A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  He blew the steam away from the glass.

  ‘I think so. She was nice. I liked her better than my own sister. Shirin was years older than me, and she never liked me, anyway.’

  I steered him back to the subject.

  ‘Nobody’s ever said much about Mama. What was she like?’

  He sipped his tea.

  ‘I don’t remember much. But it was sad what happened. With her illness and everything.’

  ‘What illness? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I thought you knew.’

  ‘I don’t know anything! Tell me!’

  ‘They wanted to protect you, I suppose.’ He’d started looking anxious. ‘I don’t know if I ought to say any more.’

  ‘Protect me from what?’

  ‘Well, it was so tragic. Don’t get upset. I only know what my mother told me.’

  ‘Yes, but what happened?’

  He still hesitated. An insane hope almost took my breath away.

  ‘She didn’t die, did she? She’s still alive somewhere. She . . .’ He shook his head.

  ‘No, no. She passed away. Honestly, I wish I’d never started all this. All I know is that she had a sort of breakdown. It happens sometimes to women after they’ve had a baby. Maybe it’s harder with twins, I don’t know.’

  ‘Like she was crazy or something?’

  My only picture of Mama was of the beautiful, laughing woman in Baba’s wedding photo. It was as if the glass was cracking and the image was being distorted.

  ‘Not crazy, Safiya,’ Malik said gently. ‘She had an illness. A mental illness.’

  ‘All right. An illness. Go on! What happened!’

  ‘I don’t know much, only that she took Saba to Amman and died there.’

  I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach.

  ‘She can’t have done. She’d have taken me too. Anyway, Saba didn’t go to Amman. My uncle took her to America. She had to have an operation.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I’m only telling you what my mother said, and she probably got it wrong.’

  ‘So how did she – Mama – how did she die?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Honestly, Safiya, I’ve told you everything I know.’

  I stood up, went to the tent’s opening and looked outside. The sky had cleared. The rain was over for now. Huge white clouds were banked in rising tiers like gigantic puffs of cotton wool.

  I felt shaken, and years older. And I had a powerful feeling that Saba was standing right beside me.

  You don’t even know that she was your mother, do you? I thought. But you ought to. She must have loved you best,

  because you were the one she took. If she’d taken me, I’d have been wherever you are, and you’d be standing right here, in this lousy tent.

  And I called out softly, ‘Where are you, Saba? Where?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Tariq came home late.

  ‘What’s up with all these earthworks?’ he said.

  ‘It’s a trench we dug to keep out the rainwater,’ I said.

  ‘Good idea! I was scared we’d get flooded out. What a storm! I got soaked, splashing around with water bottles in all that rain. What’s for supper, Safiya? I’m starving.’

  ‘Aubergine and peppers in tomato sauce. Listen, I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Not now. Go away. I’ve got to change.’

  When I came out of my room, Tariq was towelling his thick black hair, making it stand up in spikes.

  I spooned his supper out on to his plate.

  ‘What did you want to ask me, then?’ he said, dipping his bread into the sauce.

  ‘Malik told me something today, about Mama. She didn’t die when Saba and I were born, but she got ill.’

  His hand stopped mid-air, halfway to his mouth.

  ‘What? What are you talking about? Of course she died! You know she did!’

  ‘No, honestly, Tariq. Malik told me. She had a mental illness.’

  He’d gone a funny colour.

  ‘You don’t mean – Safiya, she’s not still alive?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No. I thought that at first. But she’s not. She took Saba to Amman and died there.’

  ‘This is so weird! How come no one ever told us? Why didn’t she take me?’ He broke off angrily.

  ‘Well, she didn’t take me either.’

  Tariq had lost interest in his supper. He pushed his plate away.

  ‘How awful for Baba!’ he said.

  I felt ashamed. I’d only been thinking about myself. I hadn’t thought about Tariq or Baba at all.

  ‘So how did she die?’ he went on.

  ‘Malik doesn’t know.’

  ‘I mean, mental illness doesn’t kill you. Unless – wallah, Safiya, she didn’t kill herself, did she?’

