He felt his blood boil, a hot pulse coursed through his veins, his heart was pounding against his chest. The window pane was cracked and the paint was peeling off the walls. The sun had not yet set, the smell of something stale emanated from a far corner of the room. The rickety wooden box on which he sat shook. There was a hole in the side of his shoe. He had not slept a wink last night, nor had he eaten anything since the previous evening. His guts twisted and a muffled rumbling reached his ears. He'd been thinking but he wouldn't say anything yet. He will leave time to resolve the matter, but what was the solution? He had no idea. He had considered all aspects of the problem last evening but had reached no conclusion. He will have to leave things alone, it was no good.
The water he had left in the pot boiled in the kitchen. The smell of onions filled his hands. The aroma of fried garlic coming from some neighbour pervaded the air, but there was nobody to call out to. His father had died and left him - and had also bequeathed him other thing to torment him. The days stretched as long as the minaret. He sometimes compared the length of the minaret with that of the oil-press chimney. The well in the orchard had dried up and was useless. The olive trees had not borne any fruit last year. The dates had not been gathered from the palm trees. He searched a long time for someone to gather the dates but without success. He had gone to look for the date gatherer he knew but was told:
'He has gone to live in the city.'
So he asked:
'What's he doing in the city? There are no palm trees there.' They answered him:
'He's working as a watchman.'
He enquired:
'So who gathers the dates then?'
'No one.'
He remembered the olives but hesitated before asking. One of the men, as if reading his thoughts, said:
'Not even the olives! You won't find anybody to gather them.' Another laughed and added:
'You won't find anyone, even if you offer to share the yield with them.'
Dust particles invaded his nostrils. One of the men was holding a donkey by its collar. The bleating of sheep filled the air. Suddenly an unexpected silence fell everywhere, to be interrupted by the braying of a donkey. Green pieces of paper emerged from pockets and were exchanged by several hands. The man standing next to him was being obstinate, he insisted then refused. Hands continued to stretch out towards him.
The man shouted:
'I shan't sell him at that price!'
The man standing opposite him asked:
'His price? For God's sake, what's his price?'
Several words mingled in front of him and he could not distinguish between them. He didn't know why he remained standing there. He didn't realise how he got to be involved in the dispute. He nodded his head a few times and he smiled once. His thoughts strayed for a few seconds but he remained standing, wanting to ask once more about a date or olive harvester. It was the first time that he had to handle these matters. The argument going on around him was concerning the price of a ram. He heard the man standing next to him say:
'It's not just his price. Look at him! Just you try and lift him off the ground ...if it wasn't for necessity, I wouldn't sell him. I was going to keep him for the feast. I chose him out of a whole flock. You couldn't find such rare meat in all the market.'
The man standing opposite still asked: 'His price? By God, what's his price?' He moved forward as if to examine the ram but realised how ridiculous that would be. What did he care about the ram? He measured his steps as he moved away and left the market behind him. The shouts of the seller and the buyer grew fainter until they left no trace on his mind.
The smell of the blazing sand baking under the scorching sun rose above his head. He could discern his house in the distance. His mother will be asking him about the dates and the olives. She was as prudent about their means of living as his father was. He will have to tell her that he could not find the date gatherer or anybody else. She will no doubt utter words of mournful regret about his father and volunteer to undertake the business in hand herself. Yes, he knew that she would have liked to supervise the work in their orchard, she could not neglect their livelihood and she will taunt him because he could not do the job. Her words about their 'livelihood' will wound his ears, and his mother would ask for the hundredth time:
'Do I have to go out and look for someone to take care of the orchard?'
He will answer:
'No.'
'What then? Are we going to neglect our livelihood?'
'My salary will suffice.'
'But what about the oil and the dates? Our whole stock for the year?!'
'We'll buy some from the market.'
'When we already have an orchard!'
'Well, what's to be done?'
'What's to be done? Hasn't your father told you...'
He will lose his temper and interrupt her irritably:
'Everybody buys from the market!'
She would then bemoan her misfortune and curse her fate, and perhaps curse him. She would cry in anguish and remember the times when his father was alive... she will remember everything to the day... she will recall many things about him... about his work. He will just have to submit to all this quietly. He won't say a word.
He stumbled on the front doorstep. He heard a loud voice, then his mother's voice, mingled with crying and moaning. They faced each other. He felt his blood boiling and a hot pulse rushed through his veins. His heart beat wildly against his rib cage.
He asked him:
'My brother... what's happened'?'
After the brother calmed down a bit, he muttered something and turned his head away.
He replied in controlled tones:
'Nothing. '
'Nothing? How'? What's the matter'?'
His brother's voice rose a little:
'I've told you ... it's nothing.'
'I've got eyes!'
'God forbid... I've told you it's nothing.'
'Praise be to God.'
He remained quiet for a while, then he addressed the question to his mother. Tears were coursing silently down her cheeks. Her eyes fixed on his face.
