After two weeks of this, Abu Sayeed bursts in one day while Mama is out. His shoulders are sloped with the weight of fasting, and sweat glistens in the gaps in his beard like tiny sequins. “We’re taking a trip,” he says. “Come.”
Propped up by the window, Huda stretches, her bad arm limp in its sling. Just like Rahila’s earmuffs, it makes me nauseous to look at it. Their broken places remind me of how contagious pain is, even though I feel awful admitting it.
I shake my head and press it to Vega’s wing. “I don’t want to.”
“Don’t be like that.” Abu Sayeed walks to the window. Outside, Zahra giggles with the throaty-voiced boy. She spends all her days with him now, twisting her bracelet around her wrist, smiling so much her face should explode. Either she didn’t hear the fight he had with Sitt Shadid two weeks ago, or she doesn’t care.
“I could use some fresh air,” Huda says.
“Come on now, up. Your mama said it would be good for you.” Abu Sayeed tugs me up and takes my hand. “No more of this moping. All right?”
When we break out into the sunshine, Huda shields her eyes. Her limbs are just starting to bend, her knees stiff and her shoulders tense. She’s like a person waking up after a long sleep.
“Zahra!” Abu Sayeed calls. “I told you once. Bring him or leave him.”
The boy blinks. “I’ll get Rahila,” he says. “She’s slept all morning.”
We pile into the blue van. Zahra and I sit in the middle row, Huda in the back. Abu Sayeed buckles Rahila into her car seat. The boy sits in front.
“You know, you never even told me your name.” I lean forward. The boy doesn’t say anything. I drum my fingers on my leg. “Do you even have a name?”
“Nour.” Huda pokes me. “You know very well what his name is. His mother is Umm Yusuf.”
I cross my arms. “But he never said it to me.”
The boy leans back, twisting his lanky shoulders until the tendons in his biceps strain out. His lips are lined with stubble, hardly ever smiling. Under his hard hawk’s brow, his face has that stretched-out look teenage boys have, their jaws and bodies all bones.
“Yusuf,” he says.
Zahra repeats it so I almost can’t hear. She smiles a secret smile to herself and turns her face to the window.
“None of you have been to Jordan,” Abu Sayeed says, “so you don’t know what you’re missing.” He rubs his balding forehead, and I touch the shaved vertebrae at the back of my neck. “As a boy, I traveled to Petra, the ancient Nabataean city. I have seen the olive groves of Wadi Musa. According to the tradition, Wadi Musa was the place where Moses struck the rock with his staff, and water flowed from the stone. Did you know that?”
Zahra crosses her arms, jangling her gold bracelet. “Yusuf has been in Jordan three months already.”
“But he’s never been where we’re going,” Abu Sayeed says. “I guarantee you that.”
We wind through the cramped hillsides of the city, dipping up and down the dry earth. Abu Sayeed turns the radio on, tapping the wheel to American pop music. For the first time, it feels like things are almost normal. Then we pass through the neighborhoods at the eastern edge of Amman, and a cluster of kids walking west stop to stare at us. One of them clutches a pack of tissues to sell, the pockets of his faded sweatpants stuffed with more. In the front seat, Yusuf looks away.
I finger the white quartz in my pocket, and the wind cools my bare scalp. I wonder if the real me is gone forever, shorn off with my hair. I see the storyteller man on the other side of the border crossing, a deep wrinkle like a wadi across his forehead, his rice paper hand on the gate. Something hurts between my ribs.
Beyond the limits of Amman, squatty acacia trees and telephone poles break up the bronze hills. A truck disappears under the shimmer of heat in front of us. Mountains loom. Cliffs of red sandstone rise up, wind-carved, pockmarked like sheets of termite-eaten wood.
An hour outside the city limits, we leave the main road and turn into a fenced-in area. We park next to a silvery saltbush and get out, stepping over loose stones.
“This steppe is the Badiya,” Abu Sayeed says. The keys click and chime in his pocket. “It spreads across Jordan, Syria, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia.”