  A shiver went down my spine.

  ‘I told you! Malik couldn’t tell me! And you know what, Tariq, I’m sick of all the secrets in this family. I think we should be told the truth.’

  He thought about this for a moment.

  ‘I agree,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll wait till there’s a good moment, then I’ll ask Baba. It’s not fair to keep us in the dark.’ He frowned. ‘You’re sure you got all that right, Safiya? It’s so – it’s just incredible! Mama, having a mental illness and taking Saba away herself. And nobody even told us!’

  I nodded.

  ‘Ask Malik yourself if you don’t believe me.’

  I watched Tariq as at last he ate his supper. His hair had grown long because he’d never had time to get it cut. I saw him only early in the morning, when I dragged myself out of bed to get his breakfast ready, and then again in the evening, when he almost fell into the tent, dog tired and hungry, gobbling his supper before he forced himself to study. On Fridays and Saturdays, when there was no school, he put in double time at the bottling plant, then worked furiously at home.

  I’d been so busy with my own worries I hadn’t thought about how tough life was for him.

  He leaned forward and gave my arm a squeeze.

  ‘I can’t take it all in, Safiya. It’s all too weird. Poor old Baba. No wonder he couldn’t bear to tell us. He’s had a sad life, hasn’t he? We’ve got to really look after him now.’

  I wasn’t sure I liked this new Tariq. Where was my annoying brother, the one I’d always played with and fought with? This Tariq was like a grown-up.

  He’s left me behind, I thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I lay in bed the following morning thinking of secrets. Our family was full of them. How had Mama died? Why had she taken Saba and not me? Why had Uncle Hassan and his family disappeared from our lives? And, most important of all, where was Saba now?

  I’m going to find you, I thought. And nobody’s going to stop me.

  But how do you find a person who doesn’t even know you exist? Whose ‘parents’ don’t want you to find her? Who could be in America, or Amman, or on the moon, for all I knew. And how do you start when you haven’t even got a phone, and you’re stuck in a tent day after day, and the only place you ever go to is the house next door and the shop a few metres away?

  Think positively, Safiya, I told myself sternly. There are two clues to follow up. One is to ask Baba about what happened to Mama.

  That idea made me nervous. I hated the thought of upsetting him.

  The other, I went on, is to catch Uncle Yasser on his own again and find out if he really did see Uncle Hassan in Amman.

  My chance with Uncle Yasser came sooner than I’d expected, because he came round in the middle of the morning, squelching his way through the puddles to get into the tent.

  ‘I came by to see if you were all right,’ he said, ‘what with the rain and everything. You dug a trench! Good idea. Got a spade, have you?’

  Malik had retreated into his usual shy silence, but now he found his voice.

  ‘I just – I used a bit of old tent pole.’

  Uncle Yasser looked impressed.

&nbs
p; ‘You dug a trench all the way round the tent with an old pole?’

  Malik flushed.

  ‘We – I had to. The water was coming in.’

  ‘I’ll get you a spade,’ Uncle Yasser said, looking at Malik with new respect. ‘You’ll need to make it deeper before the next storm comes.’

  Malik was still wearing Baba’s old clothes. He smiled, and for a strange, dizzying moment he looked just like his older brother.

  ‘Thank you, Abu Fares,’ he said. ‘That would be very helpful.’

  Uncle Yasser was still studying him, as if he was trying to make up his mind.

  ‘Have you found work yet?’

  Malik should his head.

  ‘No, sir. It’s hard. No one here knows me. There are so many Syrian men like me, out of work and looking for jobs.’

  ‘But you’ve done building work before, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes!’ Malik leaned forward eagerly. ‘Bricklaying, carpentry, plastering, electrical . . .’

  Uncle Yasser clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Well then, come to the bottling plant with me now. The storm dislodged something in my roof and the rain’s coming in. Is that something you could fix?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Malik’s face lit up. ‘I – I just need to change into my work clothes.’

  Uncle Yasser and I went outside to give him space. My heart gave a kick. This was my chance!

