Father says: “Everyone’s making money like its growing on trees.”
The constable shakes his head. He says that luck needs pluck and that he knows someone who bought salvage items from the British camp for a hundred thousand pounds. One of the things he got was huge iron barrels. When he opened them, he found them filled with car tires that he turned around and sold for fifty thousand pounds.
I cough harshly. Father gets up and goes to the door of the balcony to crack it open so some of the cigarette smoke can escape. Kareem says that people are forming co-ops now with several members, where each one pays a certain amount every month, and they all pool their resources. Father keeps quiet and says nothing.
The constable mixes up the domino papers and puts them down on the pillow: “If you have anything left over from your sugar coupons or the ones for eighteen liters of oil, I am ready to buy them.” The math teacher yells at me: “Stretch out your hands.” I unfold my cold hands with their palms facing down. He raises the ruler in the air, then swings it down with its edge across the back of my hand. I tell him I’ve brought kerosene coupons with me. He pulls the ruler back.
A commotion in the neighborhood. Screams, from more than one person. The noise dies down after a while. The constable says: “That’s the guy who has two wives.”
Father asks about the neighbors from the balcony facing ours. The constable says it’s a medical student living with his two sisters, who spend all their time on the balcony waiting for Mr. Right.
“And the girls at the first house on the street?”
‘They’re the children of Sabri Effendi, the clerk in the Justice Ministry. The oldest one is named Siham. She’s always standing in the window. She’s waiting for Mr. Right too.”
“What about the woman up above us?”
“She’s hot, don’t you think? She’s a nurse. Seems to be a widow or a divorcée. She lives alone with her little son.”
Father says: “If only I could find a nice young lady that could put up with my crustiness and raise the boy for me. I’m tired of the maids and cooking ladies.”
“And you’d marry her?”
“Yeah, as long as she couldn’t have children.”
“I might be able to find you someone back in my hometown.” I fight violently with the cooking lady’s son. Basima treats him as though he’s her son. I wait in the morning until she leaves the bedroom and goes to the bathroom. I go in to complain to my father. He stands next to the bed and fastens his hernia belt. His face is in a frown. On the night stand next to the bed there is a small bottle with a picture of a lion on it.
The constable leaves the room and comes back with a section of cloth and two pairs of pyjamas. The cloth is thick and dark brown. Father says as he studies it: “Is this cloth for curtains?” The constable says: “It could work for a suit.” He unfolds the two pyjamas. One is white with stripes and shiny metal buttons. Father says: “This is for prisoners of war.” He tells me to try them on. They fit me. The other pair is pale yellow with buttons from mother of pearl. He says they’re lighter and can be worn in summer. Father tells him to bring them back on the first of the month.
The constable acts all pleasant: “Don’t worry about the money.” Father puts the cloth and two pairs of pyjamas to the side. The constable says: “I also have nylon stockings for women.” Father laughs: “See anyone in this room who could wear them?”
He puts a cup of water on top of the desk. From the drawer he takes the mirror with the cracked metal frame and the small shaving box that holds his razor blades. He sets both on the desk and sits down behind it. He dips the brush with the wooden handle, whose coating is peeling off, into the water. He scrapes it across a block of soap with a silver wrapper in the shape of a fat candle. I ask if he’s planning to go out, but he doesn’t answer. He paints over his beard several times until it turns into a big cloud of foam. He takes the purple packaging off the razor. He brushes its edge back and forth against his fat palm and then puts it in the metal shaver. He scrapes it across his cheek then dips it in the cup of water to wash away the soap. He does this many times. His cheeks turn smooth like silk. He takes the colored towel from the edge of the bed and wipes the last traces of soap from his face. He stands straight up and starts to put on his clothes. He takes out his blue suit. He pulls its braces over his shoulders. He puts on the matching waistcoat with the back made from black silk cloth. Its buckle straps that fasten around the middle dangle from either side. He turns his back to me so he can fasten the two straps. I play up to him to try to get him to take me along. He refuses: “No. You have homework.” He points to the desk. “Sit there and don’t get up. I won’t be long.”
