Eyes flash and a smile unfolds.

“I have told the story.”

Click, of chips hitting against one another; victory is once again in the court of age and wisdom.

“I know, Abu Salwan, but tell me again. Please.”

He laughs. “Oh, Miss Professor, you always want stories.”

I nod. They call me Miss Professor now because I will be starting university soon and because I ask too many questions. Um Salwan and Fawziyya laugh, knowing that Abu Salwan will indulge me. He is, after all, Abu Qisas, Father of Stories.

Leaning back in his chair, he begins:

“As you know, my child, my tribe is from the Galilee area. Some people from our tribe led a settled life, but some of us still traveled—in our case it was between the Galilee and Irbid. We did this until 1948, when the war broke out and bad luck had us on the eastern side of the river, forbidden by the new Israeli government to return more than once a year.”

Fawziyya gets up.

“Where are you escaping to?”

“Grandfather, I know this story and it needs tea to accompany it.” She picks two mint leaves from a paint can filled with the herb and goes inside.

Abu Salwan continues:

“As you also know, I often worked as a driver for the Baraka Company, transporting various merchandise to and from Iraq. There were two routes: via the heavily traveled paved road, or following the paved road for a bit, then cutting through the desert. Most men stayed on the paved road for its reliability and population, but if you were in a hurry, going through the desert was the best way: slow driving, but a much shorter distance, which is why the Baraka Company liked to hire Bedouin drivers. We are loyal and we know the desert.

“They’d say that inexperienced drivers—those men from the villages who wanted to make more money or were in a hurry to return—sometimes took the desert shortcuts. There are many stories of mysterious disappearances, though I think most were robberies.”

Fawziyya appears with a tray and small glasses of sugared tea—I can see the line of white at the bottom—and places a glass in front of each of us.

“Since I knew the desert region well, I usually chose it if I had a good truck because it was much quicker. This one time, however, I had a truck that I did not trust at all. If you broke down on the road, there would always be someone to help you, but if you broke down in the desert, you were left to your own devices. There was no hurry for this shipment, so I took the paved road. Don’t think ‘paved’ meant what it does today, either. The road was bumpy and dusty and crowded and was always a challenge to your truck and your patience, especially in the summer months when the sun set your skin on fire.