The Sea Cloak Read online

  A man sitting behind the counter looks up to see the seventeen-year-old eagerly sidestepping those less focussed in their queuing. He tries to smile but an old facial injury makes it look more like a sneer these days. ‘Young man, I can see you’re hungry,’ he calls out cheerfully, ‘but relax, we have all the food you can wish for.’

  The young man clears his throat as he reaches the counter. ‘Yes, I hear you’re renowned for your spaghetti,’ he replies in Hebrew. ‘I’m spoilt for choice. I’m not sure what to have.’

  ‘You’ve come to the right place. How about pasta with a white garlic sauce? We use a special milk for the sauce,’ the old man explains, struggling to wrap his lips around the words. ‘Or a spicy red arrabiata?’

  ‘I think I’ll have the white sauce,’ the young man replies, sitting himself down at a table.

  ‘I was a soldier you know,’ the old man says, gesturing at his scar. ‘I took part in the single, greatest military act of independence.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ the young man grumbles without looking up.

  ‘So, you noticed my injury, eh?’ the old man laughs.

  ‘It’s too loud in here, I can’t hear you,’ the young man says, pointing to his ear.

  A little boy with freckles, from another table, walks towards him, his eyes set on the ukulele case. Flustered, the young man tries to move it out of his reach without saying anything.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ the old man calls out, as the waiter brings out his pasta. ‘Are small guitars more expensive the normal sized ones?’

  ‘Kelb,’1 the little boy’s mother mutters lovingly, as he sits back down beside her. For a moment, the Arabic word confuses the young man. Then a woman in a short skirt walks past his table, carrying a glass of fresh orange juice with plenty of ice. She sits down two tables across from him. Latin music fills the café; the late morning sun dazzles the customers every time they look up.

  ‘Look at those legs!’ the old man says.

  The young man blushes. The sweat on his skin feels like blocks of ice melting on a griddle pan.

  ‘Seems I’m the younger of the two of us...’ the man chuckles.

  The teenager stares down at his bowl of pasta and white sauce, as his right hand makes its way to the coarse fabric casing attached to his belt.

  As the kitchen clock ticks noon, the white sauce sprays upwards, mingling for a frozen nanosecond with the red. The little boy with freckles daydreams for the last time about learning the guitar. The old man taps his foot to one last beat. The woman with the long legs takes her last sip of orange juice in a tornado of spaghetti and wood and stone. Tables fly, the roof collapses, blood and bone are scattered in the dust. Of the young man’s curious gaze, nothing remains. Even the journalist who gave him a lift will fail to remember the look in his eyes, as he rubbed his hands.

  Sbarro’s Restaurant is demolished but Jaffa Road remains, dissecting the city from east to west with its usual cacophony of noise.

  Note

  1.  Kelb: Dog, used affectionately in Arabic, for small children.

  14 June1

  Balcony

  She follows her little sister’s gaze, as her eyes dart to every new sound in the street below. She can hear her sister’s heavy breathing, and wants to hug her, but can’t bring herself to do it. Their university is closed today so they have to stay where they are. They stand there together, pressed against the balcony railing, the sound of the TV news filling the apartment behind them.

  Through the glare of the sun, she also follows every movement. A woman holding a small, stunted pot plant is running down the road so fast that her slippers keep coming off. It seems she took it from one of the buildings in the square, at the crossroads that leads to the city’s administrative headquarters. Her throat is dry as her eyes follows the figure; saliva seems to stick at the back of her throat as she struggles to catch her breath.

  Her younger sister points to a group of young men scaling the side of the building opposite and crawling along its roof; they begin to remove the slates, one by one, until the building is left rudely naked to the sky above. She tries to distract her: ‘Look at this guy,’ and they watch as a man carrying a large aluminium window frame runs down the street, then throws it onto the back of a cart already laden down with plunder. It is like the End Times; people swarm with their loot; official documents change hands, as if to make it official, and every man turns a blind eye to the next; carts and donkeys cluster along the pavements. Others scatter on foot with their acquisitions, emptying buildings that were only abandoned by employees a few hours before.

  Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, the looters chant in gratitude, as they bow down at the entrance to the headquarters before entering. God has made them victorious over the infidels.

  The sound of the last days’ gunfire still rings in the sisters’ ears. The family have spent a week in hiding, sleeping in the corridor, staying clear of windows and never daring to go out, for fear their paths might intersect with that of a stray missile or a ricocheted bullet.

  Images flash through her mind like lightning. How many times has she jumped out of bed thinking that a bullet has punctured her window? How many times have she and her sister thrown themselves into their mother’s arms, or huddled together at the foot of the bed, on hearing an RPG mortar screeching towards that building on the square?

  There’s a man being held by armed men on the roof of the apartment block across the street; they are dangling him over the edge, his long beard trailing down to the street below.

  ‘What are you doing?’ comes a shout from beneath. ‘He’s one of us!’

  The Voice of Israel radio can be heard from a nearby balcony: ‘Israel has sent ambulances to the nearest border point and is willing to treat Palestinians wounded by the infighting. The gates have been opened to anyone fleeing the violence.’ The presenter’s words mingle with those shouted by the other men below, as they load their trucks with boxes full of guns. Looking more closely, the older sister can make out faint letters printed onto the side of one of the boxes. She knows the words from her English class.

