A few days went by, and my father had to strike out all the answers he’d thought of that had been suggested by other people and proved wrong. Then he decided to check out the ones that remained. He never would have phoned in. He wasn’t sure enough of himself, so he decided to go ask the station manager if any of his answers was right. If it turned out one was, he would forfeit the prize and promise not to phone in until the competition was over. When father returned from his visit with the station manager, we could tell he’d failed.

There were only two days left until the holiday, and the answer had yet to be found. Heads of families began proposing ideas for the big prize to be awarded to the winner at a grand ceremony in the soccer field on the eve of ‘id el-fitr.

That night, Father didn’t set foot outside his room. A moment before the show began, he opened the door, walked over to me, and said, with trembling lips and teary eyes, “I’m out of cigarettes. Go buy me some.”

On my way home, I looked down at the pack of cigarettes in my hand. Parliaments, Father’s favorites. AMERICAN BLUE, it said on the wrapper, and there was a picture of a blue sky. Suddenly it all fell into place. “Father, it’s Parliament,” I told him. “I think the answer is Parliament.”

Father looked at me, sat me down, and took his place beside me. He knew it was the right answer. He and the school principal smoked Parliament Longs. “Parliament is an American cigarette,” I told him. “The pack is blue as the sky. Cigarettes cause nothing but trouble. You can write Parliament in Arabic either with a P or with a B. And Abd el-Wahab Darawsheh is a member of the Knesset, the Parliament.”

Without saying a word, Father leaped to the phone and dialed the number. The principal could be seen on the screen, sitting on a blue sofa in the center of the stage. The quizmaster was sitting beside him, and behind them were some thugs whose job was to manage the incoming calls. The line was busy. Father was all worked up. He kept dialing, again and again. Then he rushed out of the house and ran to the soccer field. He had to get the chance to answer before the principal gave it away.

Fifteen minutes later I saw Father on TV, trying to get through the barrier of thugs who were blocking the entrance to the makeshift studio. Then a cameraman walked up to him, and I could hear him say, “I have the answer.”

The principal heard him too. I could see him get up out of his stately seat, walk over to his son, and ask him to put Father on the air. “I want the whole village to see he didn’t solve it,” he said. The manager must have told him about Father’s incorrect answers. The quizmaster signaled something to one of the thugs, and my father moved up onto the stage, barely able to catch his breath. He grabbed the microphone, walked up to the principal’s seat, looked him in the eye, and said, “Parliament.”

“Correct!” the principal’s son shouted at once, but the principal got up and took the microphone from Father.

“There can be no solution without an explanation,” he said.

Father took back the microphone. He knew now that victory was his. He turned toward the camera. “Parliament is a cigarette from the land of Uncle Sam. Cigarettes bring nothing but trouble. The pack is blue as the sky. You can spell it with a P or a B, and Abd el-Wahab Darawsheh is a member of Parliament.” The crowd listened to the answer and realized it was correct. They didn’t need any confirmation. Everyone cheered like crazy. Even the quizmaster, the principal’s son, seemed happy to hear the answer that only he and his father had known. He encouraged the crowd.

“Congratulations,” he said to Father. “You’ve won five kilos of ground meat from the Triangle Butcher Stop.” But my father and the principal just went on staring at each other, panting.

The entire crowd was applauding by then, delighted that a member of a small family had figured it out. Father was still standing there with the microphone in his hand, staring at the defeated principal. The camera focused on him as he lifted the microphone again and said, with a winner’s smile, “It’s my son. My son solved it.”

The Last Days

Those were the last days of ninth grade. Every morning I’d march to school feeling very proud. I knew people were looking at me now, but I didn’t look back at them, didn’t turn my head. I tried to stay focused on myself and to look like someone who is absorbed in deep thoughts, maybe pondering some question in physics.

They started treating me differently at school too. Until then, I’d been in the weakest of the ninth-grade classes, because my father had no connections. I was the best student in the class, but it was a class where half the kids couldn’t read.

A few days after ‘id el-fitr, the principal himself came to see us. He shook my hand and asked to speak with Father. He said the Jews were opening a new school for gifted students, and they wanted to test Arab students too. The principal said the list of candidates from Tira had already been submitted, but that after I solved the riddle he managed to persuade the Jews to let me take the test too. He said they take one out of a thousand and I stood a chance, but we mustn’t be too disappointed if I didn’t get in. “The tests are tough,” he said.

The auditorium on the old Hebrew University campus was packed with Arab kids from all over the country. Tira alone had sent a whole busload. The wealthier parents had taken their kids by car. Everyone seemed really smart. I knew right away that I didn’t have a chance.

A week later all the kids at school had received letters regretting to inform them that they hadn’t passed the exam. I was the only one who didn’t get a letter. I figured I’d been so inadequate they didn’t even bother notifying me. They assumed I’d figure it out for myself.

When Father found out that everyone except me had received rejection letters, he was frantic. He started searching for their phone number — he talked to the principal, then called the regional superintendent — but nobody knew how to contact that school. Father said they’d pulled a fast one on us. There was no such school; the State of Israel just wanted to find out about the Arab school system.

A few days later — it was on a Friday — I was working in the olive grove behind the house with Father and my three brothers. Mother shouted through the kitchen window that there was a phone call in Hebrew. Father put down the bucket of olives and went running. He’s a fast runner, my father, and I ran after him. He didn’t even take off his shoes and wound up tracking mud all over the carpet. When I entered, he had just hung up. He clenched his two fists, raised his arms, and shouted, “Yes!” Then he hugged me, beaming with joy. “You’re in!” he told me.

The following day, as we stood in rows for morning drills, the principal came over to congratulate me: Mabruk, he said, and ordered everyone to applaud. Everyone knew I’d been accepted.

There was this girl in school named Rim. Maybe now there was a chance she would love me the way I loved her, I thought. She must have known who I was by then, even though I’d never spoken to her. I used to seek her out and follow her around. I knew when she had recess, and when she finished school each day of the week, and how much time it took her to get from her classroom to the gate — so I could stall and take the same amount of time.

After two years I’d become an expert at following Rim home from a distance, far enough away not to be noticed but close enough for her to see me. She must have heard about the new school. Everyone was talking about it. Maybe she’d come with her parents to the party my father was throwing in honor of my having been accepted. They’d bought me a new outfit already. She’d be impressed, I thought. I even considered shaving my mustache a little, but I was afraid it would grow in black. Besides, only the lousiest students started shaving early.