I wanted to speak of Radwa in the square of Deir Ghassanah and to the people of Deir Ghassanah because it wouldn’t be natural if Radwa’s almost total knowledge of everything about the village and its people — their names and life stories, the funny things they’re known for and their sorrows — were to remain one-sided. I wanted them to know her too. I wanted her to enter their houses without a visa from the State of Israel. Radwa will probably never see Deir Ghassanah with her own eyes nor Deir Ghassanah her. Radwa will never consent to line up in front of the Israeli embassy in Cairo to ask for a visa.

Then I turn to Tamim and tell him, “If you want to be a poet, you have to begin here, among your own people and on this land.”

As he begins reading, astonishment shows on their faces at his village dialect that is no different from theirs. After reading them his poems, he sings them verses in the ‘ataba and mijana forms:

My country, forgive us if we’ve sinned.

We set off to come to you but to others inclined.

Stitch us in with the threads of your robe’s design.

Shame it were, that we be strangers in your land.

Anyone with a stick waved it in the air. Any woman good at trilling the ululations of celebration did so for this boy come from a country she didn’t know. The girls clapped for a long time and whispered among themselves. Handsome young ‘Abd al-Latif al-Barghouti climbed from the audience to Tamim’s side and started reciting more ‘ataba and mijana, in turn with him. At this (extremely rare) literary celebration of theirs, the people of the village almost forgot that basically they were weary, very weary, in a village sunk in weariness.

Later, nine whole years after we stood there, Tamim and his poetry will take on a different meaning for the people of Deir Ghassanah. They and the people of the surrounding villages will come to hear his verses. The people will fill the school playground. The child born in the Dr. Gohar Maternity Hospital on the banks of the Nile in Cairo will become the young poet of Palestine and its handsome son, with his long flowing verses, his smile, and the message of hope that these brought them, despite the long-lasting national dejection. This was a new son who was ‘theirs.’ This was a son they had discovered unexpectedly as they went about their normal daily acts of resistance and endurance. He had arrived ‘ready-made,’ as though he’d been born standing like that in some distant place and had come back to them.

Your Palestinian message, Radwa, had arrived.

5. The Identity Card

Each of our relatives and friends wants to invite us to lunch or dinner, or offers to go with us in the car to show us the village, or for a walk in the streets of Ramallah and al-Bireh. We prefer walks so that Tamim can see as much as possible of the houses, gardens, trees, and humans. On two separate occasions, I see the Namiq and avoid him, as usual.

By coincidence, when turning the key in the door of the apartment, I discover that a friend is living in the apartment next to ours in the Yasmin Building. He says his wife is working outside the country now and he’s living alone but will cook us an Italian dinner. He also surprises me by telling me that another friend of ours is living in the building. I go to see this other friend, leaving Tamim to rest a little.

We speak about many things. Then I say to him, “Lots of people have asked me why you accepted the position of minister, and I couldn’t defend your decision.”

“Of course. You never will be able to defend it. It was indefensible.”

“So why did you do it, when ministers used to tremble at the mere mention of your name in the days you were an MP investigating their corrupt practices?”

“No one really wants to uncover the corruption and I was getting nowhere. They offered me the job so I took it.”

“And where did all the effort you’d put in go?”

“Nowhere.”

“Do you know someone called Namiq?”

“Namiq al-Tijani?”

“Yes.”

“Did he cheat you?”

“He cheated all of you.”

“I know that.”

“No punishment?”

“From time to time they punish people like that by reducing their rewards. Then they give them many times more.”

“They’ve asked me to supervise a cultural project of which he’s one of the main employees. The project’s faltering and it seems they want to save what can be saved. They said they were looking for someone who could be trusted with the money, someone to curb the expenditures and speed up the work so as to finish the project.”

“Did you agree?”

“I asked for time to think.”

“When do they want you?”

“Next year, in March.”

“Did they offer you a guarantee that they wouldn’t interfere in your areas of responsibility?”

“We haven’t got into details yet.”

“They’ll give you the guarantee.”

“Good.”

“But at the first clash, they’ll abandon you, all of them.”

“So?”

“Accept.”

“Why should I accept?”

“To save what can be saved, my friend!”

I leave my friend and return to the apartment to go with Tamim to Ziryab’s café to show him Taysir’s drawings. I find him in the doorway on his way out. He opens his arms to hug me and yells, “Uncle Abu Saji called!”

I hug him and push him back into the apartment.

“What are you waiting for? Call a taxi straightaway.”

We go to the office and Abu Saji stands, holding up Tamim’s identity card in his right hand.

He hugs him and gives him the card.

He calls a number on his cell phone and hands the phone to Tamim: “Speak to Dr. Ashour.”

My mind is wandering so much I don’t hear what Tamim says to Radwa. I see him hugging the violin, gazing at it and touching it gently, his face full of light and triumph. He was less than two years old and had left our table at the Restaurant Budapest, gone over on his own to the gypsy band, and stood in front of the wooden stage, watching the violins and the players with interest. They were playing the pisirta, their most famous and popular piece, which depicts a flock of birds circling in fluent coordination. At first, the violins seem more delicate than the smile of a sleeping baby; then the playing suddenly increases in tension: a wind has arisen, carrying one of the birds far from its companions. In a crescendo, the feverish music rages, depicting the flock searching for its missing member, or the bird searching for the flock. Then we hear the bird’s song, approaching gradually from the distance until it fills the foreground. All the players have stopped now except for the soloist, whose violin is transformed into a singing bird (this is considered a display of supreme mastery and skill). Finally, the violins return, playing their concluding tune, celebrating the return of the bird and the completion of the encounter with a joyous, festive melody to the enthusiastic applause of the revelers. Tamim kept clapping along with the rest and Radwa and I watched him without interfering, as he wasn’t annoying anyone. Suddenly, the principal player went forward to Tamim, smiling, held out his violin, and left it in his safekeeping. Tamim kept gazing at the violin, touching it and then gazing at it again until the next set began and the player took back his instrument with a kind smile. We got up and thanked him and Tamim came back with us to the table.

For a long while after that night, the Budapest was the only restaurant he would let us go to. Eventually, though, Tamim worked out for himself that most restaurants in the city, and the whole of Hungary, serve their dinners to the accompaniment of similar gypsy bands. The two weeks when he was with me during his half-term vacation and the three months of the summer holiday each year were festivals that he would dream about throughout the months he was at school in Cairo.