Mother of All Pigs. Malu Halasa

bask in her affection, Laila momentarily reflects on why her children never share their troubles with her. She suspects they are closer to Fadhma because she panders to them. The feeling they have for their mother—which Laila actively cultivates—is respect, fashioned more from fear than love.

      “See the trouble you’re causing your jadda!” she tells her sons. She doesn’t care if the boys torment their grandmother. However, some display of formal courtesy, no matter how empty, is necessary.

      “I am not worthy, Umm Salem,” Fadhma answers. Her simple statement is a two-pronged assault in the understated conflict between them. She knows that Laila finds false humility irritating, and by calling her “Mother of Salem,” she effectively reduces her daughter-in-law from a person to a function.

      Laila imperiously looks through Fadhma to the repurposed five-gallon clarified butter tin waiting on the sideboard near the sink. Filled with the last of the precious washing water for dishes, it has been standing there for the past three weeks. “That truck better come today,” she complains, disgusted at the chaos all around her. It doesn’t have to be like this.

      Last week the boys didn’t require such supervision; they ate quickly, dressed, and went outside to play with their friends before the walk to school with their mother. Now the two of them bicker and play with their food. Laila has also noticed that when it is time to leave they become unusually quiet. She wonders if she hadn’t spied on them would she have been able to determine the cause of their unhappiness.

      After Muna’s arrival yesterday evening, Laila was in the kitchen when she heard Mansoor’s whine from the back terrace: “Those boys don’t like me anymore.” Instead of going and asking what was the matter, she hid behind the thick curtains over the terrace door.

      Salem put down a shiny new toy gun, a gift from one of his American aunts, and said, “So what? They told me they hate me too.”

      As Laila watched, she knew her younger son would not be able to understand how anyone could feel anything other than admiration for his older brother.

      “What?” Mansoor asked incredulously.

      Salem, wiser than his years, took a tissue from a box among the cushions, wiped his brother’s nose, and gently placed his arm around the six-year-old’s shoulders. Laila’s sorrow at that moment was outweighed only by the rage she still feels toward her husband.

      She suddenly rises from the table. “Hurry up!” she orders the boys, and leaves the kitchen. Her steps soften once she opens her bedroom door. Behind it, in a wooden crib, sleeps Fuad, the youngest of her three sons. She pushes a damp curl from his forehead. The toddler, not yet two, spent most of the previous night awake with a sour stomach; he had gotten too excited at the family dinner for Muna. Laila gets ready. She glances at the sleeping child one last time before pulling the door behind her.

      The hallway is deathly quiet. Samira’s bedroom door is also closed, its occupants still asleep. Laila can just about make out someone moving around the living room—Fadhma, no doubt, complaining to that dead husband of hers. She finds the boys in their bedroom, waiting silently, prepared for school. Salem and Mansoor stare up at her.

      “Yalla,” she whispers, “let’s go.”

       3

      At the butcher shop, Hussein is scrupulous when it comes to the storing of meat. He keeps two refrigerators, one for meat that is permitted and another, much larger, to accommodate forbidden flesh. They are not labeled halal and haram. While he observes no particular dietary restrictions because of religion, he wants to act responsibly—even if he is the only one conscious of the precautions. The halal box is almost empty except for a few pieces of offal. He sells all the freshly slaughtered mutton and goat from the hooks displayed in the window. The other box is filled to capacity, ready for the weekend. He will bring even more ham and sausages under the cover of darkness later tonight, but by the close of business on Sunday, every bit will be gone.

      The premises of the dingy butcher shop are washed down daily, water permitting, but the drains are often clogged with fatty grease and give off an unpleasantly pervasive, putrid smell. Hussein lights the gas burner and puts a pan of water on to boil. He can hear his assistant, Khaled, at work in the back. The boy mutters a prayer. This is followed by a frantic scrabbling of hooves against the tile floor, then a spattering that dissolves into a barely audible gurgle as the blood, rich and soupy, drains into an old galvanized bucket. Several muffled thumps—the head and hooves being removed—then a sound like an old oily carpet being torn in half as Khaled peels off the skin. With a liquid slap the entrails pour out, silken and milky. Hussein pictures his assistant rummaging through the pile, like a sorcerer searching for auguries, and picking out the delicacies: the liver, kidneys, and small intestine. The boy inflates the lungs with a series of quick, hard breaths, the time-honored way of testing an animal’s health. He returns to the front of the shop, lays the sheep’s cadaver on the long wooden counter, and, wiping his bloody fingers on his grimy apron, grins stupidly at his boss.

      Hussein ignores him and takes a cleaver from the extensive array of well-used hardware that hangs on the wall. There is something deeply satisfying about dismembering a carcass, something irrevocably final about each bone-crushing blow. With each swing of the cleaver Hussein feels his mood improving. Bam! This shows the young delinquent the error of his taillight-smashing ways. Whack! That is for the water truck. Crack! Laila. The next crunch is going to be for Samira and all the trouble she’s been causing them, but at the last moment Hussein changes his mind and once again delivers it as his personal contribution to the struggle against juvenile crime. He works methodically, separating leg from loin, shank from breast, rib from shoulder, venting his frustrations with every stroke.

      From his handiwork, he selects two handsome joints and hangs them in the window. Already flies are beginning to gather over the piles of meat, which ooze fat, soft as jelly, onto the counter. The bell over the screen door suddenly rings, announcing the first customer of the day. Hussein forces a welcoming smile.

      “Mrs. Habash, good to see you. What will it be today? We have delicious lamb.”

      The mayor’s wife is one of the town’s most prominent citizens. She married her cousin and belongs to an ancient tribe, which, like the Sabas lineage, traces its ancestry back to a fortress settlement in the country’s south. Over a hundred years ago their families, and other Christians, were forced to flee northward—the result of a misunderstanding that turned into a sectarian conflict. Eventually they came to a Byzantine city destroyed by earthquakes and established a village that grew into a town. This historic connection is useful to Hussein. It makes it easier to stop by the mayor’s office every couple of weeks with what he calls “a little bite” that is bigger than the crumbs the mayor usually receives. Hussein considers the expense of these friendly consultations another indispensable operating cost. Why should he and his uncle Abu Za’atar be the only ones with their noses in the trough? It is only fair, and no one asks him to do it, but it doesn’t make dealing with the mayor’s wife any easier.

      Mrs. Habash dismisses his offer. “I was thinking Issa would like chicken for lunch. You don’t have one in the back, do you?”

      Hussein began keeping a few birds in a small coop in the yard after Mrs. Habash told him that she didn’t like going to the market. She feels it’s beneath her dignity to bargain like a falah, a peasant. She prefers to come to Hussein instead and is prepared to pay for the privilege. He calls out, “Khaled, jajeh!” and the boy appears clutching a robust, speckled fowl in his arms.

      Hussein is puzzled. Khaled is fond of this particular bird. It is the pick of the flock and the boy gives it special treatment and feeds it extra food. But he can’t say anything in front of Mrs. Habash, so he takes the plump chicken and turns it around for her benefit. She nods in approval. Hussein hands the bird back to Khaled and tells him to prepare it. He urges the boy to hurry—“Assre’!”—more for his sake than for the customer, whom he regards as intrusive. She has probably ordered chicken only so she can gossip while it’s being plucked.

      “How’s