A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  She was impressed, I could tell, though she certainly wasn’t going to say so.

  ‘Baba’s old client’s coming again. We can’t keep on borrowing things from you. Would you like some tea, Aunt?’

  She waved the offer aside.

  ‘What on earth did all this cost?’

  I couldn’t wait to tell her.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last, after poking her nose into everything. ‘Let’s hope the investment pays off.’ She took a final look round, and I knew she was trying to find something to criticize.

  ‘That kettle’s got soot marks up the side,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘You’d better clean it up before all your grand visitors come calling and think they can look down on us.’

  I followed her to the entrance to the tent. It had been a dull, cloudy day, but the sun had suddenly come out. She looked back at me as she shuffled around with her feet to put her shoes on.

  ‘What’s that on your face?’ she said.

  I put my hand up to touch my cheek.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s itchy.’

  ‘You get a lot of nasty rashes here in the winter. The desert dust is full of germs when it’s wet. It’s not like Damascus here, you know. I suppose I’ll have to give you a cream for it. Don’t scratch it or it’ll get infected. Scarred for life, probably. Then you’ll be sorry.’

  By Sunday morning, the rash had spread all the way down my left cheek. It itched all the time and the cream Aunt Zainab had given me hadn’t helped at all.

  She called me over after breakfast to help her shake out her rugs. I was glad to see that Um Salim was there, perched on a chair by the table.

  ‘You’ve been scratching that thing on your face,’ Aunt Zainab said accusingly as I came in through the back door. ‘I warned you, Safiya.’

  ‘I haven’t!’ I said indignantly.

  It wasn’t quite true. The itch screamed to be scratched, and sometimes I hadn’t been able to resist.

  Um Salim leaned forward to get a better look.

  ‘You poor thing,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you got any cream for it?’

  ‘I gave her some,’ said Aunt Zainab. ‘She’s been scratching.’

  ‘It looks infected. She needs to see a skin specialist,’ said Um Salim.

  ‘How’s she going to afford a skin specialist?’ scoffed Aunt Zainab. ‘She just needs to stop picking at it.’

  I wasn’t going to put up with her any longer. I made the first excuse I could think of that would get me out of the house.

  ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Zainab, but I came to say that I can’t help you today,’ I said. ‘Baba’s client’s coming this afternoon.’

  Aunt Zainab frowned. Um Salim smiled.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Off you go, dear, and look after that face of yours.’

  I felt a bit worried having told the lie, because Aunt Zainab would be bound to notice if nobody came, but when I got back to the tent Baba was putting his phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Abu Mustapha’s coming this afternoon instead of tomorrow, Safiya.’ He had his business face on again. ‘Make sure everything’s ready.’

  Alhamdulillah, I breathed.

  Allah was looking out for me, after all.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Now here’s a bit of wisdom from me, Safiya Adnan, aged thirteen.

  In this life you never know what’s going to happen.

  I mean, think about it. How could I have known I’d have to bolt out of my nice ordinary life in Damascus like a rabbit out of its burrow? Or that Malik would turn up out of the blue to make our lives easier? Or that I’d get a job in a beauty salon?

  And I could never, ever have foreseen what was going to happen next.

  The Hawk’s visit was the same as the first time. I served coffee and snacks and went into my nice new kitchen to do some cooking, then came out to say goodbye when he was about to leave.

  As usual, his eyes swept past me, then they swooped back again.

  ‘That’s a nasty rash,’ he said to Baba. ‘You should get a doctor to look at it. Bring her to Amman with you tomorrow. My cousin Hannan’s a skin specialist. She won’t charge.’

  I honestly thought I’d pass out. Amman! I was going to Amman!

  And then I wanted to scream with frustration because Baba said, ‘That’s very kind, but, honestly, there’s no need. We can’t possibly trouble Dr Hannan. I’m sure she’s much too busy.’

  I was just plucking up my courage to say, ‘But it hurts, Baba, dreadfully, and Aunt Zainab said I might be scarred for life,’ when the Hawk (only now I knew that he was really an angel sent from Heaven) said, ‘Nonsense. I’ll call you this evening to give you directions and tell you what time Hannan can see you.’

