Free Ishmael's Oranges by Claire Hajaj Page A

she was off again, scurrying into the kitchen like a mouse through sacks of grain.
    The apartment of Tareq and Nadia Al-Ghanem was a perfect reflection of its owners – neat, ordered and conservative. A kind home, stretched beyond its tiny limits to accommodate five more people than it was ever meant to hold. The shameful fact of Nadia’s childlessness – one dead infant and three miscarriages – had become cause for celebration. Had her own children been here, where could the family have gone?
    Nadia returned with a glass of water, and sat down next to Salim. He saw that her hands were nervous, fidgeting in her lap.
    â€˜What’s up?’ he said. ‘Do you have a boyfriend hiding in here somewhere?’ She didn’t slap the back of his neck as he expected. The absence of her touch sent a warning chill through him.
    â€˜Listen, Salim,’ she said and then stopped. Her hand reached over to touch his arm. ‘Please, Salim, promise me you won’t get all crazy.’ That word, majnoon , was his father’s favourite insult. That Nadia used it now told him there was some problem, something to do with Abu Hassan.
    A door opened behind them with a click. Salim turned to see Rafan emerge from the bedroom. His small face was sleepy and white, his mother’s green eyes hiding under pale eyelids.
    â€˜What are you doing home?’ asked Salim, opening his arms for the boy.
    â€˜I was sick so Mama let me stay home from school.’ Rafan came slowly, trailing his fingers along the chair backs. When he reached Salim, he curled his thin body into his brother’s side and looked up into his face.
    â€˜Did Nadia tell you?’ he said, small fingers tapping Salim’s arm. ‘Baba is going back to Jaffa, to sell the house.’
    â€˜What?’ Salim went rigid, panic rushing through him like ice water. ‘That’s impossible. Baba would never do that, never.’ He turned to Nadia, who spread helpless hands. She slapped Rafan on his forehead, half-loving, half-scolding.
    â€˜Rafan, you’re a real troublemaker,’ she said. ‘What do you know about anything, you monkey?’ Then to Salim, ‘ Habibi , don’t get upset. Nothing is decided. Your father is at the office with Tareq, talking to Abu Mazen.’ Tareq was a family lawyer, making a little living piecing together the broken parts of Arab lives.
    â€˜But he can’t sell,’ Salim said. He felt seven years old again, pleading. ‘It’s the last thing we have, now all the money’s gone.’
    â€˜That’s just it, Salim. The money has gone. Your father and mother want you to have something to live on, not just dreams.’ Nadia’s eyes were sympathetic, but life had taught her that sentimentality does not feed you, or keep you warm at night.
    â€˜Where’s Mama?’ Salim asked. She would never let this happen.
    â€˜She went to Al-Jameela’s for a haircut,’ said Rafan. ‘She knows about it, though. She told me.’ Salim stared at his brother in disbelief. Rafan was only eight, a baby still – what right did he have to her secrets?
    Nadia took Salim’s hand. ‘I know how important that place is to you, habibi , believe me,’ she said gently. ‘But please, don’t worry yourself sick. They’ll all be home soon. We’ll talk it through.’
    He nodded and detached himself from her. Hoisting his schoolbag onto his shoulder, he walked into their little bedroom.
    It was close and hot, the air motionless. He lay down on his mattress underneath the window.
    The boys had all shared a room until Hassan left for England two years ago, to live with Tareq’s relatives. Hassan’s bed was still just as he’d left it, his blanket patterned with little black footballs. Rafan’s mattress was on the floor beside it, filling the room with a sour stink. At first the little boy had tried to climb in with