He brushes the surface of his fez with the sleeve of his suit coat. He twists the two sides of his moustache all the way up to his nostrils then lets them loose. He brushes them with his fingers. He opens the glass inner doors of the balcony and takes hold of the wooden shutter doors by their side hooks. He pushes them open and fastens them in place with the hooks. He closes the glass doors again. I ask him to close the door of the room when he leaves, and I listen to the sound of him shutting the door to the apartment and to his lazy steps on the outer stairs.
The sound of his feet grows distant. I leave the chair at my desk. I throw off the blanket that I’ve wrapped around myself. I pull the door of the dresser open a crack. I look through the clothes that are all scattered and messed up. I drag over the desk chair and stand on it. I see the book shoved against the side of the top shelf. The constable brought it, and right away I wanted to look at it, but father scolded me. It’s a small book in a foreign language. Folded across two pages of it is a statue of a naked woman. The name “Venus” appears in the caption. I flip through the rest of the pages and put it back in its place.
I study the other things on the shelf. Bottles of medicine. A fine glass tube with a red label: Carter Pills, to aid digestion. Belmonks for coughs. A bottle of Aspro brand aspirin. Brockton Drops. Half a piece of nutmeg. Father puts a dash under his tongue whenever he drinks a cup of coffee. A jar filled with bicarbonate of soda powder. He dissolves it in water and takes whiffs from it. A tattered doll from the holiday fair on the prophet’s birthday. Another plastic bottle with two pieces of black dried prune. Father uses it when he can’t go. A book with a colored cover called The Queen’s Messenger. The inside page has an ad for “Zayiz brand Armchairs” and another for “Otter Brandy.” Cupping glasses stacked on top of each other. A big government notebook full of journal entries written by mother. She writes large round letters in it with a pencil. She finishes on a line and then skips the next line and writes some more. She reads out some of what she has written to father. I hear the names “Hitler,” “Gandhi,” and “Miles Lampson.”
A small can with several identity cards that have father’s name on them. The title “Bey” doesn’t appear after his name. He says that it is only written with the first rank beys and that he is only a second rank one. Two old pictures, the size of postcards. The first one has a grey border around an oval frame. Inside is a child wearing a long embroidered dress and white sandals. A white towel hangs around his neck and dangles at his chest. He’s standing near the top of a flight of stairs. His hand is clutching a stone railing and it’s hard to make out the details of his face. I turn it over. On the back is my full name with the name of father, written in my mother’s hand.
The other picture has my father sitting wearing a fez and a tie. Between his knees a small child wearing a two-piece shorts suit is standing. Its first piece starts at the neck, and its second goes all the way down to the knees. The picture is in black and white, except for the child’s clothes. The suit is a blue-green color with two yellow stripes around the wrists and around the waist. On the back, there’s my name and father’s name too. The handwriting is my mother’s.
I search in the rest of the drawers. A book called The Family Doctor. I flip through the pages. Twisted faces on a torn page. Another book about high prayer has the fa
tiha in it and some prayers of supplication. Alboosiry’s The Prophet’s Cloak. Things of Merit and Their Opposites by Al-Jahiz. A page is dog-eared. At the top of it there’s a title in bold: “The Glories of Marriage.” An issue of the magazine Pocket Chat. On the top cover is a colored picture of a beautiful foreign actress. In the corner, there’s a circle around the price: 20 millimes. I throw it on top of the bed. A huge book has white strips of paper dangling from the sides of some of its pages. I take it and climb down.
I lie down on the bed and roll over on the covers. I flip through the pages of the magazine. A picture of a woman shows her from the back wearing nothing but small underpants. I stop for a while at the cartoons. Most of them are about men with big bellies smoking cigars. War profiteers. A drawing of two men with a caption that reads: “At the Industrial Agricultural Exposition.” One of them says: “How could you bring your mother-in-law to the exposition?” The second says: “I told myself bring her. God is generous. Maybe he’ll bless us and she’ll get lost in the crowd.”