  ‘Uncle Yasser,’ I said, plucking up my courage, ‘can I ask you something?’

  He was looking at his watch.

  ‘Yes, of course. What is it?’

  ‘I – I heard Aunt Zainab say that you’d seen my uncle, Hassan, in Amman. Did you?’

  He looked surprised.

  ‘Hassan? Yes, months ago. He was going into that big engineering company’s headquarters. Askil International, I think it’s called. I might have been wrong. It was only a glimpse.’

  Askil International! It must have been him! I thought triumphantly.

  ‘Was there anyone with him? A – a girl?’

  ‘What? No, he was on his own. But I couldn’t be sure it was him. It could have been anybody.’

  ‘Thank you, dear Uncle!’ I said, and I surprised us both by darting forward and kissing him on the cheek.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I was alone in the tent that afternoon, washing out Snowball’s bowl, when a rattling of the compound gate sent my heart thudding. Someone was trying to get in. It couldn’t be Baba. He was still in Zarka. Tariq was at school and Malik was with Uncle Yasser. I was so frightened that I sat frozen, not daring to move. All Baba’s warnings flashed through my mind. At any minute I might face a thief, a kidnapper, or . . .

  As the gate swung open, I made a dive for my cubicle and started burrowing under my blanket to hide myself.

  Then I heard Baba’s voice.

  ‘Safiya! I saw you! What are you doing? Come out of there! Why are you here on your own?’

  ‘Baba!’ I crawled out of my cubicle, feeling silly. ‘I didn’t expect you back till later. Uncle Malik’s gone out with Uncle Yasser. They only left a few minutes ago.’

  He took off his jacket and sat down on his mattress.

  ‘Can I get you some tea?’ I asked him. ‘Something to eat?’

  ‘That’s my lovely girl,’ he said. ‘Being kind to your old Baba, eh?’

  I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I made his tea. He seemed to be in a good mood, and no one would come in to interrupt us for hours.

  ‘Baba,’ I said, as gently as I could, handing him the tea glass and sitting down beside him on the mattress, ‘Uncle Malik told me something yesterday, about – about Mama.’

  ‘Oh yes? What did he say?’ He sounded defensive.

  ‘He said she didn’t die when I – we – were born, but she got ill afterwards and went off to Amman with Saba. Can you – could you tell me how it happened?’

  He frowned.

  ‘Malik had no business to . . .’ Then he caught my eye and the old, sad look settled on his face.

  ‘Well, I suppose you’re old enough to know the truth. My poor Mariam! She had a very difficult birth with the two of you. Then she was – she had – a severe depression. Nobody realized how bad it was. We thought she just needed to rest. She should have had help! She would have got better completely in a few weeks with the right care. But I was in trouble myself. The mukhabarat were already watching me. She was worried I might be arrested, and it quickly turned into paranoia. I blame myself!’ He shook his head wearily. ‘I should have done more to help her! It was all my fault!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Baba,’ I said in a small voice. ‘I didn’t want to upset you. It’s just that I needed to know. We needed to know.’

  He didn’t seem to have heard me.

  ‘It got worse,’ he went on. ‘She started being terrified of everything and everybody. She was even afraid of me! “I must go home!” she kept saying. “I’ve got to go to Jordan! The mukhabarat will get me here. I need my brother to protect me!”’

  I was clenching my hands so tightly that my nails were digging into my palms.

  ‘Did you take her to Amman yourself, Baba? She didn’t go alone, did she?’

  ‘I was at the office, habibti. I would have stopped her if I’d known what she was going to do. Shirin was at home with her. “I’ve got an appointment with the doctor,” Mariam told her. “Look after the children for an hour or two.” Shirin didn’t suspect anything. Saba started crying. Mariam picked her up and rocked her, but Saba wouldn’t settle. Then she heard a car horn in the street. “That’s my taxi,” she said. “I’ll take Saba with me,” and she grabbed her bag and ran out of the house.’

  ‘Why didn’t she take me too, Baba?’ I blurted out. ‘And Tariq? Was it because she didn’t – didn’t love us?’

  He put his arm round me and pulled me close.

