A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  What could Aunt Zainab have seen coming? What had she meant? What was it that no one had told me?

  ‘Tariq,’ I whispered. ‘Are you awake? I really want to ask you something.’

  A light snore was my only answer.

  When at last I did go to asleep, I fell into a dream.

  For the first time in my life, I dreamed about my mother. She was wearing her wedding dress, like in the picture in Baba’s bedroom. She looked stiff and pale, as if she was made of wax.

  ‘I had to go away,’ she said, in a voice that was surprisingly strong.

  ‘Is it really you, Mama? Why did you leave me? You’re dead, aren’t you?’ I cried out.

  She smiled sadly at me.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean, go on? Go on doing what?’

  ‘Just go on.’

  She walked away. I tried to follow her, but something was tangled round my feet. She turned a corner and disappeared.

  Someone was shaking me.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Tariq was saying. ‘You were crying in your sleep.’

  ‘Nothing. A dream,’ I mumbled.

  He flopped back on to the cushions and was asleep again at once.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next afternoon I was in Aunt Zainab’s courtyard and had just finished hanging out her washing when I heard the clang of our gate.

  ‘Baba’s home!’ I called out to her, and dashed off to the tent.

  Baba looked tired.

  ‘How did it go? Did you get our money?’ I asked him.

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’ll take a long time. At least I’ve made a start.’

  He sat down on his mattress.

  ‘Sit here with me. I’ve got something to tell you.’

  What now? I thought. No more shocks, please, Baba!

  ‘Listen, habibti,’ he said. ‘You remember my half-brother Malik? He came to stay with us a few times in Damascus.’

  ‘Uncle Malik?’ I said, puzzled. ‘Of course I do. What made you think of him?’

  Malik was the odd one out in Baba’s family. His father, my grandfather, had married a second wife when he’d been quite old. She’d been very young and from a poor family. No one in Baba’s family had approved.

  ‘So common,’ Auntie Shirin used to say. ‘So uneducated. What was our father thinking?’

  She’d been scornful of Malik too. Looking back, I could understand why Malik had been so shy when he’d come to visit us. He was only a few years older than Tariq and we’d been horrible to him, teasing him all the time. Auntie Shirin had never stopped us, but even though she despised Malik she still made us call him ‘Uncle’ when we spoke to him. She was always like that. We had to be proper and show respect, even when we didn’t feel it.

  ‘Would you believe it – Malik’s here in Jordan. In Zarka!’ Baba went on. ‘I bumped into him yesterday, walking down the street. The most extraordinary coincidence! He looked a bit lost, actually. He had to get out of Syria in a hurry, like we did. He’s coming to live with us here.’

  I stared at Baba, stunned.

  ‘But we haven’t even got enough food for ourselves!’ I burst out. ‘And where’s he going to sleep?’

  He put a hand on my knee.

  ‘He’s our family, Safiya. My own brother. I feel bad about the way we treated him and his mother. She was just a child, you know. Years younger than us. Your aunt resented her. But we’ve got to forget all that now. Malik won’t make things more difficult for us. He’s been working as a builder or an electrician or something. He’ll get work in Azraq and pay his way. And we’ll screen off part of the tent just for you, so you can have a sort of private room. Malik will sleep in the main area, with Tariq and me.’

  It was all decided. There was nothing I could do.

  ‘When’s he coming, Baba?’ I said in a small voice.

  ‘He’ll be here by supper time.’

  He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some money.

  ‘My old client, the one I stayed with last night, reminded me that he hadn’t paid me for my last consultation with him. Here, go off and buy what you need for supper.’

  ‘All right, Baba,’ I said. ‘But I need you to come with me. Abu Ali wants to ask you something, and I really need you to say yes.’

  Abu Ali was chasing a couple of skinny little boys out of his shop.

  ‘Yalla! Shoo! Go off to your mothers!’ he was shouting, pretending to scowl furiously. ‘No more sweets for you today!’

  They pushed past us in the doorway and ran off, laughing.

  ‘Ahlan wa sahlan, ya Abu Tariq,’ Abu Ali said politely. ‘You are welcome.’

