Stealth (New Directions Paperbook)

by Sonallah Ibrahim

  I come in and sit on the couch. The sugar and water start to boil. She squeezes a lemon into it and stirs it some more. I ask her what she’s doing. She says: “Halva for the hair.” Um Ibrahim gives me a small piece, then carries the pan to my mother in the bathroom. She closes the door behind her.

  She goes on stirring until the mixture becomes a soft transparent paste. She lifts the pan off the flame and puts it down on the floor. I follow her as she leaves the room. She fills a tin pan with water, brings it back in, and puts it on the fire. She touches the paste to see how hot it is. She gives me a tidbit. I put it in my mouth and suck on it. She spreads out the paste, kneads it with her hands, and keeps on working it until the paste gets softer and turns a dark color. She rolls out the paste, cuts off a small section, and spreads it tightly over her forearm, then yanks it off all at once. She presses it a little more with her fingers to keep it soft. She does the same thing again and again until she gets down to her hand, then she throws that piece away and takes up another piece. She raises her arm up high and flattens the piece on her armpit. She pulls it off quickly. She keeps doing it until her underarm is soft and white, then she moves to her other arm.

  The front doorbell rings. I stand behind the door and yell out: “Who’s there?” A woman’s voice answers: “I am Attiyat. Is Tahiya there?” I run back to the room to tell Mama Tahiya who it is. She tells me: “Let her in. She’s my cousin.”

  I open the door. Dark and tall and wrapped tightly in a shawl. She follows me into the living room and slaps her chest, saying: “Oh no! Not in front of the boy!” Mama Tahiya answers back without a care as she passes her hand lightly over her bare arm: “What’s the big deal?” She sits down and asks when the constable will get home. Mama Tahiya says: “Maybe tomorrow. Send the kids to spend the night with me tonight. Have Ragui bring his tar drum with him.” Attiyat stands up and wraps her shawl tightly around her. She passes a look from Mama Tahiya to me and then goes out.

  Mama Tahiya moves on to her other armpit. She twists her head to have a good look at it. She touches it with her finger. Stands up. She takes me gently by my ear and says: “Off to your room. Sit in there and don’t come out.” I take her hand and plead with her: “Please no, mama, by the prophet, don’t leave me there alone.” She studies me with a smile: “Okay. You can sit in the living room on one condition: don’t look in on me.” She turns on the light. I bring my geography book and sit down at the table by the front door.

  I put the book in front of me, opening it to the notebook full of songs stuck between its pages. She moves quickly back and forth between her room and the living room, carrying clothes over her arm. She has Lux soap, a loofah, and a small mirror in her hand. She goes to the sink to fill a tin pan with water then carries it to the living room. She comes back to the door to her room and closes it. She shakes her finger at me and warns: “Don’t get up from your place until I’m done.”

  “What if someone knocks?”

  As she goes through the living room, she says: “Don’t answer.”

  “Well, what if Tante Attiyat comes back?”

  She closes the door behind her saying: “Don’t worry. She’s not coming.”

  “What about papa?”

  “He has a key.”

  “Or if the lights go out?”

  “When that happens, I’ll tell you what to do.”

  I open the song book. I look for the song, “I am in love and I bring you your coffee.” I put the songbook aside. Stand up carefully. I sneak away from my place without letting the chair move. The electric light grows dim until it almost disappears, then comes back weakly.

  I turn the knob on her door. I push on the door and go in. The light is on. I go towards the chiffonier. A photograph is pressed between the corner of the metal frame and the surface of the mirror. She is next to the constable in a crowded street. She wears a sleeveless dress and high heels, and he is wearing a dress shirt and slacks. The top of the chiffonier is cluttered with many things: a Gazelle brand bottle of perfume, tacks, a sewing needle, a spool of thread, a broken eyeliner pencil, an old thimble, a tube of lipstick in a brass case, a can of yellowish face powder, hairpins, torn playing cards, an old picture of her with a piece torn off and the torn piece showing a part of a leg in a man’s shoe, a small pack of Hollywood brand cigarettes (the kind that holds five of them), a silver strip of aspirin tablets, a dried up key lime, a toothbrush, a bottle of Anatolian hair oil, a steel comb, a metal statuette of a naked woman and a metal ashtray with a slanted edge.

