A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  I was just about to knock on the door when I heard Aunt Zainab say, ‘That’s right. Adnan was a lawyer in Damascus. Quite successful, I think. But look at him now! You’d have thought he’d have pulled himself together for the sake of the children. Shown a bit more drive and energy. But it’s always the same. People who think they’re so clever fall to bits when anything practical has to be done. Yasser never passed an exam at school, but he’s a successful businessman, running his own show. To be honest, I never really liked that Syrian side of Yasser’s family. Thought they were somebodies, I can tell you. Adnan’s sister, Shirin, she’s a dried-up old stick. Looked down her nose at me.’

  Underneath my hijab my scalp was prickling with fury.

  ‘How dare you?’ I hissed. ‘Our family’s worth a million of yours!’

  Um Salim said something I didn’t catch.

  ‘The mother?’ Aunt Zainab said. ‘She was Jordanian, you know. They met when they were students. We went to the wedding in Amman. No expense spared!’

  I was holding my breath, dying to hear more. No one ever talked about my mother. I’d asked Baba about her a few times, but he’d just looked sad and said, ‘She was beautiful, habibti, like you,’ and then he’d changed the subject. Auntie Shirin would only shake her head in an infuriating way and say, ‘It was the will of Allah to take her. No point in thinking about it now.’

  There’d been a photo of the wedding in Baba’s bedroom. They both looked young and lovely. Sometimes when no one was around, I used to creep in and gaze at my mother in her long, white wedding dress.

  ‘Hello, Mama,’ I’d whisper to her. ‘I wish you weren’t dead.’

  Aunt Zainab and Um Salim were still talking.

  ‘Wasn’t her name Mariam?’ Um Salim said. ‘Awful what happened, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Well –’ Aunt Zainab was moving around the kitchen, clattering pans – ‘you could have seen it coming. I always thought she was a bit . . . you know . . . And that brother of hers! Hassan! So high and mighty you wouldn’t believe it. Yasser thought he saw him a while ago, going into a building in Amman.’

  I gasped, straining my ears to hear more.

  ‘You’d have thought he’d have stepped in to help the family,’ Um Salim said. ‘The children’s own uncle!’

  ‘You would indeed.’

  I could almost see Aunt Zainab’s thin lips snap shut.

  ‘Then why doesn’t he?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Aunt Zainab sounded exasperated. ‘They were in America at one time. I’ve no idea if they’ve really come back or not. I gave up long ago trying to work out what goes on in that family. Anyway, for some reason it suits Adnan to land them all on us and sponge off Yasser, who’s so soft he can’t say no.’

  My heart was pounding. Was Uncle Hassan really in Amman? Had the family moved back from America? Amman was only a few hours’ drive away from Azraq! Saba might be much nearer than I’d thought! Somehow, I’d have to catch Uncle Yasser on his own and ask him to tell me more.

  Someone moved towards the window. At any moment Aunt Zainab might look out and see me standing there on the step, listening. Quickly, I pushed the door open and went in.

  Aunt Zainab and her sister were settled on the padded mats that lined the bare sitting-room walls, leaning back against plump embroidered cushions. I liked Um Salim. She was round and soft, while Aunt Zainab was hard with sharp, angry corners. They were so different it was hard to believe that they were sisters at all.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ said Um Salim. ‘Kifek? How are you?’

  ‘You took your time,’ said Aunt Zainab. She held out a banknote. ‘I want you to go over to Abu Ali’s and get some coffee. Make sure it’s fresh. I could hardly swallow what he sold me last week. You have to stand up to tradesmen. Give them an inch and they take a mile.’

  I didn’t trust myself to speak. I took the note and went to the door. I hadn’t quite closed it when I heard Um Salim say, ‘Honestly, Zainab. The poor little thing. Can’t you see she needs a bit of loving? Why can’t you be nice to her?’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘What she needs,’ Aunt Zainab said, ‘is training. She’s never learned to do anything practical. I had to learn in the school of hard knocks. She’s got to stand on her own two feet like I did, and the sooner she starts the better.’

