Free The Orange Grove by Larry Tremblay Page A

story of his childhood in one breath, his words following the rhythm of his strides. They walked through the city for a long time without quite knowing where their steps were leading them. The snow was still falling, and it gave Aziz’s account a layer of protection, distancing it in space and time, lending it the texture of a fragile dream about to fade away.
    â€œWhat happened after you changed places?”
    â€œI’d sworn to my brother that I’d wait until he was dead before reading his letter. That’s what I did, I waited. And that’s what we did, my parents and I, we waited for my brother’s death, silenced by our torment, as if we were waiting for rain or for morning to come. Two days later we had towelcome Soulayed’s return as if it were a happy event. He got out of his jeep with a large package wrapped in newspapers. We all knew what it was. We sat down in the house’s big room. My mother prepared tea, but no one touched it except Soulayed. We waited for him to speak, waited with our hearts in our mouths for him to tell us what had happened on the other side of the mountain. ‘Your house has given our people a martyr,’ Soulayed began in a ceremonious voice. ‘May God bless you! Amed is now in Paradise. He has never been so happy. His happiness is eternal. Rejoice! Yes, I know your pain at having lost a son, but rejoice, lift your heads and be proud. And you,’ said Soulayed, turning to me, ‘cry no more, your brother is with you, do you not feel it? He has never been so close to you, never. Before the mountain, before leaving me, he told me again of all the love he had for you and your parents. Be happy and blessed.’ Soulayed was silent a moment, then finished his tea. We didn’t dare question him. My mother offered him more tea. He pretended he hadn’t heard, and spoke again in a whisper. ‘You will not hear any talk of Amed’s mission from those people, that Iguarantee. They are too ashamed of their defeat. Amed’s deed was extraordinary. Yes, I tell you, he achieved the goal with which we entrusted him with rare efficacy. God guided him. God guided his steps on the mountain. God gave him light in the night so he could wend his way to the warehouses full of munitions. He exploded everything.’ Soulayed’s face then cracked open with a wide smile. His teeth gleamed with an immaculate whiteness through the dark smudge of his beard. His body was suddenly animated by new energy. He seemed taller, stronger, and he rose to strip the package he’d brought with him of its wrappings. He presented his gift to my father: the framed photograph of his dead son, his son the martyr, that Soulayed had taken in the shed. He held it up, triumphant, like a trophy. My mother shot me a pleading glance. When I saw myself in the photo, I ran from the room. A few moments later I heard Soulayed’s jeep start up. Leaning from my bedroom window, I watched it drive away, hoping never again to hear its noise floating over the orange grove.”
    Aziz undid his coat, plunged a hand inside, and took out a folded envelope.
    â€œHere’s the letter from my brother.”
    The envelope was yellowed and crumpled. Unfolding it, Mikaël saw a brown stain from Amed’s blood before he became Aziz. He felt an emotion that troubled him deeply. He felt that by touching and holding this envelope he was participating in the story of the two brothers. As if a fragment of their past had survived and materialized on another planet. He opened the envelope. Inside he found a short letter, written in what looked like Arabic.
    â€œCan you translate it for me?”
    Aziz read him the letter, translating as he went along. After a while, Mikaël noticed that Aziz was no longer reading. He knew it by heart, and Mikaël realized that Aziz must have recited this letter thousands of times, like a prayer.
    Amed,
    When I was in the hospital in the big city, I