The Haj - Leon Uris [139]
‘I am overwhelmed,’ Ibrahim said, ‘but I was led to believe there were no relief supplies in Nablus.’
Clovis Bakshir held his hands open in a gesture of innocence. ‘In our situation, the military must be served first.’
4
ONE DAY ONIONS, ONE day honey. Here we were, living in the wretched casbah of Nablus on Thursday, and on Friday we were moved to a villa. None of us, except Father, had even been inside of a house so fine. The women clucked all day with joy as they went about their chores. Even Hagar, who had never smiled since Ramiza had come into our house, could not restrain her pleasure.
The owner of the home was Clovis Bakshir’s younger brother, who had fled the country right after the United Nations partition vote. An engineer, he had a small office filled with books in Arabic and English, so I went very quickly from the first to the second paradise.
And then I discovered a third! There was a gymnasium —a school of higher education—in Nablus. I needed to wait only till the right moment to bring it up with my father.
A week after we had moved in, Haj Ibrahim asked me out to the veranda in the evening to speak to him. Despite our change in fortune, my father did not seem very happy.
‘I have many questions to ask you, Ishmael,’ he said.
It made me immediately proud that a man as great as my father would be seeking my advice. My ascension to the third paradise—enrolling in the gymnasium—was always in the back of my mind and perhaps this would be a good time to bring it up.
‘Are you able to calculate how many tins of olive oil the family uses in a year?’
His question took me by surprise. ‘Mumkin,’ I answered automatically. ‘Perhaps.’
‘I don’t want mumkin for an answer,’ Ibrahim said. ‘A billion times a day you hear mumkin. We live on too much mumkin. I want a direct yes or no.’
‘I am sure after I talk it over with Hagar ...’
‘Can you figure out other things like beans, rice, and other nonperishable staples?’
‘For a year?’ I asked.
‘For a year.’
‘Everything we would need to eat in a year that would not spoil?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mumkin,’ I said.
‘Yes or no!’ my father said, lifting his voice a notch.
Apprehension was creeping in. I could smell what he was getting at. I recalled the great jars and sacks of food at Tabah, along with the bins. ‘Yes,’ I answered unevenly.
‘Can you calculate how many gallons of kerosene we would require for cooking, light, and heat?’
‘I cannot be exactly, actually, and completely precise, but I can come close,’ I said, trying to create leverage for myself.
‘Good, good. Now, Ishmael, tell me. Can you think of all the necessary requirements we would need, such as sleeping mats, cooking utensils, blankets, soap, matches ... the various things in our home in Tabah? Items that cursed dog, Farouk—I spit at the mention of his name—had in the store at Tabah. Not things we would like to have, but things we need to have. Not cloth for new clothing, but needle and thread to patch up old clothing.’
‘Mumkin,’ I mumbled.
Ibrahim glared at me.
‘These are truly difficult questions,’ I added.
‘I will help you,’ he answered. ‘The main problem is whether all of this will fit into an Iraqi Army truck, along with the family.’
It was as though I could feel the blood draining from my body. Why should we ever leave such a place? Had we not suffered enough? Yet one does not question the wisdom of one’s father. ‘I cannot answer without many hours of calculation.’
‘It must be done before the next Sabbath,’ he said.
Four days! It was crazy! However, no one in our world likes to give a direct or disappointing answer, but there was no use trying to work around Haj Ibrahim. I nodded numbly.
‘How long would it take Kamal to learn to drive such a truck?’
‘We already can drive a little bit. Since the truce is about to end, there are many convoys of military supplies coming in from Baghdad. When they arrive, the soldiers driving the trucks either want to