  ‘You shouldn’t send her out on her own, anyway,’ said Um Salim.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Aunt Zainab. ‘It’s only to Abu Ali’s.’ She paused. ‘Actually, I keep forgetting that she’s not a child any more. Not that she’s in much danger. Who would look twice at her, with those teeth and that dreadful skin?’

  I was trembling as I walked across the dusty, stony stretch of ground between the house and Abu Ali’s place.

  Aunt Zainab’s horrible voice was echoing in my head.

  Who would look twice at her? Did you hear that, Saba? She’s a mean old cat.

  Abu Ali’s shop was empty, except for the old man himself. He was sitting behind the counter on a high stool, peering down at a newspaper spread out on the wooden surface, his glasses threatening to slip right off his nose.

  ‘Ahlan wa sahlan, habibti,’ he said, looking up. ‘What can I do for you?’ Then, before I could answer, he said, ‘How did the chicken turn out?’

  I was startled.

  ‘How did you know I’d cooked a chicken?’

  He chuckled, the laugh turning to a wheezing cough.

  ‘I saw your father walking past with it. I guessed who’d sold it to him too. It must have been the toughest bird in Jordan.’

  ‘It was tough,’ I admitted. ‘I thought it was the way I cooked it. I’ve never done a chicken before. I didn’t really know what to do.’

  I looked away. I didn’t like Abu Ali knowing about the chicken. It was the first time I’d cooked one and I’d made a mess of it. It had been really hard, pulling off its feathers and cutting it up with my blunt knife. I’d cooked it with an onion, some salt and a bit of cinnamon that Aunt Zainab had let me take from her kitchen.

  It didn’t seem too bad to me but Tariq had spat out bits of gristle and said, ‘Why didn’t you do it properly, like Auntie Shirin did? This doesn’t taste of anything.’

  Abu Ali was still watching me, his eyes bright with understanding. ‘You’re a good girl,’ he said. ‘And I tell you what, I’ve got some cakes left over from yesterday. They’re nice, but too stale to sell. They’ll only go to my wife’s chickens. I’ll box them up. A little treat for you and that unworldly Baba of yours?’

  I was too embarrassed to answer right away. Tariq would have stiffened up and said, ‘We don’t need charity, thank you very much,’ but Tariq wasn’t there. He’d have been wrong, anyway, because we did need charity. I’d nearly used up the supplies Aunt Zainab had given me when we’d moved into the tent. I’d asked Baba for money several times, but he’d only been able to give me a little, and I knew he’d had to borrow it from Uncle Yasser. Sometimes he brought a few things with him when he came back from town, but he didn’t know about shopping properly and they were never what we needed.

  I looked at the cakes and my mouth watered.

  ‘Thank you very much, Abu Ali,’ I said, but as he put them into a box and slid the box into a plastic bag, I kept looking over my shoulder, hoping that no one would come in and see.

  I turned to the door, the bag swinging from my hand, but he called me back.

  ‘You didn’t come in for cakes, did you, Miss Head-in-the-clouds? What’s bothering you? Lost your best diamond ring?’

  He said it in such a funny way that I had to smile.

  ‘She wants coffee,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, does she?’

  I knew he didn’t think much of Aunt Zainab. I’d been in the shop with her several times, and seen the way she treated him.

  ‘And – and she said – she asked – please can you make sure the beans are fresh.’

  He frowned, running a hand over his bald head, which was fringe
d above the ears with bubbly white curls.

  ‘She didn’t say it like that, I don’t suppose. But since you’ve asked so nicely, yes, you’re in luck today. Fresh beans, just in. And there’s a special offer on them too. Would you believe it? A chocolate bar with every five hundred grams.’

  And, before I could object, he’d picked up a brightly coloured stick of chocolate and tucked it into my bag.

  I was feeling rebellious when I went back into the house.

  If Aunt Zainab says anything mean, I told myself, I’m just going to tell her what a nasty old bag she is.

  ‘Here’s the coffee, Aunt,’ I said, handing over the packet and holding out her change. I was glaring at her but of course she didn’t notice.

  She held the packet to her nose and sniffed it.

  ‘Abu Ali said the beans were fresh in today,’ I said, trying not to sound angry.

  ‘Much better than last week,’ she pronounced at last. ‘I told you, Safiya, you have to insist.’

  I held out her change. She shot a sideways look at Um Salim.

