A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  ‘That Israa woman, whatever does she look like now?’ she began as I started on the washing-up. ‘When I saw her at your parents’ wedding I knew she’d age badly.’

  ‘She looks all right,’ I said unwillingly. ‘Just ordinary. I didn’t notice.’

  ‘You were too busy swooning over your precious twin, I suppose.’

  ‘I hardly saw her,’ I said shortly. ‘She looks like me, but she’s not the same as me at all.’

  Aunt Zainab had been sorting out last night’s leftovers in the crowded fridge. She shut the door and looked at me shrewdly.

  ‘It must have been strange for you, Safiya. Not too easy, I suppose? I mean, she’s got everything you haven’t got. Goes to one of those smart expensive schools in Amman, nice clothes and all that? It would be easy to give in to jealousy. You need to watch out. No one likes a jealous person.’

  You should know, I thought with a sniff.

  ‘I expect you scared her,’ she went on. ‘You’ve grown up since you came to Jordan. You’re a strong young woman now. Independent, capable. An excellent cook. You’ve left her miles behind, I’m sure.’ And then she smiled at me, taking me completely by surprise.

  I remembered suddenly how she’d said to her sister, What she needs is training. She’s got to learn in the school of hard knocks. I wanted to say, So I’ve graduated from your school now, have I? Got a certificate for me, Aunt Zainab?

  The weird thing was that I did actually feel grateful to her, and I was trying to think of a way to thank her when she gave in to the temptation to deflate me in her usual way. ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up that your posh uncle will get you out of here,’ she said. ‘He’ll be off to Dubai without a backwards glance.’

  I had time to think about what she’d said as I helped around the house. Was I a strong young woman? Perhaps I was. Was it possible that Saba had been scared of me?

  I could have been a bit nicer, I thought regretfully. I’ve blown my chances now.

  And what did Aunt Zainab mean about Uncle Hassan getting us out of Azraq? He was going to live in Dubai. We wouldn’t see him again for years.

  It was early afternoon when, at last, I heard the creak of our compound gate.

  ‘That’ll be Uncle Malik,’ I told Aunt Zainab. ‘I need to go back and sort things out before Baba comes out of hospital.’

  I’d almost forgotten now how scared I used to be of her. A few months ago, I’d never have dared talk to her so boldly. I was out of her house before she’d thought of an answer.

  Malik was looking pleased with himself.

  ‘Look what I’ve got,’ he said, proudly displaying a large box sitting by the front tent pole. ‘I carried it all the way back from town. It’s so heavy I thought my arms would drop off.’

  He was opening the box as he spoke.

  ‘A heater, see? Works on kerosene. I applied to a refugee charity for it a few weeks ago. Didn’t want to tell you in case I didn’t get one.’

  ‘Honestly, Uncle Malik, you are, you are . . .’ I didn’t know what to say. ‘Like a wizard in a story,’ I finished lamely.

  ‘Adnan needs to be comfortable when he gets back,’ he said. ‘Tariq’s just texted me. The hospital’s discharging him tomorrow morning, and that rich business friend of his, Abu Mustapha, is bringing them both up to Azraq in his car.’

  ‘Tomorrow? The Hawk’s driving him up himself? When will they get here?’

  ‘Tariq didn’t say.’

  All I could think of was the almost empty trunk in the kitchen. The monthly food box wasn’t due for another week, but I’d need to make a proper meal to celebrate Baba’s return. A big menu started to unroll in my head.

  I suppose Saba’s gone to see Baba again today, I thought. He’s probably wishing I was as nice as she’s making herself out to be. I’ll show him. I’m sure she can’t even make a pot of tea. I’ll cook a dinner that he’ll really enjoy.

  Malik was fiddling with the heater, pouring in some evil-smelling kerosene from a bottle.

  ‘Let’s see if it works,’ he said, and lit the wick.

  A delicious heat spread out from it. Almost at once, he turned it off it again. He picked up the kerosene bottle and made sure the cap was tightly screwed on.

  ‘This stuff’s expensive. We’ll keep it for the evenings. We’ll have to be really careful not to set everything on fire.’

  I wasn’t even listening.

