A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  Um Khalid wants you for your brains, not your looks, I told myself. Stop worrying. There’s nothing you can do about it, anyway.

  Baba ate his breakfast without saying a word about Perfumes of Paradise.

  He’s forgotten, I thought anxiously.

  I started sweeping the floor around him, making myself as obvious as possible.

  At last he looked up.

  ‘Stop buzzing around me like a fly. It’s not even eight o’clock. Your precious salon won’t open till nine at the earliest.’

  ‘Oh!’ I laughed, embarrassed. ‘Sorry, Baba. It’s just that I . . .’

  ‘You thought I’d forgotten. Well, I haven’t. We’ll go when I’ve finished reading this newspaper. And, Safiya – ’ he looked at me over his reading glasses, his face suddenly stern. ‘I’ve been very indulgent with you. Not many fathers would let their daughters talk back to them the way you talk to me. Don’t push me too far.’

  It was wonderful walking out with Baba, even though it was only along the dreary road into Azraq. Back home, we’d often gone to a pastry shop at the weekend. I’d spend ages choosing cakes from the glass-fronted display case, then watch as the sales assistant slid them into a box and tied it with fancy string.

  Do you remember, I wanted to ask Baba, how the pastry-shop man used to wobble when he laughed? But I didn’t. Memories of home always made us sad.

  It was too late to ask him, anyway. He’d already pushed open the door and was halfway up the stairs.

  Um Khalid clapped her hands as she came out through the bead curtain and saw me.

  ‘Safiya! Alhamdulillah! Thank God you came back. And this is . . .’

  ‘My father, Abu Tariq. He wants to check . . . I mean, to see . . .’

  ‘Of course.’ She nodded approvingly. ‘I’m glad you came.’ She pushed her head through the bead curtain. ‘Fatima! Tea for our guest!’

  Baba sat down on a spindly gilt chair. He looked as out of place as a cactus in a bouquet of roses.

  I watched admiringly as Um Khalid twisted him round her little finger. She was businesslike, but she knew how to flatter him too. Within twenty minutes, Baba had agreed to let me come to the salon as often as I was needed, had been shown the work Um Khalid wanted me to do and had said I could probably manage it.

  ‘There’s just the question of . . .’ he began, getting up to go.

  ‘I’m glad you brought it up!’ Um Khalid interrupted. ‘One JD for every day she works here. And I’d give her lunch, of course. I wish it could be more, but . . .’

  My heart leapt. I’d actually be paid!

  But Baba was frowning.

  ‘It’s the question of transport. I can’t allow Safiya . . .’

  ‘No, no, you’re right.’ Once again, Um Khalid had jumped ahead of him. She picked up her phone, keyed in a number and murmured into the receiver.

  A moment later, heavy footsteps plodded up the stairs and a stout old man stood wheezing in the doorway.

  ‘This is my uncle, Abu Tewfik,’ Um Khalid said. ‘He has a taxi and runs all my client calls from his office downstairs.’

  Baba smiled politely, but looked doubtful.

  ‘Thank you. We’ll see how it goes. For today, I’ll come back myself to fetch Safiya.’

  I could read his mind as easily as if he’d spoken.

  You’re going to check up on him, I thought.

  My eyes met Um Khalid’s. She hid a smile. She’d understood perfectly.

  I struggled a bit that first full day at Perfumes of Paradise. I’d impressed Um Khalid too much and she expected miracles. But once the clients started arriving, and she was working in the beauty room, I could sort things out on my own.

  The phone rang soon after I’d started. Yesterday, Um Khalid had always run out to answer it, but now a hair dryer was humming loudly in the beauty room and she couldn’t hear it ring. Was I supposed to answer it or not? I waited a bit, then I picked it up.

  ‘Perfumes of Paradise,’ I said, putting on a grown-up voice. ‘Sabah alkheer. To whom am I speaking? No, Um Khalid is engaged with a client. Shall I ask her to call you back? Yes, do give me your name again. I’ll make a note of it.’

