with a false economy in two rows, leaving the second row completely hidden behind the first and all of its titles forgotten. Today he was rediscovering them, wiping pelts of dust off their top edges with a cloth. Several he had brought back from Paris, some were gifts from Faruq. One he remembered picking up beside the Seine; it fell open at a well-thumbed page on a description of Jerusalem, shimmering in the distance. The telephone rang. The operator announced his aunt’s house, and then Teta came on the line, hiccoughing.
“I have to tell you something,” she said. “But don’t—don’t be sad. Mama? Be strong.”
“What is it?”
“Jamil is … Jamil is gone.”
In the background, Um Jamil wailed.
“I’m coming immediately,” said Midhat.
He set down the telephone, and stood motionless for a long moment. He could hear his children laughing in the other room. He looked at the cloth in his hands, covered in dust.
He stumbled on his way to the car. His aunt and uncle’s house was dark, the shutters were closed and they had not lit the lamps. Um Jamil backed into the corner by the kitchen as he entered, her mouth an open hole.
Jamil was on the table. The heels of his boots, tanned with wear, were just visible beneath the sheets. He was wrapped in two of them, through which large bands of blood had soaked and dried and turned brown. Only the top part of his torso was uncovered. His buttoned shirt was heavily bloodied, and his pale chin was lifted. Midhat’s heart swung violently as he approached. Jamil’s mouth was open, his eyes were closed, and the weight of his face was already sinking into his narrow cheeks. His long nose pointed upward, as though he were taking a deep breath: it was a figure of pain, and of release.
“Oh,” said Midhat. His eyes filled with tears. He traced a finger over the torn fibres of Jamil’s necktie. The bristles of the unshaven neck touched his fingertips and he drew back in shock. Then, with conviction, he placed his palm on the dead cheek. The certain cold of the flesh beneath his hand made him cry out: “Oh no.” He heard his voice shaking.
Abu Jamil showed him the piece of paper.
This man was killed in an altercation with British soldiers, who acted in self-defence.
Teta was holding his arm with two hands. Cords tightened in her wrists. He met her eye and, trying not to weep, blinked: I’m fine.
It fell to Midhat and Abu Jamil to wash the body. Midhat, who had never done this before, watched his uncle set about the task with rags and bowls of water without bothering to wipe the tears that ran off his chin. They unwound the sheets, and covered Jamil with a fresh sheet from navel to knee, and then set about dressing his wounds. After washing him five times, and covering him in his shroud, they took turns to bathe. Midhat fetched his aunt and grandmother from upstairs, and they sat together praying around the body. Munir Murad arrived to give his condolences, and to tell them that Basil was still alive, and going on trial.
“Basil?” said Midhat.
“They were driving back from across the Jordan River,” said Munir. “They were on a mission for the cause. Basil told me, before they came to arrest him.”
Jamil had left Nablus with Basil after bringing Midhat home from Bethlehem, and driven through the night over the Damiya Bridge into Transjordan. At Ajlun, someone from the Adwan tribe was waiting. They paid for some hundred or more rifles, pistols, and shotguns, along with ammunition, then rested until afternoon and set out for Nablus at dusk. At about one in the morning, near the village of Beit Furik, they realised they were surrounded. Basil managed to escape.
“His trial is in three days,” said Munir. “Here, in Nablus.” He nodded, blessing the house.
Three days passed. Three days of wailing and condolences and agitation, the body interred, the funeral prayers spoken before the mound of displaced dirt in the Western Cemetery.
At the trial, the policeman said Jamil had shot at the soldiers. Basil’s lawyer asserted that this could not possibly be the case, since they were clearly ambushed. But the judge averred that the greater crime was Basil and Jamil’s, and that in the absence of witnesses there was nothing to corroborate the lawyer’s argument. Basil was sentenced to nine years in Akka prison for the possession of explosives and firearms.
People gossiped about betrayal. How else