  I pull on one of its drawers. Pieces of clothing are carefully arranged. I push it back the way it was and pull on the one above it. A jar of jam. A box of pieces of cheese shaped like triangles. A large metal cigarette case. I close the drawer. Leave the room. I gently pull the door shut behind me.

  I lightly move over to the door to the guest room. I press my eye against the keyhole. I see her sitting on the kitchen stool. Her right side is turned to me, so I can’t see her face. She is leaning over her folded right leg. A piece of halva sits on top of her foot. She pulls it up and smoothens it, then she puts it on the middle of her leg. She repeats the move higher up on her thigh. She turns toward the door and I jump back quickly. I hurry over to my seat. I sit down and open the song book, flipping through the pages. I linger over the songs of Ismahan. I listen. The sound of the stove.

  I leave my seat again and step carefully toward the door. I look through the keyhole. Her back is to me. She takes up a piece of halva and puts it between her legs, then yanks it off. She lets out an “Ouch!” She takes the last piece; she puts it between her legs. She pulls it with force. She does the same thing over again a few times. She’s panting. She picks up a piece of rock, about the size of a Jaffa orange. She rubs it against her heels and turns towards the stove. The steam rises up from the pan. She uses a jar to pour warm water into the zinc basin. She stands up and stretches her hands out to pull off her gallabiya. Steam fills up the lenses of my glasses. I take them off and wipe them on my pyjamas. Mama Basima is naked on top of the toilet. Her hair is colored with henna. I stand between her huge legs. She pours water over my body as she studies my little prick.

  The sound of steps echoes in the stairwell. I hurry to my seat and open my geography book. The two feet stop in front of our door. They continue on up the stairs. I am about to get up again when I hear the sound of the stove being turned off and I stay frozen in my seat.

  The guest room door opens. Mama Tahiya comes out. She is wearing a nightshirt held up by shoulder straps. Her hair is wrapped in a big towel. She asks me: “Are you done?” I shake my head. I take the geography textbook and the notebook of songs and I follow her into her room.

  She pulls the chair over and sits down. She takes off her clogs and lifts her feet up on to the edge of the bed. She looks at her heels. They glow red. Her two legs are shiny in the room’s light. She puts her feet down and stands, turning in the direction of the mirror. She unwraps the towel, picks up a comb and raises her arm up to her head. Her smooth underarm is shiny. As she combs her long hair, the water comes dripping off it. I sit on the bed. She leans in front of the mirror, pulling her hair out in front of my eyes. She lets it hang down in even strands on either side of her face. I tell her: “Put it in a bun.” She gathers her hair and makes a ball out of it on top of her head. She puts lipstick on her finger and colors her lips with it. She turns to me: “Am I pretty?” My face turns red.

  The front doorbell rings and I run to answer it. It’s two boys my age. One of them has smooth hair that he has parted on the side. The other is very dark skinned and carries a small drum underneath his arm. I lead them to the room. We leave our slippers at the door. The three of us sit on the edge of the bed. The two boys ignore me. She gives each of us a piece of Nestle cheese, a cookie and a piece of chocolate.

  I hear father’s voice calling me. I leave the songbook on the bed and pick up my geography textbook. I go out to the living room. He stands at the door to our room holding his
fez in his hand. He leads me inside then asks me if I’ve studied. I swear to him that I have. He takes me to the toilet to pee then tells me to get ready for bed. I beg him to let me stay up and play in Mama Tahiya’s room. He says it’s late. I answer: “Tomorrow’s Friday.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “I already ate.”