One says to another: “Prices are on fire. Come on, let’s warm ourselves.”
I throw the magazine to one side and take up the huge book. The Great Star of Knowledge. Its pages are yellow. There is a dark block print in the middle of the page and all around it. It’s hard to make out the letters. There are circles and squares divided into columns and joined to form numbers and words. I open up to the pages with the white strips dangling from them. How to achieve compromise between man and wife. How to increase income. How to overcome forgetfulness. How to live a long life. How to expel insects from the house. How to increase understanding and memorization. To restore eyesight. To suppress desire. To accumulate wealth without effort. To disappear in front of human eyes. To fulfill one’s needs and stand before high officials. For the slow learner to overcome his problems in comprehension and memorization.
I close the book and put both it and the magazine back in their place in the drawer. I take out the small brass kettle from under the bed. I spoon out a little bit of sugar and half the bag of chickpeas. I sit with my legs crossed at the edge of the rug near the door. I put the kettle in front of me on the bare floor. I crush the mixture with the handle of the kettle. I keep crushing it until it turns into a smooth yellow paste. I get rid of a clump of it that sticks to the handle. Then I remember the spoons are all in the living area. I look at the closed door. I hold the kettle in my hands and dip a finger in to eat from it.
I stop behind the door of the balcony. A fenugreek seed has been planted there in a cup. A thin green stalk has sprouted from it and sways in the wind. The balcony across from us is lit up. The curtains are open but the glass doors are shut. One of the two sisters stares out at me from behind them. Um Safwat comes out from the door of the house. She is tall and light-skinned. Her hair is uncovered. It is smooth and she has had it cut short. She wears a colored scarf around her neck. Her face has been powdered. Her son is trailing behind her. He’s about my age. He is wearing a clean, pressed suit. He walks with head bowed. She’s screaming at him.
I pull back from the cold. I set the kettle on top of the table. I take a tangerine. I peel it and then toss the peel and seeds underneath the bed. I bend over and pull out the large suitcase with the battered side. I lift the top part. Inside, it is lined with blue paper. Books with tattered pages. Some of them have been scribbled over with pencil. One book has a scary colored cover and the title, The Abandoned Castle. A thin, webbing army belt, drab olive in color with a brass buckle, is used for tying up the suitcase when it’s stored. An old check register. A gas mask. Small pieces of pencil. Empty match boxes. Ashtrays made of porcelain. The small statues behind the closed glass doors of the small cupboard. A round tray of colored porcelain with Japanese drawings. Another’s in the shape of a rectangle and forms a metal shield with holes in it. I put it in front of me on the rug. I push it along and take turns whistling once like a train, once like a car horn. I line up the chairs of the dining table in a row. I hang the ticket collector’s bag over my shoulder. The ticket book is in my hand. My father made it from colored paper that he fastened into a book with cardboard and string.
I put the top back down. I take out the ships made of paper. Father has put them together with skill and ease. I carry them to the bed and stack them up. The small ships first, then the big ocean liners. I divide them into two groups face to face. Each group has its own lead vessel that you can tell from the match stick coming out of the front. The two groups go to battle and some of the ships are hit and fall over on their side. I get bored after a while.
There’s a wrapper full of Egyptian Romano cheese and another with local pastrami on the table. I tear off half a loaf of bread, and put a slice of pastrami in it. The voices of neighborhood children in the streets come through. I rush to the balcony. Children my age and younger cling to each other by their clothes, as they form a train that moves through the quarter. Their voices rise: “Throw in that coal and steam the train along.” They form a ring and one of them stands to the side. He calls out: “The fox.” They call out together in one voice: “It’s gone. Gone.” “What about its tail?” “Seven turns.” “And the lady bear?” “It fell down the well.” “And it’s owner?” “A big fat pig.” “Did the wolf get by you, the Sahlawi wolf?” “It’s gone. Gone.” He looks from the window in his square white cap, smoking a black cigarette. Cops and robbers. I play with them bravely; I’m not afraid of the others.
