The Orange Grove (5 page)

From sentence to sentence, Zahed's voice softened in the semidarkness of the shed. Amed found it unsettling and at the same time comforting to hear his father talking to him this way.

“We live every day in the fear that it will be our last. We don't sleep very well and when we do sleep, nightmares stalk us. Entire villages are destroyed every week. Our dead grow in number. The war gets worse, Amed. We have no choice. The bomb that destroyed your grandparents' house came from the other side of the mountain. You know that, right? More bombs
will come from that cursed place. Every morning, when I open my eyes and see that the orange grove is still there under the sun, I thank God for this miracle. Amed, if I could, I would take your place. Your mother, too, wouldn't hesitate for a second. Nor your brother. Especially your brother, who loves you so much. Soulayed will return. It's he who will take you to the foot of the mountain. He'll come back soon with his jeep, in a few days or perhaps in a few weeks, but certainly before the harvest. It's you who will wear the belt.”

Zahed opened the canvas bag. His hands trembled slightly. Amed saw this despite the shed's dim light. Watching his father, Amed imagined that he was extricating something from the bag that was alive, grey or green, a mysterious and dangerous animal.

“I must tell you something else. Your brother is not yet cured. He could not wear the belt. He's too weak. That's why I chose you.”

“And if Aziz were not sick, who would you have chosen?” asked Amed, with a composure that surprised his father.

For a long moment, Zahed didn't know how
to answer his son, who was already regretting the question. Amed knew that his brother was very sick, and that he would never be cured. Tamara had left no doubt in Amed's mind as to the seriousness of Aziz's illness. He was going to die. Just like Amed, if he didn't trade places with his brother.

“I would have asked the oranges to decide in my stead.”

“The oranges?”

“Here's what I would have done: I'd have given an orange to your brother, and another to you. The one who found the most seeds in his orange, he's the one who would have left.”

Amed smiled. Zahed stood up. The way he held the belt of explosives in his hands lent the object a solemn importance. Amed then saw that it was not at all like what he and his brother had cobbled together to amuse themselves. It seemed heavy and malign. Amed went near and touched it gingerly.

“Do you want to take it?”

“Isn't it dangerous?” asked Amed, drawing back a step.

“No. It's not connected to the detonator. You
know, that's what will enable you to . . . well, you know what I mean.”

Amed knew what a detonator was. His father handed him the belt.

“Soulayed made me understand that you should love the belt. That you should see it as part of yourself. You can wear it whenever you like. You must accustom yourself to its weight, to its touch. But never take it out of here. You understand? And above all, don't come here with your brother. That would only complicate things.”

“I promise.”

“You're not afraid?”

“No,” Amed lied, “I'm not afraid.”

“You're brave. I'm proud of you. We're all proud of you.”

There was a long silence, during which Zahed no longer dared to look at his son.

“Here, this is the key to the lock. From now on, you can come here whenever you want.”

Zahed bent over Amed and placed a kiss on his brow. Then he walked away. When he opened the door, light streamed into the shed, blinding Amed. Once the door was closed, he found
himself again in darkness, the belt in his hands. He hardly dared breathe. Suddenly, he thought he saw a face appear, floating in space.

“Grandfather, is it you?”

Amed was certain he'd seen his grandfather Mounir's face. He knew he was dead and buried in the orange grove, but the vision was so powerful that he called out again.

“Answer me, grandfather, is it you?”

As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, Amed again made out the shed's walls, and the tools lined up on makeshift shelves. The sun from the skylight made the scythes glimmer, along with the pruning shears and the ends of the shovels and saws. Amed glanced around him. The vision had vanished for good. He breathed deeply and placed the belt around his waist. His muscles tensed. He took a few hesitant steps.

“Now I'm a real soldier.”

Crouched behind a bush in the garden, Aziz saw his father leave the shed without Amed and go back to work in the orange grove. He wasn't surprised at his father's choice. He waited for Amed to follow him out, but in vain. After a long while, Aziz decided to go and join Amed in the shed. Slowly, he opened the big door a crack.

“Amed, what are you doing?”

His brother didn't reply, so he stepped inside.

“I know you're there. Answer me.”

“Don't come in.”

“Why?”

“Leave me alone.”

Aziz advanced, slowly making out his brother's silhouette in the half light.

“What are you doing?”

“Don't come near me.”

“Why?”

“It's dangerous.”

Aziz froze. He heard his brother breathing noisily.

“What's the matter?”

“I can't move.”

“Are you sick?”

“Leave.”

“Why?”

“I'm wearing the belt and if I move . . .”

“You're ridiculous!”

“Everything will blow up. Go away!”

“I'm going to get Father,” said Aziz, frightened.

“You believed me? You're stupid,” Amed shouted with a laugh, running at his brother so fast that he knocked him to the ground. “You're really stupid. The belt has no detonator!”

Aziz grabbed his brother's legs, and threw him to the ground in turn. The two fought wildly.

“I'll kill you!”

“Give me the belt, I'm the one who should go!”

“I'm the one Father chose, I'm the one who has to go.”

“I want to try it, take it off!”

“Never!”

Aziz hit his brother in the face. Amed stood up, dizzied. He took hold of a long scythe leaning against a wall.

“Come near and I'll carve you into little pieces.”

“Try!”

“I'm serious, Aziz.”

The two brothers eyed each other without moving, each listening to the other's shallow breathing. They were still merely children. Something had changed, as if the darkness had imposed on their young bodies a density and a gravitas only an adult body could bear.

“I'm afraid to die, Aziz.”

Amed put down the scythe. His brother went to him.

“I know. I'll go.”

“You can't.”

“I will go, Amed.”

“We can't disobey Father.”

“I'll take your place. Father won't know.”

“He'll notice.”

