Free Ishmael's Oranges by Claire Hajaj Page B

Hassan, who had no time for him. ‘He pisses every fucking night,’ he’d complained. ‘Pissing or crying is all he ever does.’ So Rafan had started crawling onto Salim’s mattress in the dark, whenever his own bed became too wet or full of pursuing dreams. Sometimes Salim woke up damp and smelling of urine, but he couldn’t find it in him to deny his brother’s need.
    Something to live on, not just dreams. It was all very well for them to say. But what was life worth, once all the dreams have become dust?
    After a while a key turned in the front door, and he heard Rafan’s shrill voice crying out ‘Mama, Mama!’
    Swinging his legs off the bed, Salim moved towards the door, opening it a crack. His mother passed him by, her copper hair shining in the sunlight as she leaned forward to scoop Rafan up in her arms. She looked fresh and even happy – perfumed and coiffured, wearing a light red dress with flowers stitched along the hem.
    He opened the door and said, ‘Hi, Mama.’ She turned, Rafan with his arm around her legs.
    â€˜Salim, habibi . How was school today?’ She smiled, reaching out her hand for him. Surely, surely, this nonsense about the house could not be true?
    â€˜Not bad. They think I’m doing well.’
    â€˜So they should, that clever brain of yours. If only I had half of your brain, I’d be rich by now.’
    Salim shrugged to hide his pleasure. Nadia, standing in the kitchen door, came to put her hand on Salim’s shoulder.
    â€˜He’s a very smart young man, for sure,’ she said, almost defensively. It irritated him; sometimes Nadia acted as if she didn’t trust his mother.
    â€˜Mama,’ Salim said, as his mother turned to walk into her bedroom, ‘the house – our house in Jaffa.’
    â€˜What about it?’
    â€˜Are we selling it?’ The words came out in a higher pitch than he’d wanted. His mother’s face smoothed into a blank.
    â€˜It’s more complicated than that, Salim,’ she said – but then the sound of the door stopped whatever she had been planning to say. Abu Hassan and Tareq were home.
    Nadia hurried over to kiss her husband and help her sweating father to his armchair. Casting a glance over at Salim she said, ‘I think the boys are keen to hear what’s been happening, Baba. Can you tell us anything?’ Salim realized she wanted to keep him out of trouble, by asking the first question herself.
    Abu Hassan shook his head. ‘These Yehudin make it all so difficult,’ he said. ‘First it’s my house, then it’s not my house. Shit on these new laws! By God, what right do they have to say it’s not my house?’
    He reached for the salted sunflower seeds and began crunching. Salim had never seen him so flustered. He remembered that day, long ago in Jaffa, when Mazen had joked about their fathers. For all their money, he could see that Abu Hassan was drowning, like a flounder in the net.
    â€˜Baba, why would you try to sell the house?’ Salim asked, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘We always said we would go back one day, didn’t we?’ He’d dreamed of it; the misery of the past eight years wiped out by the turn of their key in the lock.
    His mother answered. ‘It’s not a question of wanting or not wanting, Salim,’ she said. ‘We must think of our future. Who do you think can pay for that school uniform of yours, or that university you say you want to go to?’
    Salim looked from Tareq to Abu Hassan, his heart still racing and his fingers numb.
    Tareq said to Abu Hassan, ‘Maybe we should take Salim with us tomorrow?’
    â€˜What’s happening tomorrow?’ Salim asked.
    â€˜We’re going to the municipal offices in Tel Aviv,’ Tareq said, setting his briefcase down on the coffee table. ‘There is some dispute about the house, it seems. We’ve been on the