The voice of Ragaa Abdou comes from Um Zakiya’s radio. The sun goes down. I turn on the electric lantern. The blanket is cold. The wind rattles the door to the balcony. I take down a book in French from the row of Nabila’s school textbooks. I flip through the pages. A drawing of a man in the rain. He is covered by a wide cloak and holds an umbrella over his head. An empty street. A boat. I listen carefully.
The fall of heavy steps echoes out on the staircase. The steps stop in front of our apartment, then they continue upwards.
When is papa coming? Coming at six o’clock!
Walking or riding? Riding down the block!
He appears at the door of the apartment in his full suit with fez and carrying a paper bag in his left hand. His dark face is beaming. He leans over towards me and takes me in his arms. He kisses me on each cheek and then buries his mouth against my neck. I pull back my face to avoid his prickly moustache. I say to him: “Papa, let go.” He tickles my chin with his finger saying: “Put on your little duckling hat, chin of the kitty cat.”
Finally, his steps fall. They come up slowly as the shoes scrape across the stairs. I hear the sound of the key turning the lock of the outer door. He opens the door to our room. He comes in and turns around: “Come in, Um Muhammad.” A tall woman, so thin it’s scary, wrapped in one of the flowing black cloaks of the countryside, walks in. Her hair is covered by a black shawl. Her face is sun baked and covered with wrinkles. A long nose. Narrow eyes. She carries a big bundle under her arm. She stands in the middle of the room. He invites her to sit on the edge of the bed. She sits down, keeping her two feet flat on the floor. Black stockings and very old black shoes with low heels. She sets the bundle next to her on the bed. She won’t look at either one of us.
Father takes off his overcoat and hangs it on the rack. He says to her: “Come along so I can show you the apartment and let you change your clothes.” She takes her bundle in her hand and follows him to the living room.
“The toilet’s there. Its door doesn’t close all the way. The toilet is broken. You can change your clothes in the guest room.”
He leaves her and comes back. He takes off his jacket and puts a robe on over his waistcoat and slacks. He leans over the bed. He takes out a bag of vermicelli and a jar of sugar. “Do you want some vermicelli with milk?” I don’t answer. When he leaves the room, I hear the muffled sound of the stove, then the rustling of the fire. The sizzle of the butter. He comes back after a while scowling. “The milk’s gone bad.” Um Muhammad comes in wearing a black dress. She is wearing th
ick black socks and the bundle is still under her arm. She puts it on the bed and sits on the edge. From the bundle she pulls a miniature pack of cigarettes and takes out a flat one. Father wrinkles his brow. He hands her a box of matches without saying anything. She lights her cigarette. Father brings the pot of vermicelli. She says she’s not hungry. He and I eat it with just sugar since there is no milk.
He suggests that she stretch out on the bed if she’s tired. She doesn’t answer. He tells her: “Um Muhammad, you and I are fully married according to God’s law and the order established by His prophet.” She stands straight up, then climbs on to the bed. She takes over my place next to the wall. When I set myself down next to her, I smell a strong odor of dirt or mud. Her legs knock against the frame of the bed. She folds them up and her hard knees knock against me. I move away from her toward the edge of the bed. Father turns off the light and lies down next to me. I cling to him, surrounding him with my arms.
Chapter Two
Maged Effendi shows up in the doorway of the shop. He wears a three-piece suit with no overcoat. His suit is neatly pressed. His face shines in the light of the electric lamp. His sunken forehead has a line of carefully combed, black hair at the top. His ears stick out. Everyone welcomes him in. Abdel ‘Alim cries out: “Welcome to the groom!” The groom smiles proudly. Father asks him: “Did you really marry a genie?” He pulls me by my arm to let him have the chair I’m in. I stand between father’s knees as Maged Effendi sits in my place.
Stealth (New Directions Paperbook) Page 5
