From Atef Abu Saif’s ‘Walk Don’t Walk’
In Atef Abu Saif’s 2019 novel, set in Jabalia, Gaza, a host of local characters attempt to solve an ever-expanding mystery, each in their own way, but all relying mainly on their imaginations. In this extract, we join the action early on and witness the initial accident around which everyone’s suspicions will be activated.
This excerpt appeared in the Spring 2024 “Gaza! Gaza! Gaza!” issue of ArabLit Quarterly.
From ‘Walk Don’t Walk’
By Atef Abu Saif
Translated by Alice Guthrie
In reality, he didn’t die.
The truck took the corner fast. He was wheeling his old bicycle across the street, and had almost reached the other side when the truck hit him. He fell to the ground, a soft cry escaping his lips. The bike’s wheels carried on feebly spinning after it clattered onto the asphalt.
The truck stopped for less than twenty seconds before the driver bowled on down the road as if nothing had happened. Then he seemed to turn the corner at the end of the street, heading east, toward the next suburb over.
A simple scene. And yet what complexity it set in motion.
The fruit seller on the other side of the road was the first to notice that the old man had been thrown to the ground. He put the wooden box of chirimoyas he had almost finished unpacking aside and hauled his big belly straight across the road, hurrying toward the man.
Another accident would have happened had it not been for the quick reflexes of the taxi driver who almost ran the fruit seller over. He stomped hard enough on the brakes to bring the car screeching to a halt. The taxi stopped, but its horn blared on, deafening everyone on the street.
The fruit seller was still making his heavy-footed way toward the old man lying in the road, paying the taxi that had almost killed him no heed. The driver got out, his face and body radiating rage, the stream of foul-mouthed insults he unleashed flowing uninterrupted—until he spotted the fruit seller trying to rouse the old man.
A passing kid didn’t hesitate to grab a peach as he went by. He casually bit into it as he walked on, indifferent to the scolding words this earned him from an indignant lupin and fava bean seller weaving his wooden cart through the crowd.
The taxi driver abruptly stopped raging. He fell completely silent, as suddenly as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over him.
The scene as it appeared to a young man sitting smoking an apple-flavored narghile on a balcony up above:
Two men—one with a big paunch, the other thin, with a bushy moustache stained yellow under the nostrils—dragging an old man across the road toward a taxi parked on the other side. A seller in his thirties pulling a lupin and fava bean cart, his eyes fixed on the taxi. A woman in her fifties dragging her son along and grumbling about the heat of this autumn day. Schoolchildren pouring out from the broad street where the camp’s primary and secondary schools are, such crowds of them you’d think they were on a massive protest march.
A university student getting off the bus, lovingly cradling three books. It’s the end of an exhausting day of classes, but despite that she’s striding resolutely toward the two men, offering her assistance. One could even believe she only got off the bus in order to help them. She opens the taxi door and the other two manage to get the old man inside. Clearing a path through the cars and pedestrians with a loud blast of its horn, the taxi sets off for the hospital north of the camp.
The man with the big paunch goes back to his fruit. He unpacks
the rest of the chirimoyas from their wooden box, his face still full of
questions, question marks standing out from the furrows of his puzzled
brow. The lupin and fava bean seller tells him about the kid who wolfed down one of his peaches, and how he swaggered off as if he’d done some noble deed.
Three young women enter the phone shop that opened recently on the camp’s busiest street. The smile on the young salesman’s lips doesn’t waver even once as he shows them the latest mobiles he has in stock. Multiple boxes are on the glass counter, and he’s putting others back up on the display shelves.
The smell of grilled chicken wafts out from one of the alleyways, where the proprietor of a big commercial kitchen is preparing some huge wedding and funeral banquets. Trays of rice wrapped in clingfilm are being carried out through the back door of the restaurant to the red tuktuk parked in the narrow alley, blocking the way and preventing anyone from getting past.
Up on the roof opposite the kitchen, a child who is not yet ten stands ready to launch his paper airplane, a vehicle heavily loaded with the many dreams it will carry off to some other sky. His mother’s voice warns him not to stand too near the edge of the roof, so that he doesn’t fall; as if she can’t see he is already standing right on the very edge. But there is simply no pleasure comparable to seeing your paper airplane take flight. The paper airplane flies into the vast sky and veers north, drawing the eye as it sweeps around, circling in infinite space. Then it seems to stabilize above the hospital which has recently been built on the hill to the north of the camp, where the taxi is about to deliver the old man who was hit by the truck.
*
The taxi driver turned off his engine in front of the entrance to the emergency department. The policeman laboriously heaved himself up out of the plastic chair from which he constantly monitored all of the semi-circular building’s comings and goings. The hospital stood at the edge of a hill, across which other buildings and structures had begun to spread. Seeming to rouse himself heavy-lidded from a doze, the policeman got up, adjusting his uniform, his gun still asleep beneath his dark blue jacket.
