June Rain by Jabbour Douaihy

Author:Jabbour Douaihy
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Bloomsbury Qatar Foundation Publishing
Published: 2014-06-03T16:00:00+00:00

Eliyya poked his head inside the shop while holding the door open with one hand and reading the name he was asking about from the paper he held in his other hand. The rest of his body remained outside as he poked his head in as if he were looking into a well. Nishan didn’t look up to find out who was asking the question until he heard his name. He usually answered lost inquirers holding administrative papers in their hands with a wave of his hand or a brief word without even looking at their faces. It had been a very long time since anyone had come into the shop looking for the owner. People had their pictures taken at the photo booth a few metres down the road and only opened Nishan’s door to inquire where to find a photocopier for their documents or because they thought he had one in the store.

‘Yes, he’s here.’

‘Could I to talk to him?’

Excessively polite.

‘Why sure thing, come in, habibi!’ Nishan recognised Eliyya. ‘You’re from Barqa, aren’t you?’

Nishan could recognise them. He knew them from their sharp accents and the looks they gave – those same harsh looks they had when they had entered the church that day.

‘I’m looking for some pictures!’

‘Pictures of who, baba?’

Nishan still didn’t speak good Arabic, even though he’d been born there, or maybe he’d just become used to those insertions – ‘baba’ between this word and that word, or ‘habibi’ at the end. He uttered them often in order to establish his identity, and so they would classify him as neutral.

‘Pictures from Burj al-Hawa.’

Most likely the Burj al-Hawa incident. The very same. He spent one hour of his life there and it had become the story of his life. To the day he died. But nothing could prevent Nishan Davidian from skirting the issue one more time.

‘I take pictures of people. Men, missus . . . I don’t photograph a village, baba. Go see a watercolour artist, he’ll paint nature for you. Red-tiled roofs. There are lots of those artists, they’re good . . .’ Without meaning to, he exaggerated his Armenian accent. That old feeling of fear had come back to him, so he sought refuge in his accent and his Arabic almost turned into a bout of broken drivel.

‘You were in Burj al-Hawa that Sunday . . .’

But matters got a little better when Nishan felt for some unclear reason that the man standing in front of him didn’t have bad intentions and didn’t want to harm him. He interrupted him. ‘How did you know? You weren’t even born then . . . How old are you, habibi?’

‘Forty-two . . . do you recognise this card?’ Eliyya asked him, showing the little card he was holding.

He took the card from Eliyya’s hand. He, too, smiled. It was one of those little cards with the name, address, and telephone number that the photographer used to give out to people he had persuaded to stand in front

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