Zahra twists her bracelet and waits for Yusuf to get out. Rahila stands next to the van, her hand in her mouth, her eyes wide. A dusty stone and plaster building stands out ahead of us in the steppe. Someone has added white wooden window frames, but they’re starting to splinter now. Sand has nibbled at the stones, leaving rough, spongy rock. One building is made up of three smooth domes, several square side rooms, and the dark arch of an entrance.
Abu Sayeed motions for us to follow him. “This,” he says, “is one of Jordan’s treasures. Qasr Amra. Once it held a palace and bathhouse for a caliph.”
We follow the white Reception sign. Abu Sayeed and Huda duck their heads to enter. I follow the swish of Huda’s gauzy skirt, the echo of Abu Sayeed’s leather soles scuffing across the stone. Red fencing lines the rooms. Blue plaques are hammered into the walls in English and Arabic: No Littering.
Paint has peeled off the walls, leaving splotches of pink plaster. A little decoration is still left—silver sketch lines and purple-gray paint. I make out women’s faces, dancing bears, hunters. Empty pools are set into the ground, the tile cracked or missing. Colors cry out under the grime.
“The ceiling was painted once,” Abu Sayeed says, and we all look up.
“There are some bright colors up there,” Huda says, “or there used to be. Yellow ocher. Cobalt, lapis. What do you think—egg-based tempera?”
“Mama would love this,” Zahra says.
“Look.” I point up, turning on my toes. “You can see the stars.”
Zahra inches up to Yusuf, touching her wrist. “Not well.”
But Yusuf doesn’t look at her. “They’re constellations,” he says, his voice low in his chest.
“The stars were painted like people or animals,” Abu Sayeed says. “See the plaque here—this is a vault of heaven.”
Huda runs her fingers over cracked clay. “It’s a map of the sky.”
I think to myself, It used to be. Time crumbles everything. I try to picture it like it was once, the paint smooth, the stones polished. People make such beautiful things, I think, even though they destroy so much.
We go out, blinded by the sun. Yusuf waits for everyone else to climb into the van, watching us, flipping a pocketknife open and shut.
I run to Abu Sayeed and pull the white quartz from my pocket, polished clean by the liner.
“I’ve got something for you.” I wait until he holds out his hand, and then I drop the sharp spike of rock into his palm. I don’t want to keep it for myself. I want to make something good out of what was bad, something precious out of something small. Like the raw blue stone Abu Sayeed showed me, ugly and humble in the earth.
“I found it,” I say, and a little smile butterflies across my face. “On my adventures.”
Abu Sayeed grins and folds his fingers over the stone. He tells me, “That’s my little cloud.”
SITT SHADID BECKONS us inside when we get back to the apartment. She’s rubbing Mama’s back, which makes me feel good at first, because that’s what I like about Sitt Shadid. She always rubs your back, even when you’ve got nowhere to sit but the bare floor.
But Mama is crying. I hold my breath and run through the possibilities: Amman was shelled while we were away. Somebody died. Mama got stung by a scorpion. But the apartment is still standing, and everybody’s here. And even with her crooked pumps still on, it’s clear Mama’s ankles aren’t swollen.
Huda sits down on a cushion, touching her sore shoulder, her sling soaked with sweat. Zahra and Yusuf retreat to the corner by the window, leaning like human curtains toward a breeze they can’t feel. It’s almost the end of August, and the summer isn’t letting up. I would’ve been starting seventh grade soon. I was looking forward to science class, to filling in maps with the tec
tonic plates and making my own battery out of a potato. Do they make batteries out of potatoes in Jordan? Will I have to sell tissues instead?
I draw up close to Abu Sayeed, and he puts his arm around my shoulders. Mama and Sitt Shadid shoot Arabic back and forth, and I bounce my knee up and down and listen. As usual, I catch the heads and tails of sentences, a sprinkling of simple words like go and south and Egypt. But then, for the first time, an entire sentence comes through, whole and clear and perfect as a ripe peach. My knee goes still.
We can’t stay in Jordan.
The words carry so much weight that it feels like the roof should cave in. I look around to see if anybody else has noticed, but everyone is looking at the floor or off into space. Nobody seems alarmed, but nobody meets my eyes either. They drum their fingers, cough into their fists. I realize they don’t know I understand. I realize everybody is pretending, hiding their reactions where they think I can’t see.