Passersby and visitors gathered around the taxi, trying to help get the old man out, onto a gurney, and into the emergency room. What happened? What’s wrong with him? An accident? A fight? Did someone attack him? What times we’re living in, a man with one foot in the grave getting attacked! For God’s sake. Get out of the way everyone, let us through so we can get him into the hospital. Can you believe what goes on? No, I really can’t—but what was it that happened, exactly? This old man almost died. Can’t you see he should’ve been dead ages ago? Poor man, he must have a family worrying about him. The unconscious man was now lying on a bed, surrounded by people. One of them shouted, “Where’s his family?” and they all began turning this way and that to see who was around them. The policeman’s voice, this time: “Who is his next of kin?” Eyes moving in every direction, everyone looking searchingly at everyone else, but there was in fact no one there. The object of the search was missing. Where could they be?
There’s no way he hasn’t got any relations! Everyone, concentrate: is anyone here related to this man? Hey pal, you’re not shouting out prices at your market stall now, we can all hear each other perfectly well without yelling. Well, there are clearly some people here who can’t hear a thing. This man can’t have just landed from space. It’s not possible! He must have some relatives. He definitely has some, yeah. That’s for sure. But where are they? Bro, we’re annoying the doctor right when he’s trying to bring this man round from his coma. You’re saying he’s in a coma? What do you think he’s doing, having a picnic? Can’t you see he’s unconscious?
The same voice again, with a loud incredulous snort: “Bring him round from a coma? He’ll be lucky to stop him sliding straight down into his grave! What bastard did this?”
Did what? Tried to kill the poor man. You mean this was attempted murder? Or assassination! Assassination? But why? He’s hardly the president, is he? Who knows, people kill each other for the silliest of reasons. Did you hear about the boy who cut off his neighbor’s ear to steal his gold earring? An ugly crime—and he would’ve done it again if he hadn’t been caught. People aren’t human anymore, they’ve lost their humanity. God, how times have changed, this never would’ve happened in the old days. What days, the ones back when people couldn’t even find anything to eat? Fair point, but at least people loved each other back then. Food isn’t everything. Bread is bread, though, everyone knows what bread means—if you have no bread then how are you supposed to find time to think about love, or other people?
“Everyone, can you please clear the room, I need to concentrate.”That was the doctor.
This man’s life has to be saved. His life is in our hands. But where are his people? Surely he has a son or daughter, or a wife? Or a brother or sister? Has he no roots? Impossible—everyone has their lineage. Let’s ask the taxi driver about him, the one who brought him here. True, the taxi driver must know. It’s not like he brought him here from outer space, did he? Where’s the taxi driver?
The policeman rushed off to search high and low for the thin man with the bushy, yellow-stained moustache. Worry started to gnaw at him until the tension was eating away at his whole body; he felt he would expire from the stress of the fruitless search for the driver. If only he hadn’t let him out of his sight. The policeman had tried to keep a careful eye on everyone standing around the bed, since in his view, each of them could be the killer. The criminal hangs around the crime scene. That was a lesson he had learned twenty years earlier, when he first joined the police force. As the instructor had told him back then: Only a clever detective can spot a criminal from the look in his eyes. The eyes reveal everything. But he wasn’t a detective, or even anything like one: ever since he had started working for the police force, he’d been transferred again and again, from doorway to doorway, until finally he landed in this post—on the plastic chair in front of the hospital door. He’d been there four years now. Better than nothing. At least his salary was guaranteed at the end of the month. What if the criminal really was standing around the bed with the others? He would have to catch him. What a letdown it would be if the detectives or the security branch ended up figuring out who the killer was, and they discovered he’d been among the crowd standing around the bed. Who would be able to convince his line manager that more than thirty people had been around that bed, and that he’d been trying to get things under control the whole time? You dopey idiot—I don’t know who gave you a job as a policeman. I told you on day one, the very first time I saw you: you’re not cut out for it. Sir, it was a difficult situation. Difficult! And when was it ever easy? You say the same thing every time. No, his boss wouldn’t believe anything he told him. No justification and no excuses, that was the officer’s motto. Find the killer. Find the criminal, find the thief, find the offender—then after that give me a million reasons for whatever else. The easiest thing in life is to find an excuse.
Arrows of anxiety pierced every millimeter of his body. He was on the point of giving in to his despair, admitting he’d been unable to find the taxi driver, and abandoning his search. The driver has fled, he must have. He knew I would find him, so he fled. He knew I was about to catch him, so he saved his skin.
He retraced his steps to the emergency room, thinking of searching for another potential criminal among the people gathered around the old man’s bed. Every single one of them could be a killer. But the man didn’t die. He almost died, though—and he might yet die at any moment. There’s no doubt about it: what we’re looking at here is a murder case.
He concluded his inner debate with a broad smile as he strode toward the ER lobby.
The driver had not fled. He found him standing to one side, leaning against the wall, sipping a cup of coffee as his eyes scanned the place. Worried. Yes, definitely worried. Definitely ruminating about his crime, no doubt about it. The policeman’s mind was racing. He felt sure that he was on the brink of one of the most significant discoveries of his life. For the very first time, the crime was laid out right in front of his face: the victim, the killer, and the proof. What proof? Didn’t the killer bring the victim in his own car! Could he really have run him over, then brought him to the hospital? Everything is possible, in the world of crime.
