The Heat of Ramadan, page 48
Eytan stopped the car some distance from the house. He would not participate in the revelry, intrude on the joyous homecoming. He did not need to.
George sat there for a moment, his breathing shallow, staring. It would not do to show emotion, neither before his “driver,” nor before his village.
“You are going to have to give it to us, you know,” George said quietly.
Eytan did not have to ask what George meant by it.
“I know it,” Eytan said.
“There is an ill wind blowing.” George said it sadly, devoid of warning or threat. It had more a tone of regret. “I can feel it in the people’s minds, their whispers in the cells.”
Eytan nodded. There were, in fact, rumors of a gathering storm. The Palestinians were not going to wait for Arafat much longer. Uri Badash spoke about it often now. His agents in the territories were nervous, like farm animals before an earthquake.
“It may still take some time,” Eytan said. “The Danes and Swedes fought for three hundred years, you know.”
“They had only axes and arrows,” said George. “We do not live in such a luxurious world.”
Eytan turned to him.
“If it were up to me, George, I would give it to you. But would you settle for that?”
Mahsoud smiled. “Maybe.” He straightened his shoulders, opened the door, and got out. He had no belongings, only the leather jacket that he had polished as best he could with a damp handkerchief.
He crossed in front of the car, and Eytan rolled down his window, sticking his head out.
“George,” he called.
The Palestinian stopped. He turned, and he saw that Eytan was about to offer him the typical Israeli farewell. He put a hand to his lips.
“Don’t say it,” he said. “And I will not say it in return.”
Eytan was a bit taken aback. “Why not?” he asked. “It’s our only word of optimism.”
“But it is not a part of our histories,” George said. “Not yet.” He lifted his hand and waved. “Until then.”
He walked up the long muddy road, and Eytan watched him. He reached his house, the old dog got to its feet and barked, the door opened, and a throng of hands pulled him inside. The door closed.
Eytan put the car in gear and turned it around. He stopped for a moment, lit a cigarette, and smiled as he began the long drive back toward Jerusalem.
George was right.
Shalom. It was only a word. Salaam. Not a part of their histories. Peace . . .
Not yet.
Steven Hartov, The Heat of Ramadan
