SCENE 1
Later that night in an old Palestinian house. There is a table with a typewriter on it. On the back wall hangs an Ottoman sword.
Yusef Al Qudsi enters quietly. He wears a British officer’s uniform. He stops and takes in the room. He begins to remove oranges from his various pockets. One after another.
After a moment Anbara enters from behind Yusef. She silently grabs the sword off the wall and places the blade on his neck. He raises his hands and turns slowly to face her. They look at each other for a beat, the sword still near his throat.
YUSEF: Have you escaped from your harem to seduce a British officer such as myself, young lady? (He sits)
ANBARA: It doesn’t suit you.
YUSEF: Or am I being knighted?
ANBARA: You’re in my chair.
YUSEF: This chair belongs to His Majesty King George! I . . .
ANBARA: Yusef.
(Anbara touches his face. He rises.)
YUSEF: Anbara. You . . . Two years . . . It’s been two—
(Anbara pushes him back into the chair.)
ANBARA: Two years. Yes. I know.
YUSEF: . . . And I’ve gotten older.
ANBARA: But you’ve been giving the Brits hell since they released you. At least that’s what everyone in Nablus is talking about.
YUSEF: Seven days, nonstop. What are they saying?
ANBARA: Yet after two years apart it took you seven days to make your way to your wife?
YUSEF: Blame the British, not me.
ANBARA: I do. But you must have known they would capture you that day at Tulkarem.
YUSEF: Anbara, I was arrested and exiled because I fought. And I fought because they occupy us.
ANBARA: Simple.
YUSEF: And if it weren’t for them I’d be playing the oud for you every night.
ANBARA: I’d like that.
YUSEF: Like I used to. But that life is gone Anbara. So as soon as I was released I went to work. The revolution can’t wait—
ANBARA: Don’t talk to me like some young recruit from the hills.
YUSEF: I came as soon as I could.
ANBARA: I’ve been waiting.
YUSEF: Well. I had to see if I still had it in me.
ANBARA: And? Do you still have it?
YUSEF: Naturally.
ANBARA: I’ve missed you.
YUSEF: Naturally.
ANBARA: And still so modest. Naturally. (Beat) So you’ve come home to me?
YUSEF: In the flesh.
ANBARA: And who said you could come here, anyway?
YUSEF: You are my wife. This is my house.
ANBARA: And what if I have a guest over and this isn’t a good time? Did you think about that?
YUSEF: I can leave.
ANBARA: A young man to keep me company perhaps, a man fleeing out the bedroom window as we speak.
YUSEF: Somehow I imagined this homecoming differently.
ANBARA: That my clothes would fall to the ground the moment I saw you?
YUSEF: For instance.
ANBARA: Perhaps you should be the one stripping down for me.
YUSEF: You haven’t changed.
(She lights a cigarette, takes a drag and then hands it to him.)
ANBARA: It’s dangerous, Yusef, they’ll be after you.
YUSEF: Hence the disguise.
ANBARA: You look ridiculous.
YUSEF: But I bet you’re dying to hear how I got it.
(She ignores him.)
The English, as you know, are formidable opponents, Anbara: they’re ruthless, callous and greedy . . . But!
ANBARA: Tea, coffee or a drink?
(He nods to the bottle and continues:)
YUSEF: But . . . they have one weakness which allows a quick-witted opponent in need of a disguise to get their uniforms off their backs quicker than a Turkish prostitute.
ANBARA: And you have experience with such women?
YUSEF: It’s a figure of speech, Anbara. Please. Ask me how I did it!
ANBARA: No.
YUSEF: Simple. Costume parties. The British will drop everything at the mere mention of a themed costume ball.
ANBARA: I’ve noticed.
YUSEF: I got the idea when I arrived with the other prisoners to Haifa last week. We docked before dawn and on shore I could see half the officers’ corps in costume, returning from a night out. By mid-morning they’d released us and I was on the road, down the coast and then inland, village to village, town to town.
ANBARA: Like the old days.
YUSEF: Except half of my men from before are dead or in prison.
ANBARA: I’ve been to my share of trials and funerals while you were gone.
YUSEF: You hate funerals.
ANBARA: Almost as much as I hate trials. And stories that drag on.
YUSEF: Right. So yesterday, finally I arrive in Nablus.
ANBARA: Not to see me, however.
YUSEF: Not yet. To see the general, actually. Falbour. But he wasn’t in. Off playing cricket. Or tennis. With lord so and so.
ANBARA: So you walk in.