  Baba’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘You know my name?’

  Abu Ali laughed.

  ‘Of course! Everyone knows everything around here. You are Tariq’s father. And this is your daughter too.’ He leaned forward over the counter. ‘Actually, sir, I’m glad of the chance to speak to you.’

  ‘What about?’ said Baba. He saw that I was listening. ‘Go and do your shopping, Safiya.’

  I went off unwillingly to look along the dusty shelves for what I needed. Their quiet voices faded as I collected the ingredients I’d need to make the soup Aunt Zainab had taught me.

  I’ve just got to show them all that I can cook something nice, I told Saba in my head. You’d feel the same. I know you would.

  I went back to the counter feeling pleased with myself, but my heart sank when I saw the expression on Baba’s face.

  ‘Did you ask Abu Ali for help, Safiya, without my permission?’

  I felt my face flush angrily.

  ‘No, Baba! Of course I didn’t! How could you think—’

  ‘She didn’t need to,’ Abu Ali interrupted. ‘Look, sir, there’s no shame in taking what’s freely given. All gifts come from Allah. I’m sure you yourself, when times were better, gave money to charity.’

  Baba grunted.

  ‘Of course, but . . .’

  ‘There’s a time to give, and a time to receive,’ Abu Ali went on. ‘Inshallah, when all these troubles are over, you will give back ten times more than the small amount you are offered now.’

  Baba was hesitating, I could tell. I grabbed his sleeve.

  ‘Baba, please. I can’t ask Aunt Zainab for anything more. She makes it so hard. Just to have the basic things every month! And then, with Tariq’s money, I can manage all right. There’s nothing left in the tent, Baba. I gave you the last of the tea just now.’

  Baba said nothing for a moment, then he patted my arm and turned back to Abu Ali.

  ‘We’ll accept with – with gratitude,’ he said stiffly, as if the words were burning his mouth. ‘Your kindness is . . .’

  Then I felt embarrassed because he had to turn away to hide his tears.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As soon as we got back from Abu Ali’s, Baba pulled out a roll of old canvas that had come with the tent and which had been lying behind the mattresses.

  ‘I thought we could use this to make a screen for you,’ he said, looking at it doubtfully. ‘We’ll hang it up between the tent poles.’

  I wrinkled my nose.

  ‘What’s that awful smell?’

  He felt the canvas with his hand.

  ‘It’s a bit musty, that’s all. Must have got damp.’

  ‘It stinks, Baba.’

  ‘It’ll air off. Come on, Safiya. Lift up that end. And you’ll need to fetch in your washing line from outside. We’ll have to sling it over that.’

  ‘But, Baba, how am I going to hang out the washing?’ I asked him, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

  He looked exasperated.

  ‘One thing at a time. Just go and fetch the rope.’

  I was shaking my head as I went outside. Baba might have been the most brilliant lawyer ever, but no one could have called him a handyman.

  I was working at the tight knot that held the washing line to the stand
of the water tank when I heard someone knocking on the gate. I went to open it.

  If I hadn’t been expecting Malik, I don’t think I’d have recognized him. The boy I’d known years ago had been chubby and pale, so flabby that he could hardly run.

  ‘Dreadfully spoiled,’ Auntie Shirin used to say. ‘That woman treats him like a little prince. Lets him play computer games and watch TV all day long.’

  Malik was still short, of course, and his round head still sat straight down on his shoulders as if he had no neck at all, but now he was terribly thin. The skin down one side of his face was puckered and red. His hands, once so soft and plump, looked hard and rough. His adoring mama had always bought him the best of everything, new clothes and shoes all the time. Now he wore a workman’s stained, worn jeans, splashed with white paint, the cuffs of his jacket were frayed and I could smell the old sweat on his shirt from metres away.

  He was staring at me as hard as I was staring at him.

  I suppose I’ve changed a lot too, I thought uncomfortably.

  ‘Safiya?’ he said at last.

  Aloud I said, as warmly as I could, ‘Uncle Malik, is that you? Ahlan wa sahlan. You are welcome.’

  Baba hurried out of the tent, ducking under the low entrance, and nearly tripping over the loose canvas that was crumpled all over the tent floor.

