June Rain (4 page)

Eliyya didn’t come back. His mother would receive a letter or two a year from him from New York City. A single page and a few lines, just enough to assure her that he was still alive. She also heard about him from returning students who had finished their studies in neighbouring US states. They had heard more about Eliyya than they had actually seen of him. In fact it was almost certain that all the young men of the village – there were approximately ten of them at the height of the war who formed a tight-knit community there – did not see him once at their regular meetings – not at Sunday mass at Saint Maroun Church, which no one could get out of, and not at the luncheons that followed during which they drank
arak
and made
tabbouleh
and became teary-eyed listening to Fayrouz. Some of them even flew in from other states in order not to miss these gatherings. They never saw Eliyya in person, but they did hear a lot about him. His name cropped up in the litany of people from the village who’d become prominent in some area, though the exact nature of his work remained obscure. Those who had seen him once or twice described him as if he were some other person – someone full of himself, preoccupied with his own intelligence, who spoke with a Midwestern accent and who scrutinised everything with his alert eyes. It was as if he were one of those Americans interested in the Middle East who pontificated in stiff language about structural reform in the Arab world on CNN in the late hours of the night or the small hours of the morning. He truly resembled them – tall, thin, a garish tie in colours made for television, eloquent, able to find just the right words with astonishing speed, as if reading his answers from a book.

Eliyya sank into that world until being discovered by someone from our quarter, from here, the Gang Quarter itself, one of the fellows Eliyya had turned his back on when he left for God’s big wide world. Eliyya couldn’t get away; they eventually caught up with him. It was one of those local young geniuses who found him on the internet one dull night in that early-to-bed town of ours. He searched him on Google – whose fame had just begun to spread – and Google led him to other sites, from one address to another, until he finally arrived at a private site he swore to his friends was Eliyya’s, even though it did not carry Eliyya’s name but rather a variation that by some stretch of the imagination could be the name of the Biblical prophet.

The young man passed the web address along to his friends, who began visiting it from time to time, in between visiting porn sites and chat rooms using fake names, an activity that quickly reverted to slinging cuss words back and forth using the few English expressions they had picked up watching violent American movies. They never found anything that pointed to Eliyya’s biographical information or his place of birth. Eliyya had done everything possible to make sure he didn’t leave any identifying traces – no proper name, no allusion to Lebanon or his town or even to the Arab world or the Arabic language. One day he uploaded a picture of himself to his site; he was half-naked, lying on the sand on some beach, staring passionately at a young blonde woman, also in a swimsuit, next to him. They could tell for sure it was him, even though he wasn’t wearing his glasses. From time to time, they would entertain themselves reading the quotes he posted with his daily blog entries. He had chosen one of these as his permanent motto:
Here I will record my thoughts, not in any particular order, and perhaps with intended confusion. This is the real order that imprints my project with the stamp of chaos.

In the meantime, cataracts had rendered Kamileh nearly blind. Her world began to shrink, and the more it shrank, the easier it became to move around. She abandoned the bedrooms and the living room to spend her day standing at the sink in her dark kitchen or sitting on the balcony whose deep shade defied even August’s heat. She had green fingers, Kamileh. Every day she added a new planter. She said her favourite was
zahrat al-mahkama
,
the court flower, which closed its petals at noon, the hour court is adjourned. She sat, not looking at anything. She recognised each of the neighbours by their footsteps: the school teacher who clicked her high heels, joyful for the new car she was able to buy after credit companies reinstated monthly instalment plans for customers on modest incomes; the blind singer whose daughter escorted him to the cafés along the river; or even the clip-clop of the donkey weighted down with a bundle of bamboo canes that his driver, in traditional baggy
shirwal
pants, would use to make baskets of all shapes and sizes. She detected strangers, too, from the sound of their footfall. She spoke to whomever she pleased and if anyone accused her of ignoring him or her, she blamed it on her failing vision. She sat there for hours by herself. At times it seemed that Kamileh lived the dimming of her eyesight the way a calm observer watches the light slowly fade at sunset.