  A fire in one building, smoke snaking upwards from another.

  Her legs are a little shaky today, so she paces to and fro along the railing, to walk it off. Her little sister is too nervous to stand at the railing, but she has never been scared of falling, and whenever something new happens, she’s quick to lean over the edge as low as she can to make it out.

  Groups of masked men are now confiscating their neighbours’ cars, declaring them ill-gotten gains, the fruits of corruption, invalid property.

  There is a knock at the door. The sisters’ mother heads out of the sitting room, where she has been going about her business as if nothing was happening, and answers the door.

  ‘We need to search the house,’ a voice says.

  ‘No. It isn’t appropriate; my daughters are at home.’ She is defiant.

  The man at the door starts to raise his voice at her, but another interjects. ‘As you wish, Ma’am, he says. ‘We shan’t come in. Is there a man in the house?’

  ‘No, nobody’s here,’ she replies.

  ‘Are there any weapons in the house?’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  A bearded man in a khaki jacket suddenly pushes his way through the group. One of the men raises his hand to greet him. ‘Get the hell out of here!’ he barks. ‘Dismissed. This is my brother’s house.’ The men scatter, like the beads of a dropped misbaha.

  Their mother simply walks back to the kitchen. ‘Why don’t you wait and have lunch with us?’ she calls back to him. ‘I have to make it early, we’re all home anyway.’

  Their uncle drops down in front of the television and looks over at his nieces, who have now sat down quietly in front of him. They look older. It seems odd to him that they haven’t welcomed him with hugs and blessings, but then he realises he can’t bring himself to greet them either. Instead, he just turns up the TV.

  One of the reports
sends a smile dancing across his face, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by the older niece. Getting up, she walks to the coffee table where he has just set down his gun, and hands it back to him. ‘Don’t leave this lying around the house,’ she snaps. ‘Keep it holstered. Where is Baba?’

  ‘He’s alright. Don’t worry. He’ll be back,’ he replies.

  Their uncle puts the gun away.

  ‘Did they take the gun?’ he shouts to their mother.

  ‘No, it’s safe. It didn’t belong to them, and we are staying put anyway. We’re not leaving the city just because others are.’

  Peephole

  She ignites one of the rings on the stove. Instead of setting a pot on it, she stares at it for a moment. If someone else were to enter the kitchen then, they’d think she were counting the number of flames dancing around its circle. One, two, three, four... Her black, almond-shaped eyes are lost in them, as if lost in the distance.

  She leaves the gas burning, quickly picks up a knife, and starts chopping vegetables without looking. She tips these into a pot, adds water and lifts the now heavy pot onto the flames. Turning down the gas, she walks out of the kitchen.

  She stands behind the balcony door, unseen, observing the way her daughters’ bodies react to each new sound. On nearby balconies, neighbours stand perfectly still, like wax statues. Every few seconds there’s a crash as something heavy hits the ground below, or lands on a cart. They should move more, she thinks. They should flinch.

  Walking back across the sitting room, she can’t help catch more of what the TV has to show of the chaos down below. Breaking news indeed, she thinks, ironically. Without making a sound, she reaches the front door and looks through the peephole. Masked men are shouting at a neighbour across the landing, while others carry guns out of her apartment. She sees her neighbour trembling, wringing a teacloth between her hands as she stands there. She can’t read her lips so she puts her ear to the door. She catches the odd word… my husband… travelling to Ramallah.

  She is worried. Her eyes grow wider and her face darkens. Pulling at her hair, she walks to her bedroom, quietly shuts the door behind her, finds her mobile phone and calls her husband. His phone is switched off, but she tries again all the same. Then, remembering the food on the stove, she darts back to the kitchen to find the water boiling over. Snatching the pot away, she scalds herself. Even after running her hand under the cold tap for three minutes, she still wants to scream.

  Returning to the peephole, she sees more masked men trudging in and out of her neighbour’s apartment, as the woman stands there, motionless. Back in the sitting room, she can hear men ordering the confiscation of cars in the street below. Through the window, she sees two masked men standing guard outside her own apartment block.

  After silently checking on the girls, she once more locks herself in her bedroom and digs out her phone. ‘Where are you? Your brother is not back yet. Can you hurry back? It’s just me and the girls and I see men outside.’

  She stops.

  ‘Someone’s knocking, I have to go.’

  She takes a deep breath, looks at herself in the mirror and pulls her hair back.

  We have been through worse, she tells herself. This will pass and soon it will be as if nothing ever happened today. She makes secret fists with her hands as she walks to the door. She looks through the peephole. The masked men have arrived.

  ‘We need to search the house.’

  ‘No. It isn’t appropriate; my daughters are at home.’ She is defiant.

  The man at the front starts to raise his voice at her, but another interjects. ‘As you wish, Ma’am, he says. ‘We shan’t come in. Is there a man in the house?’

  ‘No, nobody’s here!’ she replies.