  Chicken in turmeric and yogurt sauce, I was thinking. Stuffed cabbage leaves, if I can afford a bit of beef mince.

  ‘Please, Uncle Malik,’ I said, ‘I need to cook. Meat and stuff from the butcher in town. Do you think . . .’

  He didn’t even let me finish.

  ‘All right. I’ll go. What exactly do you want?’

  I was up early the next morning. Several finished dishes were already sitting on the bench in the tiny lean-to kitchen, protected from Snowball by plates with weights on top. I worked like a fury, sweeping, tidying, tucking blankets neatly round mattresses and arranging pillows artistically.

  ‘When you haven’t got much money, being clean and tidy is your luxury,’ Aunt Zainab had said to me more than once. She’d irritated me at the time, but I was beginning to understand what she meant.

  I’d just come back from Abu Ali’s shop, where I’d gone to buy a few last-minute things, and was putting them down in the kitchen, when I heard a car draw up.

  ‘They’re here!’ I called out to Malik, who had been clearing out the trench behind the tent again.

  I ran to open the gate just as a few fat snowflakes started to fall.

  The first person I saw was Tariq, leaping out of the back and running round to the front passenger seat to help Baba. But instead of the Hawk it was Uncle Hassan who got out next from behind the driving wheel. And then my heart missed a beat, because, after a long pause, the last person to appear was Saba.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  I stood there, frozen with embarrassment as much as with cold. There was no hiding our poverty now.

  At least I’ve made a nice meal, I thought, and if you don’t like it you can just go away again.

  Then I saw that Saba was scared. The dancing snowflakes falling between us blurred her face, but there was no mistaking the hunch of her shoulders and her hesitation as she stepped slowly towards me.

  Tariq and Uncle Hassan were trying to take Baba’s arms to help him through the gate. He shook them off.

  ‘Really!’ he objected. ‘There’s no need. I’m quite all right.’

  Saba had reached me now.

  ‘Ahlan wa sahlan, you are welcome,’ I said, my voice sounding colder than I’d intended.

  She flinched.

  ‘Safiya, don’t be angry any more. I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to come. I wouldn’t let my Baba call to warn you in case you refused to see me. I’ve been feeling so awful – I’ve been a total idiot. I just, I desperately wanted to see you again.’

  The knot inside my chest loosened a little bit, but now I was confused, not sure what I was feeling.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘The snow’s settling on your hair. Let’s go inside.’

  I led the way into the tent. Malik had stayed behind to close the gate. He went forward to embrace Tariq and Baba, shook hands with Uncle Hassan, then he moved into a corner, making himself invisible, shy as he always was in company.

  I couldn’t bear the humiliation of watching Saba’s face as she looked round the tent. I ran forward to hug Baba.

  ‘Baba! Are you all right? Have you got a headache? How was the journey? What did the doctor say? Look, Uncle Malik’s got us a heater.’

  I was babbling stupidly but I couldn’t stop myself.

  Tariq was inspecting the heater.

  ‘This is so cool,’ he said.

  ‘I hope not,’ Malik said, almost too quietly for anyone to hear. ‘It’s supposed to be hot.’ Everyone laughed and he blushed. ‘I’ll light it.’

  Uncle Hassan, Baba and Tariq settled themselves on the matt
resses while Malik lit the heater. We all watched him as if lighting a heater was the most interesting thing in the world. I still couldn’t bring myself to look at Saba.

  ‘I’ll get the tea,’ I said, escaping to the kitchen, but to my dismay, she followed me.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ she asked eagerly.

  ‘There’s a tray down there,’ I said unwillingly, pointing below the counter. ‘You can put the tea glasses on it.’ I started filling the kettle from the drinking water bottle, wondering why my hands were shaking. ‘The sugar’s down there too.’

  I watched out of the corner of my eye as she nervously set the glasses on to the tray. Her hands were shaking too. The sugar bowl slipped from them. She managed to catch it, but some white grains fell on the counter and dissolved at once in the drips of water I’d left there.

  ‘Oh dear, I’ve made a mess,’ she said. ‘It’s all sticky now. I’ll clear it up. Where’s the tap?’

