By the time the sisters returned home, their mother and aunts were preparing Sunday lunch. Adele detected the scent of garlic and allspice. Adele’s sisters had changed into their clothes quickly and joined their mother and aunts in the kitchen, wide-eyed and eager to learn Lebanese cooking.
“You have to always remember to use allspice. This spice is a big part of our dishes. I like to call it our ‘Lebanese seasoning’. You use it in taboulleh, kibbeh nayeh, Lebanese chicken and rice. It has a wonderful aroma, doesn’t it?” Samira said, dabbing a small amount of the orange-brownish spice in her palm and waving it under her daughters’ noses. Adele loved her mother’s cooking. She felt it was the best in the world. Adele watched her sisters sit around the green table, elbows propped on the edges, hands clasped together, and faces pinned with ear-to-ear smiles. They all sat at full attention, listening to their mother’s instructions about what ingredients went in the kibbeh nayeh, how to chop up the parsley for the taboulleh, how to measure the spices without using a measuring spoon or cup.
Samira’s face glowed too when she sprinkled the allspice in the chopped parsley and tomatoes of the taboulleh. Then she kneaded the minced raw beef, bulgar, salt, black pepper, and allspice together while dipping her hands in a bowl of iced water to prevent the mixture from sticking to her palms. She placed the kibbeh on a large plate and sculpted it into an oval shape, then used the back of a spoon to make little indents in the meat before scattering mint leaves and drizzling olive oil in the grooves. Minutes later, she gently held a knife around a raw onion and cut zigzags until a beautiful flower appeared. Smiling, Samira held up her creation to her daughters and they smiled just as widely as their mother; even Adele grinned, who loved how her mother seemed to be an artist when she was cooking. The prepared dishes were her mother’s canvas, Adele thought as Samira centred the lotus-shaped onion in the middle of the kibbeh nayeh. Then she washed her hands and wiped them on her apron before she began drawing lines in the hummus and pouring olive oil in the swirls. Adele could tell her mother was a masterful cook.
As much as Adele loved her mother’s food, and watching her mother create beautiful flowers with vegetables, she found cooking boring. Sighing, she looked around the room. Aunt Nabiha, her father’s sister, was carefully scooping the seeds from the centre of a zucchini with a spoon, leaving a thin shell to be stuffed loosely with a mixture of meat, rice, cinnamon and allspice. Nabiha was a short woman with dyed auburn hair that was held up in a bun. Her tongue pushed on the inside of her cheek while she meticulously stuffed each zucchini. With her small eyes straining, Nabiha’s normally pinched face was even tighter than usual. When Rima tried scooping out some of the seeds, she accidentally broke the shell, pushing the spoon through the green skin. Glaring at her, Nabiha quickly grabbed the utensil out of her hand. “You’ve ruined it. What a waste of food!” Adele stood by the doorway and frowned; she watched Rima swallow back the sting of tears. She wanted to tell her aunt to shut up but she knew this would be disrespectful because Aunt Nabiha was her elder and elders had to be shown the utmost respect. Nabiha must have noticed Adele’s eyes narrow because she asked coldly, “What are you looking at?”
Adele stepped back and whispered, “Nothing, Auntie.”
Nabiha’s eyes could not hide their rage as they moved down the length of Adele’s small body. Adele was still in her swimsuit. Damp from the water, it stuck to her tiny belly and sagged in the crotch area. Adele shifted nervously on her feet. She wanted to run. Being so close to the doorway leading into the living room, she could have made a quick dash. But she was frozen on the spot, only touching her bare feet to one another. Bowing her head, she looked down at the floor. Then she looked up and saw Aunt Nabiha shaking her head. “Change out of that stinky, wet swimsuit! This is a kitchen not a swimming pool.” She threw her hands in the air, flicking them towards Adele. Bits of stuffing from the koosa flew in Adele’s direction, landing on her thin legs. She bent down and wiped them off her skin. “Why can’t you be more like your sisters? Get out of here and change. Hurry back. I’m going to make a cook out of you even if I have to tie you to the chair, understand?”