He crept towards the man, trying not to let his hard soles make any sound on the hospital’s marble floor. His dramatic arrival at the suspect’s side was forestalled, however: “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” the driver asked him, a perplexing confidence in his voice. Before the policeman could answer, he turned to the machine by the ER lobby door and inserted the required coins into the little slot. Less than half a minute later he was picking up the cup and walking towards the policeman, as brazen as anything.
He sipped the coffee slowly, trying not to lose him a second time.
The doctor finished his examination. Having talked it over with the nursing staff, he decided to move the man up to Inpatient, on the second floor. He took out a sheet of paper and wrote a long report on the man’s condition. The policeman, the driver, the young woman on her way back from university, as well as the tens of passersby who had gathered around the bed, all tried to steal a glance at the paper to read what the doctor was writing. The report took the doctor more than five minutes to complete, during which time he twice wiped the sweat from his brow, so that someone could be clearly heard to ask Is it that bad, that it’s making him sweat? Who knows! The man nearly died. Did you manage to read anything? You’re tall, you must’ve been able to read something. You know doctors write in foreign languages, though. What about you—attention turning now to the young woman on her way back from university—did you understand anything? The young woman looked baffled by this question. She rearranged the three books in her hands without saying a word.
Suddenly, the doctor looked up from his form and asked: “What’s his name?” Since this was a question no one knew how to answer, they all tossed it back and forth through the air like a football. What’s his name? What’s his name? What’s his name?
Suddenly, the nurse’s sharp voice rang out: “Everyone, this is not a joke! What’s his name?” The policeman adjusted his uniform, checked that his gun was still in its place, and then, after swallowing the last of his coffee, walked calmly over to the doctor. He stood beside him, to make it clear that he was the authority in the place. He looked at the doctor with a confidence that was bound to reassure him, and asked: “You want his name?” The doctor nodded, gesturing at the empty box on the form where he was supposed to fill in the patient’s name. The policeman looked down at the report and allowed himself a few brief moments to sneak a little read. At the end of the day, the director of the hospital would give him a copy of it anyway, just like he always did. Reminding himself of his vital current assignment, he looked up from the form and demanded in a loud voice: “Who knows this man’s name?” At this, eyes were more puzzled than ever. A minute passed without anyone answering. The policeman pointed to the taxi driver who had brought the old man to the hospital:
“Do you know his name? Did he tell you his name?”
“I brought him here after I found him lying on the ground. The owner of the fruit shop was trying to revive him. We got him in the car. The college girl helped us. He was unconscious. He didn’t say anything.”
He looked to the young woman, as if asking her to back him up. She gave him a pointed stare, then said icily:
“Why don’t you search his clothes? Perhaps you’ll find his ID, or his bank card, his driving license, something like that.”
This was a crushing blow to the policeman—how had he not thought of this? The expressions on the faces of the doctor and the nurse and the rest of the medical team silently spoke as one: We have known you for four years and you have not been of any use, even once. He anxiously stepped toward the bed. He felt the man’s pockets. His lips spread into a wide smile as he drew out an old leather wallet from the front pocket of the man’s jacket. He held it up for everyone to see, triumphant at having found the ultimate proof of the man’s identity.
Atef Abu Saif was born in Jabalia refugee camp in the Gaza Strip in 1973. He is the author of five novels: Shadows in the Memory (1997), The Tale of the Harvest Night (1999), Snowball (2000), The Salty Grape of Paradise (2003, 2006) and A Suspended Life (2014), which was shortlisted for the 2015 International Prize for Arab Fiction (IPAF). He has also published two collections of short stories – Everything is Normal (2004) and Still Life: Stories from Gaza Time (2013) – as well as several books on politics. He is a regular contributor to a number of Palestinian and Arabic newspapers and journals. In 2014 Atef edited The Book of Gaza, which featured ten short stories by ten contemporary authors from the Strip. In 2015 he published his diaries of the 2014 war on Gaza: The Drone Eats with Me: A Gaza Diary (Comma Press). In 2019, he relocated to the West Bank and became Minister of Culture for the PA. At the start of Israel’s 2023 war on Gaza, Atef was visiting Gaza for an International Heritage Day event with his 15-year-old son, Yasser.
Alice Guthrie is an independent translator, editor and curator specializing in contemporary Arabic writing. Her translation of Malika Moustadraf’s short story collection Blood Feast (US edition, UK title: Something Strange, Like Hunger) appeared in 2022. Her work often focuses on subaltern voices, activist art and queerness (winning her the 2019 Jules Chametzky Translation Prize). She programmed the literary strand of London’s Arab arts biennale Shubbak Festival between 2015 and 2019, and has curated queer Arab arts events for the Edinburgh International Book Festival, Outburst International Queer Arts Festival and Arts Canteen. Guthrie teaches translation at the University of Exeter and the University of Birmingham.