YUSEF: Just like that. Disguised as a servant of the house I enter through the kitchen and up the back stairs, where I convinced none other than Lieutenant Douglas Duff that he was terribly late for the India-themed ball at the high commissioner’s house in Jerusalem. The man was in costume and out the door before you could say “His Majesty’s a royal ass!”
ANBARA: Leaving his uniform for the taking.
YUSEF: Precisely. And with it I was able to borrow from the Nablus armory forty brand-new 1939 edition Enfield rifles, enough ammo for a month’s campaign and a supply of dynamite to derail British trains. (A bow) Thank you, thank you very much.
ANBARA: And where is all of it now, Yusef?
YUSEF: Safe.
ANBARA: Not here I hope.
YUSEF: Hajj Waleed’s taken it up to the fighters in Jenin . . . Hidden under his eggplants.
ANBARA: You shouldn’t make the old man run your errands! He won’t last if they catch him.
YUSEF: Waleed’s been with my family for years. He was fighting the Turks before you finished grade school!
ANBARA: Exactly.
YUSEF: And if all fails he can bore anyone to death with the details of the eggplant or the olive harvest.
ANBARA: How they must regret the day they set the famous rebel Yusef Al Qudsi free.
YUSEF: Imagine! They wanted to send me to London for the negotiations. But I said no. They thought I’d scurry off to England to beg them for terms with the others.
ANBARA: Don’t underestimate them, Yusef.
YUSEF: Trust me, I know the Brits; I know precisely what they’re about.
ANBARA: And what’s that?
YUSEF: They’re after the sun.
ANBARA: The sun?
YUSEF: They want to conquer everything south of their dreary little island in order to kidnap the sun and brighten the bloody place up a bit. (He starts to shed the uniform) I’m sweating like a sweaty fucking Brit!
ANBARA: Relax.
YUSEF: I’m babbling huh?
ANBARA: Yes.
YUSEF: I still get nervous every time I see you.
ANBARA: Like a little schoolboy. In love with his teacher.
YUSEF: Or like a handsome rebel made speechless by a beautiful peasant girl.
ANBARA: Your fantasies are predictable.
(Yusef kisses Anbara for the first time. A beat.)
Drifting in at the strangest times.
YUSEF (Pointing to the typewriter): And you, writing away at the strangest hours.
ANBARA: If I didn’t write who knows if you would ever have become the dangerous revolutionary you are today.
YUSEF: When’s your deadline?
ANBARA: Before noon. Arabic and English editions. I want it published before the British release their report on the London meetings.
YUSEF: And what’s the nom de plume these days?
ANBARA: Mohammad Ali Baybars. At your service.
(They shake hands.)
YUSEF: A pleasure Mr. Baybars. I hear you’re quite a thinker. But you also have a great ass and—
ANBARA: Go. I’ll follow. When I’m done. (She gathers the clothes from the ground) And your costume?
YUSEF: Waleed will make sure it’s put to use. Give it to him when he gets back.
(She throws the uniform at Yusef.)
ANBARA: Give it to him yourself.
YUSEF: Fine. But one more kiss, Mr. Baybars. Please.
(A kiss.)
ANBARA: Away beast!
(He starts to leave but turns.)
YUSEF: Exile is not fun, you know. It’s lonely. Very lonely.
ANBARA: I know. You see, my husband was imprisoned on an island at the end of the earth for six hundred and thirteen days . . . But I almost got used to being alone.
YUSEF: You got used to being alone?
ANBARA: Almost . . . Where are the oranges from?
YUSEF: Stole them from a grove between Nebi Musa and Jericho.
ANBARA: Your family’s land?
YUSEF: New ownership: it’s a Jewish farm now.
ANBARA: Tariq.
YUSEF: He’s been busy while I was gone. Business must be good.
ANBARA: There’s a killing to be made on real estate these days and your nephew isn’t one to miss out.
YUSEF: We’re becoming thieves in our own land.
ANBARA: With friends like Tariq it’s not hard to see why.
YUSEF: When Waleed returns I’ll have him fetch Tariq for a friendly breakfast. I’ll have a word with that boy.
ANBARA: They’ll follow him here, Yusef.
YUSEF: He’ll listen . . .
ANBARA: Well he clearly didn’t get the message last time.
YUSEF: I’m his uncle, I’ll make him listen . . . You better finish that article before the old man returns from Jenin.
(He exits. Anbara begins to type. She stops, gets up and follows him.
Lights fade.)