In the second photo of the show, David and Amir are hugging. After ‘Spread’ — I’d heard its hymn-like chorus many times in our living room, so I could join in — the lights were turned on and the audience went up to congratulate the members of the group. There was a short line, like the kind you have at weddings after the ceremony, and I waited with my flash for the minute that Amir came up to David, moving around constantly to find a place where no one could come between me and them. The picture itself shows David’s face over Amir’s shoulder. His eyes are closed, his eyebrows a little wild. His lips are stretched almost into a smile. Amir is slightly bent, his shirt pulled up, exposing a little bit of his back. His right hand is reaching out, pulling David to him for a manly hug. In the background, some guy is making a speech to a woman — the fabric of her trousers is the kind older women wear, so she must have been David’s mother — and his mane of hair spills out of the frame. The kid who did the sound is behind them, bending to pick up a cable. And all the other details are swallowed up in darkness. In the black hole. Not the photograph of the century in terms of light, but I still like it because of David’s half-smile and because if you bring it close to your face, you can actually smell that smell, the one that exists only at shows like that: a combination of cigarettes, sweat and excitement. On the way home, we tried to guess which of Licorice’s songs would be a hit on the radio. Amir remembered other details from the performance and recreated them with shining eyes. Did you notice how their bottles of water stayed full? They didn’t drink a drop. Did you see the drummer, the power he had? David says that in real life, he’s a pussycat. And the critic, did you see him? He went up to David after the show and said thank you. Thank you is good, right?
Of course thank you is good.
Amir took the turns going out of Jerusalem so fast that I was afraid his enthusiasm would propel us straight into the Mevasseret wadi, but I didn’t say anything. I enjoyed seeing him that way so much — excited, elated, alive — that I didn’t want to spoil it.
Back then I still thought I had control over what gets spoiled and what doesn’t.
*
You know, ya ibni, there’s something else I didn’t tell you, Mother says and closes her eyes. The rusty old key to that house is sitting between us on the small stool with the gold edging. She took it off her neck for the first time in forty-eight years — she never even took it off in the shower — but I still don’t take it. I’ve already told her about the house, and she didn’t yell. I’ve already described to her what it looks like from every angle, and she didn’t gesture with her hand for me to leave. Just the opposite. She added more signs for me to look for — there are two fig trees in front, a pomegranate tree at the back — so I’d be sure that was the place. But to reach out and take the key — I didn’t have the courage.
I was too ashamed to tell you this story, she goes on. But you, ya ibni, will be an old man yourself soon, and who knows how much time I have left to live. You have many years left, I want to say, but she silences me with a look. On the day the Jews came, she begins — but not in her story-telling voice, her large voice that makes you bend over and listen, but a quiet voice that I don’t know — on the day they came to drive us away, we didn’t take many things from the house. There was no time. The soldiers were already standing on the hills, and the stories about Dir Yassin were spreading through the village. You’ve heard about Dir Yassin, haven’t you? Everyone said that now, Dir Yassin would be here, in el-Castel, and fear entered out hearts. We were not thinking clearly, do you understand? We took a little rice, a little olive oil, a few pots, put it all on the donkey and started walking. I didn’t remember until a few hours later that I’d left something at home. The most important thing. I wanted to go back. I had to go back. But the soldiers fired over our heads and yelled yallah, go to Abdallah, the King of Jordan, and your father said, Ma’alish, we’ll be back in the village in another two weeks anyway. That’s why it’s remained there, since then, in the walls of the house.
What is it, ya umi? What are you talking about? I ask, and she puts her hand on mine and says, I can’t tell you that. You’ll see for yourself. Her hand shakes. I cover it with my other hand, and she covers that hand with hers. And we sit like that, with a tower of four hands, one on top of the other, for a few minutes without talking.
The muezzin starts calling, and his words come through the window with the wind. Children are yelling in the yard below. My father is coughing in the bedroom.
Finally, she takes her hand away, picks up the rusty key and hands it to me. Here, ya ibni, go to that house you are talking about and open the door. Maybe it’s from Allah that they took you to work in our village. I’m a stubborn old woman, but go there if you want to so much, and Allah will watch over you. Go, go and say hello to the spirit of Aziz. People say he’s still wandering around there, making the Jews crazy. Go and bring back black figs from the fig tree, go and pour lime on the ground near the mosque so the ants won’t get inside. And then, when you go to the house, go inside, don’t be ashamed, it’s your house, don’t apologise. If the Jews say anything, show them this. She goes to the cabinet, takes out the sura, the sack, and pulls a document out of it. I know that document: the last time I saw it was thirty years ago, when my wife’s family wanted to know what land the groom’s family owned. That’s how it was then. People believed that we’d all go home very soon and get our land back.
The certificate from the land registry office, Mother says and hands it to me. Her hands shake and the paper dances. People die, trees die, but the land stays for ever, she says. Mazbut, that’s true, I reply and use my sleeve to wipe off the dust that has collected on the paper. You guard this very very carefully, OK? She waves a threatening finger at me. I will, I promise, and put my hand over my shirt pocket.
Now listen well, she says, and lowers her voice as if she’s about to tell me a secret. I bend down to her. Above the door, under the ceiling, there’s one loose brick. Look for it and you’ll find it. I trust you, that’s your job, isn’t it? When you find it, take it out carefully. If that’s the right house, you’ll find a bag behind it with a lot of rolled-up newspaper inside. Wrapped in the newspaper is something that belongs to me. To my mother. Ya Saddiq, if you can, bring it here. And Allah will be with you.
Chorus
When I was ten
And Beitar was taking it on the chin
I’d promise God to obey His commandments
If only He’d make them win.
I’d keep the Sabbath
Wear a yarmulke on my head
And say the blessing over bread.
And now I call to him come back,
Come back to me
Spread your grace over me.
When I was fifteen
And my father was sick in bed
I’d beg for him to get well
And swear to do what the rabbi said.
I’d put on my prayer shawl,
Pray every day
And join a yeshiva not tomorrow, but today.
And now I call to him come back,
Come back to me
Spread your grace over me.
The dam has collapsed over the river I
Rivers of longing are drowning me alive
I’m about ready to say
I’m done for, no more
Spread, oh spread your grace over me.