Sayed Kashua - Let It Be Morning

The mayor has always been good at providing positions for the right people in the competing families, and ever since the state was established, there have only been two mayors, the father and the son. And like the father, the son began his party career by driving sanitation workers to the Labor Party headquarters. Somehow they joined up with the right people, who realized that whoever was in charge of transportation belonged to one of the largest families, and that with a small amount of money they would succeed in bringing in thousands of votes. When the father was elected, he bequeathed his pickup and the sanitation workers to his eldest son, and when he died, he bequeathed his position as mayor.

Father and son looked very much the same. The father I know mainly from stories and from a black-and-white photograph I used to see all through high school. The high school was named after the late mayor, the current mayor’s father. There was a large sign with his name and picture that greeted everyone who arrived at the school, and the same picture was positioned over the blackboard in every classroom, facing the students. I remember very clearly the day when the principal’s father died, and the principal, who came from the second largest family in the village, one that supported a different Zionist party, removed the sign with the name of the late mayor and replaced it with one announcing that from that day on the school would be named after his father. A few minutes later a few of the mayor’s relatives arrived. First they shot at the new sign, and then they took it down and replaced it with an even bigger sign bearing the name and picture of the former mayor, Allah yirhamo. Were it not for the intervention of some members of the Knesset and notables from the nearby villages, a feud would have broken out between the two largest families in the village. The compromise solution included naming the sports field for the principal’s father. The principal refused at first, mainly because the village sports field is a patch of sand and the goalposts are nothing more than stones that the students keep replacing. The next day, the mayor installed proper goalposts, with nets. I remember how happy that made everyone, me too.

My father comes inside to get dressed for the meeting. He is always very careful with his appearance. I offer to drive him to the council building. Some of the grocery stores have closed already, having been cleaned out completely. My father looks through the window at the groups of people milling about in the streets, then looks at me and asks:

“Does it look serious to you, this whole thing?”

“I think it’s scary.”

“Yes, but it’s just the second day. Why jump to conclusions? I bet the mayor’s going to tell us he’s been informed it’s all over.”

“I very much hope so.”

“What do you think is going on?”

“I have no idea, Father.”

I park outside the council building. Hundreds of people have gathered near the entrance, waiting for some news. Cars blasting music at full volume are cruising back and forth. I turn off the engine and stay in the car, light a cigarette, inhale and turn my head to blow the smoke out the window. A big new BMW pulls up and suddenly stops beside mine. There are four men inside. I don’t recognize them, but I’m sure they’re looking me over. The driver turns down the music, leans over the steering wheel and calls out my name. “ Wallah , it’s you. How’ve you been? It’s been ages,” he says, and smiles. Now I recognize him. He’s Bassel, who was in my class.

I force a smile. I feel out of breath but stifle a cough. “You’ve started smoking, eh?” Bassel says, with a smile that hasn’t changed at all. “It’s bad for your health, you know,” he goes on. “Salamat.” Slowly he starts the engine and turns the music back up.

Over my desk in the children’s room, they still have the framed picture from our class trip. I remember how I did everything I could to get Bassel to agree to have his picture taken with me. My God, what an idiot I was. By seventh grade, all the kids knew everything. They’d huddle together in groups during recess, whispering to one another, blushing. I was never accepted. I never managed to become one of the gang. Bassel was the leader. He talked more than anyone, and he was always the one who managed to get the other boys to listen. He had them in his grip. He could fascinate them and he could make them laugh. We’d have long lessons together in carpentry shop, and the teacher almost always gave us something to do, planing or woodcutting, and then he’d leave us alone. In the carpentry shop there were only boys. The girls took home economics in a kitchen. They cooked and baked cakes all year round. In the carpentry shop the boys allowed themselves to talk freely. Sometimes I’d hear words like erection, hair, mustache, pain in the chest. They’d raise their arms and compare armpits, some of them already had black hair growing there. Sometimes they’d pull down their pants and break out in laughter or shouts, which they quickly muffled before any of the teachers heard them. They’d pinch one another’s chest and cringe.

In seventh grade there were three boys who were already shaving their mustache. Bassel was the first, and the other two imitated him. Everyone waited eagerly for the day they’d find black hair growing beneath their nose, and I was horrified at the thought that I would have to shave someday too. I don’t want to do it, I told myself, I wish I never had any hair at all.

When I’d get home and find myself alone in my room or in the bathroom, I’d pinch myself in the nipples and convince myself that I couldn’t feel a thing. Hair started growing in all sorts of places on my body, but it was still sparse. It scared me to death. What the hell does it mean? What are they talking about in class? And what is it about this change that they enjoy so much? Why do I find the new ache in my throat so disturbing? And what about the strange, broken voice I hear whenever I talk? It’s as though I’m not me, as though it’s the voice of some other guy I don’t want to be, not yet. I don’t want to be like everyone else, I’m not like everyone else, and things like that must never happen to me. Things like that happen to boys who get into trouble.

It wasn’t only the boys that I hated because of the changes they were going through, but the girls too. There were already a few in our class whose breasts had swelled up, and when they raised their arms to answer a question you could see they were wearing bras, like my mother’s. How could it be damn it? I hated every girl who wore a bra. I could spot them easily, I hated them, I was scared of them and I hoped they’d die.

Toward the end of seventh grade, almost all of the boys shaved their mustache, and even though I had black hairs that were longer than those of the other boys who were shaving already, I decided to keep pretending it wasn’t happening. When the time came for final exams, I spent all my time studying and tried not to be distracted by anything. Except that one day, just before dawn, I woke up in a panic and knew I was peeing in my sleep. I couldn’t help myself, no matter how hard I tried, and I felt my whole pajamas getting wet. What was happening to me? Very slowly I got out of bed without waking my two brothers, who were sleeping next to me. I went into the bathroom and discovered a large stain and didn’t know what to do about it. I cried in silence, wiping myself off with toilet paper. The paper stuck to my skin and only made things worse. I went back into the room and pulled out a new pair of shorts and some clean pajamas. My wet clothes I put straight into the washing machine, not on the top but underneath, as far down as possible, under all the clothes. If my mother finds out, she’ll kill me, I thought. The stickiness stayed with me even when I got back into bed.