All the Rivers by Dorit Rabinyan

Author:Dorit Rabinyan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Profile Books

chapter 21

The movie opens with the numbers on a screen above a lift. The camera follows the numbers as the lift descends from four, to three, two, one, till it stops on the ground floor. The doors slide open and we see the photographer reflected in the mirror. He has the same dark curly hair and long body as Hilmi, wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket, and when he moves closer to the mirror, the resolute nose and bushy eyebrows also become visible. His plump red lips slant into the same familiar smile. It’s Marwan, Hilmi’s youngest brother, using the DV-8 camera that Hilmi sent to him in Ramallah last month.

The lift goes up and stops at the ninth floor. Marwan’s footsteps click on the floor of a dark stairwell and his fist knocks on a door. The door opens. Now it’s Omar, the oldest brother, with the same broad facial structure, carved nostrils, high forehead. He’s in his mid-thirties, shorter than Marwan, with close-cropped hair and a dense, heavy body. But Hilmi’s smile flickers across his face too. Omar looks surprised to see the camera: ‘You’re already starting?’

The camera nods up and down. It follows Omar into a modest, middle-class, light-filled living room. A modern sofa set, television screen, potted plants, curtains, a computer area, with decorative objects and adornments in an Arab style: copper samovar and tray, traditional embroidery, arabesques on the wall, a hookah. We glimpse the view through the window when the camera flits past, blinded by the sunlight: a wide open landscape of hills, calcite terraces and blue sky.

A female singing voice grows louder: Arabic pop music comes from the kitchen. Three young women are visible there among pots and pans steaming on top of the stove. One chops onions, her eyes watering, narrowed as if in suspicion. The second is slightly chubby, looking up curiously from the refrigerator’s entrails. And the third holds a nappied baby over her shoulder and pats his bottom.

‘Marwan’s making a film for Hilmi,’ Omar’s voice rings out in the background. ‘To send to America.’

The woman tearfully chopping onions is Widad, the eldest of Hilmi’s sisters. She smiles shyly at the knife in her hand, embarrassed by the camera. The second is Amal, Omar’s wife, who looks up at the camera and smooths her wavy hair back charmingly. The third, the baby’s mother, is Farha, Hilmi’s cousin, whose eyes wander back and forth from Amal to Widad.

And here come four, five, six children, bursting into the picture with screeches and cheers: Farha’s daughter, Omar and Amal’s twins, Widad’s son and daughters. They surround Marwan, waving and tugging at his sleeve, then pull him away.

Yesterday Hilmi and I watched the movie together twice. Excited and laughing, savouring the faces on the screen, he introduced me to each of his brothers, sisters, sisters-in-law, nieces and nephews, amazed at how much the kids had grown. Bouncing the DVD remote in his hand, he froze the picture every so often, then rewound and replayed while translating for me, laughing and explaining the jokes.

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