Baskets of  Flesh *

Zaki Al Aila

    " Mind the baskets. I'm going on a small errand. "

 Minutes pass and the small errands grows, expands, extends. His head is buzzing with confusion. How can he manage by himself ? What is he to do with this pile of baskets?

    In an uneasy bewilderment he combs the street with his eyes : the vegetable market, crowds, noise, shopkeepers announcing a variety of wares. The pile before him refuses to diminish.

    Worry replaces the confusion . The flames of the sun pierce through his loose shirt. The air is filled with the smell of grilling minced meat. He breathes deeply, his nostrils taking in the smoke.

 Skewers are lined up on a coal burner. A man with a swollen face and a large hairless head, hands on his sides, barks out :

    " Scram, boy. Take your baskets and get going. Find yourself another corner. "

    Wretchedly, he stares down at the ground. He has sold only one basket, with nine left how can he get going ? Where will he go with his burden? He feels an urge to scream, to shouts : you're telling me that these baskets affect your sales? Their full weight is on the ground, and your goods are different from ours.

    The smell of grilled meat penetrates his insides; he tries to avoid the smoke. He pulls out a piece of thin rope from his pocket, and divides the pile into two. A heavy load is still more merciful than insults and curses. People resent seeing others make a living.

His narrow shoulders are cramped between the two loads of baskets.

He starts looking for another place, an appropriate station.

 The crowds and the noise weigh him down further. The sharp bamboo edges cut his hands and dig into his skin he is drenched with perspiration. Crying advertisements of his wares, he reaches the outer limits of the market, adjacent to a large square.

     Baskets go through several stations before reaching this place. The first stage involves his going with his going with his brother to the neighboring village to the north of the refugee camp.

 Beit lahia (a village north of Gaza) has all the baskets – weaving work shops. Twice a week they go through paths, sand dunes and narrow tracks. Their trails are multiplied when the ordered quantity is not yet ready. Delay is guaranteed and inevitable waiting stretches through the long night.

     The second stage involves moving the baskets from their home to the city. They walk four hours before sunrise. Carrying their heavy and awkward burdens, they sneak though rarely – used side roads away from the paved main road . The baskets cleave to the two boys arms, as the roads take their toll on their feet and the morning cold is a cruel slap on their youthful faces.

    Last Month, the bus conductor tried and would have thrown the baskets off the bus , had it not been his brother and the intercession of some passengers . Their family is in need of every piaster. Taking a bus means the loss of most of the profit.

    " Why don’t you open your eyes, may disaster strike you! What kind of people are you? Scram . We all want to make a living. "

    He unloads his burden and places it on the ground near a mobile vegetable cart. He loosened the ropes and arranged the baskets in two parallel lines. The merchandise is not worth all this trouble. It’s a bitter, thankless task.

    " What are you doing here boy? "

He does not answer. Gazing in the direction of his feet, he assumes an air of distraction. The huge voice returns:

    " Pick up your baskets and shoo . "

    He turns towards the source of the voice. He confronts a huge mustache, narrow eyes, and a thick neck. Their owner is almost invisible behind a shiny table. The shop is big , filled with shelves, cakes, boxes of various shapes and colors, chests. A large fan hangs down from the ceiling . The man assumes an alert and threatening position behind his table. He leans forward , his weight on his hands, and streches his neck slightly.

    " Hey, you. Can’t you see the packages? The place is stuffed with parcels and paper bags. Get going . I want to make a living . "

    The boys eyes are glued to the baskets. A suppressed weeping is diffused in his depths.

    " I said, scram, move, or do want me to come and teach you a lesson you'll never forget ? Damn the one who's brought you into this world. "

    His head feels hot. A tear hangs onto his eyelashes. He blinks several times. If only the one who brought me into the world was here. He'd cut off your tongue, break off your neck, and give you what you deserve. May Allah forgive you, Fayez. A small errand, you said, your delays are increasing.

 He remembers his mother’s words. Before they left the house she had told them:

    " In the name of a mothers blessings, stay away from other peoples wickedness and troubles. "

    No one seeks troubles, and whatever God sends is good – grace, and blessing and plenty. He looks for a rope.

    More than two hours have passed since Fayez left. This is not the first time in which he leaves him fends for himself, but it is the longest. That small errand is longer than all the long roads and tracks that he has known.

 His heart shrinks and he stops looking.

    " How much is that basket, boy? "

    He looks up and sees a fat man wearing a suit with a porter standing behind him.

    " Seven ' liras .”

    " Seven ' liras ' ?!  Heaven forbid. And for what? Its only woven bamboo. Its neither imported nor machinemade. You don’t even pay taxes on it. "

    The mans words fill him with shame. Each basket with its length and width, its lifting and unloading, its rising and falling – not to mention the waiting and walking – makes no more than a one - and -a half ' lira,s, profit.