  My stomach clenched.

  ‘There isn’t a tap. We don’t have running water. The bottle in here’s just for drinking. There’s a tank outside. I fill the bucket from it.’

  She jerked backwards nervously.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t . . .’

  ‘It’s all right. Honestly. I’ll clear it up later.’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Are you . . .’ I began.

  ‘Do you . . .’ she said at the same time.

  We both laughed uneasily.

  ‘I’ve forgotten what I was going to say, anyway,’ she said.

  ‘So have I.’

  I fetched out my best plate, one that Malik had somehow picked up in Azraq. Suddenly it looked cheap, with its fussy decoration of roses and bows.

  ‘There are some cakes over there, in that plastic box,’ I said. ‘Could you put them out on this?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  I had my back to her as I poured the boiling water into the teapot. I heard the lid of a container snap open.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘but this looks like a stew or something.’

  I turned round. She’d opened the wrong box.

  ‘That’s for our dinner,’ I told her.

  ‘It smells lovely.’ She was being too enthusiastic. ‘Do you get your stuff delivered from a restaurant?’

  I tried to suppress a laugh, but it came out anyway in a snort.

  ‘On three JD a day? With some help from a box of charity food? No! I cook everything myself.’

  Her hand, holding a cake above the plate, froze in mid-air.

  ‘Oh my God, Safiya, I don’t know what to say. You’re so incredible. I just keep putting my big foot in it.’

  She looked so contrite that the knot in my chest loosened a bit more.

  ‘Honestly, it doesn’t matter. You couldn’t be expected to know what it’s like for us here.’

  ‘But I want to know everything!’ she said earnestly. ‘Since you told me you lived in a tent, I’ve been trying to imagine it. At home, in America, I mean, last summer, I went on a camping holiday. It was so fun! A bunch of us in tents, these crazy guys, and my best friend Melanie . . .’ She was fumbling for the right words in Arabic as if the memory was making her think in English. ‘I thought it would be a bit like that,’ she finished lamely.

  She was so sincere that I couldn’t help smiling.

  Anyway, I thought, a year ago, in Syria, I couldn’t have imagined all this either.

  ‘People used to camp for fun in Syria,’ I told her. ‘Foreign tourists, mainly. They’d go off into the desert with fancy tents and camels and pretend to be like the Bedouin. They’d make campfires and roast sheep and everything.’

  Tariq stuck his head through the kitchen entrance.

  ‘Are you to going to be all day in there? Where’s our tea?’

  He disappeared again.

  ‘I’ll take the tray,’ I said, ‘if you can take the cakes.’

  She picked up the plate.

  ‘Oh! Look!’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your thumbs.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘There’s a ridge running down the middle of the nail, exactly like mine.’

  It was freezing in the little kitchen, but it was the weirdness of our two unusual thumbs, mine on the tray, hers on the plate, that made me shiver.

  I looked up and our eyes met.

  ‘Safiya,’ she begged, ‘please, please be my friend. My sister. I need you so badly. You have no idea how much.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  The early darkness of winter was falling by the time we’d finished our tea. We’d kept the tent flap open to give us light, though it meant that much of the warmth of the heater escaped outside.

  At last, Tariq got up to shut it, but just before he let it fall something small swooped inside. He darted back. A little bird had flown in. It settled on top of the partition dividing my room from the rest of the tent. It looked dazed, fluffing out its feathers.

  ‘You don’t want that in here,’ said Uncle Hassan, getting ready to jump up. ‘I’ll catch it.’

  ‘No, no, let the poor thing be,’ said Baba. ‘It’s half frozen. It’s just looking for shelter. Make sure Snowball doesn’t get it, Safiya.’

  Snowball had crept in earlier, looked suspiciously at the strangers, then stretched out near the heater. Her purrs made everyone smile. Malik switched on the solar lamp and hung it from the tent pole. There hadn’t been enough daylight to charge it fully, but it would shed a dim light for a few hours.

  Tariq was still by the entrance, looking out into the twilight.

  ‘The snow’s settling,’ he said.

  Uncle Hassan looked worried.

  ‘We ought to make a start back. The roads’ll be icy soon. It’ll be dangerous.’

