“…And I want you to bury it with me. That’s my will. I have had it for ages. I never let it out of my sight or my pocket. Do you remember your Uncle Sadek who, God bless his soul, passed away when you were five years old?” said Abu Yusef, only stopping for a second to catch a breath. He genuinely did not want to give his son, Yusef, the time to answer his question. Life had taught him two fragments of wisdom: kids will never ever understand his passion for things, and if they do, their opinions usually indicate shallowness of thinking.
“Only vaguely,” Yusef interrupted him anyway.
“He brought it from Jerusalem. He thought I was crazy. He thought I was being silly because I kept asking him to bring me a stone or a handful of sand when he goes to Jerusalem. I am never silly or kidding when it comes to Jerusalem.” Seeing that his son was distracted, Abu Yusef elbowed him.
“Dad, how can you do it?” interrupted Yusef, again.
“Do what?” inquired his father.
“Tell a story with such passion,” said the son, half kidding and half serious.
“So when I say bury it with me, I mean bury it with me. Make sure to slip it in my hand. I am sure my grip will hold onto it. But if it does not, you can tie it in my fist,” said the old man, ignoring his son, not detecting or perhaps not wanting to detect his sarcasm.
“Father, you are still young. Why would you want to die this young?” replied Yusef.
“And make sure everyone knows about it. It is no secret. And it should not be kept a secret. I know you would be ashamed to tell others about a stone, thinking I am insane. But even your uncle, the most stubborn man that ever walked on earth, was finally convinced and brought it. Maybe he wanted to make me stop nagging or maybe he did not want me to leave home and take a long, arduous journey to Jerusalem to get a stone. I do not care about the reason; he got a stone for me. From Jerusalem. A stone from Jerusalem. Unlike those people you see every day, I am far better than them all. I own part of Jerusalem,” replied the old man, his voice rising every time he said “Jerusalem.”
“Dad, if everyone who loves Jerusalem brings a stone, a rock, or a handful of sand, we will no longer have Jerusalem. We will run out of Jerusalem. A picture would have saved you all the trouble and the embarrassment caused by that thing….”
“It is not a thing,” interrupted the man, almost mechanically.
“What’s that?” inquired Yusef.
“The stone. It is not a thing. It is a stone. From Jerusalem…” said Abu Yusef, a touch of impatience underlying his explanation.
“Okay, okay, Dad. Okay, it is a stone. The stone!” bellowed Yusef.
“A picture is not going to be like a stone that has been subjected to the rain and the heat and the cold and the dirt and the smell of Jerusalem. This stone is Jerusalem. It is,” was the man’s reply, adding extra emphasis this time on every word and taking a short breath between words.
“How so?” asked Yusef, who had heard the very same answer hundreds of times.
“I have never forgotten Jerusalem for even one day since I got this stone thirteen years and two months ago. When your uncle gave it to me, I was….”
“Dad, do you still want to go visit my sister next week?” interrupted Yusef intentionally, in an attempt to change the topic.
“Yes,” snapped the old man. “I would swear that sometimes this stone wakes me at dawn to pray al-fajr.”
“Of course it does. If you sleep with the stone in your pocket and you turn to sleep on the side where you put the stone, it will wake you up,” Yusef retorted with heavy sarcasm.
“You do not understand. You really do not. It is not like that. I mean….”
In another attempt to cut short an elongated explanation of the old man, Yusef asked, “Can I hold it, father?”
“Uhh…” came his father’s reply. Surprised by his son’s sudden interest in the stone, he found it a bit hard to let go of it.
“Dad? Can I hold it?”
“Okay, but be careful,” replied his father, hesitatingly.
“Okay,” said Yusef, hurriedly extending his hand to hold the stone.
“Careful, I say!” yelled the old man.
“Dad, this is too much. This has really become embarrassing and annoying. ‘The stone! The stone! The stone….’”
“Shut up!” his father shouted, red-faced, hastily grabbing the stone back.
“I’ll tell you something. Your nephew Ahmed told me long ago that Uncle Sadek lied to you,” Yusef replied, this time his voice getting louder than his father’s.
“What do you mean ‘lied to you’?” asked the old man with a commanding voice, hoping his son was only saying that to tease him.
“He told his sons before he passed away to tell you the truth about the stone. It is simply not from Jerusalem. It is a false stone,” came Yusef’s reply.
“What do you mean? What do you m-m-mean not from Jerusalem? If he told them, why did they not come to tell me?” asked his father.
“They know you very well, Dad. They were afraid that the truth might kill you! He said he felt too stupid to bend down and pick up a stone. So he got you one he found in front of his house. A false stone,” explained Yusef, regretting he ever broke the news he had struggled to keep secret for years.
“Stop lying to me! And stop saying ‘false’. It is not false! God damn it!” yelled his father bitterly. He never used that word before.
“I am not lying!” Yusef retorted.
“May he rot in hell! Too stupid to bend down in…in Jerusalem?” growled Abu Yusef, his anger rising like never before. He had never insulted his brother.
“Take it easy, Dad,” muttered his son, in a faint voice. He knew very well what his father does in his fits of rage.
“Take it easy?” echoed Abu Yusef, “Now he is rotting in h…he is…give me that stone…give it to me…ahh ahhh… .” Putting his left hand on his chest, trying to breathe, Abu Yusef fell, his eyes wide-open staring up, his right hand clutching at the stone.
“Dad! Daaad! Dad, stay with me! Stay with me! Daaaaad!”