In the Cemetery of the Orange Trees by Jeff Talarigo

Author:Jeff Talarigo
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780998750811
Publisher: Etruscan Press
Published: 2017-12-02T05:00:00+00:00

I will not see the lion again until the following summer.

On the school grounds a few of us are playing soccer, not a match, but just shooting at the goal from various angles and distances. I have won the game and Hatem, an older boy who doesn’t like to lose, comes over and says that although I was the first to pet the lion, that he also touched it, which was now much larger than when I did so, more than eight months before.

“I even have a photo of me with the lion!”

“You talk too much.”

“It’s at my house. I’ll show you the photo for an ice cream.”

“Okay,” I say, no longer really doubting his claim, but wanting to see the picture. “Let me see the photo first.”

We hurry to block number nine where Hatem lives.

“Wait out here. My father doesn’t want me to be showing the photo to anyone.”

I am the only one of my friends who has come along; the others have stayed at the school grounds. I wait and the heat tires me, so I go across the street to the wall and sit against its two o’clock-wide shadow. Even in the shade the heat lashes me. Through my ever-growing tired eyes, people pass as though through a mist. A horse-drawn cart clicks by, unreal, as though it is walking through butter. I shut my eyes, the hot shade an unwanted quilt atop me. Everything is heavy—my hair, my ears, even the drops of sweat that slither down my neck, down my back. I have lost track of time and may have even slept a little while when I am shaken by Hatem.

“You owe me an ice cream.” He is holding a photo, one of poor quality, with him, his arm around a lion. It is one of the pictures with a date on it: 6-20-07. Hatem seems uncomfortable in the photo, stilted. I take the picture and study it closely. The lion is certainly the one I petted on my birthday. Her eyes, although they look distant and sad, are those that I stared into so often that day. She has grown to nearly twice the size of when she was brought through the tunnels.

“Give me back the picture and let’s get that ice cream.”

“Just a minute.”

I look closer at the lion and see that she is not the same; something is different about her. Behind Hatem and the lion is a backdrop that looks like a savannah. There is a beautiful tree silhouetted by an orange sunset. But that is not what makes her different.

“Where did you get this picture taken?”

“In Gaza City.”

“At the zoo?”

“No, at a building, like a big photo studio.”

“When?”

“A couple of weeks ago. What’s with all the questions? Come on, let’s go.”

I return the photo, still not certain of what it is about the lion that doesn’t seem right. He hides it in the back pocket of his jeans and goes to his house. I check to make sure I have money for the ice cream and remain in the shade waiting for Hatem to come out.

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