  He gives in. I run to her. She’s wearing her white robe. She tells me: “Ask your father if he wants to have tea?” She leaves the room and heads toward the kitchen. I scamper to him and ask from behind the door. He answers, “No.” I call to her from the hallway: “No, he doesn’t want any.” I head back to her room. The boy with the parted hair is in front of the chiffonier. He puts some lipstick on his fingers then brushes his lips and takes a look at his face in the mirror. Mama Tahiya brings the tea. She bursts out laughing at the sight of him and says: “Holy hell, Effat, you little devil. You’ve turned yourself into a pretty little girl like the moon.” We sit on the floor. She pours tea into small cups for us. She takes a tambourine with little brass ringlets around its edges out from under the bed. When she shakes it, the ringlets jingle. She hands it to the boy.

  She starts singing along with Abdel Wahab: “Our night is like wine, yearning croons like a dove. O my darling, this is the night of our love.” The other boy starts to beat the tambourine. He says to her: “Dance for us, ubla.” She takes off her robe and ties a white towel around her waist. She sings: “You, You, No one but you . . .” Her body moves to the beat of the tambourine and drum. She’s all caught up in watching her breasts bounce lightly. She stretches her arm in front of her. Her palms clasp each other. She snaps her fingers. Gets up on her tiptoes. She shakes her middle in short trembles that follow one after the other. She shoots a smile at me. Blood rushes to my face.

  As she finishes dancing, she is panting from the effort. She pulls two blankets from on top of the bed. She unfolds them and spreads them out on the floor. We sit down on them cross legged. She pulls out the playing cards. We play a round of battle. Then she suggests that we play Old Maid. She takes out three of the kings and shuffles the cards. She says: “Whoever is left with the last king has to do what we say.”

  She deals. I draw a card. Seven of Hearts. I have another seven. I put them together and set them on the floor. The other two play quickly and with skill. We look up at each others’ faces. We’re trying to figure out who has it. I draw another card and it comes up the king. All the cards in our hands seem to empty out quickly. We put them down on the floor. I’m left with the king. We draw the hopscotch boxes on the pavement with chalk. Six wide boxes with a half circle at the top. I stand on one leg. I toss the pebble across the line. I manage to move from box to box. My father watches me from the window. I make it to the half circle and name myself the champion.

  She says: “What shall we make you do?”

  Effat says: “He should get down on his hands and knees and go around us in a circle barking.”

  She looks at me, hesitates, then says: “No. He should sing to us.”

  I say: “I can’t sing.”

  “So what? Sing ‘The Postman Complains From All My

  Letters.’ ”

  I recite the song without being able to get its tune right.

  We start to play again. My eyelids feel heavy.

  I am having a hard time fighting off sleep. She says: “That’s enough.” She looks at me: “Ask permission from your father to spend the night with us.” I find him sitting on the bed resting his back against the headboard. He is reading a book. I beg him to let me spend the night with them. He says okay. I go back to the room.

  She goes with us to the bathroom and stands waiting in the entrance to the hallway while we go. The boys wash their feet in the sink. We go back to the room. She unfolds the two blankets and lays them out on the floor. She waves at the two boys to lie down on them and gives them a long pillow. She covers them with a blanket. She says to me: “Sleep next to the wall so you don’t fall off the bed.”

  I put my glasses on the chiffonier. Lie down on the bed. I stretch out beside the wall. She takes off her robe. The light goes out. She lies down next to me. She pulls me to her chest. My head snuggles against her breasts. I can smell her clean scent. She moves away and turns her back to me. She says: “Sweet dreams, my boys.” The two boys answer in unison: “Sweet dreams, ubla.” I say, “Sweet dreams, mama.” She spreads a blanket over us. I fall asleep. Suddenly, I am awake again. I can’t move. I realize I’m in her grasp and my leg is between her thighs. I hear her panting. She pulls me tight. I say to her: “Mama, do you want something?” She doesn’t answer. I move my leg out from between her thighs but she hangs on to me. She moves away a moment later. Her snoring rises up over us.

