SCENE 11
The sound of protests and rain outside. Anbara sits at the table alone. A knock at the door. Anbara opens it. Rajib and Michael stand in the doorway, their hats off.
RAJIB: We let you down miss.
MICHAEL: We went in to get him like we planned.
RAJIB: But he just wasn’t there ma’am. It was a secret trial.
MICHAEL: You’re not at the funeral? It’s massive ma’am. You should see all the / people—
ANBARA: I hate funerals . . . (Beat) He used to play the oud for me. The notes fit perfectly in the creases of my skin, and into the arches of windows; they just fit. The way an olive branch gnarls itself into dance . . . He sold that oud to buy a gun.
MICHAEL: They say he fought to the end.
(Rajib hands her the money.)
RAJIB: We can’t take it ma’am, not now.
ANBARA: It’s yours. Go home.
(Rajib and Michael bow and exit. After a moment there is another knock at the door.)
Come in.
(Tariq enters carrying a bag.)
TARIQ: It’s started to rain again.
ANBARA: It’s unusual this time of year.
TARIQ: I’m sorry. For / everything—
ANBARA: Shhh.
TARIQ: Your writing. Your writing. You should be . . . careful.
ANBARA: I should. (Beat) But I won’t hide anymore.
TARIQ: I suppose if anyone can handle the times, it’s you Anbara.
ANBARA (Calmly): That’s nice.
TARIQ: I went to the rally. I walked up to the front of the crowd. I got up on the fountain and I spoke. I felt intoxicated, on fire. I was holding something, a flag maybe, or a rock, a gun, I don’t even remember. It was as if.
ANBARA: As if Yusef was speaking.
TARIQ: Yusef. Yes. And they cheered me, Anbara. They roared, and we marched, moving like a sea.
ANBARA: And then the shots.
TARIQ: Yes.
ANBARA: Always the shots.
TARIQ: And we ran. We scattered, screaming, bleeding, in every direction. I ran like a boy escaping a beating, not seeing or hearing anything, just the explosions echoing in my head. I was lost. In Nablus; lost in my own city. I made my way back. To where the shots were fired, and it was empty. I was sure it was a dream, Anbara. I told myself that it was a dream the whole way home. And it was in flames. The house of my great grandfather. And I felt empty. On fire.
ANBARA: Who did it?
TARIQ: The British . . . the Zionists. Does it even matter anymore?
ANBARA: Yes. And no.
TARIQ: I have to leave. I don’t want my hands to disappear in all this blood. At least until things die down . . . I can’t, Anbara. I can’t live like this.
ANBARA: None of us want to live like this, Tariq.
TARIQ: I’m going to Beirut. I came to say good-bye. To you.
(He hands her a ring of three old iron keys.)
TARIQ: I want you to take the keys for what’s left. What I haven’t sold or seen burn. Until I return.
ANBARA: Yes.
(Tariq turns to leave.)
Don’t forget us. Don’t forget how they cheered for you.
(Tariq exits. From the back door, Waleed enters.)
WALEED: Who was that who just left?
ANBARA: Just another ghost.
WALEED: Imagine, they were throwing perfectly good vegetables at a pair of British soldiers. People have no sense anymore. No sense at all.
(Anbara goes to the back wall and takes the sword down. In its place she hangs the keys. Waleed sits by the window and looks out. A kind of sunlight peeks through the windows.)
The sky is clearing. That strange rain has stopped. Perhaps things will start looking up.
(Blackout.)
END OF PLAY