One day, a letter arrived from Eliyya, as if at the wrong time, too soon after a previous letter, or perhaps after too long of a break. She had a strange feeling about the letter, but she wasn’t able to read anymore. She had to call Muntaha, her neighbour and life-long companion, to read the letter for her. Muntaha read the letter to herself first and then started telling Kamileh bit by bit. They were used to each other and to gentle banter. Kamileh smiled when she found out that her son was coming to visit, but she didn’t shout for joy over it.

Eliyya arrived at the Beirut airport on Sunday afternoon. Kamileh was waiting there for him with a group of her neighbours who accompanied her in two cars. They had convinced her after a long argument to end her mourning and wear the blue dress she had made for the day of her final exit. They accompanied her but did not realise until they were already there in the arrival hall amidst the crowd of all those people waiting to greet their returning relatives, that Kamileh could not actually see her son and they didn’t know him. Even if some of them had known him as a boy, they might not recognise him now after he’d gone grey and possibly lost his hair.

‘Well, he’ll recognise
me
!’

Putting an end to the confusion, Kamileh pulled out from her large bag a picture of Eliyya when he received his Baccalaureate with high honours. It was a large picture in a thick frame. She held it up above her head as her friends pushed her towards the front of the crowd. They waited, hoping he would be one of those arriving passengers pushing their suitcases and looking expectantly for their waiting relatives. Eliyya walked past them without turning his head, but then he heard someone calling.

‘Eliyya! Eliyya!’

And so he turned back. Eliyya and his mother held each other in a long embrace. Kamileh inhaled the smell of his face and his clothes and touched him all over while the neighbours stood waiting. She caused a big jam in the airport reception hall as she held Eliyya’s head in her hands and showered him with kisses. He was only able to free himself from her grip when the oncoming travellers with their suitcases forced their way through the line. He backed away a little in order to take a good look at her and he could tell from her slow movements and the way she used her hands that she had lost her sight. His eyes filled with tears so much that the contact lens in his right eye nearly fell out. The whole way home in the car, he held her hand tight, all the way until they reached the town and night had fallen.

Two days after Eliyya’s arrival, some of the relatives reunited under the shade of Kamileh’s porch to celebrate his safe arrival and to catch up on his news. They had rarely come to visit her. They were afraid of her, because despite her advanced age, she still had sharp claws. Maybe Eliyya’s return would soften her temperament. Each one said his piece.

‘If you’re smart, Kamileh, you won’t let him leave again. Doesn’t he have enough diplomas to find work here?’

She seemed resigned. ‘If only he would! He only has one month’s vacation from his job. He has to go back,’ she lied and then let out a heavy sigh. ‘No matter. I’m nearing the end. Only a little time remains . . .’

They tried to raise her spirits by offering the perfect solution. ‘You have a big house, and if he wanted, he could add another floor to it. You could convince him to bear you two or three grandchildren, and you can start by having your eye surgery. It’s an easy operation, you know. They don’t even make an incision. They use lasers, and you’d only have to stay in the hospital one day.’

She got upset, as if they had stung her.

‘What do I need an operation for? I know all the scenery by heart. What do you want me to see from here, that cow, Ibrahim al-Halaby’s wife, hanging her underwear out on the roof and strutting around? Or the drab front of Abu Mansour’s house? I’m sure I won’t live to see the day they repaint it. They have more debt on their backs than the hair on two furry dogs!’

There she went again. As soon as she opened her mouth, bullets shot out in every direction.

It was no use. They changed the subject and began to think of excuses to leave for their homes or for work.

She seemed to sense she had disappointed them. She had to say something to make up for it. ‘I knew that Eliyya was coming this year, and specifically at this time.’

How could they believe her?

‘You said you received a letter from him saying he was coming back . . .’