  ‘Of course she loved you, Safiya! She adored all three of you. She didn’t plan to take Saba and leave you behind. If you’d been the one who was crying, she’d have taken you instead. She wasn’t herself. She was – she must have been – just terribly afraid.’

  A little voice in my head said, I don’t believe you. It wasn’t like that. She loved Saba. She didn’t love me.

  Baba was looking out through the tent opening, lost in his own thoughts. I nudged him.

  ‘What happened then? Go on, Baba.’

  ‘I got a phone call from Shirin. “Mariam’s gone out,” she said. “She told me she was going to the doctor, but I called the surgery and she didn’t show up.” I rushed home at once, went into our bedroom and found her bedside drawer open. Her passport had gone. I guessed then. She must have left the country, hired a car to drive her across the border into Jordan, to Amman, to her brother.’

  ‘With Saba.’

  ‘Yes, with Saba.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I tried again and again to call Hassan. I was frantic! It was evening before I could get hold of him. He told me she’d just arrived and that she was in such a state he’d locked her in her bedroom and given her a sedative. “Don’t come, Adnan,” he kept saying. “She’s terrified of you. What have you done to my sister?”’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ I said indignantly.

  ‘I couldn’t have gone, anyway. I wouldn’t have been allowed out of the country. I called every hour, day after day, begging to speak to her. Pleading with Hassan to send her back to me. She wouldn’t talk to me. “You’re making things worse,” Hassan kept saying. “Give her time. She just needs to rest, Adnan. Leave her alone for a bit. The baby’s crying a lot. She’s got a small blockage inside but we’ve got the best doctor in Amman to sort it out. She can’t be moved at the moment. Israa adores her, don’t worry. Mariam’ll be better soon . . .”’ He stopped.

  ‘But she didn’t get better, did she? Go on, Baba!’

  ‘Why didn’t I make her see a psychiatrist?’ He hit himself on the chest with his fist. ‘I ask myself that all the time. Perhaps I could ha
ve slipped across the border somehow, gone to Amman . . . But you were newborn too! And there was Tariq! How could I have left you?’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  ‘Her paranoia got even worse in Amman,’ he went on. ‘She was even afraid of Hassan. He didn’t tell me! He just kept sending me reassuring messages – she was fine, the baby was fine, she was resting, no she didn’t want me to come. Then one day she ran out into the street in a panic. There was a van . . .’

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  I was shuddering inside, imagining the terrible moment, hearing the screech of tyres, the shouts and the sickening crash. I was too shocked to cry. All I could do was grab Baba’s arm and hold it as tight as I could until the shaking stopped.

  He sighed one more time, then smiled weakly. He tugged his arm out of my grip, put it round my shoulders and pulled me close.

  ‘You know what, Safiya, I’m glad we’ve had this talk. It’s time you knew the truth. But people are funny about mental illness. They think it’s shameful. I’ll talk to Tariq about it tonight, but, after that, better to keep it to ourselves, eh?’

  ‘That’s so unfair!’ I burst out. ‘She was sick, not crazy. If she’d had the right treatment, she’d have got better and we’d all still be together, and Saba would be here with us, and . . .’

  ‘I know, habibti, but that’s just the way it is. I’ve lived with it all these years. The pain doesn’t go away, but I’m used to it now. And we still have each other, after all.’

  Yes, I thought, but we should have Saba too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I dreamed again that night. I was in the kind of tent made of black woven goats’ hair that our Syrian ancestors had lived in a long time ago. Soft rugs, glowing with jewel-like colours, covered the floor and tasselled cushions lined the edges. There was a fireplace in the centre built up on hearthstones, and beside it was a huge round brass tray. Elegant coffee pots with long curved spouts were lined up like a row of soldiers.

  The dream changed. Now I was in a garden beside the tent. There were trees and flowers, fountains and cushioned benches shaded by vines.

  Saba was there. She was feeding a bird with a long blue tail, which was perched on her wrist. I tried to run towards her, but something was tangled round my feet. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. A woman in a familiar long white wedding dress appeared.