Adele’s mouth began to quiver but she didn’t dare cry in front of her aunt. Biting her lower lip, she stared across at her mother, and then at her sisters, but they lowered their heads, focusing on the food in front of them rather than Adele. She was close to tears but before any drops could fall, she turned around and headed down the hallway, then ran up the stairs two at a time. Once in her bedroom, she peeled off her bathing suit.
CHAPTER 2
“COME ON. GET UP,” YOUSSEF SAID LOUDLY, poking Adele in the ribs. With the covers pulled up close to her chin, she lay in her bed. She yawned, rubbed her eyes, and looked into her father’s eyes; they were wide with frustration. “You have to get ready for Arabic school. Christ, you should be used to this by now. How many times do I have to remind you to get up?” he said, throwing the covers off Adele’s body. She reluctantly got out of bed and straightened her pajamas. She was now twelve. It turned out that she was not only expected to learn to cook Lebanese food, but she was also meant to speak Arabic fluently like her older sisters.
“I don’t want to go,” she said firmly. She hated that school, despised waking early on Saturday for that purpose. “I don’t want to go anymore,” she insisted, digging her bare feet into the plush brown carpet.
“Why?” Youssef asked, controlling the anger rising to his throat.
She wanted to answer because I can’t stand the mean looks and comments from the other students, all of whom spoke Arabic fluently. She was an outsider even though she was Lebanese. But rather than tell the truth, she said, “I don’t feel good.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“My stomach. It hurts.” She wrapped her skinny arms around her belly and moaned in exaggerated pain, glancing across at her father, hoping she’d convince him of her illness. But his expression didn’t soften, and instead, his thick eyebrows knitted together.
“I don’t believe you. Get dressed and hurry up.”
“I’m not going!” she said suddenly, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“That’s enough!” With one quick movement, Youssef yanked Adele up by the arms and pushed her towards the closet. She fell to the floor. He then pulled out a shirt and trousers, and threw them at her. “Now get dressed! You’re going to school whether you like it or not, understand? Who knows, maybe you’ll learn to speak Arabic without sounding like a complete idiot.” He looked hard at his daughter. A few seconds later, he stomped across the bedroom and down the stairs.
Sullen, Adele slipped into her clothes, turning when she felt someone’s hand on her shoulder. It was Katrina. “Are you all right, Adele?”
“What difference does it make? This is the way things are for us. Babba tells us what to do and we do it, isn’t that right?” Angrily, she added, “Why didn’t you come in earlier when Babba was yelling?” She stared up at her sister, Adele’s face straining for composure.
There was silence. Katrina shook her head, looking down at her feet, “You can’t beat him. There’s no point in arguing with him.”
“Whatever.”
Katrina suddenly grabbed a pillow from the bed and playfully threw it at Adele’s back.
“That’s not funny.”
“You have to laugh, Monkey.”
Adele turned around and gave her sister a wide forced grin, then ducked as Katrina swung another pillow at her. Adele laughed, running down the stairs and out the front door to her father’s awaiting car.
She did not smile, though, during the drive to the school. The big, green Chevy moved from the downtown core to the east end of the city. The streets were quiet. With her head turned toward the passenger side window, Adele stared at the houses that lined the streets her father took as he drove. Blinds were shut tight and outdoor lamps were still turned on from the previous evening, shining du
lly in the sunlight. Her father shook his fist at the car in front of them and cursed, “Son of a bitch, where the hell did you learn to drive? You wouldn’t survive one minute on the streets of Beirut. Stupid people. They don’t know how to drive.” Adele looked blankly out the window once more. This twenty-minute drive was always the same. Silence punctuated with Youssef’s intermittent cursing. They didn’t speak with each other often and when they did, it was in angry grunts and rushed hand gestures. Adele’s birthday was a day before her father’s and she had often joked with her sisters that they clashed because they were born under the same astrological sign—Aries, the sign ruled by passion and sometimes aggressive action.
Within a few minutes, Youssef turned the car into the parking lot of the high school where the Arabic lessons were conducted. He dropped Adele off at the front door. She slid out of the car and said, “Thanks, Babba.”
