The Disinherited. Ibrahim Fawal

teachers had heard stories like this before and seemed nonplussed. Most were Yousif’s former teachers, except Hikmat Hawi and Murad Allam. Murad was an older man, dressed in crisp pants, with an air of dignity that bordered on fastidiousness. He was, Yousif had been told, a man with dashed hopes. After two years in England pursuing a medical education, he had been recalled by his family for lack of money. In the subsequent thirty years in the classroom, he never once was a real teacher. His bitterness over not having been able to become a doctor stood in the way.

      Of all his colleagues, Yousif felt closest to Hikmat Hawi. Hikmat was in his early twenties, born and raised in Haifa, and educated at the American University of Beirut. He had studied mathematics but at the end of his third year he had to rush back home to be with his family as the troubles escalated throughout the country. His circumstances reminded Yousif of Izzat Hankash, who just before the forced exile had been a tenant in Yousif’s home in Ardallah. Hikmat was of stronger build, and his nostrils were slightly more flaring. He and Yousif had taken an immediate liking to each other, and in less than a couple of weeks they had become fast friends. They visited each other’s “homes” and were introduced to their families. Their dwellings were so inferior to what they had been accustomed, neither could tell who was less fortunate.

      To Yousif, Hikmat’s family had a diversity of looks. Hikmat was handsome but with a flaring nose. Fareed, the older brother, was fat and had a glass eye. Their mother was of medium height and must have eaten a lot of starch in her life. Their sister, Ghada, was flat-chested and homely. She looked older than her brother Hikmat, although she was three years younger. Fareed’s wife, Leena, was more seductive than beautiful. Leena caught Yousif’s eye, not for her good looks and fanciful ways but because she looked out of place in this impoverished neighborhood. Her walk and talk spelled trouble.

      Over several weeks Yousif noticed that Leena was never seen casually dressed or without heavy makeup. Her wardrobe was extremely limited, yet the few pieces she owned were of good quality and in good taste, and she never wore the same outfit on the consecutive days. Her knack was to combine and switch sweaters, blouses, and skirts that gave her the look of a relatively well-to-do woman. On her own she was attractive; among the other women in the neighborhood she was stunning. The most noticeable quality about her was her moodiness. Not blending with the others, she seemed to find comfort in Yousif’s company. And vice versa, for in some odd way she reminded him of Salwa. And she indulged him in talking about how he could find her.

      Whenever he arrived with her brother-in-law Hikmat, Leena would disengage from the women sitting in the shade, and would attach herself to the two young teachers. More and more, Yousif began to enjoy walking Hikmat home. And more often than not they tended to walk together in front of other women sitting in the shade or on doorsteps knitting or gossiping or nursing their babies. One particular phenomenon always overwhelmed him. A devout Muslim woman who covered her face with a black veil did not find it in the least peculiar to expose her ample breast to nurse her infant. To his utter shame and guilt toward Salwa whom he adored, he nurtured a secret wish that Leena had a baby so he could watch her pull out her magnificent breast and nurse it.

      “I’d love to see Salwa’s picture,” she once told him as they strolled in their customary short walks together. “She must be gorgeous.”

      “The only picture I have of her is in my head,” Yousif answered.

      Leena was astonished. “You mean it?”

      “Yes,” he answered, nodding. “The enemy soldiers rushed us out of the house at gunpoint with only the clothes on our backs. They didn’t give some of us time to get out of their pajamas. Besides, we thought we’d be back by Christmas.”

      As they strolled back and forth, reminiscing and commiserating with each other, Yousif told her about the rape of Hiyam, the bride of his friend Izzat who had rented a room in their house. He told her how the enemy soldiers even blasted many of the birds in his aviary, and how they threatened to blow his head off if he tried to resist.

      Yousif exhaled deeply and allowed painful memories to flood his mind.

      “One soldier put his gun to Mother’s waist and shoved her out, saying, “Go to Abdullah . . . Go to Abdullah.”

      Yousif exhaled and remained as quiet as the other two.

      “Well, here we all are,” Leena finally said, “in King Abdullah’s country.”

      “Indeed we are,” Yousif said. “That soldier knew what he was saying.”

      “For sure,” Hikmat concurred. “He was following orders . . .”

      Before long Yousif concluded that Leena’s relationship with her family was strained at best, for she seemed to get along well only with him and Hikmat. One afternoon she was in a rare good mood and Yousif asked how and where she had met her husband. Suddenly her mood changed. Her face became noticeably drawn, and she excused herself and went inside her apartment and did not come out. Another time she was joking and laughing with Yousif and Hikmat when her husband arrived. The poor slovenly one-eyed man felt the conviviality of the moment and tried to put his arm around her waist. She brushed it aside and walked away.

      Yousif and Hikmat glanced at each other without saying a word.

      Midnight often passed with Yousif lying wide awake thinking of Salwa and their whole dreary existence. Uncle Boulus and Salman were more accustomed than he was sleeping on the back patio. What would they do, he thought, when winter came? They would have to move inside no matter how congested their quarters became.

      One night, Yousif was sleeping on the balcony when he heard a car stop on the street below and a door open and close. As the driver shifted gear and drove off, Yousif heard a knock at the door. He stood on the patio debating whether to wake one of the men. On the second knock he saw his mother already out of her bedroom and standing in the middle of the foyer clutching her robe.

      “Who could it be at this hour?” she wondered in a low voice. “What time is it?”

      Yousif did not know and did not answer. The third knock was louder, and the men and women stirred on their mattresses.

      “Who’s there?” Yousif asked, weaving his way around sleeping children.

      “It’s me, Basim.”

      The name had a magical ring and pulled the men onto their feet and Aunt Hilaneh and Maha out of their rooms. But Yousif beat them to the front door and was the first to see Basim in the doorway, his necktie loose, his white shirt open at the collar, and his jacket hooked over his shoulder. Yousif was also the first to embrace him. The last one to embrace him was Maha, his diffident wife.

      “Go on,” Yousif coaxed her. “Just once I’d like to see you two kiss.”

      “Never mind,” Maha told him, putting her arms through the sleeves of her kimono.

      “It’s good to be home,” Basim said, his soft eyes shining with happiness.

      “You call this a home?” Yousif teased. “I’m shocked.”

      Basim paid him no attention, and knelt to kiss the children on the floor. He woke everyone up, shaking a slender shoulder here and pulling a tiny foot there. The children jumped on him, their eyes still half-closed.

      Because electricity was often turned off at irregular hours during the night, they all sat on the patio. At one o’clock in the morning they snacked on oranges, white goat cheese, and taboon bread. The children went back to sleep, except Basim’s youngest daughter, Reem. She wound herself around her father like a grapevine around a wooden post. Salman was tired and sleepy; Uncle Boulus was now in a talkative mood, full of opinions and questions. When he reached for his pocket and pulled out his masbaha and began clicking, Yousif headed inside to light a kerosene lamp, for he knew that his uncle was settling down to meet the dawn.

      “Jordan’s Arab Legion,” Uncle Boulus began, reclining on his elbow and making himself comfortable, “is thoroughly trained by the British. One can see it by the way they’re occupying what’s left of Palestine. People sense what’s going on. The last time I went to Jerusalem,