  Then Baba walked with him to the gate, and they stopped for a final chat.

  I couldn’t stop myself from jumping up and down.

  Saba! Did you hear that? I told my twin. Get ready, girl. I’m coming to Amman! Look out for me. Show yourself somehow, please. We’ve got to meet tomorrow – this might be our only chance!

  Then the hinges squeaked as Baba shut the gate.

  He looked worried when he came back into the tent.

  ‘My poor girl!’ he said, holding my chin in his hand and looking closely at the rash. ‘How could I have let it go this far? I thought your aunt was treating you.’

  ‘Her cream didn’t work, Baba. It really does hurt now. I think the – I mean Abu Mustapha – was right. It is infected.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry. His cousin will put it right for you.’ He pinched my chin gently before he let it go. ‘A trip to Amman, eh? A real outing for you. We’ll have to get up early to make sure of catching the bus.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ‘What time does the bus go?’ I asked Baba as we hurried along the road into town early the following day. The sun hadn’t even come up and I was half dazzled by the headlights of cars and trucks coming towards us.

  ‘No exact time. It leaves when it’s full of passengers. And there’s only one bus a day so keep up, Safiya. We’ve left it a bit late as it is.’

  I was already walking as fast as I could but now I broke into a trot. I’d have sprinted if Baba had let me, even though my feet were killing me. They’d grown a lot in the last couple of weeks and I had to walk with my toes curled up inside my shoes.

  We could hear the roar of the bus’s heavy diesel engine as we hurried into the bus station. It was nearly full and people were pushing to get on. We just made it on board before the door was slammed shut.

  There were only single seats left, but a young man noticed us and politely moved so that Baba and I could be together. I was really grateful because it meant I could sit by the window.

  The countryside around Azraq had been brown and bare all summer, but now some scraggy sheep were grazing on patches that the rain had turned green. The refugee camp in the distance looked like a settlement on an alien planet, straight out of a sci-fi movie.

  Everything looked depressing.

  Baba was right, I thought. Saba wouldn’t like Azraq at all. I’d hate her to come here. Meeting us would only upset her.

  ‘You’ve gone pale, habibti,’ Baba said suddenly. ‘You’re not going to be sick, are you?’

  I tried to smile.

  ‘No, I’m fine, Baba. Really.’

  I’d talked myself into a better place by the time we hit the honking, crawling traffic outside Amman.

  I’ve got to trust her! I told myself. She’s just like me and I’d be amazed and excited if I didn’t know I had a twin, and then found out that I did. Of course she’ll want to know me!

  The bus was crawling along a valley. Square, cream-coloured houses were stacked like boxes up the steep hillsides. Would one of those be Saba’s house? Did she run down one of those long flights of stairs between the buildings every day on her way to school?

  Maybe Uncle Hassan’s place is like that one, I thought as we passed a pale stone house with a pretty iron balcony, ar
ched windows and pencil-thin dark green cypress trees sprouting up beside it like exclamation marks.

  I was starting to feel small and silly. How could I possibly have imagined that in this big, crowded city I could find one girl? I’d stupidly imagined that we’d simply bump into each other, that I’d spot her in a crowd, or that she’d see me and . . . Now that I was here, looking down on the mass of cars and people in the maze of streets, that stupid dream faded to nothing.

  We chugged off the road at last into the bus station. Everyone was pushing to get off, but I held back. I was so down-hearted I felt like staying on the bus and going straight back to Azraq.

  Baba was frowning at me.

  ‘Have you got a fever? A headache?’

  I made myself get up out of my seat.

  ‘Sorry, Baba. I’m coming.’

  I was dazed as we walked out through the bus station, and Baba had to grab my hand to pull me out of the way of a bus lumbering out of its stand.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted above the roar of its engine. ‘The clinic’s not far. We’ll walk.’

  I groaned inside. My toes felt raw. I was sure there were blisters all over them.

