za‘atar. At the sight of Fatima, the first rebel said, somewhat apologetically: “We will just eat first.”
“Sahtayn,” said Fatima. She was about to add, “Bon appétit,” a phrase often used in their household on account of Midhat, but checked herself in time.
“What villages are you from?” said Sahar.
“Me, I am from Sha‘b, in the Galilee,” said the first fighter. He tore at a piece of bread with his teeth, a motion that seemed to require his whole body. Widad moved the plate of olive oil a little closer to him.
“Tayiba,” said the second, shorter one. With apparent reluctance, he added: “It’s near to Tulkarem.”
There came the sound of feet, and Fatima’s sons materialised in the doorway behind her. Khaled had put on a tweed jacket, too short for him in the sleeves. Taher was wearing his tarbush and carrying a book. Fatima shut her eyes in exasperation.
“What are your names?” said Khaled, leaning forward on his toes.
The rebels gazed at him. Khaled returned the gaze with something like longing, but Taher, Fatima noticed, looked somewhat disturbed. He was holding his book very firmly up to his chest, and his jaw was clenched.
“I am Abu Raja,” said the tall one from Sha‘b.
He turned to his companion. The shorter one from Tayiba shrugged and shook his head. He swung a cup to his lips and downed the contents in a single gulp.
“Are you Aref Abd al-Razzaq?” said Khaled.
“No,” said the shorter rebel. “But Aref is my cousin. Where did you hear about him?”
Khaled glowed. “Everybody knows about Aref …”
“All right, all right,” said Fatima. “Let’s get this over with. Boys go upstairs. Go.”
Taher dragged Khaled by the elbow. Fatima waited until she heard their feet on the landing before, in a quiet voice, addressing the short cousin of Aref.
“We have one gun. It’s downstairs in the kitchen. Would you like to come and see, or shall I bring it?” Sending a glance over the others she caught a look of dismay on Um Taher’s face, which confused her.
“I’ll get it,” said Widad. “Excuse me please.”
They waited in silence. The sunlight petered out in the window above the door. Sahar’s expression dulled; her eyes, unfocused, fell to the ground. Fatima considered asking the men to give them privacy, but there was an icy tension in her legs. Why did she not simply ask? Surely they would not be so inhumane as to say no. On the contrary, they were here to fight on their behalf, ready where the ulema and politicians had failed. Where was her father? Asleep upstairs. Her husband? Never touched a gun in his life. And Hani was in a detention camp, and yes Wasfi and Jamil and the others helped, and many wives of famous men were orating at the protests, but still most of the brave, the armed men and women, were peasants.
She felt a headache coming on. There lay Sahar, pregnant and exhausted, wrapped in the veil she had been fighting against. This forced rebel lore, the songs the shoeshine boys sang about the whores who wore Western clothes, all of it had some quality of revenge, disguised as ardour. Was that such a heavy price to pay, though, for their freedom? She looked at the cousin of Aref, sitting closest to her. His fingers were entwined, and he was staring down between his arms at the ground. She inhaled and smelled something sour. It was, she believed, the odour from his body.
In contrast to Sahar, Um Taher seemed unusually alert. She was pouting with what could be either disapproval or approval, hands clasped, staring at the rebels. Once they left, Fatima would ask her about Midhat. Abu Raja surveyed the room, twisting to view the tall sparsely decorated walls, the closed doors, and in his open mouth his tongue was visibly folded among his back teeth. When his eyes fell on Fatima he looked, she thought, slightly abashed. At last, Widad’s high heels clopped on the stair.
She carried the weapon, wrapped in hessian, at a ceremonious height with two hands. Fatima relinquished her chair and her mother sat to unwind the bundle, revealing a gun so large that Fatima was astonished she had never come across it during her entire childhood in this house. A long silver barrel, a worn wooden handle; from the way the tendons moved in her mother’s hands she saw it was very heavy. A small brass loop on the bottom tinkled as Widad delivered it in both palms to the cousin