'Mother... what's up?'
She said nothing but a sob shook her body. He turned to his brother and asked:
'Aren't you going to tell me ...?'
A minute passed, sharp as a knife. the passing seconds nearly
severing his nerves. The pane of glass in the only small window in the room was cracked, bit of paint have been peeling off the walls. His brother turned to him suddenly and said in a low voice, with his head hanging down:
'I told her... I'm selling my share.'
His eyes opened wide but without a glimmer. He held his breath for a long while then exhaled it forcibly:
'You're selling your share?!'
'Yes.'
The trace of a smile appeared on his lips, he hesitantly moved towards his brother and whispered:
'You've frightened her, my brother.'
His brother replied quickly:
'I meant what 1 said.'
'You meant what you said! You really mean it ... you mean you really mean it!'
'I said I'm going to sell my share... it's my right and it's my inheritance. '
'But this is our livelihood. .. my brother.'
'I'm selling my share!'
The sun still scorched the ground. The stale smell still crept from the room and pervaded his nostrils, damp and clammy. His eyes fell on the wooden box.
After a pause he said:
'Do you want people to laugh at us?'
His brother asked sharply:
'People laugh? At what?'
'At what you intend to do.'
'That's a good one! If 1 choose to sell my share of the land... people would laugh!'
'Yes... we must increase it, not sell it.'
'Well, I'm selling.'
There was a hole in the side of his shoe. Last night he hadn't slept a wink.
'I was thinking. 1 shall start repairing the house again.'
'Think as you please. As for me, I'm selling.'
'What's the hurry?'
'I was offered a good price.'
'Have you offered it for sale already?'
'Yes.'
'So... you've been thinking of selling for a long' time!'
'I want to live in the city.'
'We can all live in the city... but we mustn't sell.'
'I want the money... I want to live like other people!'
He had not eaten anything since yesterday. His guts twisted and inner rumblings reached his ears.
'Let me think about it. '
'What do I care. Think or don't think. The city keeps expanding ... the land's value is increasing ... who'd have thought the orchard
would be measured in metres?'
'Let me think.'
'And who's stopping you from thinking... you're strange!'
He thought... but he didn't say anything... He would just have to leave time to solve the problem... but what was the solution? He had no idea. There was no longer a smell of garlic in the air, the smell of onions had disappeared from his hands. He wished she would shout at him. Their eyes met suddenly and he heard his brother say:
'We must divide the orchard.'
He turned towards his mother. She sometimes 'died' in instants.
He recalled the length of the minaret which their neighbour had built for the mosque which their father had set up ... and compared it with the chimney of the oil press. He heard his brother say quietly:
'Don't let's fall out. The Sheikh at the mosque will divide our shares. The well has dried in the orchard, it's of no use. The olive trees didn't yield last year. There's nobody to gather the dates. I've met our brother-in-law. I've asked him to represent our sister at the sharing out.'
The date gatherer was now a watchman in the city. They could not find anybody to gather the olives, even on the basis of going halves with them. The ram's price was too high, but the purchaser wanted to buy him at any price, still the owner refuses, swearing by its virtues and boasting about its merits. The bleating of a goat could be heard from inside the house. He had bought it two months ago for his mother to add to the two calves which still remained after his father's funeral. His brother's words stuck in his mind. He dwelt on all these matters but could not reach a solution. Is he to leave everything? It was no use. The old woman huddled there, her head bowed. Suddenly he blurted out:
'I won't sell him at that price!'
His brother was puzzled:
'Sell what?'
'The ram.'
His brother's eyes opened wide in bewilderment. Astonishment parted his lips open and filled the space within.
'What ram?'
'Indeed what ram?'
'Didn't you say that you wouldn't sell him at that price?!'
He hung his head and said nothing. The brother asked:
'You mean you won't sell your share? You're free to do as you please.'
His mother did not ask him who would look after the orchard, nor did he ask about their livelihood which his father had secured for them. It was he who asked:
'But the oil and the dates and the yearly stock!'
His brother laughed and moved closer to him. He placed his hand on his shoulder and said in slow, quiet, deliberate tones:
'Everything's in the market, oil and dates and confectioneries and almonds. '
He didn't question him any more. His mother did not ask who was going to work in the orchard. His salary will suffice. His mother kept quiet and didn't utter a word. He made no reference to what he expected of her, but looked kindly at her. She lifted her head and he saw in her eyes words she did not wish to voice. He said to himself: 'Such is the state of the world... separations.'
His voice rose in spite of himself and he muttered his thoughts: 'God curse the devil!'
His mother, too, uttered something but he couldn't make it out.
As he moved to leave his brother's voice followed him:
'We'll meet this evening... The Sheikh is coming, so is our brother-in-law. The sun hasn't set yet.'
His foot stumbled on the floor of the room. A blast of hot dry air engulfed him. His blood was still boiling and his heartbeats throbbed rhythmically in his chest. |