周二,这是闷热的。在register and sending the boys outside, the supervisor told Sam that a new counselor-in-training would referee the match that day, which gave Sam the morning off, if he wanted it. At first Sam considered hanging around all the same. He could watch the football and smoke. But the air was so thick with heat that even the boys faltered as they ran after the ball. By the time he set out, his shirt was sticking to his back.


He had arrived at a bend. The water coursed down over a natural dam of rocks, cascaded and slowed into a shallow pool, then fell again through a second, narrow channel and pushed on. As he stood there watching, something came into view. From around the corner on the far side, a long shape was carried forward beneath the low-hanging trees. He watched this enormous colored bundle transported downriver, and guessed, long before he could make out its features, what it was. He held his breath as the body sailed toward the rocks. The face was bearded, the arms flaccid. But the dam, alas, would not admit the cargo, and the body was caught. On either side, the water rushed white. A curtain appeared underneath, a solid curve reflecting sunlight. The curtain became wider and wider until finally, with one hefty surge, the corpse fell into the pool. It wore a white shirt. The parted legs wheeled.

山姆没有立即移动。他可以看到嘴巴虽然暂时水下,但被苍蝇填充。胃被膨胀,颈部是深色的瘀伤 - 蓝色。头部的头发在电流中挥动。山姆去掉了他的鞋子,滑下泥泞的斜坡,向自己支撑自己,像他周围的肌肉一样扭曲。他伸出了伸出脚,用双手抓住脚。SODDEN Plimsolls在压力下渗出,他抵制了呕吐的冲动。他把握着脚踝,罗纹袜子。他拖着,最后把它拖到了银行。白衬衫用胸部染色,仍然明亮。



This was in Beirut, several years later. Sam and Jibril were sitting on the beach as the light faded after a long day of classes.



That was at the beginning他们的友谊。

Sam和Jibril在美国贝鲁特大学垄断俱乐部的就职会议上首先在Penrose Hall的地下室举行了眼睛。山姆是鞋子,jibrin顶帽子。另一名球员很快就开玩笑说,其中两个看起来像兄弟一样 - 这是真的:山姆和贾布尔有类似的构建,类似的眼睛和嘴巴,皮肤是类似的金色黑暗。那么你们在哪里长大?其他人问;你是哪一个年长?每个人都笑了,山姆和jibr滚了眼睛,交换了微笑。在名称的意义偶尔似乎似乎预言的方式,或者至少对一个人有一些影响,这两个年轻人在那天晚上变得相当好的朋友。事实证明,他们住在哈姆拉的邻近建筑物中,山姆在超市过道后一天看到了Jibril。他挥手,脸红了,因为他挑选了一个mana’usheh从柜台。虽然Jibril学习历史和SAM工程,但他们开始在课前和之后交叉路径。然后Jibril邀请Sam Round喝咖啡,而意外地变得修了:让我们在六个见到这里,我会告诉你这个实验室。我在海滨了解一个很好的新酒吧;在九个市场遇见我。

Jibril Tamimi came from Haifa. He was the type of guy women smiled at on the street. In bars, Sam watched their eyes fall on his friend’s glossy dark head and angular body.他们approached him. At night, Jibril would sip a nightcap while leaning over the edge of his balcony, staring at the lights of Beirut, and tell Sam stories about his childhood. He described the sense of mission that propelled him and constituted the central theme of his life.

“有五种类型的巴勒斯坦人,”他说。“西岸巴勒斯坦人,加州,东耶路撒冷,巴勒斯坦人在流亡,巴勒斯坦人来自里面。这就是我。Falastini fi dakhil, Arab Israeli, whatever you want to call us. And we are the quietest type. Haifa is actually the most peaceful city in the region. Except for Amman, I guess.”

Sam had spent his whole life in Jordan. He did visit Dubai once, for a holiday, stayed with a cousin, spent a night in the Marriott and sat by the pool—but other than to Beirut, he’d never gone anywhere. He had never visited Israel or the West Bank. Nor would he: when he saw Jibril over subsequent years, it was always in Amman. Sam and, eventually, his wife, Aziza, would insist on hosting Jibril when he traveled, or when there was an uprising or unrest, and took offense at the suggestion that he might ever stay somewhere else. When a Palestinian militant bombed a bus near Jibril’s house, he came to stay at Sam’s for three months, and flicked all day long between news channels. By the time he left, Aziza had renamed the guest room “Jibril’s room.”

As a child, Sam knew the Palestinian refugee kids at school by the cheap plastic sandals they wore. He first learned the nickname Beljiki in the school playground, when a child wearing these shoes asked for the ball and an older boy, resting his eyes on the younger’s feet, asked with a sneer, Did he come from Belgium? Soon Sam heard the word from his own mother’s mouth: she hissed it at poor boys walking the pavement, and later, stopped in traffic, at a well-groomed businessman whose little flag on his windshield lacked a white star. Everyone Sam asked about the name had a different theory, but most said it was because of European aid after ’48. And yet in Sam’s mind, the name remained tied to those cheap plastic shoes. They were Beljiki shoes. And to his later shame, when the fedayeen appeared on television, he shouted “Beljiki” at the screen and his uncle cheered.

But then here was young, bony Jibril Tamimi, standing on a Beirut rooftop, telling Sam about his relatives in the Jordanian camps and in South America without shame, and even with some pride. Freely he discussed his opinions of the different factions, positing pros and cons, explaining the guerrilla movements and Nasser and the splits in the PFLP. In a measure, this openness was at the heart of Jibril’s charm, and Sam was just as captivated as the girls were.

Yet it was only that evening on the beach, when the sea was gray and fatigue had worn off what remained of their shyness, that, sitting on the sand, Sam finally told Jibril the story of the body. For once this was Sam’s tale to confide, Jibril’s to listen to. Jibril’s to be convinced by, of Sam’s commitment and goodwill. Or so, at least, Sam always hoped.