  ‘Who was that?’ said Um Khalid, jangling the beads as she came through the curtain.

  ‘Someone called Um Nasser.’

  ‘That woman! She’s impossible. I heard you just now, Safiya. You did well. You’d better go on dealing with calls.’

  The day sped past. I kept finding more bits of paper that needed sorting out, and clients called all the time. I was surprised when Um Khalid glanced out of the window and said, ‘Here’s your father. Can you be here by nine tomorrow? And I don’t mean to criticize, but do you have a – well – a prettier hijab?’

  I went scarlet.

  ‘No. I . . .’

  She reached into the drawer of her desk and pulled out a white scarf printed with pale blue flowers.

  ‘This should suit you. I’ll show you tomorrow how to tie it more fashionably, with a pearl pin.’

  By the end of the week, I felt as if I’d been at the salon forever. I loved it. Baba had decided to trust Abu Tewfik, who picked me up every morning at nine and dropped me back at five. He never said much, but he had a way of groaning as he got in and out of the car that worried me at first.

  ‘Indigestion,’ he said on the second day, having caught my eye in the mirror.

  That was a relief. I was afraid I’d been annoying him.

  I was busy all the time. Apart from the accounts, I had to tidy the shelves (they’d got into an awful mess), sort out the laundry and answer the phone. I was really tired when I got home, but then I had to cook the supper. Baba tried to help. He even swept out the tent once, but he did it so badly I had to do it again.

  I didn’t mind working hard. In fact, I liked it. And there was an extra JD in my pocket at the end of each day, money that I’d earned myself.

  I kept thinking about Um Khalid’s laptop.

  The minute I get my hands on it, I’ll search for Askil International! I told Saba in my head. There’s sure to be a phone number for the office in Amman. Don’t worry! I’m coming!

  The laptop was delivered back to the salon a few days later. Um Khalid handed it to me.

  ‘You do know how to use this, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, of course!’

  It wasn’t really a lie. We’d had IT lessons at school and I’d often played around on Tariq’s old laptop.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I keep forgetting you’re only fourteen.’

  Not quite thirteen, I nearly said, but then my eye fell on the desktop calendar. My birthday had been two weeks ago! I’d forgotten it, and so had everyone else.

  Before I could start feeling sorry for myself, Um Khalid looked at her watch and said, ‘Time for you to go now, dear. Abu Tewfik will be waiting. Don’t be late tomorrow. We’re going to be busy. Appointments end to end.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The next morning, I woke with a cramping pain in my stomach. I felt scared. Was I ill?

  I got up and gasped with fright. There was blood between my legs and on my nightdress.

  ‘Baba!’ I called out, trying not to panic. ‘I’m bleeding!’

  He pulled aside the canvas flap, letting more light into my cubicle, looked down, then quickly looked away. He’d gone red with embarrassment.

  ‘Shh!’ he said, looking over his shoulder. ‘You don’t want Malik and Tariq to hear.’

  ‘What? Why not? Baba . . .’

  ‘It’s only . . . It’s something normal.’

  ‘Normal? I’m bleeding! It’s really serious!’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘Stay there. I’ll fetch Zainab. She can help – fix you up . . .’

  He dropped the flap and a moment later I heard the gate clang. I waited, while waves of pain came and went. Had I done something wrong? Would Aunt Zainab be angry?

  Tariq and Malik had gone off with Uncle Yasser before Baba came back
with Aunt Zainab. She laughed when she saw my face.

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, dear.’ It was the first time she’d called me ‘dear’. I found that scary, to be honest. ‘Don’t you know what this is? It’s never happened before?’

  ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘Is it serious, Aunt? Will I have to go to hospital?’

  She laughed again.

  ‘Hospital? Of course not! It’s only your monthlies. It means you’re growing up, that’s all. Didn’t that snooty aunt of yours explain? It’s what happens to every woman, every month. Put your coat on over that nightdress and come to the house. You can clean up in the bathroom and I’ll give you what you need to cope with the bleeding. You have to soak the bloodstains in cold water. It’s the only way to get them out.’