  ‘Keep it. Buy a little treat for yourself.’

  Um Salim nodded approvingly, but I wasn’t going to be patronized. I could hear Lamia’s voice on the other side of the house, singing something tuneless as she played with her doll. I put the money down on the table, not trusting myself to speak, and hurried back out of the door.

  ‘You see?’ Aunt Zainab’s voice followed me as I crossed the courtyard. ‘No gratitude.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was still only late morning. There were hours to fill before Tariq got home from school, and I had no idea where Baba was. I knew I should be sweeping out the tent or washing shirts or finding something to cook for supper, but I felt too miserable to do anything.

  I haven’t got a friend in the world, I told myself bitterly. Where are you, Saba? I need you!

  A rustling sound by the open tent flap made me look round.

  A little white cat was pawing at the plastic bag full of Abu Ali’s cakes.

  ‘Oh, you lovely little thing!’ I said. ‘Where did you spring from?’

  Back home, I’d adored Tiger, our old cat. He’d always been there when I got back from school. He used to jump off the courtyard wall and weave his tail round my legs. I’d throw handfuls of dead leaves in the air, and laugh at him batting them with his front paws.

  I lifted the bag of cakes out of the cat’s reach and hung it on a tent pole with the rest of the food.

  ‘Sorry,’ I told her apologetically, ‘but these aren’t for you.’

  I bent down and lifted her up. She was so thin that I could feel the bones through her fur. She mewed and wriggled in my hands then turned her head and licked my finger with her rasping tongue.

  ‘I’m going to call you Snowball,’ I said.

  I set her down, poured some water into a bowl and put it outside the tent flap. She sniffed at it, then dipped her head and lapped thirstily.

  I lifted down the bag of cakes and looked inside. The chocolate bar! Kind old Abu Ali! I had a sort of friend, after all.

  I tore the wrapping off the bar. I hadn’t had any chocolate for ages and I ate it all in one go while the cat sniffed around the tent, investigating the rumpled edge of canvas where it sagged over the ground. I smoothed a bit out to make a bed for her. She inspected it for a moment or two, then flopped down and began to purr.

  Snowball had cheered me up. I was ready to start my chores and began collecting up the dirty shirts. I took them out to the water tank, filled a bucket and put them in with some of the detergent Aunt Zainab had given me when we’d moved into the tent. I stirred the clothes around, then left them to soak.

  Sweeping out the tent was the next job, and the one I hated most. Masses of dirt crept into the tent every day and grit got caught in the woven matting, even though we always took off our shoes when we came in and left them by the open flap. It took forever to clean up.

  When I’d finished at last, I looked at my watch. Tariq would be home soon. What could I make for supper? There was just enough for pasta for the three of us, though Tariq, who was always hungry, would grumble and ask for more. I had an onion I could chop up and some tomato puree to make a sauce. All the rice had gone, and we’d eaten up the lentils too. There was one tin of beans left, some tea and that was just about it. We’d have to have pasta tonight. Again.

  I was stirring the pasta on the little stove outside the tent when Baba came in through the gate. He frowned when he saw me, and said, ‘How long have you been here on your own, Safiya? You really must be more careful. The tent’s not a safe place for you. When Tariq and I are out, you must go to the house.’

  But if I’m at Aunt Zainab’s all day long, I thought, who’s going to wash your clothes, sweep the floor and cook the supper?

  Aloud, I said, ‘Yes, Baba. I was there earlier. I came back to make the supper.’

  The sad look I hated settled on his face.

  ‘You should be at school. You shouldn’t have to do all this.’

  ‘Someone has to,’ I said, more sharply than I’d intended. ‘And I’m studying as much as I can, from Tariq’s books. The ones he leaves back here.’

  It wasn’t true, but I knew it would please him.

  Anyway, I keep meaning to, I thought. I’ll start soon.

  I saw his smile and took my opportunity.

  ‘Baba, there’s almost no food left. We’re having the last of the pasta tonight. I need to do the shopping for tomorrow.’

  He didn’t seem to have heard me.

  ‘Please, Baba,’ I insisted. ‘There isn’t even any bread for breakfast.’

  He looked at me despairingly.