  ‘Are there any weapons in the house?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  A bearded man in a khaki jacket suddenly pushes his way through the group. One of the men raises his hand to greet him. ‘Get the hell out of here!’ he barks. ‘Dismissed. This is my brother’s house.’ The men scatter, like the beads of a dropped Misbaha.

  She simply walks back to the kitchen. ‘Why don’t you wait and have lunch with us?’ she calls back to him. ‘I have to make it early, we’re all home anyway.’

  He follows her in and shuts the door. ‘Don’t worry, he’s alright,’ he whispers.

  She stops and turns around to face him.

  ‘Yes, I think so. The girls are inside. Go check on them, will you.’

  She walks into the kitchen and starts to cry. Her first time today. Then, just as quickly, she wipes her face, lights the stove and starts to cook, this time not looking at the flames.

  Note

  1. The title refers to 14 June 2007, the day in which Palestinian president Mahmoud Abbas announced the dissolution of the unity government and declared a state of emergency. It occured at the height of the Battle of Gaza, also referred to as 'Hamas' takeover of Gaza' (10-15 June 2007), which followed Fatah losing the parliamentary elections of 2006. Hamas fighters took control of the Gaza Strip and removed Fatah officials from political and aministrative positions, resulting in the de facto division of the Palestinian territories into two entities, the West Bank governed by the Palestinian National Authority, and Gaza governed by Hamas.

  The Long Braid

  30 March 2017

  If she leans back far enough in her chair, behind her modest desk on the fourth floor, she can just about see the sky. The windows of the office are always open, and when she pushes back away from the desk, her cheeks are touched by a cool breeze as soft as the white curtains billowing above her. She smiles as she listens to the music in the background. She takes a sip of her coffee and starts to write today’s article. It is Land Day1 and the office smells of spring. On the desk in front of her sits a computer and monitor, but the keyboard is pushed to one side, to make space for her notebook. She always starts with her notebook. Whatever she’s writing about – whether it’s the latest announcement from Ramallah, or a new report on the state of the Strip’s water supply – she always starts her day with an exercise: a visualisation of some ancient memory, just to get her mind into the quiet space needed to write. She closes her eyes.

  The sound of applause washes over her. She tightens her grip on the microphone, feels her hands slowly warming its cold metal.

  She opens her eyes and looks down at the pen currently gripped in her fingers. For a moment she continues to hold it like a microphone, then remembers where she is and begins to scribble down the opening paragraph of her article. Before long she has three pages of notes. Taking another sip of coffee, she sets the notebook down and pulls the keyboard towards her.

  Her delicate fingers flit across the keyboard, as if performing a piece of music at a piano. From time to time, she pauses, to toy with her newly cut hair, passing its thick strands between her fingers. Whenever she types, her body moves rhythmically in her chair, as if remembering some melody. Her feet rest on the floor beneath her on tiptoes, as if poised to begin a new routine. Her whole body is limber.

  Suddenly, the memory of her French dance instructor swims into her thoughts. The woman had given her tap dance lessons: ‘No, I’m an Arab.’ She smiles at the memory.

  She sits back in her chair and wonders about other talents she might have developed. As a girl, she’d also had a singing coach, an American. She touches her throat gently for a moment, unsure if she can still sing the way she once did. Instead, she tries to look at what she’s writing now through his eyes, the singing coach’s. Would he have seen music in it?

  Twenty years have passed since she last sung in front of other people, but every time she imagines it, her pulse races and she feels a lump in her throat that she cannot swallow. This triggers, in turn, something else, and she feels tears stinging her eyes, like the ones she tried so desperately not to shed that day she was excluded from class. With each new sting, she writes down another word on a blank page of the notebook; a word that describes her love for her country, a word
that stands in defiance of all the meaningless symbols her maths teacher put on the board that day.

  30 March 1997

  A long braid swings behind Qamar, like a tail. Her feet hardly seem to touch the floor as she skips down the corridor of the UNRWA2 school in the standard black and yellow stripes of the refugee children’s uniforms. But for the fact that she is late for class, she has all the grace of a butterfly.

  She knocks on the classroom door nervously. ‘Can I come in?’ she asks.

  ‘Where have you been?’ the maths teacher snaps as she teases the door open. He is a short, fat man with thick-framed glasses and on this particular day a very colourful shirt.

  ‘I was rehearsing for the school show,’ Qamar explains.

  Mr Ibrahim fires her a quizzical look, amused by the girl’s rebelliousness.

  ‘You know, on judgement day, you’ll hang from that braid of yours? Not to mention smoulder in the fires of hell for leaving it exposed? Your voice should be put to better use, like reciting the holy Qur’an.’

  Her cheeks flush but her eyes hold his gaze. She doesn’t hate this teacher; in fact, she rather likes him. ‘But it’s Land Day, sir,’ she explains, still standing in the doorway. ‘And I want to participate in the singing of patriotic songs.’

  The exchange grows more animated, and the other girls watch in awe as Qamar rebuffs and returns each of her teacher’s accusations. Finally he relents and allows her to enter the classroom. She walks to her chair confidently, as all the other girls smile at her, without quite knowing why. She smiles back at them all, and sits down.