The Orange Grove Read Free

sweeps over me. Your father, Mounir, worked his whole life on this arid soil. It was the desert here. With God’s help your father worked a miracle. Made oranges grow where there had been only sand and stones. Don’t think that because I come to you with a machine gun, I don’t have the eyes and ears of a poet. I hear and I see that which is just and pleasant. You are a bighearted man. Your house is clean. Everything in its place. Your wife’s tea is delicious. You know what they say, too much sugar, too little sugar: good tea falls between the two. Your wife’s is the golden mean. The stream that runs between your father’s house and your own is in the very middle too. From the road it’s the first thing one notices, the beauty that’s exactly in the middle. Zahed, your father was known throughout the land. He was a just man. It took a just man to transform this faceless territory into a paradise. The birds are never wrong where paradise is concerned, even when they hide in the shadow of the mountains. They recognize it very quickly. Tell me, Zahed, do you know the names of the birds that are singing right now? Surely not. There are too many and their songsare too elusive. Through the window I can see some with wings that flash a saffron color. Those birds have come from very far away. Just now their vivid colors mingle with those of the orange grove where you have just buried your parents. And their song rings out like a blessing. But can these nameless birds lessen your grief? No. Revenge is the only answer for your grief. Listen carefully, Zahed. In nearby villages other houses have been destroyed. Many people have died because of missiles and bombs. Our enemies want to seize our land. They want our land to build their houses and make their wives pregnant. After invading our villages they will advance to the big city. They will kill our women. Enslave our children. And that will be the end of our country. Our earth will be soiled by their steps, by their spittle. Do you believe that God will allow this sacrilege? Do you believe that, Zahed?’
    â€œThat is what Soulayed said to your father.”
    Amed and Aziz dared not move or speak. Never had their father talked at such length. Zahed stood up. Took a few steps in the room.Amed whispered to his brother: “He’s thinking. When he walks like that it means he’s thinking.”
    After a long moment Zahed opened the bag the men had left behind. Inside was a strange belt which he unrolled. It was so heavy he needed both hands to lift it.
    â€œSoulayed brought it,” Zahed told his sons. “At first I didn’t realize what he was showing me. Halim put the belt on. That was when I understood that those men were here to see me. Your mother came in. She was bringing more tea. She saw Halim and started to shriek. She spilled the tray. The teapot fell to the floor. A glass broke. I asked your mother to pick it all up and come back with more tea. I apologized to Soulayed. Your mother shouldn’t have shrieked.”
    Aziz wanted to touch the belt. His father pushed him away. He put it back in the bag and left the room. Amed and Aziz watched at the window as he disappeared in the fields of orange trees.
    Â 
    Tamara rarely talked with her husband. She preferred their silences to their usual arguments. They loved one another as men and women should love one another in the eyes of God and men.
    Often, before joining her husband in bed, she would go into the garden. She would sit on the bench in front of the roses and inhale the rich scents that rose from the damp earth. Let herself be lulled by the music of insects, raise her head to seek the moon. Look at it as if it were an old friend she’d just run into. Some nights the moon made her think of a fingernail print in the flesh of the sky. She liked these moments when she was alone before infinity. Her children were sleeping. Her husband was waiting for her in their