The car rolled along. Ahmed was screaming in the back with the others, we were going to have dinner in Raw-sheh. I wasn’t carrying any money but they were. The roads were wet with the autumn rain. The ground was slippery as soap. Be careful, I was careful. But the ground was like one huge bar of soap. The car slid along slowly. The car was like soap. Small, like bath-soap and with a smell all its own. They were laughing and I wasn’t careful. Then things began to go round. I didn’t understand why things were going round until I saw the blood on my face. Everybody was shouting, it’s all right. I was seeing soap everywhere. It was white and it covered everything. Like in films where the beautiful heroine is in the bath and the soap covers everything and we think we’re seeing it all. The blood trickled down to my hand, my hand took on the shape of a multi-fragrant bar of soap. Really, it wasn’t serious, that’s what we said as we sat in the restaurant, drinking ’araq and laughing. My teeth hurt. I tried to remember exactly what had happened. The car skidded, you lost control of the steering, then your face fell on it as the car went round and round. Its nothing at all. My teeth are hurting, I told them. Soak them in ’araq, it’s the best remedy. We ate and drank. Then Ahmed Ayyash stood up. He took the ’araq bottle and swallowed it neat. Then he started up. Our land in the South … everyone roared with laughter. Ahmed sat down and told the story. He always whispers it in my ear when he’s drunk. Everyone interrupted, laughing. Acre … tobacco leaves in the sun. My father died — he used to tell me about the tobacco leaves. Then they told him the land wasn’t his. He was sure he’d inherited it from his father. But as to how and why … The title deed, they told him. The title deed means that the land is registered in the name of another man who owns all the land in the area.* My father almost went mad. He had to give half the harvest to a man he didn’t know, who’d never set foot in the village. Ahmed Ayyash bowed his head and snored. We thought: he’s asleep. But he was imitating the gestures of the stranger who’d come to the village, beaten his father and thrown him into prison. When Father came out, he died of cancer. Brother, what idiocy is this. An idiotic nation visited with djinns and rules and regulations. Ahmed waved his hand through the air. He seized the bottle of ’araq and threw it to the ground. The waiter came, had harsh words with him.
The nicest thing in the restaurant is the men’s room. It’s nicer than the table all laid out with food. Its undoubtedly part of modern civilization. We went to the men’s room, Ahmed and I. We stood side by side in front of the urinals. Ahmed was on the point of vomiting. But he said he could control himself. Then, after we’d finished, Ahmed took a quarter from his pocket and put it in the plate. In modern men’s rooms, there’s always a plate, a bottle of cheap cologne, an old woman, and a chair. Most of the time, the old woman leaves the chair empty and goes off. Its up to the customers to understand and put money in the plate. That night, the woman was there. She was staring at the ceiling, holding a handkerchief. Ahmed put the quarter in the plate then put his arm round my shoulder. He thought he was whispering and I was sure he was. But the old woman stood up, her eyes filled with terror. Her face was strange. Full of wrinkles with long hair straggling from her chin. But Ahmed insisted she was pretty. Maybe so, I said. But she’s old and she won’t accept.
— They all accept. You don’t understand a thing. I’m an expert on women. You’re married and sexually hung up.
— Let’s try.
— Let’s.
He approached her. The woman turned on her heels. The floor was orange and the woman was orange. Ahmed advanced slowly, lurching. The woman raised her hand as if to stop something.
— Sons of bitches. At my age, they want to turn me into a whore for 25 piastres.
The woman’s hair was long and it hung matted about her shoulders, very fuzzy and reddish. Ahmed stepped forward. I stepped forward. The woman stepped back, she was against the wall. A sound like a lament welled up. Then she disappeared. I don’t know how she disappeared, as if the earth’d split open and swallowed her up. She disappeared with the plate of money and the bottle of cologne and the chair. Ahmed cursed, I cursed. Then we went back to our seats to find that everyone wanted to go.
The car was pulling to one side. They were all afraid, I wasn’t. The car isn’t frightening. They stopped me. They sat on the pavement; I sat beside them, then they threw up. I tried but I couldn’t. I stuck my finger down my throat, but I couldn’t. Then they all left. They said I was drunk and that they were afraid and the best thing was to take a taxi. Naturally, I refused. How could I leave the car. When they’d gone, I felt really frightened. I’m drunk. I must not drive. I got off the pavement and started to push it, holding it by the door with my hand on the steering wheel. Half of me was outside the car and half of me inside. And the wheel kept slipping from my grip as though it had turned into soap. Then I got home, I don’t know how. I don’t know what my wife said but I remember she made sure the car was there on the street in front of the building.
Kamel Abu Mahdi was sitting by himself on a wicker chair on the balcony of the fourth floor. He jumped when he heard the voice. He grabbed the empty ’araq bottles and ran. The lift was out of order, so he took to the stairs four by four. Then fell. The bottles shattered into shards and blood started trickling down his hand. Kamel Abu Mahdi went back, washed and bandaged his hands, then sat down again on the balcony. The old man had aged, he was more stooped and the cart in front of him was practically a wreck. The voice was faint: scrap metal for sale, glass bottles for sale. Next to him was a small boy all proud of himself. Holding the bottles up, knocking them against each other musically. People buying and selling. 3
It was pouring rain. I came home from work exhausted and stopped the car on the street below the balcony. But I didn’t find a place. I tried to park the car in its usual place and finally succeeded. I went up to the house, I was hungry. The four children were leaping about the house, screeching. I washed my face, told my wife I was hungry. But eating has its own rites. The children must go to bed first. I sat and waited for the children in the living-room. The radio was making ugly noises. I think I fell asleep. Then when I opened my eyes, Ahmed Ayyash and Hani and Zuheir were standing there, towering above me. I was hungry. My wife told me there was rice and fasoolia.*Ahmed Ayyash sucked in his breath as if you were inviting him to make love to a woman. But fasoolia doesn’t mean a thing with ’araq. He darted out and came back a second later with a bottle of ’araq in his hand. We sat at the table and drank, taking our time. We mustn’t get drunk, said Mr. Zuheir, humorless as a shoe. We drank and talked shop. The same dumb talk, of the boss, of this and that. Naturally, we didn’t talk about women out of due respect for my wife; then they began to talk about things that reminded me of university and of the honorable sheikh — may he rest in peace — who’d put his turban down and lecture on the greatness of Omar Bin Khattab.**