“No. Believe me. Take it off,” begged Aziz.

Amed hesitated, then removed the belt with an abrupt gesture. Aziz took it and went to the back of the shed, to where the sunbeam from the skylight almost touched the ground. In the dancing light he scrutinized the object that would slaughter his people's enemies and usher him into paradise. He was fascinated. The belt was made up of a dozen small cylindrical compartments filled with explosives.

Amed came to join him. “Do you think the dead can come back?”

“I don't know.”

“I think I saw Grandfather a while ago.”

“Where?”

“There,” said Amed, pointing to a spot in front of them.

“Are you sure?”

“It was his face. He disappeared right away.”

“You saw a ghost.”

“When you die, maybe you'll come back too.”

“Let's get out of here,” Aziz said anxiously.

Amed put the belt back in the canvas bag he'd hidden under the old tarp. When the two brothers emerged from the shed, the light of day hurt their eyes.

Amed went to join his mother, who was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. She poured rice onto the page of an old newspaper, and asked her son to pick it over. Amed liked helping his mother cook, even if he was a bit ashamed of it. It was unusual for a boy. When he'd first begun offering to help her, Tamara, looking surprised, had refused. He'd asked again, and in the end she'd accepted. Since then, she had cherished and sought out these moments with her son. When Amed went several days without making a little visit to the kitchen, she worried and wondered whether Zahed had spoken to him. She knew that her husband found such behavior inappropriate for a boy.

Amed was concentrating on his task, picking
little stones and pieces of dirt out of the rice. His moves were rapid and precise. Tamara dared not ask the question that was burning her lips. She waited for her son to break the unusual silence that was growing between them. These moments they shared were generally an opportunity for conversations they couldn't otherwise have. The feeling of complicity between mother and son sometimes had them laughing out loud. Amed also took these opportunities to talk about his aunt Dalimah, whom he missed. Every one of the letters he received from his aunt was special to him. At first, his mother had read them to him. But since he'd learned to make out words, he would reread his aunt's letters for hours. She told stories about her new life. She described the subway, a train that passed through neighborhoods under the city's streets and buildings! She talked to him about the snow that, in just a few hours, covered the roofs of houses and brought a woolly silence down from the sky. The few photos she slipped into the envelopes astonished him and made him all the more curious. Amed especially liked the ones where you saw the city lit up at night, or those showing high bridges
and the river they spanned with their steel structures, and the blinking ribbon of automobile headlights. She was careful never to send photos of her husband. His aunt once wrote that she thought of the orange grove every time she ate an orange. She would have loved to see it again, to walk between the rows of trees with her little Amed, breathing in along with him the perfume surrounding their white flowers in the summer.

“It's done,” Amed said suddenly to his mother.

Tamara thought he'd finished sorting the rice. She looked at her son and understood, relieved, that he was talking about the switch.

“Did you ask him?”

“Yes, today in the . . .”

“You didn't let on that he was sick?”

“No!”

“You mustn't.”

“No! I did like you said.”

“You said you were afraid, is that right?”

“Yes. I told him I was afraid of dying.”

“My poor Amed! Forgive me! Forgive me! I know you're brave, just like your brother. It's horrible, what I'm asking of you, so horrible . . .”

“Don't cry, Mama.”

“What's the use of bringing children into the world if it's just to sacrifice them like poor animals being sent to the slaughterhouse!”

“Don't cry anymore.”

“No, I'm not crying anymore. You see, I've stopped crying. And we've done this for Aziz, you mustn't forget. Now finish sorting the rice.”

Tamara dried her tears and lit a fire under the big pot.

“You have to be careful about one thing, Amed.”

“What, Mama?”

“Your brother, since he's been sick, has grown thinner.”

“Not really.”

“But yes! Haven't you noticed? His cheeks are not as round as yours. He has less appetite than you do. Watch your brother's plate, and make sure you eat less than him. I feel terrible having to ask you that, so terrible, but swear to me that you'll do it, Amed!”

“Yes, I'll do it.”

“Your father mustn't be aware of the switch. It would be horrible if he discovered it. I don't dare even think about it.”

“Don't worry. In a few days, I'll be as thin as Aziz, and no one will be able to tell us apart.”

“I will.”

“Yes, you, but only you.”

“I'd understand if you hated me.”

“Here, I'll finish sorting the rice.”

“Thank you, Amed.”

“I'll never hate you.”

“I'm going to cut myself with a knife.”

“Why?”

“We'll do the switch at the last minute.”

“What are you talking about, Aziz?”

“When you're about to leave with Soulayed, I'm going to arrange to wound myself with a knife. But not really. You, on the other hand, have to do it for real.”

“I don't understand what you're saying.”

“You only have to make a little cut. On your left hand. Don't make a mistake, Amed, it has to be the left hand.”

“All right. But I still don't see why.”

“I'm going to take blood from a sheep.”

“Blood from a sheep!” repeated Amed, completely perplexed.

“To make them believe I've hurt myself. I'll
put it on my hand and wrap it in a cloth. When we switch, I'll wash it. No one will see the wound on my hand. But you, everyone will see yours.”

“Because I'll really be cut,” said Amed, beginning to grasp what his brother was up to.

“That's it. There will be no doubt. You'll be Aziz with the wounded hand, and I'll be Amed, ready to leave with Soulayed.”

“Aziz with the wounded hand,” repeated Amed with a sigh.

The two brothers were lying on the roof of the house. The first stars had just come out. They pierced the sky one by one, before riddling it by the dozen with sparkling points of light. Amed and Aziz had got in the habit of climbing up there to take advantage of the breeze. They lay on their backs near the big water tank, gazing far into the endless night.

“Don't be sad, Amed. Soon I'll be up there. Promise me you'll come here every night to tell me about your day.”