  The dark face with its two red eyes comes slowly closer from behind the metal grating that lines the window. I recognize Abbas. The door opens and an oil lamp with long rectangular panes of fine glass appears. The lamp comes closer. Its flame grows. The white round face of Mama Tahiya comes into view behind it. Her hair is up. Her lips are covered with lipstick. The constable is behind her. He tries to hold her, but she resists. She pounds her fists against his chest with all her might trying to get out of his grasp. She screams: “That’s your son . . . Your son, you liar, you cheat!” I’m surprised that she doesn’t recognize me. I open my mouth to start to tell her who I am, but my mother’s face suddenly appears in place of hers. Blood flows out of the cut on her lower lip. Her face shrinks and then twists up. It disappears. Two big hairy arms appear in its place. They come at me. I want to scream, but the sound can’t make it out of my mouth.

  I wake up suddenly and I shudder. The light is shining. I call for father. I sit up. Sweat drips off me. I push away the covers and slide over to the edge of the bed. Tears sprout up in my eyes. I jump down and push on the door of the room until it opens. The light is on in the hallway. I call out again: “Papa?” “Mama Tahiya?” No one answers. The constable’s room is shut. I take a side glance over towards the toilet. I open the door to the apartment. My eyes move to the darkened landing. I shoot a glance at the corner, where the storage room is. I leave the door open and run down the steps to the entrance. I keep running out into the alley all the way to the main street. I turn right and keep running all the way to the shop of sheikh of the quarter.

  Even without my glasses, I know the men seated on the chairs on the sidewalk in front. They are Sheikh Abdel ’Alim, Refaat Effendi, and the priest. I see father sitting to the side. He’s listening carefully to the turbaned sheikh in his glasses. I rush over to him. He turns to me frowning. I stand between his knees. He says to me: “What are you doing here?” A fit of coughing takes hold of me. He feels my throat and chest. “See how sweaty you are?” He stands up and says to the sheikh: “Excuse us, my good sheikh.”

  He grabs my hand violently and pulls me through the lane all the way to the house. He closes the door of the apartment behind us and pushes me into our room. “Get up. Lie down on the bed.” He bends over me and tucks the covers around me. “Can’t you stay by yourself for even a little while? Do you think an afreet will eat you or something? Do I have to pull you along by the hand every place I go?”

  He moves away from me and sits down on the bed. I cough. He goes out to the balcony, moving out of my sight. Then he comes back in and walks towards the door of the apartment. “I’m fed up. That’s it. What did I do to deserve this torture? I should’ve done like Aly Safa. He couldn’t give a damn about his daughters.” The chair turns into something like a cart that sells cucumbers and red dates. Its wooden brake keeps me from losing control and sliding across the tile floor, so I creep all around the apartment as I look for mother. There’s a seat with an opening and putty underneath me. I play around aimlessly with the red, blue and yellow rings fastened on to the thick plastic cable on one side of the cart.

  I try to fight off the urge to cough. I follow him as he paces back and forth next to the dresser. He turns his face away from me and I raise my hea
d up a little bit off the pillow. I see him searching around the desk, then sitting down, resting his arms on its surface. His fez slants a little bit backwards. His lips are trembling in soundless murmurs. He pulls off his suit coat, takes out his half-smoked cigarette from his waistcoat, feels around for his matches until he finds them, then lights his half a cigarette. He puffs on it and lets it dangle from the side of his mouth as he says: “I can’t leave for even five minutes. Was I just screwing around or something? It’s all for your sake in the first place. I only have a month to catch up with the judge. Your grandma wants to take you from me. Do you want to go live at her house? And sleep on the ground?” The stairs are long. The door to the roof is half opened. The room is narrow. The bed is in one corner and the cooking things are in the other. There’s a cold wind on the way to the toilet. My grandma’s yellow face.

  He picks up a book and takes his glasses out of the breast pocket of his coat. He puts them on and then looks for one special page that he wants to find. He can’t find it, so he just reads randomly for a while. He puts the book down. Stands up. Heads towards the door. Is he going back out again? He turns and comes back. I am following him from the corner of my eye. He sighs: “It was a dark day when I saw your face and the face of your mother.” I cough. “If only the Lord would take you and give me some respite.” I cough again. I shudder. My teeth start to chatter. I blink my eyes. The angels are surrounding me. Mother carries me. Light comes in from the hallway. It swirls around me in circles.