Free Throwing Sparks by Abdo Khal Page B

I bought a donkey with it.’
    ‘Why bother when you’re already such an ass?’
    ‘Yeah, and another ass sold the donkey for less than it was worth, huh!’
    At this brazen rejoinder, Abu Issa could no longer contain himself and he lunged at his son, who dodged and jumped up on to a wall by a neighbour’s house. From his perch, Issa decided to change tactic and apologise.
    But his father was too angry to listen to Issa’s pleas. ‘By God,’ he fumed, ‘I’ll see your grandmother make the Hajj on that back of yours if it kills me!’
    At this point, Issa was also playing to an audience, pleading for mercy in the hope of drumming up sympathy from the crowd that had gathered. ‘ Ya Sheikh ,’ he begged, choosing the term of respect like a dutiful son. ‘Have some pity. It would kill me . My grandmother is heavy enough to break a camel’s back!’
    Abu Issa was not amused. He ordered his son to come down off the wall and when he failed to comply, he reached down to pick up some stones which he threw at his boy.
    Issa hopped down to the other side of the wall and disappeared.
    Abu Issa returned home, his blood boiling, swearing that he would show the boy what was what as soon as he could lay his hands on him.
    Umm Issa was annoyed with her husband. ‘You won’t be satisfied until we lose him, will you?’ she asked accusingly.
    Issa was gone for two days and three nights, hiding out – he claimed – in one of the islet’s crevices and setting in motion a chain of events that would determine all our destinies.
    Finally, driven by thirst and hunger, he swam ashore and, standing dripping wet before his family, he said to his father, ‘I’ll carry your mother to the Hajj for the next two years.’
    ‘Son of a gun!’ exclaimed Abu Issa, desperately relieved to see his son. But he had to show his displeasure, so he added, ‘Where’ve you been hiding?’
    ‘I was waiting,’ replied Issa. ‘I waited for Grandma, but she never showed up.’
    At this, the grandmother burst out laughing and Issa bent over and told her to climb on. ‘Hurry up now, Grandma, your donkey is waiting.’
    She pounded her hands on his back, overcome with mirth. She was as amused by the thought of riding her grandson to the holy sites as by the idea of going on the Hajj in the wrong month. ‘Do you honestly expect me to go on the Hajj in Sha’aban , you dolt?’        
    ‘Who cares about the month?’ Abu Issa said seriously. ‘What’s important is that I keep my word.’
    The grandmother said nothing and Issa stayed bent in half.
    ‘Just hop on his back and he’ll take you to the end of the street and back.’
    Since she hesitated, Issa took the initiative, darting in between her legs and hoisting her up on to his shoulders, which almost caused her to fall flat on her face.
    Abu Issa rushed to steady her and then, grabbing a thick cane, he set about thrashing his son.
    The boy screamed and hollered.        
    Salwa, Issa’s aunt and suckling sister, burst into tears and added her voice to his, crying for someone to come and save Issa from the caning that had already lacerated his back.
    No one in the neighbourhood could believe that Issa had spent three days hiding in the crevices of the islets slumbering on the surface of the sea. But from then on, the crevices became our refuge, a secret place of solace and comfort. We would sneak into them, too old now to be scared by fishermen’s tales or to listen to our mothers’ dire warnings. Our mothers held that the crevices sheltered only wayward and rebellious spirits, the unfortunate souls destined to endure the miseries and agonies of both this world and the next. With every passing day, we – the neighbourhood ruffians – sneaked into those crevices in growing numbers.
    *  *  *
    The largest of the islets, Umm al-Qumari, was the first to fall victim to the Palace’s need for ever more space to expand its dominion. After it was reclaimed as a marina, it became the