The Inbetween People Read Free Page A

sip from her glass, and sits down on the patterned couch facing the Israeli woman. You knock on the window, Uncle Sabri turns, you point towards the tea, but he shakes his head, raises his cigarette to his lips.
    That vase on the table, your grandmother says. She looks the woman in the eye. That was my mother’s, his great grandmother’s. She points at you. That vase is ours, she says. It does not belong to you.
    The Israeli woman lights a cigarette. She walks across the room towards your grandmother. Please take it, she says, take it from this house. I bought this house and it was here when I bought it. I just left it there because it was pretty on the table, and it looked like it belonged there.
    That’s because it did, says your grandmother.
    I’ve never used it, the Israeli woman says. Please take it.
    No, she says. No. I won’t remove it from this house. It belongs here.
    Do you want to look around the house, the Israeli woman says.
    No, she says. I thought I did, but now that I’m here I don’t want to after all. I see it’s just the same anyhow. She finishes her tea, gets up from the couch, and stands in front of the great oak table. The view, she says, it is impossible to recreate a view. She turns to you. I think we should go now, she says. I just wanted to see it, that’s all.
    You leave the house, nobody addresses the Jewish woman. Grandmother walks slowly, one foot in front of the other, eyes fixed straight ahead. As you reach the minivan you feel someone clutching your shoulder. The Jewish woman.
    Take it, she says. Her eyes are wide, panicked. I don’t want it in my house, she says. She thrusts the vase at you. Please take it. It belongs to your family. It is just a small thing, something that I can give back to you. She is bending down, eyes staring into yours, her nails digging into the skin on your shoulder.
    You avert your gaze. We don’t want it.
    Please, she says. Please. I want you to have it.
    You take it, and the Jewish woman drifts back towards her home. The vase is cold, it fits perfectly in your hand. You sit in the minivan, and you hold it against your cheek. Later, when you are almost home, your grandmother notices it. Her eyes flare with anger.
    She bought you, she hisses. She bought you with her low top and her big breasts. She reaches out and strikes you on the cheek. You reel back, tears sting the back of your eyes but you don’t cry.
    Because of you she has bought me too, she says. Her face is purple and her chin is flecked with spittle. She has bought us all, she has bought our family. That’s what they do, these people, they buy us. One by one. She shakes her head, her eyes blaze at you. Is it not enough that she has my home. She strikes your cheek again. She cries then, great heaving sobs that shake the minivan. You finger the vase, and stare at it until you seem to become part of it.
    That night you hold it against you as you sleep. It seems to fit, a part of you, part of the boy you were when you had a mother.

C HAPTER 4

    I ’m allowed one call per week. I dial her number and turn to the window, wipe away the dust with my sleeve. It’s that dry wind outside again, the trees outside bow against it, exhausted now. I sit down and light a cigarette, run my hand through my hair.
    She doesn’t answer immediately. It rings and rings, and just as I am reaching to replace the receiver, I hear her voice.
    Sahar, it’s me, I say. I applied for a passport. They are sending me the forms. I speak through cracked lips.
    Hello, she says.
    Well, I say. Are you not pleased?
    How are you? she says, her tone formal. How nice to hear from you.
    David, the occupant of the cell opposite mine, is behind me now, waiting for his phone call. He jingles the change between his hands, shifts from foot to foot, takes out a cigarette, lights it, and the flame is hot against my nape.
    Is someone there? I say.
    I am as well as can be expected, thank you, she says.
    David coughs behind me, a quiet