“I’ll be back around noon to pick you up,” he said.
“Okay. Bye,” Adele mumbled, slamming the door shut. She made her way slowly up the steps to the school and walked past a crowd of dark-haired students speaking a language that was never hers.
By the time she reached the classroom, the other students were already seated. They chatted loudly. With her head bowed, Adele took her seat at the back and quietly opened her notebook. A few minutes later, the teacher hurriedly entered the room. She was tall and her shoulders stooped while she pulled out her chair and sat behind her large desk. Her black hair was swept up in a loose bun; a few strands fell around her oval face. She wore a bright fuchsia blouse under a navy jacket. Her large eyes were serious and unkind. She didn’t smile while greeting the children with a quick Marhaba. The instructors of the classes were Lebanese-born people who had immigrated to Canada only a few years ago, and Madame Yasmine El-Sawaya fit this profile. Yet there was something endearing about her. Perhaps it was her dark, almond eyes or the way she spoke with a lyrical Arabic accent when she reminisced about the beauty and chaos of her homeland. Getting up from her seat, the teacher stood in front of the blackboard, and scribbled down some sentences. She spoke with longing and determination to get her students to appreciate their ancestry. How could a strong and beautiful voice belong to such a strict teacher? And like the other instructors, she lacked patience when explaining things that seemed simple to her but weren’t so easy to some of her students. They sat before her, gripping their pencils, scribbling the Arabic words onto the lined paper of their notebooks from the back-to-the front, right-to-left. “Yallah, follow me. We only have a few hours together and you must learn these sentences if you’re to read and write in Arabic.”
Adele’s own hands trembled. Madame El-Sawaya’s chalk moved quickly across the blackboard; a fine white spray of dust circled her hands as she wrote. Once done, the teacher clapped her hands together and grabbed the long wooden ruler resting on the metal edge of the blackboard and hit the tip of it against the board, guiding the students through the daily drill.
“Hal tatakallam al-’arabiya?” she repeated, tapping the ruler. “Come on, say it louder,” she insisted in Arabic. When the students failed to make the sounds correctly, Madame El-Sawaya abruptly stopped and, holding her hands up, one still clutching the ruler, cried, “Stop! That’s wrong, wrong, wrong. Start over. This sentence is asking, ‘Do you speak Arabic?’ Do you? Obviously not if you can’t even pronounce these words. Yallah, try again.” She slapped the stick on the board again, as if the intensity of its pressure on the letters would force proper enunciation of each word. When some of the students still mispronounced the words, she shouted, “Again! Say it again until you get it right, okay?” The children shouted into the air until their voices began to crack, including Adele’s. The sounds weren’t found in English so Adele had a difficult time grasping Arabic. She couldn’t get the back of her throat to articulate right. When she tried to pronounce the sentences, everything sounded like nonsense. She cleared her throat and tried to say the words correctly while at the same time scribbling them down again in her notebook, but she forgot to write from right-to-left and had to erase her attempts. She rubbed her forehead in frustration. Adele’s tone was not as loud as the others; she was embarrassed because she didn’t sound like them. To her, they all seemed to speak Arabic well.
Finally, out of frustration, Madame El-Sawaya placed the ruler on her desk. She slid into the seat behind her desk and cupped her head in her hands as if nursing a bad headache. “That’s enough for today. Open your books and read.”
But instead of reading, the students began to chat amongst themselves, their voices no longer cracking but laughing and joking. Adele looked at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes to go before the break. Turning her head, she studied her teacher. Lines were beginning to form around her dark eyes and Adele guessed she was about thirty-five. With furrows on her face and strands of grey hair sprouting between dark locks, Madame El-Sawaya had the appearance of someone not in the prime of adulthood. She pressed fingers against her cheeks and sighed, her chest expanding with weariness before she mumbled to her students to take an early recess. “Don’t run, walk. Remember, you’re not a herd of sheep but young people.” The students rose from their seats and, ignoring the teacher’s instructions, they rushed out of the classroom, heading towards the cafeteria. Madame El-Sawaya shook her head before placing it down on her desk. Adele looked sadly at her teacher then walked out of the room behind everyone else, forming her own single file line.