  It was quite a climb out of the valley up to the quieter streets above. There were nice apartment buildings here, three or four storeys high, with plants in front of them and big balconies.

  Amman’s not bad, I thought. Not as good as Damascus, of course. It’s a million times nicer than Azraq, anyway.

  Baba was looking at the names of the buildings as we went past.

  ‘Here it is!’ he said at last, walking up the steps to the entrance.

  The clinic had polished wooden floors and a clean doctor-ish smell, just like our old doctor’s office at home. Dr Hannan was waiting for us. She looked too young and pretty to be a consultant doctor. She had dangly earrings and she wasn’t wearing a hijab.

  ‘This kind of winter rash is very common in the desert areas,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you an ointment to clear it up. It’ll help with the spots too.’

  ‘Will I – will there be a scar?’ I dared to ask.

  She laughed.

  ‘No! Your face will be as good as new.’

  I melted inside with relief. I’d been trying not to think about how awful I might look.

  A few minutes later, I was following Baba back down the steps to the street.

  ‘It’s too far to walk to Abu Mustapha’s place,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to get a taxi.’

  I smiled at him gratefully. My feet were agony now. I hobbled down the hill after him to the crossroads, where heavy traffic was moving down the main road. Baba hurried on ahead of me so fast that I couldn’t keep up with him.

  He reached the corner and raised his arm to hail a taxi, then stepped off the pavement to make sure the driver saw him. And then, out of nowhere, another car zoomed recklessly past the taxi on the inside.

  ‘Baba!’ I screamed. ‘Watch out!’

  It was too late. There was a hideous squeal of brakes and a deafening crash of metal on metal. And then a horrible, horrible silence.

  For what seemed like an age I stood frozen to the spot. Ahead of me, the people who had been waiting to cross the road were crowding round the accident. I couldn’t see Baba at all. I dashed forward, clawing them out of the way.

  Baba was lying on the ground, his eyes closed, and blood from his head was pooling on to the tarmac.

  ‘Baba!’ I heard myself yelling. ‘Open your eyes! Look at me! You’re not dead. You can’t be! Someone help him! Please!’

  I threw myself down on the ground beside him. His eyes were closed and his face was a pale sickly colour. People were shouting and jostling all round me.

  Someone took my elbow, forcing me to stand up.

  ‘Let me look,’ a man said. ‘I know first aid.’

  He leaned over Baba and checked his pulse.

  ‘Good and strong,’ he said.

  ‘He’s not dead? Oh! Oh!’ I sank down beside him again.

  ‘I’ve called an ambulance!’ someone else called out. ‘It’s on the way.’

  A woman put her arm round me and lifted me up again.

  ‘Don’t cry, habibti! Didn’t you hear the man say? He’s alive! They’re going to get him to the hospital. He’ll be fine.’

  A furious argument was going on behind her. The taxi driver and the man who had crashed into him were yelling at each other.

  ‘Where do you live, dear?’ the woman was asking me.

  ‘I – I’m from Azraq,’ I stammered. ‘We only came for the day. Baba’s got a meeting. We were going there now.’

  I was shivering uncontrollably.

  Sirens sounded and suddenly two policemen appeared.

  ‘Tell them Baba’s name, habibti,’ the woman said.

  An ambulance had arrived now. The ambulance men had opened the back and pulled out a stretcher. I struggled out of the woman’s grasp.

  ‘What are you doing? Where are you taking him? Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘Your Baba, is he?’ one of the men said. ‘Got a nasty bang on the head, hasn’t he? Can’t tell you any more till we get him to the hospital. He’ll be fine, inshallah.’

  ‘Don’t shut the door! Take me with you!’ I was frantically trying to climb in after Baba. ‘Don’t leave me here!’

  ‘Can’t do that, habibti, sorry,’ the other man said. ‘You go home. Call the hospital later.’ He turned to the other man. ‘Did you get his name?’

  ‘Where are you taking him?’ I screamed.