‘Even before that letter arrived I was expecting him to come. I imagined him suddenly appearing without warning. And before Muntaha read me his letter, I was shouting “Who is it?” every time there was a knock at the door, hoping he would be the one to answer.’

‘How did you know?’

‘A mother knows.’

Exactly the type of thing she would say. She knew everything and no one could argue with her. Exasperated with her, they asked, ‘How so? He hasn’t come back once in twenty years.’

‘Because at the end of next April he will be the same age his father was when he was killed in the Burj al-Hawa incident . . .’ None of the relatives said anything further, did not even let out a sigh. They waited for a signal or a gesture to wink at each other and get up to leave.

‘Once again, thank God for his safe return.’

For some time now, Kamileh no longer got up to see her guests out.

Chapter 3

The day Farid succeeded in cutting the pattern of a pair of men’s trousers without seeking Master Tailor Boulos’s advice, and without damaging the fine wool fabric, he didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t boast about his achievement one bit. Silence was his idea of manhood, and in those days, being manly was big. But his ability to cut a pattern by himself did not earn Farid the title of Master Tailor. He still had a bit of a heavy hand when he cut into the fabric, and he had still not sat behind a sewing machine. Only time would bring him that title, when he opened his own shop and cultivated some customers of his own.

It was 1956 when Farid had that first success in tailoring, without guidance and without messing up, a time when thinly-pinstriped grey English wool was the pride of young men, along with Lucky Strikes, the soft pack proudly displayed and clearly visible through thin shirt pockets. That same year, Gamal Abdel Nasser was nationalising the Suez Canal, which he called ‘The International Suez Canal Company’ in his speech.

Farid Badwi al-Semaani

Age: 24

Registry No.: 65/124

Marital Status: Single

Mother’s Maiden Name: Susaan Wardeh

Occupation: None

Eye Colour: Hazel

Moustache: Thin

Hair: Curly, Black

Distinguishing Marks: Wart on Left Cheek

It was nearing election time. There were two open seats in the district and four candidates, four families. The competition was fierce. Farid would never leave his relatives in their time of need. They called him ‘Abu Ali’ from time to time, the kind of nickname given to tough guys. They depended on him. And the women – whenever he walked down the street past their open doors they ate him up with their eyes. He wasn’t going to let the women down, either. Everyone knew about his exploits; the stories circulated from one person to another, and he in turn obliged them with many more to talk about. Farid was a doer, not a talker. He rushed in headlong, without warning and without being asked.

Farid heard that the Mayor of Upper Almaat was threatening supporters of the Semaani candidate with dire consequences. The mayor was as enthusiastic in his support of the opposition as one of their own flesh and blood. Farid knew the mayor well. He went to the mayor’s house in the evening, all by himself. He asked one of his friends to drop him off at the entrance to the village and turn back.

The mayor was afraid the moment he saw Farid standing in the doorway. He was the same age Farid’s father would have been had his father still been alive. His wife and daughter cried and begged Farid to spare him.

‘Shave off one side of your moustache! Right now, in front of me!’

That was all Farid said. The man was nearly brought to tears with humiliation. The mayor’s moustache was famous. From the time his facial hair first started to grow, no one had ever seen him without the moustache. After much encouragement from his wife, he gave in.

The news reached Master Boulos. He warned Farid to stop. He went up to Farid and pulled the piece of fabric right out of his hands, forcing him to listen. ‘You come from a family of decent people, Farid . . .’ He meant his father, at least, his father and his paternal uncles. They were men who worked hard, who spent their lives rising before dawn and going to bed before sunset. They drove mules, hitting the trail day in and day out. Then his father sold the mules and worked in stonecutting – another decent profession, and a tiring one, too. His father’s tools were still at the house: the chisel, the pick and the hammer. Behind the door was his father’s greatest treasure: a mortar chiselled out of sumac-coloured stone.