  ‘This is wonderful, Malik!’ he exclaimed. ‘However did you find us so quickly?’

  ‘You gave me directions,’ said Malik simply, running his tongue over his dry lips as if he was unsure of his welcome.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said Baba, taking the battered backpack off Malik’s shoulders. ‘We’re living very plainly, as you see. But you’re welcome, of course. We all have to – things are very – Safiya, help me roll up this canvas. We’ll fix it up later. Sit down, Malik, please. What’s the latest news from Syria? It’s so hard to find out anything here.’

  I left them to it and went outside to make my soup. It took longer than I’d expected to get everything done. Once it was merrily boiling on the little stove I went back inside and was surprised to see that the screen was up. The tent looked quite different.

  ‘You didn’t use my washing line, after all,’ I said, peering up in the dim light to see how it had been done.

  ‘We didn’t need to,’ Baba said enthusiastically. ‘I hadn’t noticed those little holes running along the edge of the canvas. And those loops hanging down? Malik worked it all out. Look! Now you’ve got your own little room.’

  I tried to look grateful, but I wasn’t at all. I’d just started to feel that I could cope with everything, but now that Malik had come I felt invaded.

  I suppose Aunt Zainab feels about us the way I feel about Malik, I thought uncomfortably.

  You’d never swept a floor in your life till you came to Jordan, had you? she’d said. She must have thought that I was as spoiled as Malik had been.

  Baba was smiling at me expectantly.

  ‘It’s wonderful, thank you,’ I said in a colourless voice, and I gathered up my few possessions, which I’d been keeping in a corner of the tent, and took them into my canvas cubbyhole.

  The soup was ready by the time I’d sorted everything out. I dished it out, dying to know if Baba and Malik would like it. I needn’t have worried. Baba dug his spoon in deep, and Malik ate like someone who’d never seen food before. When he’d finished, he said, ‘That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.’

  I hid a triumphant smile as I refilled his bowl. Perhaps Malik wasn’t such a bad thing, after all.

  ‘When was your last meal, Malik?’ asked Baba.

  ‘Yesterday – no, the day before.’

  My eyes opened wide with horror.

  ‘Then it’s just as well we met,’ Baba said. ‘You’re with your family now.’

  Malik looked as if he didn’t believe him.

  ‘You’re very kind, Adnan,’ he said formally.

  Tariq came home as I was outside the tent rinsing the bowls.

  ‘Wait,’ I said, blocking his way. ‘Listen. Uncle Malik’s here.’

  He tried to push me aside.

  ‘What are you talking about? He can’t be!’

  ‘He is! Our very own baby-face uncle. Baba met him in Zarka. He’s come to live with us.’

  Even in the dark I could read the shock on Tariq’s face.

  ‘What? That fat lump? What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He’s not fat any more. He’s really skinny. He hadn’t eaten anything for a couple of days. He’s moved in with us. He’s staying.’

  ‘What?’ said Tariq furiously. ‘You mean he’s going to scrounge off us? Safiya, he can’t! I’m killing myself earning a pathetic three JD a day. It’s not even enough for us!’

  ‘Shh! He’ll hear you.’

  Tariq groaned.

  ‘It’s not exactly thrilling for me either,’ I said tartly, ‘but he’s Baba’s brother, after all.’

  There was no answer to that.

  ‘What’s for supper?’ he said, kicking his shoes off at the tent entrance.

  ‘Lentil soup. Like yesterday.’

  Even in the dark I could see his angry glare.

  ‘Don’t ask Aunt Zainab to give us food! You know I hate taking their stuff.’

  ‘I didn’t. I made it myself.’ I couldn’t keep the pride out of my voice. ‘And I made last night’s soup, which Aunt Zainab naturally failed to mention.’

  ‘Yeah. Well.’ He obviously didn’t believe me. ‘I hope there’s plenty left, anyway. I’m starving.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The next day was Friday. At home, we’d always slept in on Friday mornings, and then I’d go round to spend the day with Farah. We’d listen to her music, try on her mama’s make-up, giggle over nothing . . .

  Stop remembering! I told myself. Stop!