  ‘The Al Bashir,’ he called back, then he climbed in after the stretcher and pulled the door shut. A minute later the ambulance was driving away, its blue light flashing and the siren wailing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  I stood still, too shocked to move. This was how Mama had died. Surely Allah would not take Baba in this way too?

  The kind woman was shaking my arm again. ‘Haven’t you got any relatives in Amman?’

  ‘No! I . . .’

  The taxi driver and the other man were still hurling accusations at each other while a policeman tried to question them.

  ‘You don’t know anyone here? No one at all?’

  ‘Just – I’ve got an uncle, but I . . .’

  ‘An uncle!’ She smiled with relief. ‘That’s good. Where does he live?’

  ‘In Um Uthania.’

  ‘That’s not too far from here. Look, let me call my daughter. I was going to meet her, but there’s no hurry. We’ll get a taxi and I’ll take you to your uncle’s place. You know the street and the number?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not supposed to . . .’

  ‘Um Uthania’s a nice district.’

  She was looking at me doubtfully. I saw myself through her eyes: my blue coat – which had seemed smart in Azraq but which looked old-fashioned in Amman – my cracked shoes and the awful rash on my face. I felt my insides begin to melt in panic, and took a deep, shuddering breath to control it.

  ‘Your real uncle, is he? Jordanian?’ she went on. ‘Only you’ve got a Syrian accent. I hope you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘My mother was Jordanian. He’s her brother. But I don’t think I should . . .’

  ‘He’s your family, my lovely, that’s all that matters.’ She was sounding brisk now. I’d become a problem that she was keen to solve.

  She was still holding my arm, walking me along the street away from the crash site. Before I knew what was happening, she had lifted her arm and a taxi drew up by the kerb.

  ‘I’ve only got a few JD on me,’ I said. ‘I can’t . . .’

  ‘That’s all right.’ She was pushing me ahead of her into the back of the taxi. ‘It’s nothing. I can’t leave you here in the middle of Amman, a young girl like you.’ She leaned forward. ‘Um Uthania,’ she said to the taxi driver.

  My stomach was churning in panic. I kept seeing Baba’s still, white face as he lay on the pavement, blood trickling from the side of his head. What if those people had been lying to m
e? What if he was really badly hurt? How could I be going off like this, when I ought to be at the hospital with him? And how could I turn up, out of the blue, at Uncle Hassan’s house where Saba would be? It was all crazy, wrong, upside down. It was like living through a terrible dream.

  By the time the taxi had pulled up outside a small apartment block in a quiet back street, my brain had started working again. Baba was the only thing that mattered now. Getting help for him was what I had to do.

  The woman had been looking at her watch.

  ‘Do you want me to come in with you? Only . . .’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said quickly. I would much rather tackle this alone. I gave her a shaky smile. ‘Alf shukr! Thank you so much! I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

  ‘It’s nothing. It’s all the will of Allah. Look, don’t worry. Everything will be all right, I’m sure.’

  Her phone rang. She fished it out of her bag as I got out of the taxi.

  ‘No, no, Zahra, don’t worry. I’m coming now. Everything’s fine. I just had to . . .’

  I shut the taxi door and watched it drive away, then stood still for a moment, summoning my courage. I’d never felt so alone in my whole life. But right then, just when I needed it, the voice of my mother was there in my head.

  Go on, Safiya. Go on.

  So I put back my shoulders and marched up the short flight of steps to the building’s entrance.

  There was an entry phone by the door. I stood there with my finger hovering over the number of Uncle Hassan’s flat. How could I explain, into a crackly answerphone, who I was and why I’d come?

  Anyway, Uncle Hassan must be at work and Saba will be at school, I thought. There’ll be no one at home.

  I was still dithering when someone clattered down the staircase inside the building and pushed open the frosted glass door. It was a young man in paint-splashed clothes.

  ‘You want to come in?’ he said, holding the door open for me. ‘Mind the wall. The paint’s wet.’

  I nodded and stepped inside. Nothing seemed real any more.

  There were two doors on each landing. On the first floor, the door on the right had a brass plate with Uncle Hassan’s name on it. I said a prayer, and pressed the bell.