Yasmine Read Free Page B

climb up al-Mudawara hill, and were blinded by the rising sun. When they came too close our soldiers skewered and roasted them. The commander invited me to come and see the heap of bodies and dip my feet in their blood.”
    “ As-senator khatyar, ayyan wata’ban – the senator is old, sick and weary,” Abu Nabil said firmly. “Can you give us a quote from the King’s letter?”
    “I’m afraid not. I’d have to get His Majesty’s permission. Butyou can certainly mention his reassuring, optimistic message.” The Governor stood up. “Now, gentlemen, it remains for us to bless our brave, beloved King and, inshallah , victory will be ours.”
    Abu George raised his camera and took photos of the Governor standing beside the wall map, holding a long pointer.
     
    Emerging on to the street, Abu Nabil put his arm through Abu George’s. “The war has reconciled me and the Governor,” he chuckled.
    “With Allah’s help everything will come right,” Abu George sighed. He was feeling somewhat relieved, despite his lingering doubts. For all he knew Senator Antoine was imagining things, and, given his own history, perhaps he had caught the old man’s panic.
    Abu Nabil glanced at the colourful hoarding outside the al-Hamra cinema, displaying a scene from the old romantic film Al Wardah al Baidha – The White Rose – with Abdel Wahab.
    “I’ll book the four of us a box for next Sunday, inshallah !” he said expansively.
    “ Ya reit , that would be nice,” replied Abu George.
    On the way back they talked about the special edition, the headline with the King’s message and the Governor’s statement. Reaching the editorial office Abu George stopped.
    “Abu Nabil, Um George is very worried. Our friend the senator phones every half hour and terrifies her. Perhaps I should return home, and you…”
    Abu Nabil raised his hand and said, “ Ala ayni wala rasi , upon my eye and my head, Abu George. Leave it to me!”
     
    Abu George started his car but instead of turning right towardshis house in Sheikh Jarrah, he turned left, driving down Saladin Street to the intersection with Suleiman Street. There he stopped and parked. He could hear gunfire coming from the direction of the Rockefeller Museum, and from Musrara on the boundary-line. Who’s firing? he wondered, and walked faster to Bab el-Zahrah, Herod’s Gate, where he entered the Old City.
    There were few people in the alleys, perhaps only those who did not believe that war had broken out. For the past three weeks Nasser had been spitting in Israel’s face, every day more copiously, and Israel didn’t even wipe off the spittle. On the contrary, it seemed to be withdrawing into its shell, ashamed and scared. The Arab countries, Russia, France and half the world were against it – how could it hit back? Maybe the Governor is right and the Jews are being crushed under our soldiers’ boots, and perhaps the people here know instinctively that nothing bad can happen to them and neither they nor their city are in any danger.
    Someone recognised him and asked about the news. Two anxious elderly men stopped to listen.
    “If I tell you, who will buy the special edition of my newspaper?” he joked, then told them what the Governor had said. They broke into cheers for Nasser and for the King. He smiled faintly at these simple people’s naive enthusiasm.
    Suddenly he noticed that his legs had carried him to the Haram al-Sharif, the place that the Jews called the Temple Mount and which they longed to seize. If they managed to break into the city they would no doubt go there. But what was the best observation post from which to see it? Of course, in the Church of the Redeemer, or rather on its roof! He began to hurry towards the Bab el-Amoud, the Damascus Gate.
    Even this gateway to the Old City, which was usually livelyand crowded, was all but empty. The stone carvings, the loopholes and observation posts built by Suleiman the Magnificent, normally obscured by the tumult of