  ‘Th-thank you, Aunt,’ I said, and I meant it. Somehow, her no-nonsense approach was more reassuring than too much sympathy.

  As I bent to pick up my coat, another cramp came.

  ‘Could you call Um Khalid, Aunt,’ I said, ‘and tell her I can’t come to the salon today?’

  Her eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Not go? Why ever not? Look, Safiya, this is something normal. You have to deal with it. And do it privately. No one likes talking about it.’ Then she wagged a finger at me. ‘You need to be careful now, my girl. There’ll be other changes happening to you. To your shape. Men will start looking at you in a different way. Your reputation is a sacred thing. Once you lose it, you can never get it back, and the whole family suffers.’

  I hardly heard her. Another wave of pain had hit me. ‘I’ll give you something for the cramps.’ She sounded almost sympathetic. ‘Come on. Abu Tewfik will be here in under an hour. You can’t let Um Khalid down.’ She hesitated. ‘I must say, Safiya, I’m impressed by the way you’ve wormed your way into her good graces.’ She saw me flinch, and tossed her head impatiently. ‘Oh, don’t take offence. I didn’t mean it like that. You’ve done well. I didn’t know you had it in you. Um Khalid tells me you’re really quite useful.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  An hour later, I was in the taxi. A painkiller had lessened the cramps and now that I was over the shock I was almost excited. It felt as if I’d joined a secret society whose private language every woman understood. But then a wave of loneliness washed over me and I had to swallow tears.

  If only you’d been with me today, Mama, I thought. You’d have explained everything properly, and hugged away the pain. And Saba – did it start for you today too? I don’t see why it’s all got to be such a secret. It happens to every girl, after all.

  I almost expected Um Khalid to see the change in me, but she only glanced up, said, ‘Kifek, Safiya?’ and went on frowning at her phone.

  The laptop was on the desk. Its shiny top gleamed enticingly. I sat down, switched it on and typed in the password Um Khalid had written out for me, then watched impatiently as it slowly booted up. My eyes flew to the internet icon. It wasn’t connecting!

  Um Khalid leaned over me and typed in the internet password. I watched as carefully as I could but couldn’t make out what it was. She brought up the salon’s emails.

  ‘Go through the inbox,’ she said. ‘Delete the adverts and make a note of anything that looks urgent.’

  Then she tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘No straying now. I know what you girls are like on the internet. No social media, no searching for your friends! Get on with it.’

  A stout, breathless woman came puffing up the stairs into the reception room. Um Khalid darted out from behind the desk.

  ‘Ahlan wa sahlan ya, habibti!’ she gushed, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Come into the beauty room. Fatima is waiting for you.’

  A moment later, I was alone. Holding my breath, I typed ‘Askil International’ into the search line. I hadn’t even clicked on it when Um Khalid burst back through the bead curtain. My heart thudding, I managed just in time to flick back to the email screen.

  ‘Good,’ she said, pulling the laptop round to look at the screen. ‘You’ve got into the account. I thought you might need another password.’ She took her coat off the peg behind the door. ‘I have to go out now. I’ll be back in half an hour.’

  I waited a full five minutes after she’d gone, then could bear it no longer and feverishly typed ‘Askil International Amman’ into the search bar again. A few seconds later, I had scribbled a phone number and an address on a piece of paper and had tucked it into my pocket.

  The phone beside me buzzed. I picked it up, but the caller rang off. The phone was still in my hand. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d tapped in the number of Askil International. The call went through at once. A posh receptionist’s voice said breathily, ‘Askil International. Na’am?’

  Panic! I wasn’t ready! I hadn’t thought out what to say!

  ‘Um, salaam alaikum,’ I began feebly.

  ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m – I’m making enquiries about one of your employees. Mr Hassan Ahmed. I believe he’s in your Amman office. Is that correct?’

  ‘Hassan Ahmed? Hold the line. I’ll put you through.’

  No! I wanted to scream. Stop! I’m not ready!