   The shame is transformed into something close to resentment. He stands up straight, stretches his brows, and the pent up words rush out:

    " The importer has his special pull and customers. Only his kind  can touch him or his goods. "

    He continues pulling and tying :

    " I no longer want to sell. Its not necessary. God will compensate me for such sales. "

    " Damn your kind ! I know you well. Once you have your fill you start kicking. "

    May you and your kind be really kicked. The angry voice emerges from the shop again:

    " Hey, boy. I told you to go to hell. Move. There's work to be done. "

    When he gets home he'll hurl his baskets from the roof. He'll burn the bamboo. He doesn’t care if no one ever eats or drinks. His younger brothers words, Husams, ring in his ears; before he puts his heads on the pillow, the child has said:

    " Bring me back some candy with you . Promise you will. " The promise given, Husam slept reassured. Perhaps he is waiting by the door for the candy right now.

 He is buried in sadness. Disappointment clouds his face. Sales ? Money ? Scram! Go to hell ! Candy – some people are willing to let others starve. If only Fayez would come backs; he will relive him of so much; he will not let be exposed to so much.

    Once the owner of a large shop interfered with them. When matters reached the level of curses and insults.

 Fayez went into the shop and grasped the man by the throat till he almost choked him . Then he really gave it to him : We're far from your shop. Our sales are irregular. We’re neither competing with you nor trying to cut off your means of livelihood. Our goods are different yours.

How can you compare bamboo baskets with barrels of sesame oil and sacks of flour? Truly, people have fear but not shame. Even since then the man has kept his distance.

    The shopkeeper is still standing before him. Sternly shaking his fist, cruelty peering from his narrow eyes . Spittle flies with words.

     " I swear that if you don’t remove these baskets, I'll remove these baskets, I'll break them all, one by one. "

    He wishes he could answer him back as he deserves and damn the consequences.

 The heat spreads to every part of his body. Drops of sweat break out in his forehead . He parts his lips … A tremendous noise, a large explosion. He shivers. The words are stuck in his throat.

The shopkeeper ceases his cursing as his face turns ashen and his glances wander. A silent question hovers on all the faces in the market . Panic takes the place of worry. There is no time to buy or sell . The cracks of bullets mingle with the slamming shut of doors.

Running feet are pounding as the voices pant out :

    " They say that a bomb was thrown at an Israeli army jeep in the square. "

    The crowds stampede. The shopkeeper closes his shop, and the sharpness of his tone is diminished.

    " Run off, boy. Can’t you hear what's going on? No selling is possible now . Go ! Or don’t you have a home? Are you lost?

    He licks his lips bitterly. His anger erupts.

    " I'm not running away. Only ' lost ' people run. The real man is the one who stays. "

    He intends his remarks to be heard. The man pretends not to hear.

His footsteps  thud on the pavement.

    " What about your parcels and cases? To whom have you abandoned them, you lion ? "

    His vengeful voice ponds through the markets. The merchandise disappears off the streets. The scurrying continues as the terror and panic mount. There is no time to wait.

    Shall he run with his bundle. Can he ? Shall he leave it ? At least, can he leave part of it – hide it somewhere ?  What about the money for the household, the food and drink ? Whatever God sends is good – a grace and a blessing! He cannot give up a single basket. Each one means hours , Days of walking, carrying, unloading, waiting. The bastards have run away; it doesn’t matter to them.

    The place is stuffed with parcels and boxes. The man with swollen face, the one who owns the grilled meat stall is running down the opposite street . If he comes close, He'll spit on him – or at least on the ground near him. It will be a large one, to suit his size, and the man will not dare retaliate; he is sure of that. Cowards ! They have fear but no shame .

    The bullets draw closer. Fear creeps into his joint. May God bring you back, Fayez. Our sales are irregular. We are neither competing with you nor trying to cut off your livelihood. The scurrying eases off. He rushes towards a side street. It is empty, abandoned.

    Damn the baskets and their day ! Damn people’s evils! once you have your fill you start kicking. No, we'll stay hungry to please him and his kind! Fayez is late. May God protect us.

    He runs with all his might. The baskets make his progress awkward as they swing against him. if only he can let go of some . He will throw away the load in his right hand, four, three, two , at least one to decrease the weight . What about house? His mother? His brothers? Promise you'll bring me. There is no more candy. It’s all shattered, gone.

    He trips and almost falls down. All the stores are closed.

 There is no one in the street except for him. Panic grips his sides. He will never go back to this kind of work after today. Find another spot. Imported. Boxes and chests – perhaps filled with candy. Get going

Shooting. He quivers. A heavy blow sears his back. The heat is like fire. He runs. Another blow forces him to stop running. There is no one behind him.

    He feels his back with his right hand. The baskets fall from his grip. Blood covers his fingers. He stands there frozen. Adizziness fills his head.

    " In the of a mothers blessing, stay away from other peoples wickedness…”

The baskets recede further and further away from his sight.

 A third blow and he crouches in pain. His flesh begins to crack like the bamboo. Everything in him is torn.

    Another impact, and he is hurled into space. His fingers try to grasp the air.  He relaxes, falls . He hears a moaning , feels a dryness in his throat : a rattling sound emerges. His glances become frozen , wooden. He turns over. The baskets roll down, over and over, down the paved street.

   * " Baskets Made of flesh " is taken from ( the mountain doesn’t come ) "All – Jabal  La Y’ati ", Al Fajr newspaper , Jerusalem – September 14/1980 .

The story was translated by Hanan Ashrawi .