Mother of All Pigs. Malu Halasa
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the newest of the buildings lining the rough dirt track. The neighboring dwellings are made from mud brick or stone; irregular, stunted, and worn, their walls conceal rooms like cavities in a row of rotting teeth. Despite its modern construction, Hussein’s home already exhibits the telltale signs of decay.
Immediately beyond the fence, sparse scrubby fields stretch into a misty distance. The haze isn’t his hangover; heat is rising quickly again. In the dirt track, two or three stray dogs skulk listlessly. They are there every morning, attracted by the unmistakable smell of blood emanating from the battered van that occupies most of Hussein’s truncated, sparsely graveled driveway. Usually he pretends to pick up a stone. It’s not necessary to throw it; just stooping is enough to send the dogs, conditioned since puppyhood to expect cruelty, scattering down the street. He enjoys this small victory, but today he feels too queasy to bend down. Instead he half-heartedly kicks some dust at the nearest mutt and runs his finger along a fresh scratch that starts near the taillight and ends just in front of the driver’s-side door. It was not there the previous morning. Several similar scratches, not caused by the normal wear and tear of unpaved streets, disfigure the paintwork. The latest addition is longer and deeper than the rest. Either things are getting worse or stones are getting sharper. Hussein sighs and squeezes into the driver’s seat. The van was designed for someone much smaller. With the seat pushed fully back, his knees nearly touch the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror he catches a glimpse of a face disappearing behind a curtain in a window across the street. He has grown accustomed to being watched, but in a futile gesture of defiance he revs the engine higher than necessary, throws the van into gear, and reverses violently out of the driveway. Lurching to a halt, he immediately regrets his rash exhibition. His stomach catches up with the rest of his body and churns unpleasantly. A clammy sweat spreads across his shoulders and forehead. His hands feel light and clumsy, and he slumps back in the seat, breathing heavily. A black-and-brown dog gets up from the gutter, regards him apathetically, and trots away.
“Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: whoever is deceived by it is not wise.” Jaber Ahmed Sabas was fond of quoting Scripture to his children. But Hussein remembers his father’s words only when they can do him the least good—after the fact rather than before. It is easy for him to imagine how his father would have assessed the current situation. Jaber Ahmed Sabas, a Christian, always sought to reconcile the various faiths he lived among, not estrange them. To Hussein, this willingness to avoid conflict sometimes bordered on weakness. If the old man had not been so constrained by respect for his neighbors, the family would not have waited so long to reap the benefits Hussein has been able to provide. But it is impossible for Hussein to think about his father without feeling uncomfortable, as though he has somehow failed him. When the town was still a village, Jaber Ahmed had emerged as a natural unassuming leader, a man of worth. He was a humble and tenacious farmer known for his love of history and storytelling. His reputation as a thinker and generous host became so well established that the whole community—even his immediate family—called the old man Al Jid—“Grandfather.”
The dual specters of Al Jid and Johnnie Walker are dispelled by a loud burst of static and the cry of the muezzin cackling from the mosque’s loudspeaker. For an instant, Hussein is completely still; then as fast as his fragile condition allows, he starts off down the hill toward town. He knows he will have to hurry if he wants to avoid trouble.
The livestock pens are clustered next to an open space that functions as an impromptu abattoir at the back of the market on the other side of town. Hussein glumly surveys the animals crowded into small stalls. Today is Friday, the day he will sell nothing unacceptable, nothing to affront his Muslim friends and neighbors. It is a pledge he made to himself early on in the business and one he is determined to keep. A dirty white sheep, a little larger than the rest, catches his eye, and he gestures to the young boy who sits chewing gum in the corner of the stall to bring it out for inspection. Hussein looks deeply into its eyes and ears, opens its mouth to see the teeth. The animal appears healthy. He lifts its back leg, trying to gauge the proportion of fat to meat. Satisfied, he hands the rope tied around its neck back to the boy. Hussein selects a goat and again examines it thoroughly. Of course the asking price is too high and his offer too low. The bargaining continues for several minutes until he agrees to pay slightly more than the true value. He simply cannot be bothered to argue anymore. Besides, the sheep is for a special order. He will pass on the loss to his customer.
Sometimes the animals come meekly, but when one decides to go north and the other south, they become difficult to handle. Hussein roughly jerks the struggling beasts to where he parked. He ties the sheep to the rear bumper, then, with a series of practiced, determined moves, throws the goat onto the ground, binds its feet together, and slides it into the back of the van. The sheep quickly follows. He locks the doors and pauses to wipe his brow. Already he feels as if he has done a full day’s work. He squeezes into the driver’s seat, starts the engine, and glances back to check the animals. Their eyes are glazed, muted, expecting death.
Past the old communal cistern the road narrows, then forks. Usually Hussein takes the left-hand track, which skirts the eastern part of town, before doubling back to the main road: five or ten minutes out of his way, nothing more. But the special order for tonight’s wedding feast is due before nine, and a dull pain has been growing in the middle of his forehead. Also, he resents being made to feel like a criminal who has to sneak around. Recklessly, he turns right onto the shorter route.
Abruptly, a man riding a horse bursts out of a narrow side alley, and Hussein is forced to swerve, swearing, to the left. Up ahead, men and boys spill out of the mosque. Hussein feels a flutter of nervousness in his chest and thinks about turning around, but there is no room. The crowded mean little street refuses to give way. He rolls up the window and tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
Angry hands slap the van. People shout abuse. Their voices rouse the goat, which bleats mournfully for its all-too-short life. Hussein, hunched over the wheel that pushes into his gut, refuses to let himself be intimidated. His body seems to be swelling with indignation, but his mind becomes clear for the first time that morning. He keeps the van moving steadily forward. The hostile faces pressed up against the window meet his steely gaze. He is not prepared to satisfy them by showing either anger or fear.
Just beyond the mosque the road widens and turns. The crowd parts slightly and the van inches through, throwing up a small staccato hail of gravel. Then something shatters. In the rearview mirror Hussein catches sight of his teenage assailant. The boy, with a smattering of facial hair, isn’t even old enough to grow a beard. In retaliation for his smashed taillight, Hussein slams the horn down hard. Alarmed, the stragglers scatter and the butcher’s van shoots through to freedom in a cloud of sand and dust.
Laila peers past the cologne bottles and carefully checks the mirror for any evidence of strain on her face. Gently massaging the tender spot above her right ear, she wonders how it is that whenever her husband drinks alcohol she gets the headache. She is oblivious to the acidic smell of the toddler’s soiled diapers rising from the hamper or her older sons in their bedroom. There is only one thing she demands and fusses about each and every morning. She doesn’t care how much water is left or where it comes from—the farm, one of those pirate tankers, or a damn hole in the ground—only that there is an ample supply available for her sole and immediate use. On days when she has to remind Mother Fadhma that the tins in the bathroom are nearly empty, she can become loud and abusive.
Using almost all of what’s left in the largest remaining container, she washes her face, then brushes her medium-length brown hair before applying makeup. Behind a cigarette taken from a pack on the windowsill, she examines her reflection again, nodding in pained appreciation. She looks good, despite everything that conspires against her. Some women are physically drained from having too many children and never fully recover. But after each birth Laila took rigorous precautions: the correct diet, makeup and clothes. Her nails are manicured, her skin supple and soft.
Discipline has always formed the core of her character. Her normally unbending demeanor gives the impression of someone firmly in control no matter how she may actually be feeling. Turning from the mirror, she experiences a flash of pain, bright and sharp. A reminder