At the far end of the lawn, the men have begun to gather by the fig tree, untangling themselves from the laughter and gossip of the women. The women settle around the table, the torches casting shadows upon their faces.
“I’ve heard the border might close,” one of the women says.
“They’re saying Egypt loves a war.”
“Egypt loves a good soap opera.”
“Speaking of, did you see that last episode . . .”
Familiarly, the talk settles into shows and their favorite starlets. War is war; they are bored of it. The children sit scattered around the women or curled in their mothers’ laps. The ibrik roasts over a flame in the courtyard’s entrance, the perfume of coffee drifting across the garden. The coffee set has been washed and dried, the mosaic tray oiled. Alia sits at the head of the table, a younger cousin settled on her lap. Alia braids the child’s hair, smiling at one of the neighbors’ stories.
Mustafa and Atef have joined the men by the fig tree. The torch light barely reaches them, and Salma struggles to make out the white of their shirts. One of the young boys at the table squirms from his mother’s arms and skips over to the men, arms outstretched to his father. The father kneels down and hoists the boy onto his hip. Salma watches the men gesture. Their hands blur in the dark. Smoke from the cigarettes hovers above them.
She knows without hearing any of it what they are saying, the names they are repeating, the dates. Soon, there will be an argument; there always is. Blisters of rage, which must be drained. And the women, intimate with such scenes, will rise wearily, go to their husbands or brothers or fathers. Speak to them in soothing voices.
Salma can see the bubbling of the ibrik at the courtyard entrance. Lulwa rushes toward it carrying the coffee set. Black liquid has begun to spill over the edge, causing sparks in the flame. Salma makes a gesture with her hand, trying to catch Alia’s eye. Alia should be the one to serve the coffee, on this last night as a single woman, the cups set carefully on the tray, memorizing who wants sugar and who wants it bitter. Serving the old men first, then the hajis, then Atef. Pausing in front of the man who will be her husband, demurely, one of thousands of times she will serve him coffee.
But Alia doesn’t see Salma’s beckoning. She has finished the child’s braid and is kissing the top of her dark hair.
Salma feels a slow weariness in her limbs. An image of the wedding tomorrow swims, unbidden, before her. The hall empty, chairs toppled, tablecloths stained oily from the candles. Dinner plates abandoned, the feasts now carnage, strewn fish bones and globules of lamb fat. Salma sees her daughter’s makeup as it will be after hours beneath hot lights—waxy, crinkles of mascara at the corners of her eyes. The wedding dress, with its beaded bodice and cream-puff sleeves, creased from all the dancing. Across the table, Alia yawns and Salma imagines her tomorrow evening, tired, happy, leaving in Atef’s arms.
“God, that breeze is amazing,” one of the women says.
“Not that they’d notice.” An aunt nods toward the men. “They’re starting.”
Salma turns. The men are talking more rapidly now. A few look annoyed, shaking their heads. Their voices are audible. She returns her gaze to her daughter. Alia looks at her and smiles, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. The gesture lights the girl’s face.
This is why she saw the zebra, Salma thinks. Because it is Alia, darling, baby Alia. Love and fear for the girl have the same metallic taste. Doubt—beautiful doubt—glimmers now. Surely her vision was clouded. Can she even be certain of what she saw? She tries to remember the valley of the coffee cup, can conjure up only the alarm. Perhaps it wasn’t even a zebra but a bear or wolf, some other four-legged creature. Alia laughs across the table. Yes, Salma thinks, her hand outstretched to her youngest, miming the lifting of the ibrik. The form in the coffee cup flashes in her mind. Yes, it must’ve been a horse. Not a zebra, but a horse with smudges, a speckled horse. It means travel, perhaps, even a difficult first pregnancy, but luck; it also means luck.
Mustafa
* * *
Nablus
October 1965
“Brothers, we have come to a crossroad,” Mustafa recites under his breath. “We cannot continue as we are.”
He pauses at a patch of grass bordering the road and squints up at the sky. The late afternoon is cool, the setting sun disappearing behind the hills. Each morning and evening, he walks along the valley between his house and the school, preferring it to driving. It clears his head. His job is a simple one, teaching arithmetic to adolescents at a nearby school, and though he enjoys it—the elegance of mathematics, the satisfaction of watching pupils solve equations—it feels dull occasionally, rote. The walks give him time to pound the earth with his sandals.
Up ahead is another hill, small houses with vegetable gardens out front. Beyond them are the simpler huts, with cracked windows and pots of water boiled for heat. Aya lives in one of those huts. Mustafa goes by them, keeping his eyes on the top of the middle hills, rising against the plum sky. The view is regal.
“We cannot continue as we are,” he repeats.
There is a construction site to the left, and men mill around smoking cigarettes. Mustafa undoes the first two buttons at his neck as he walks past.
“Brothers, we are losing a fight.” Too meek. “Brothers, we are losing a fight.” He tries a sweeping gesture with his hand. He is pleased with the effect and does it again, this time with both hands.
“Have you finally lost your mind?” Mustafa looks up to see Omar, one of the mosque shabab, walking toward him from the site. Omar wears the green construction uniform, perspiration soaking the collar.
“This is what it’s come to, brother?” Omar asks, grinning. “Roaming the streets and talking to yourself?”
Mustafa holds his hands up in defeat, grins back. “We are a lazy generation.” It is a well-worn joke among the men at the mosque, a reference to Israeli pamphlets calling Arab men cowardly and indolent. He waves toward the construction. “How’s the building going?”
“Starts and stops. Bastards are stingy with permits.” Omar spits on the road, a stream of brown. “And if not that, we get hassled on zoning. If we’re not getting fucked from one side, it’s coming from the other.”
Omar pulls out a pack of cigarettes and hands one to Mustafa. They light them and smoke, facing the valley. For a couple of moments they are silent, each lost in thought. Then a whistle cuts through the air and they turn to see the construction overseer gesturing to Omar.
“Let’s move it, sweetheart,” the man calls out nastily. “You’re not paid to chat with your friends.”