The Haj - Leon Uris [212]
Fawzi Kabir’s inoculation was wearing off and his head became sweaty. He prayed to be dismissed.
‘One more matter, Kabir.’
‘Yes, my prince.’
‘What if this Maan or Haj Ibrahim decides to sit down and talk to the Jews on his own?’
‘The Jews are making all sorts of offers to the arbitration commission. That, of course, is why we must also appear reasonable. However, Maan and Haj Ibrahim cannot legally consummate a treaty without the approval of all the Arab delegations. We shall launch the most tremendous campaign possible in the Arab press and over the Arab radio. We shall paint these two so vividly as traitors that they will be drowned in the spit of their own people.’
13
Early Autumn 1950
TICK, TOCK, TICK, TOCK, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, intoned the mammoth clock in the tower of the Lady Cathedral.
Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, retorted St. Peter’s, only a quarter of a bong behind.
Haj Ibrahim stepped out of the dimly lit Congress Hall into a blare of late-afternoon light. The air was chilled as autumn announced itself. Charles Maan had gotten Ibrahim a secondhand coat to go along with his single secondhand suit. The new coldness made him feel even more isolated from Palestine. Some of the strangeness of Zurich had worn off. He looked forward to his evening ritual, a walk from the conference to his room in a boardinghouse across the river near the university.
‘Do you think you will be going home soon?’ the landlord had asked with delicacy. After all, the university had begun its fall classes and students needed lodging. If Ibrahim left in the middle of the semester they might not be able to rent his room until spring.
At first there had been chocolates on his pillow at night and Frau Müller had found an old pair of bedroom slippers and a used bathrobe. She had set the slippers out each night at the foot of his bed on a small clean white towel. The chill of autumn was in the landlord and his wife as well, and their uneasiness was reflected in Ibrahim’s growing weariness.
‘Palestine is an Arab problem that can only be settled by the Greater Arab Nation. We do not understand why this so-called delegation of West Bank refugees is even here. Our refugee brothers are more than represented by the legitimate Arab powers,’ spoke one minister after another, belittling the Haj’s role.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.
How Ibrahim had come to hate the ridiculously high ceilings and the polished paneling of the committee rooms. Forty sessions. Forty wasted days. Words bolted out over the grand mahogany table with the speed and violence of summer lightning. Their meanings dissipated as quickly as lightning. Slogans regurgitated patented propaganda with the regularity of the Swiss clocks bonging from their Swiss steeples.
Bong. Egypt demands the southern Negev Desert for security reasons. Jordan objects.
Bong, bong. Syria demands the western Galilee as an integral part of its Ottoman history. Lebanon objects.
Bong, bong, bong. Jordan demands that its annexation of the West Bank be ratified. Everyone objects.
Bong, bong, bong, bong. Lebanon demands the annexation of the eastern Galilee. Syria objects.
Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong ... democratic dialogue ... parliamentary procedures ... point of order ... instructions from my government ... brotherhood ... unity ... protocol ... viable considerations ... the subcommittee of the subcommittee requires further study...
Words hiss out like dueling rapiers, swish, clang. Moods of rage and disgust bounce off the lofty heights