Mama licks her lips like her Arabic is salt. “I applied for asylum in the States,” Mama says, “but the paperwork is slow. They require background checks, fingerprints, screenings, interviews. Even if we complete all these things, it could take several years for us to be resettled—and there are no guarantees.”
Zahra whirls away from Yusuf. “We’re going to be here years? And what happens if we stay here all that time and we’re still not granted asylum?”
“What about school?” I ask. The future spills out in front of me, suffocating hours in this tiny room, time chasing itself like a runaway marble.
Mama breathes out. “I’ve talked it over with Sitt Shadid. I think we should drive south to find a better place. There is somewhere we can go. A relative of ours. He might help us, if we can get to him.” Mama lays her hand on Umm Yusuf’s arm. “You are welcome to come with us,” she says. “We can figure out the rest.”
“We can take the van,” Umm Yusuf says.
I bounce up. “What? When are we leaving?”
Mama locks her eyes with mine. Her white blouse is still crisp somehow, and there aren’t even any sweat stains under her arms. But the way the skin under her eyes sags and her chin creases with lines, I can tell she’s not sure what to say next.
“Nour, it would be best if—” Mama clears her throat. “For now, we’ll keep your hair short.”
I frown. “I don’t like it.”
“It’s better if people think . . .” Mama trails off.
“You will look like a boy,” Umm Yusuf says. “Understand, it is safer that way. Nour is also a boy’s name. Being seen as a boy will protect you from bad people.”
“Not that you should be afraid,” Mama says.
But isn’t there already enough to be afraid of? “I don’t want to look like a boy.” I wobble to my feet. “I want to look like myself.”
“Little cloud.” Abu Sayeed rummages in his pocket and brings out my shard of white quartz, holding it out to me, my own words stuck on its edges: On my adventures. “What do you say?”
I rub my smooth head. Out the window, the steppe shimmers at the city’s fingertips. The farther I go, the bigger the world seems to be, and it always seems easier to leave a place than it is to come back. Did I ever let myself believe it would be easy to get back to the States, as easy as Sitt Shadid giving us the room next to hers?
The light shifts, hitting the anchusa in the can. The caramel color from the soda residue has seeped into its petals, turning it a sickly purple, even though we always say it’s blue. Nobody has noticed. It seems like people lose more than they can ever get back—a three-bedroom house, ten inches of hair, a whole color. But nobody ever says it. Does it make it easier to live with loss if you don’t name it? Or is that something you do as a mercy for other people?
I drop my hand from the smooth knob at the back of my neck. The linden tree shifts its leaves and blocks the light, and the anchusa turns blue again.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
The Season of Salt
The expedition set off again the following day. They rounded the curve of the desert, using the astrolabe to guide them, and bent toward the Gulf of Aila, a narrow inlet of the Sea of Qulzum. They had found a winding pass out of the mountains and headed east out of the Kingdom of Jerusalem as quickly as they could, but now they had little choice except to make the five-day journey south through the rocky desert of Wadi Rum toward the eastern shore of the Gulf of Aila. They would cross the Gulf near a town al-Idrisi called Aqabat Aila. Since the Crusader territories stretched south all the way to the Gulf, there was no other way around them. And even though al-Idrisi was thrilled at the dozens of pages of notes he had gathered and the new routes he had charted, Rawiya felt uneasy. Fewer friendly glances were cast their way, and people began to eye their caravan suspiciously. Al-Idrisi had them hide the jeweled saddles and silk robes Nur ad-Din had given them, replacing them with their own worn supplies. He reminded them not to tell anyone they had come from King Roger’s court.
“So long as we do not profess our loyalties to Sicily,” he said, “we will come out of it all right. But ah,” he said, “how the mention of my old friend fills me with sadness.” King Roger had taught him many things, he told them. With King Roger, al-Idrisi had marveled at wonders of mathematics and geodesy, the study of the measurement of the earth. He put his hand to his breast. “We must travel far,” he said, “before we return to King Roger’s court.”
They passed between towers of wine-colored rock, and the soil turned to sand. Wild camels kept their distance. Gray desert larks fled as the expedition approached, and blue agama lizards skittered over pebbles.