The cafeteria was crowded. Everyone was talking and laughing at once. Adele slowly chewed on the cookie in her hands and swallowed it down with a gulp of apple juice. Some of her classmates sat across from her at one of the long tables.
“Madame El-Sawaya is one crazy teacher and bitch too!” Zeina said in a thick Arabic accent. “I know how to speak Arabic. I was born in Lebanon. I’m a pure Leb. She doesn’t have to drill it into my head.”
Adele twirled the plastic cup in her hand, the remainder of the drink swirling at the bottom. “She’s not a bitch. Maybe she has a lot on her mind.”
“Why are you defending her, Adele? You see how she gets all mad over nothing. If you can’t handle teaching, then don’t teach. It’s as simple as that. Anyway, what she’s teaching us is for beginners like yourself, Adele,” Zeina said. “How come you never learned to speak Arabic well? Do you think it’s beneath you or something?”
“No, I don’t think…” Adele began.
Zeina interrupted, “Just cause you were born here doesn’t make you white, you know.”
“I totally agree,” another girl said. The others nodded their heads. In this group, Adele was the only one who was born in Canada, the only one without an accent in English. Her accent only revealed itself when she tried to speak Arabic.
“It doesn’t make you better than us,” Zeina continued, sitting back in her chair and staring pointedly at Adele.
“I don’t think I’m better than anyone,” Adele finally said.
“You’re not white.”
“I never said I was.”
“Then learn the language. Are you a real Leb or not?” Zeina asked, her large eyes boring into Adele’s own.
“Yeah,” Adele answered in Arabic. “I’m Lebanese, not Canadian.”
Zeina laughed. “You don’t sound like a Leb. You sound like a white person trying to be ethnic.”
Adele felt tears prick her eyes. She didn’t know what to say next.
“Leave her alone,” another girl suddenly snapped. It was Myriam, the daughter of Youssef’s old friend. Her long, brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore a second-hand shirt that had once belonged to Rima, given to her when she had first arrived in Canada, which was a few months ago. But Adele had never mentioned this shirt to her or to the others in the school. She knew it would be unkind to brag about this sort of thing or to bring it to Myriam’s attention. She understood it was one thing for her to wear her sister’s hand-me-downs b
ut another thing for a stranger to wear them. Myriam spoke in a soft voice and smiled sympathetically at Adele. “She sounds all right. At least she’s trying.”
“She still sounds like an idiot,” Zeina snickered.
Adele pushed back her chair and got up.
“Where are you going?” Myriam asked.
“Going back to the classroom. Do you want to come?”
Myriam shook her head, stared at the cookie in her hands, the crumbs falling on the table. Adele looked down at the table, too, before pushing the chair in.
“Are you going to hang out with Madame El-Sawaya? I saw the way you were staring at her today. You got the hots for her or what?” Zeina said mockingly.
“That’s enough, Zeina,” Myriam said, staring at the loud-mouthed girl.
But Zeina ignored her. “Go run to the teacher,” she said. Then added, “Freaks should stick together.” Adele quickly walked away and turned back once to glance at the group of girls still sitting at the table. Before leaving the cafeteria, she heard Zeina’s piercing voice add, “She’s not like us.”
Adele ran into the washroom and pressed her hands on the white sink while she stared at the mirror and studied her face. She looked like the other girls with her dark hair and brown eyes. Tracing her cheeks, she left a faint mark on her olive skin. Wasn’t she like them? Wasn’t she Lebanese even though she was born here? Didn’t she struggle with the Arabic language? Leaning closer into the mirror, she carefully examined her green-flecked eyes; they weren’t as dark as her sisters’.
Other girls suddenly entered the bathroom, chatting loudly. She whirled around and quickly headed back to the classroom.
When she pulled open the door to the classroom, Madame El-Sawaya jumped. “Oh, you scared me, Adele,” she said, smiling weakly.
“I’m sorry,” Adele said, quickly taking her seat at the back. She opened her notebook and began to doodle on a clean page.
The Allspice Bath Page 3