  Saba put on her spoiled child’s pout.

  ‘No! Not yet! I want to stay!’

  Her voice came out in a whine. Baba’s eyebrows twitched together in a frown. Tariq and Malik glanced at each other then looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘You’re very welcome to stay, of course, Hassan,’ said Baba. ‘I’m sure Yasser will put you up in the house tonight.’

  ‘Yes! Yes! Ple-e-ase!’ Saba insisted childishly. ‘I want to stay with Safiya!’

  Malik got up quietly. He came back a few seconds later.

  ‘Excuse me, Abu Saba,’ he said tentatively to Uncle Hassan, ‘but it’s coming down fast now. It’ll be hard to drive through the snow in the dark.’

  Uncle Hassan looked worried.

  ‘Israa will be beside herself!’

  ‘No, she won’t!’ said Saba loudly. ‘Tell her I want to stay. Tell her—’

  ‘That’s enough, Saba,’ said Uncle Hassan, turning on her sharply. ‘You’re not in America now, as I keep reminding you. Syrian children do not tell their parents what to do, make demands and show disrespect.’

  Saba looked around, aware for the first time of the uncomfortable silence that had fallen. Everyone else was looking down, embarrassed. She went red. Her lips trembled and I could tell she was on the edge of tears.

  Uncle Hassan stood up, went to the flap and looked out.

  ‘Malik’s right,’ he said heavily. ‘It’s too late to go now. We’ll have to stay the night.’

  Saba tried to help me get the supper ready, but there was hardly room even for me in the tiny canvas kitchen, and she kept getting in my way. She gave up after a while and stood back to watch as I boiled the rice, heated the chicken stew and chopped herbs to sprinkle on top.

  ‘You’re like a grown-up,’ she said suddenly. ‘You make me feel stupid and ignorant. I’m just a baby compared with you.’

  Something twisted inside me. I turned to look at her, the spoon I was holding dripping gravy into a saucepan.

  ‘I don’t want to be a grown-up!’ I burst out. ‘I don’t want to have to do all this stuff! I want to be a normal girl and go to school! Have a mama to . . . to . . . look after me.’

  ‘What was she l
ike, do you think, our mother?’ asked Saba, after an awkward pause.

  ‘I wish I knew. I never used to think about her, but now I do all the time. Auntie Shirin, who brought us up, she was all right, I suppose, but she didn’t seem to love us much, not like our real mother would have done.’

  Saba looked away from me, frowning.

  ‘I know you think I’m the lucky one,’ she said, ‘having a mama and everything, but honestly it’s not that great. It sounds weird, but she loves me too much. It’s like she’s obsessed! She treats me like I’m still five years old. I’m thirteen!’

  I pretended to look surprised.

  ‘Really? Guess what? I’m thirteen too!’

  She raised her eyebrows mockingly.

  ‘Well now, there’s a coincidence. Don’t tell me your birthday’s in November?’

  ‘It is! The fourteenth!’

  She started giggling, then I joined in and a moment later we were holding on to the counter, helpless with laughter.

  Tariq put his head through the flap.

  ‘What’s the joke, sis? And – er – sis?’

  ‘Nothing to do with you,’ I said. ‘Go away.’

  He pulled a face.

  ‘Ganging up on me already? I might have known it.’ He disappeared again.

  Saba was still looking at the flap through which he’d disappeared.

  ‘It’s so amazing to have a big brother! Gorgeous, isn’t he?’

  ‘Gorgeous? Tariq? Are you serious? He can be a real pain.’ She looked doubtful. ‘Wait till he starts bossing you around and being all grand and domineering.’

  ‘I heard that!’ Tariq’s face appeared again. ‘Saba, you’re definitely, as of this moment, my favourite sister.’ He must have seen the spike of anxiety in my eyes, because he added, ‘No, wait. It’s got to be Safiya because she’s cooked an amazing dinner and if I’m not careful she won’t give me any. Can’t you hurry up with it? We’re all starving in here.’

  I fished under the counter and pulled out the cloth.

  ‘It’s ready. You can make yourself useful and lay this out.’

  He pretended to bow.