And I’m an old man; I can’t walk as you did. I might die.”
No one in the room spoke. His wife was still rocking her child. Saad gave up insisting, but the rough voice exploded inside his own head:
“Die! Who says that isn’t preferable to your life at the moment? For ten years you have been hoping to return to the ten olive trees that you once owned in your village. Your village! Ha!”
He turned to his wife.
“What do you think, Umm Qais?”
She gazed at him, whispering:
“It’s just as you think.”
“We’ll be able to send Qais to school.”
“Yes.”
“And perhaps buy one or two olive shoots.”
“Of course.”
“Maybe we’ll be able to build a shack somewhere.”
“Certainly.”
“If I arrive. If I arrive.”
He broke off, and looked at her. He had known that she would start weeping; her lower lip would tremble a little and then one tear would well up, gradually growing bigger and slipping down her brown, wrinkled cheek. He tried to say something, but he was unable to. A choking lump was tearing his throat. A lump just like the one he had felt when he arrived in Basra and went to the shop belonging to the fat man whose job was smuggling people from Basra to Kuwait. He stood before him, bearing on his shoulders all the humiliation and hope that an old man can carry. And there was a blanket of echoing silence after the fat proprietor of the office had repeated:
“It’s a difficult journey, I tell you. It will cost you fifteen dinars.”
“And can you guarantee that we shall arrive safely?”
“Of course you will arrive safely. But you will have to suffer a little discomfort. You know, we are in August now. The heat is intense and the desert has no shade. But you will arrive.”
The lump was still in his throat. But he felt that if he put off saying what he had to say, he would not be able to pronounce the words later.
“I have traveled thousands of miles to reach you. Saad sent me. Do you remember him? But I have only got fifteen dinars. What do you say to taking ten and leaving me the rest?”
The man interrupted him:
“We are not playing games. Didn’t your friend tell you that the price is fixed here? We are risking the guide’s life for your sake.”
“We too are risking our lives.”
“I didn’t force you to.”
“Ten dinars?”
“Fifteen dinars, can’t you hear?”
He could not go on any longer. The fat man, sitting behind his desk, dripping with sweat, was gazing at him, his eyes wide open. He wished the man would stop staring. Then he felt them, hot, filling his eyes, about to fall. He wanted to say something but could not. He felt that his whole head had filled with tears, welling up from inside, so he turned and went out into the street.