The Haj - Leon Uris [260]
‘What is that?’
‘Love. Yes, the Jews love one another. They will not tolerate fellow Jews living in such pestholes as Aqbat Jabar.’
‘Deep in Father’s heart, he knows that. He cannot admit it to himself anymore. After all. Father did try to do things differently.’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘But now ... sometimes I don’t know him. He says that with the Russians as Nasser’s ally, Nasser will be able to unite the Arab world like no one since Mohammed.’
‘Nonsense. Islam is unable to live at peace with anyone. We Arabs are the worst. We can’t live with the world, and even more terrible, we can’t live with each other. In the end it will not be Arab against Jews but Arab against Arab. One day our oil will be gone, along with our ability to blackmail. We have contributed nothing to human betterment in centuries, unless you consider the assassin and the terrorist as human gifts. The world will tell us to go to hell. We, who tried to humiliate the Jews, will find ourselves humiliated as the scum of the earth. Oh, put down that silly potsherd and let us have some coffee.’
In a moment we were seated on either side of his desk, my favorite place. It was the best place to be until I saw him wince with pain.
‘As you know, Ishmael, I never had children. I feared something warped like me might be born. Have you considered the possibility of going to London with me?’
‘Oh, Dr. Mudhil, I have dreamed of hearing your words. But I know that if I leave, I will never be able to face myself. I cannot be a traitor.’
‘To what? A social system that will never grant you freedom or the beauty of unique thought?’
‘I will not leave Nada until she is safe. And, as for Father ...’
‘Don’t you understand? You and Nada are pawns in his mind about a world he will never see. Ishmael is a vague dream of Haj Ibrahim’s future. Nada is a vague memory of Tabah and his past, the euphoria of selling her to a great sheik or into wealth. Do you want to live out your days for an old man’s fantasy?’
‘Please, stop. You yourself told me a hundred times that no one can break the bonds of Arab society. Will you be free, even when you are in London?’
‘No, I will never be free, but I will end my days without frustration and rancor. All you can have is half a loaf. Try for it, Ishmael. Take your sister and escape.’
‘Don’t you think I haven’t spent a thousand and one nights plotting an escape?’
‘Then go, boy, go?’
‘Where to, Dr. Mudhil, the seven paradises?’
I stepped into the streets of Jericho and filled my lungs with hot stale air. As I passed the line of cafes and stores, everyone nodded in greeting out of respect to my father. A truck filled with fedayeen roared down the street, stirring up a cloud of dust. They fired their rifles into the air.
‘Itbakh al Yahud!’ they chanted. ‘Death to the Jews!’
Cairo radio crackled over a loudspeaker. President Nasser decried American and Zionist treachery.
War fever was swelling. Everyone was pumping himself up for the coming fight against Israel.
Street urchins played in a sewer.
I stopped before a beggar of grotesque proportions and gave him a coin. Dr. Mudhil had once been a beggar. He had been saved. No such luck for this fellow.
What was it that Dr. Mudhil had read to me by T. E. Lawrence, that great English hero of the Arabs? He said ... let me think ... yes, I remember: