But why do you think he did that?
“It’s all over and done with now, and there’s no hope of us getting him back again. But why did he do it? At least let us ask why.
“I’ll tell you why. When we stopped hearing news of my brother Zakaria the situation finally changed. Zakaria used to send us about two hundred rupees from Kuwait every month. That sum gave my father some of the stability he dreamed of. But when we stopped hearing news of Zakaria—let us hope he’s all right—what do you suppose my father thought?
“He told himself, in fact he told us all, that life is an extraordinary business, and that a man wants to be able to settle down in his old age and not find himself obliged to feed half a dozen open mouths. Didn’t he say that? Zakaria had gone … there had been no news of him. Who would feed the mouths? Who would pay for the rest of Marwan’s education, and buy May’s clothes, and bring back bread for Riyad, Salma, and Hasan? Who?
“He is penniless, you know that. His one and only ambition was to move from the mud house that he had occupied in the camp for ten years and live under a concrete roof, as he used to say. Now, Zakaria had gone. All his hopes had collapsed, his dreams had been destroyed, his ambition had seeped away. So what would he do, do you think?
“His old friend, Shafiqa’s father, suggested he should marry her. He told him she owned a three-roomed house on the edge of the town, which she had bought with the money collected for her by a charity. Shafiqa’s father had one desire: to transfer to a husband’s shoulders the burden of his daughter, who had lost her right leg during the bombardment of Jaffa. He already had one foot in the grave and wanted to go down into it reassured about the fate of his daughter, who had been turned down by everyone because of that leg, amputated at the top of the thigh. My father thought about the matter; if he let two rooms and lived with his lame wife in the third, he would live out the rest of his life in security, untroubled by anything. And more important than that, under a concrete roof.”
“Do you want to stand here forever?”
He shook his head and walked on. Abul Khaizuran was looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and he imagined he was about to smile sarcastically.
“What’s the matter with you, thinking like this? Thinking doesn’t suit you, Marwan. You’re still young, and life is long….”
Marwan stopped again and jerked his head back slightly.
“And now, what do you want from me?”
Abul Khaizuran went on walking, so Marwan caught up with him again.
“I can smuggle you to Kuwait.”
“How?”
“That’s my affair. You want to go to Kuwait, don’t you? Here is someone who can take you there.