  My finger twitched automatically to the stop button and cut off the call. It was just as well because Um Khalid’s footsteps were on the stairs. She’d come back much sooner than I’d expected. I dropped the phone, flipped back to the emails and pretended to read, my heart beating like a hammer.

  ‘How’s it going?’ she said, coming over to the desk.

  I squeezed my hands together on my lap, trying to stop them trembling and tried to focus my eyes on the screen full of emails.

  ‘It’s – it’s a bit confusing. I can’t quite see . . .’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll go through them later. Go and check the store cupboard, habibti, and tell me what’s running low.’

  She went into the beauty room, leaving me shivering at how nearly I’d been caught. I’d need to plan my approach carefully before I tried calling Askil International again.

  I mustn’t rush, I thought. One thing at a time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Now that I knew for sure that Uncle Hassan was in Amman, the next step was to find out exactly where he – and Saba – lived, and that meant another phone call. A fresh problem to solve. I couldn’t ask Baba or Uncle Yasser or Aunt Zainab to lend me their phone without saying why I wanted it.

  My best chance was to call from Perfumes of Paradise, but someone was always coming in and out of the reception area. I’d worked out exactly what I needed to say and practised it again and again. I’d be ready when the chance came.

  Malik was out working nearly every day. He’d done such a good job for Uncle Yasser that word had spread. It was illegal for Syrian refugees to work in Jordan, so bosses could pay as little as they liked, but Malik compensated by being brilliant at getting stuff for free.

  He came back one day with another solar lamp.

  ‘For your room,’ he said, beaming. ‘The guy I was working for today said it was broken, but it was easy to fix. You just have to press the switch extra hard.’

  The next day I came back from Perfumes of Paradise and was shocked to find that he’d had taken down the canvas partition to my cubicle.

  ‘Hey! What are you doing?’ I burst out angrily.

  ‘What? You don’t mind, do you?’ he said. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. I’m putting in a proper wall. Wooden. You can put hooks on it to hang things from.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘I was going to make a bed frame for you too, to lift your mattress off the ground so it doesn’t get so damp. But if you’d rather I didn’t . . .’

  I couldn’t get over the feeling of being invaded.

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  I pulled myself together.

  ‘But nothing. Thank you. Anything to get rid of that smelly old canvas.’

  ‘I’m
not getting rid of it,’ he said. ‘I’m going to make a little kitchen beside the tent. I’ll put in a bench for the cooker, shelves for the plates and pans . . .’

  Why was I still feeling annoyed? A kitchen would be great.

  He’s trying to take over, I told myself. I thought I was the one in charge.

  There was another thing too. If the tent became more like a house, it would mean that we might stay in it forever. I might be trapped here, never living in a house with solid walls again, never going back to school, a refugee for the rest of my life.

  He’d turned round to work on the wall.

  ‘There,’ he said, standing back to admire his work. ‘I’ll make your bed frame tomorrow.’

  Thanks for the warning, anyway, I thought.

  I had to admit, though, that my room was much better. With my lamp I could see what I was doing, and even read in bed, if I could find anything to read.

  After supper, I took the dishes outside to wash. The evening was chilly, and squatting over the bucket of cold water was horrible. Malik’s plan for a kitchen was great. Why had I been so mean to him?

  He came out after me, needing to wash his hands.

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t nice about my room,’ I said. ‘It was – I was surprised, that was all. It’s brilliant. Really. And the kitchen’s going to be amazing.’

  Baba called me from inside the tent.

  ‘Safiya! Where are you?’

  ‘Outside, washing up.’

  ‘Come back in. I want to talk to you.’

  What about? I thought anxiously. Surely he can’t have heard about me phoning Askil International?

  I wiped the last plate clean and went inside.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from my old client,’ said Baba, rubbing his hands like he always did when something pleased him. ‘He’s here! In Jordan!’

  My stomach turned over with fright.

  ‘You don’t mean that man who came the night we had to run away? The Hawk? But he’s . . .’