9

As soon as we heard the dawn call to prayer and the announcement of the end of the curfew, we went back to the city the way we came—but this time we were preceded by Rabie. My uncle had insisted on appointing Rabie as our guide to guarantee our safety, and maybe to make sure we did not return and shatter his plans. He was planning to attack, with his group, a military truck at Ras al-Ain, in order to reduce the pressure of the blockade on a besieged group hiding in a cave in Jabal al-Tour. My grandmother and I heard him plan his action with his men and learned that they intended to change their location and move from this forest to another one, but we did not know where.

As usual, Rabie was walking fast; he would stop every now and then for us to catch up. My grandmother, who did not usually submit to an order or a warning, had other plans. Although she had agreed to leave the cave and the forest and return to Nablus without delay, as ordered by her son, she did not intend to execute his orders as he wanted, but in her own way. She insisted on visiting the tomb of Sheikh al-Emad and reciting a prayer for the soul of the holy man, protector of the two mountains. When Rabie objected, she said angrily, “I can’t pass by the tomb of Sheikh al-Emad without greeting his soul and reciting a short prayer in his abode. He is a saint, a blessed man. Sheikh al-Emad is a blessed wali.”

Rabie looked at her and said, serious and confrontational, “No, Hajjeh, Sheikh al-Emad was neither a sheikh nor a wali, and he was not even blessed. He was an army general.”

When he uttered those words, we were standing near the entrance, only a few steps away from the maqam. The sun was rising slowly, but the city of Nablus was covered with a thick fog, like a veil; it resembled fields of cotton. All we could see of the city were the surrounding mountains, the blue line of the horizon, and the striking gold sunrays as they were reflected from the white rocks and the mountaintops. I saw my grandmother enter the maqam despite the warning. She did not listen to Rabie. Having failed to convince her, he looked to his left and to his right, then looked at me and explained, “He was a general in the army of Saladin; I learned that in my history class.”

I shook my head because I had not reached that part of history and all I knew of Sheikh al-Emad was what my grandmother and other people had said. I certainly knew about Saladin and the crusades and such matters, but all I had heard about Sheikh al-Emad was that he was a blessed wali and the protector of the two mountains.

He looked at me and said insistently, “Emad al-Din Zunki is Sheikh al-Emad.”

I raised my shoulders and twisted my lips because I did not know, and I couldn’t care less whether Sheikh al-Emad was Emad al-Din Zunki or Saladin. All I wanted at that moment was to observe him, feel him, and attract his attention. I was dying for a look or a sign that would indicate his interest in me. Instead, he seemed angry, obstinate, and anxious, because my grandmother was delaying our march and infringing on something that was his responsibility. I followed my grandmother’s example and left him standing, motionless. I walked toward a rock a few meters away from the entrance. Surprised, he said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

I pointed to the rock and sat, ignoring him, or at least pretending to ignore him. “I’m tired,” I said nonchalantly.

He remained reluctantly silent, looked around him, observing the city hidden under the fog, and then commented, “It’s foggy.”

I did not answer and pretended I hadn’t heard. I recalled what Abu Tir had said about his school and his father, and the secret surrounding his father. Where was he? Was he in prison like the others? Had he escaped and was hiding for fear of being found by the British? Had he been kidnapped? Was he dead? What was the relationship between Rabie and my uncle, and how had he met him? What did he know about my uncle? Did he like him? What happened to his father and why did he leave his school?

I said, trying to pull his leg, “Abu Tir told me about your school.”

I noticed that he paid attention to my words, but he did not make any comment. Chewing on a blade of green grass I had just pulled out, I went on: “Every day I pass by your school and I hear them sing the national anthem and recite the Qur’an.”

He turned his face and walked a few steps away from me to hide his emotion, or possibly to avoid hearing what I was saying. I ignored him, left my place, and entered the maqam. I saw my grandmother praying in front of a tomb covered with a piece of green cloth. A sliver of light passed through a small window in the middle of the wall. The place was engulfed by incense, humidity, and an awesome silence. I was overcome by a feeling of awe and the tomb scared me. I rushed out and found Rabie sitting on the rock where I had sat before; he was chewing a blade of grass like the one I’d been chewing on. I was happy and excited, and my heart was pounding. I sat where I’d been, pulled out a piece of grass, and started chewing on it like him.

After a moment of silence, shaking the grass I was holding, I said, “This is called the dove’s foot.”

He remained silent.

I pointed to another one, close to him and said, “This one is called eryngo and it is edible.”

He looked at it and confirmed, “Yes, it is eryngo and we eat it.”

Showing off my knowledge, hoping to attract his attention, I said, “This is a fujjileh. It tastes like radish—it’s hot. And this is fennel.”

He stopped chewing, turned to me, and asked, “Where did you learn all those names?”

I was tempted to say, “My grandmother taught me”; instead, I said sarcastically, “City girl!”

He gave half a smile, as he had when we left the mayor’s house after the phone call. His reaction emboldened me. I said, surprised by my attitude and my spontaneity, “Abu Tir told me that you were a bright student and always ranked first.”

“Not first,” he said, frowning.

“Then second,” I said, curious.

“Not even second.”

“Third?”

Angered by this provocation, he said, “What does it matter to you whether I was first or last? Leave me alone.”

I replied, upset, “Okay, I apologize.” I turned my back to him to let him know I was upset, or at least annoyed by his stiffness. I remained silent.

Moments later, he said, “Which class?”

I asked, indifferent, “You or I?”

Then, to my surprise, he opened up. “I was getting ready to move to the secondary level; I would have finished my schooling. Today, there is no school.”

I did not comment, lest my question upset him, but he pressed: “In which class?”

I replied with an imposing tone, to convey my level of maturity, “I am moving up to sixth grade.”

He smiled and teased: “Do you have remedial exams?”

I objected strongly, pretending to be upset, but laughing all the while; I felt that he wanted to tease me. “Remedial exams for me?” I said. “No, I am a diligent student.”

He smiled maliciously. “You are the first in your class, then?”

“Not first.”

“Then second.”

“Not second.”

“Then third.”

I laughed and said with feigned seriousness, “What does it matter to you whether I am first or last?”

We laughed together, and did not stop until we heard my grandmother say, as she stood at the entrance of the maqam, “May it be a good omen. Who died, an Englishman or a Jew?”

She did not wait for an answer and went straight to the food basket. “I offered two additional prostrations and I prayed for your intentions,” she said joyfully. “Let’s eat breakfast.”

We ate breakfast while we glanced furtively at each other, smiling and blushing.