Qissat by Jo Glanville Read Free Book Online Page B

first time she felt she understood her husband’s interest in politics. It was suddenly beginning to make sense.
    And she! To Ramallah!
    What had got her into this mess except her own stupidity, and her frustration at the closures that clamped down on everyone, all the time? What had got her into this predicament? And with an infant and five children, no less, all dreaming of going to Ramallah.
    Near the village of Jab’a the road was empty, and the roadblock that the driver had gloomily foretold did not materialise. As they approached the Qalandia checkpoint, the end of his route, he breathed a sigh of relief and looked at her meaningfully.
    ‘
Mabrouk
!’ he congratulated her. ‘You should thank your lucky stars. I haven’t seen the road like this, without roadblocks, in over two years.’
    He had forgotten that she still had to get past the guards at the Ramallah checkpoint.
    ‘
Alf mabrouk
,’ she replied politely, congratulating herself on her arrival, in spite of the panic attacks that had plagued her every inch of the way. The children, though they looked pale and tired, jumped out of the car eagerly, for at last they were near Ramallah.
    As they approached the checkpoint her children were practically walking on air with happiness. In the crush of people moving forward they passed the soldiers without being asked about ID papers. They were overwhelmed at first by the dozens of pedlars selling food, kitchen containers from Turkey, children’s clothes from Taiwan, flashlights, batteries, blenders and teacups from China. They wandered for a few minutes among the displays of bananas and toys, and came to the drivers offering cars for hire. After some haggling, Umm Hasan agreed to pay a fairly reasonable price to a driver who at once set off for Ramallah.
    She forgot about, or rather, decided to forget about, Abu Hasan. He wouldn’t report them to the authorities; she was sure of that. He would just have to be patient, for, as they say, God is with those who wait. And yet!
    She imagined her mother-in-law wandering through the neighbourhood, complaining through her rotting teeth about her daughter-in-law’s lack of judgment. But her mother-in-law was no longer in this world, and no other relatives dared to visit them now, because of the frequent settler attacks in the old city and the rounds of army fire that often followed.
    She was not pleased with the astronomical price quoted by the hotel receptionist. But what could she do? It was a small, humble hotel, and the man insisted that they pay for two rooms, although it was really just one double room with an extra bed. She undid the bundle of money she kept knotted in a handkerchief, and paid. She took the children to the park, where they played under the trees, and ran around a large fountain, which, although devoid of water, was painted blue inside. For lunch they enjoyed roasted chicken with assorted side orders.
    She took them to the
souk,
where she bought them colourful cotton shirts at bargain prices. They visited the new shopping centre with an escalator inside, and rode up and down it dozens of times. She bought them juice and
shawarma
meat sandwiches for supper. They saw streets thronged with people and stores crammed with customers, and in the evening they strolled among the lit streets full of restaurants and cafés. They took a hired car to the
Muqata’a,
to see the ruined remains of the President’s headquarters. Kept under house arrest within this compound for the past few years, he had lately looked gaunt and haggard on TV.
    That night she couldn’t sleep. Not because of the baby’s fever; he was just teething, and she had brought medicine for that. Not because she was afraid of the trouble Abu Hasan would give her; life was nothing but trouble anyway. The receptionist had just told her, for example, that minutes before their return, a military patrol had been throwing tear gas and sound bombs nearby, at Manara Circle. (She was too practical to