life when light bulbs flickered on.
Walid wandered along until he got to the corner across from Jaber Rayyan’s shop. He stood there under the utility pole, where he had arranged to meet his cousin Said.
Walid began to study the stars and constellations with sudden astonishment. High in the distant sky he saw a silver glow amidst the stars of Ursula Minor, and right there in the middle he could make out the features of his father’s face. Then he heard the words, ‘Your father’s been vindicated.’ Looking into the night sky, Walid remembered the day his mother said those very words.
Umm Walid was in the middle of sweeping the courtyard with palm fronds when Walid’s grandfather, Nimr, walked in and broke the news that Walid’s father had been declared innocent. He told her how the police had detained the director of the distribution centre, Khamis al-Sawafiri, and formally charged him with stealing bundles of clothing. Unable to deny it, Khamis had admitted the crime. On top of that, they accused him of conspiring with some of his employees in loading trucks with pilfered bags of flour that were sold to merchant friends of his in Gaza City market.
Umm Walid exploded with a song that rent the heavens. Walid was down the street playing with friends when he heard it. His mother’s ululation was like no one else’s. She was the only woman in the camp to split her trill into four heaping portions — which she never served at the same time.
Walid ran off to follow the singing that led him back home. When he got there, he found his mother leaning up against the front door with her hands held up high in supplication. Her arms were stretched wide to receive the neighbours, who flocked to congratulate her.
Walid threw himself into his mother’s arms and hugged her with all his might, kissing her forehead and hands. She held him tightly, her face drowning in tears of joy.
‘Hi, Walid. You’re right on time!’
The surprise of hearing his cousin’s voice brought Walid back to the moment. No sooner had he replied to Said’s greeting than Fawzi Ashour also arrived.
*
Fawzi was short and slightly stocky. He had a delicate face, as round as a Valencia orange and as ruddy as an Anatolian apple. He may have worked as a weaver on a manual loom, but his daydreams took him on journeys far from the din of the textile factory. And unlike his loom, his dreams were woven by electricity. He dreamed that one day he would inherit Marlon Brando’s throne in the sultanate of cinema. He would raise his thick right hand in the air and solemnly swear that if they had cast him in Julius Caesar, he would have delivered a performance as good as Brando’s.
Fawzi would sometimes stumble and fall from the heights of Hollywood into the depths of Cairo’s B studios. Fawzi was mad about cinema. When Fawzi impersonated Shukri Sirhan playing Said Mahran in The Thief and the Dogs, he would completely disappear into character. Fawzi often played Sirhan playing Mahran for his friends. And when he did, Said would leap up and threaten Fawzi, his hand clenched in the shape of a revolver. ‘Said Mahran, come out with your hands up!’
The three friends would sit and smoke to the rhythm of Said’s off-colour epics. Said told the story of Samira Doughan and how she would leave the window to her bedroom open at night for Ibrahim Harb, the Arabic teacher at Mustafa Hafez Boys Elementary. Knowing this, Ibrahim would steal into the side yard and deliver a love letter to Samira. Said told his friends about the rose that Ibrahim had left at her window one night — the same damask rose that caused so much whispering in the neighbourhood. ‘She wore that rose in her hair,’ Said went on, ‘for an entire month. And somehow, as long as it was in her hair, it stayed as fresh as the day Ibrahim first gave it to her.’
Fawzi added, ‘I swear to God — anyone who walks by the Doughan house today can still smell that rose.’ And he sniffed at the air with nostrils that would not recognize the attar of a rose if they smelled it.
Before he finished the story of Samira, the three friends had agreed on one thing: that her father, Hajj Omar Doughan, would kill her with a rusty knife if he found out what half the camp already knew. He might just do to her what Mahmud Abu Hayya had done to his sister Marwa.
Walid interjected that the two situations could not be more different. ‘When Mahmud killed Marwa, it was out in the open and in front of witnesses. And it was to redeem his family’s honour. She deserved it, but Samira does not. It’d be enough to slap her face a couple of times. A few lashes on her back, and she’ll repent and never do it again.’
Sheikh Mu’min Abdel Aal happened by just then, his glorious robes flowing as he went. The sheikh was a judge in the Sharia courts and was on his way home after praying at the nearby mosque. A half-stifled laugh escaped from Said and Fawzi. The sheikh cleared his throat, drawing their attention to the greeting that he had uttered and which, still hanging in the air, demanded the courtesy of a reply. Shamed, the three called back with even more elaborate greetings. But as soon as the sheikh was gone, Said began to cackle and howl. ‘Yes, sir, Mr. Judge, Mr. Sheikh, Mr. Azhari! Let’s have it — that’s how men of religion should be!’
‘What’s so funny, Said?’ Walid asked.
‘You mean you don’t know what the sheikh did? You’ve always been such a good little boy!’
With a wicked smile, Fawzi butted in. ‘Listen to what Said’s about to tell you. It all happened while you were in Egypt — I’m sure you haven’t heard it yet.’
Then Said began to narrate what they called ‘The Tale of the Sheikh’. ‘Sabha al-Farran slept with Ali Wafi in his family’s place. She lost her virginity to Ali that night and then ran out of the house in such a hurry that she forgot her knickers. She thought about going back to get them, but got scared she’d get caught doing it and then everyone would know.’
Fawzi objected, ‘Are we sure that Sabha even wears panties?’
That pissed Walid off. ‘You two have no shame. These are people’s reputations you’re talking about!’