The sun was unrelenting. Soon the whole party began to wish for the waters of the Gulf of Aila and the Nile River. It was said that the Nile flowed north into Egypt from the mythical Mountains of the Moon.
At last, they came out of the mountains, and the road wandered down toward the Gulf of Aila. Far to the south, farther than they could see, the Gulf emptied into the wide Sea of Qulzum. Rawiya licked her lips and tasted salt, something she had not done since their ship had put in at al-Iskanderun.
A city lay far below, green with palms and pistachio trees—Aqabat Aila. But between the expedition and the city, a cloud of dust seemed to rise out of the rocky hillside to block their way, and their camels stopped, nervous.
Figures appeared in the cloud of dust: riders on horseback, hurrying to meet them. They were dressed in the luxurious fabrics of Cairo, each wearing a wax-white tunic of the finest linen, a white turban, and a patterned robe of pomegranate silk. At each of their wrists, they bore a gold-embroidered tiraz band sewn onto their sleeves—a mark of those favored by the Fatimid caliph.
Al-Idrisi hailed the riders. But they said nothing, only spurring their horses to circle the expedition. The camels groaned and stamped with fear.
The leader of the Fatimid riders stopped and eyed the expedition, his chin lifted in a haughty expression. His fine, dark hair framed a young face, and his hands were soft from a lifetime of pampered wealth. Though he was the youngest of the riders, he bore the most elaborate tiraz, a sign of his accomplishments and his esteem in the Fatimid court.
“I would know your masters,” he called out. “Whom do you serve?”
“My companions and I serve God alone,” al-Idrisi said, “and no other.”
“You refuse to answer, then.” The haughty young Fatimid narrowed his eyes, the tails of his turban fluttering at his shoulders. He drew his scimitar, and the sun glinted off its curved blade.
“You question the power of God over a man’s soul?” al-Idrisi cried out. His camel stomped and snorted, and al-Idrisi’s face burned with a sudden, terrifying rage.
The young rider scowled and sheathed his scimitar. “Caliph az-Zafir has heard tell of spies and traitors entering by this road,” he said. “He has ordered us to question all travelers.”
Al-Idrisi answered, “We are humble pilgrims, seeking the wonders of God in wadi and mountain.” Listening to his words, Raw
iya realized for the first time that this was true in its way, for they had seen many wondrous things.
“You must come to the palace in Cairo before you go,” the rider said, “and take some rest and refreshment. It is for your own good: Almohad fighters have been spotted to the west of Cairo. A captured Almohad spy admitted to targeting travelers, searching for a mapmaker putting together some precious book of geography.” He waved his hand and glanced back at al-Idrisi over his nose. “The roads are not safe these days, it would seem.”
Al-Idrisi bowed and said, “I am afraid a long journey awaits us. We must hurry on.”
“You will answer our questions and pay your respects to the caliph, or you will not pass.” The rider touched the handle of his scimitar. “I am Ibn Hakim. I insist on accompanying you to the palace.”
Although he was young, Ibn Hakim was one of the finest warriors in all the Fatimid Empire, and it was said that he was quicker with his scimitar than with his tongue. He had risen up the ranks of the Fatimid court with a mix of flattery and brutality. Tales had spread that he had once cut the arrows of twenty archers with his blade, that he had bested ten men in a duel after they insulted him. Al-Idrisi knew that if he refused Ibn Hakim’s request to take them to Cairo, they would be quickly outmatched.
But Rawiya, who had no idea what a dangerous swordsman Ibn Hakim was, inched her hand toward her sling. She nudged open her leather pouch in search of a sharp stone.
She found none. Only the polished smoothness of the roc’s eye sat there, the round stone the color of plums and palm leaves. It felt strangely hot, like it held a bolt of lightning. She closed her hand over it.
Heat flashed up Rawiya’s jaw, stabbed at the base of her thumbs, and shot down the backs of her knees. She changes her shape in the night, Sparrowling. Her father’s face appeared around the curve of an olive branch, the morning smell of the sea. Didn’t I tell you?
The Map of Salt and Stars: A Novel Page 14