  ‘I’ve used all the cash Yasser lent me, and I’ve been trying and trying to get the bank in Azraq to transfer my account from Syria. Until I can sort it out, our money’s frozen.’

  He began to pace up and down inside the tumbledown fence, working himself up into a nervous state.

  ‘I spend hours every day in queues and pleading with officials. They all say the same thing. “Go to Zarka. Everything has to go through the offices in Zarka!” How can I go to Zarka?’ His voice was rising. ‘It’s hours on the bus. I’d have to go overnight. How can I leave you two here, on your own? Anyway, I don’t even have enough money for the bus fare, never mind your bags of rice.’

  Not my bags of rice, I thought resentfully. Do you want to eat, or not?

  Now he was hitting himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand.

  ‘I’ll have to go back to Yasser and ask him for another loan.’

  ‘No, Baba!’ Neither of us had heard Tariq come. ‘No more charity! Please! We don’t need it now. Look, I don’t know what you’ll think about this, but I’ve got myself a job. Uncle Yasser says he needs another boy to work at his bottling plant. He’s taken me on.’

  Back home, he’d never have dared talk to Baba in that defiant way, but Baba looked more shocked than angry.

  ‘Tariq! What are you thinking of!’ he said. ‘Your education! It’s your whole future!’

  Tariq crossed his arms over his chest.

  ‘School ends at two. I’ll work as hard as I can while I’m in class. The bottling plant’s not far from school. It’ll only take me ten minutes to get there. I’ll have to work late when demand’s high and all over the weekend, but Uncle Yasser says he’ll pay me two JD a day. Three if I turn out to be any use. He was nice about it, Baba. He said he’d worked all his life, and – and you’d be proud of me.’

  He ran out of confidence and shot me an anxious look. We waited, saying nothing.

  At last Baba said, ‘I am proud of you, Tariq. But your education! If that suffers, what sort of future can you have? Carrying water bottles around for the rest of your life?’

  ‘I told you, Baba. I’ll study all I can. I’m already the best in my class.’

  Baba said nothing and went into the tent. Tariq punched the air, looking revoltingly pleased with himself. I squatted down b
eside the primus stove to test if the pasta was ready.

  ‘Lucky you, being able to get a job,’ I said jealously. ‘Earning money. You make me feel useless.’

  He sat down beside me.

  ‘Don’t say that. You couldn’t work in the bottling plant, anyway. You have to be really strong. Specially your arms.’

  He clenched a fist and raised it to make his muscles bulge. In spite of myself, I couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘Move over, Superman. Tariq’s taking over!’

  Then I wished I hadn’t mentioned Superman. It was painful to remember how we’d watched those movies at home, slumped on our comfy old sofa.

  Neither of us said anything for a while, then I dragged myself back to the present.

  ‘Why do you have to be so strong, anyway?’ I asked him. ‘What do you have to do?’

  ‘Load Uncle Yasser’s truck with water bottles, then drive round with him, lift them down and deliver them to customers in shops and houses. You have to go really fast, run upstairs with the bottles sometimes, one in each hand.’

  I thought of the huge, heavy container of drinking water that I kept inside the tent, which Uncle Yasser supplied free of charge. It was too heavy for me to lift.

  ‘You’ll never be able to do it,’ I said. ‘You’re not strong enough.’

  He looked insulted.

  ‘I am! And, anyway, Uncle Yasser says I’ll get better at it with practice. He says he can’t treat me any differently from the other two boys he’s got working there. “You work, I’ll pay,” he said. “You don’t work, I won’t pay.” Suits me. No more begging, Safiya. We’ve got to stand on our own feet.’

  I said nothing, thinking guiltily of Abu Ali’s cakes, which were still hanging from the tent pole in their blue plastic bag. Tariq bent over the tomato sauce, enjoying the smell.

  ‘It’s only pasta again,’ I said. ‘And tomato sauce. There’s not enough, but it’s all the food that’s left. And there are some cakes. Abu Ali – sold them to me cheap because they’re stale.’ I didn’t like lying, but I was sure he wouldn’t notice. ‘I didn’t have any money for bread. I asked Baba, but he hadn’t got any either. You’ll have to have cake for breakfast. I’m sorry. I . . .’