  I’d never been able to sleep late in the tent. Baba getting up had always woken me, and, anyway, my bed wasn’t exactly the kind you’d snuggle into for a luxurious lie-in.

  I’d thought I wouldn’t sleep a wink in my canvas cubicle, but actually it had been all right once I’d got used to the smell. I had to admit it was nice having my own space, even though it was tiny. It was less draughty too.

  As soon as breakfast was over, Tariq sighed and got out his schoolbooks.

  ‘Aren’t you going to the bottling plant today?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes, but not till eleven. I’ve got a mass of homework to catch up with this morning.’

  Baba was by the entrance, putting on his shoes.

  ‘Well, Malik, are you ready?’ he said. ‘I’ll take you across to meet Yasser.’

  ‘It’s just – I only have these clothes,’ Malik said, looking nervous. He had scrambled awkwardly to his feet and was looking down at his stained, splashed jeans and dirty shirt.

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ Baba said breezily. ‘They’re family.’

  But it does matter, I thought, frowning. Aunt Zainab will notice everything.

  I was still clearing away the breakfast things when I heard a car draw up outside. The door banged, then someone knocked on the gate. Tariq, who was scowling over his maths book, didn’t look up, so I went to open it myself.

  A man stood there with a carton in his hand.

  ‘Mr Adnan?’ he said.

  I pointed with my chin to Uncle Yasser’s house.

  ‘My father’s over there.’

  He held the carton out to me.

  ‘Can I leave it with you? I’ve got loads more deliveries to make.’

  ‘What is it?’

  He looked surprised.

  ‘Weren’t you expecting it? It’s your monthly food box. From the refugee charity.’

  Behind me I heard a sharp, ‘What?’ from Tariq.

  ‘Alf shukr. Thank you very much,’ I said quickly, willing him to go away before Tariq could intervene.

  To my relief he turned and ran back to his car, jumped in and drove off. In the rear window, I could see more boxes piled
up high. I shut the gate just as Tariq stormed up to me.

  ‘Who was that? Did he say charity? A refugee charity? What on earth have you been doing?’

  He was trying to snatch the carton out of my hands. I held it tightly to my chest. Fury boiled up inside me.

  ‘Get off!’ I snarled. ‘Don’t you dare touch it!’

  He looked as if he was actually going to fight me for it.

  ‘I’ve told you, Safiya, again and again! No charity! How dare you sneak off behind my back and—’

  ‘And you can just shut up!’ I yelled back at him. ‘Baba knows about this. He agreed. I didn’t ask for anything!’

  ‘Oh no?’ He was sneering now. ‘All that food you took off Aunt Zainab last night—’

  ‘How dare you!’ I was scarlet with rage. ‘I bought the vegetables from Abu Ali and cooked them myself. I used your money and a bit that Baba was paid in Zarka from a client he met there. It was Abu Ali who told Baba about the monthly box thing. You ask him. Or is it you who’s running everything around here now?’

  He backed away.

  ‘All right. No need to go crazy. I’ll talk to Baba. If all this was his mad idea . . .’

  The box was so heavy that my arms were aching. I put it down on the ground.

  ‘Right. You do that. Then you tell me how I’m supposed to manage on three JD a day.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘We’ve managed up to now. We—’

  ‘Yes, on the food Aunt Zainab gave us as a startup. And it’s not just food we need. I suppose you want your clothes washed? We’ve run out of detergent. Soap? There’s almost none left. Toothpaste? Clean your teeth with sand if you like. There’s loads of it around here. What about a new gas bottle for the stove? You want me to dream it out of thin air? And Baba’s socks. Have you noticed them? More hole than sock. This box is a life-saver. I’m not exaggerating. You tell me, Tariq. How are we to manage without it? Go on. Tell me.’

  He was backing away still further.

  ‘All right. Calm down. There’s no need to—’

  ‘There is, actually. You’ve got to understand. There’s something Abu Ali said. He asked Baba if he used to give money away to charity. Of course Baba did. A lot. You know that. “There’s a time to give,” Abu Ali said, “and a time to receive.” So get this, Tariq. Now is the time to receive.’