‘I moved it,’ said Teriska Khan complacently. ‘Too many people knew about it in the last camp. I guessed a whisper might have been passed on.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘I don’t think I’d better tell you. Now you get on with that pile of mending. I’m going to take Hero off for a bath.’
It was amazing, thought Tara, stretching comfortably, what a difference a good bath made to how you felt about life. The showers here were the simplest you could imagine, in the barest possible room, where five people had to wash at the same time. But at least they had hot water, and really worked.
She’d nearly cried with joy when Kak Soran had come back to their funny little room in the old mud brick building yesterday with a cake of proper soap, that lathered and smelled nice, and best of all, a bottle of shampoo. She still couldn’t get used to the bliss of having clean, fresh-smelling hair.
She looked round the camp. It was a poor place, rough and dirty, but much, much nicer here than the camp in the mountains. The buildings hadn’t been hastily knocked together out of flimsy materials specially to house unwelcome refugees. They were old, solid and square, and had perhaps been used as storehouses or stables years and years ago. Each little room, with its thick whitewashed walls and round domed roof was joined to the ones on either side, and had a heavy wooden door leading out into the open. Trees were dotted round the camp; figs, almonds and sycamore. Their leaves were beginning to dry and turn yellow and rattle in the breeze as autumn, which was well on in the mountains, crept day by day closer to the plain.
The weather was better here too. It was still quite mild most of the time. The snow wouldn’t come for a month or so yet. The wind was a playful breeze instead of the chilling blast she’d hated so much in the mountains. It carried the familiar smells of the countryside – cows, and hay, and sunbaked earth.
That was another wonderful thing, thought Tara. Even though a high wall of breeze blocks surrounded the camp, preventing them from seeing anything of the outside world, she had a clear idea of where they were and what lay beyond. They’d arrived in daylight, in the early morning, driving across the open, pleasant countryside of Iran. They’d seen villages, and the patchwork of fields, yellow and brown after the harvest. Best of all, Teheran was only an hour’s drive away. Kak Soran had already got hold of a pass and had gone in to the city to start the search for the few friends and relations he hoped were still living there. He was talking optimistically about his papers, and about applying for work permits.
Perhaps, thought Tara, perhaps we might . . .
The thread snapped in her fingers. It was just as well, she thought, looking down at it. Like a vine shooting out its little tendrils, small feelers of hope kept sprouting in her mind, hope for a proper home, for a settled place, for school and friends. But she mustn’t hope for anything. Not yet.
‘Tara! Tara!’
She turned. Hero was skipping towards her, her hair still wet from the shower.
‘Smell me, Tara. I’m all nice now. Smell me here, and here, and here.’
Tara put her sewing down, picked Hero up and put her on her knee. Hero did smell lovely. She buried her face in Hero’s neck. It tickled. Hero wriggled and giggled. She was happy and excited.
‘Take your scarf off,’ she said bossily. ‘I want to smell your hair.’
‘No, I mustn’t,’ said Tara regretfully. The worst thing here was the regulation clothing. The women all had to wear a navy scarf and a grey floor-length coat, with buttons running all the way down the front, over their own clothes. They were as unlike the glittering, brilliant dresses that Kurdish women all wore at home as they could possibly be. Everyone grumbled, but nobody dared to break the rules. Things might be easier here than in the other place, but one step out of line and the authorities were quick to show they meant business. It didn’t do to get on the wrong side of them.
‘You must take it off, you must!’ said Hero. ‘I want you too!’ She tugged at the front fold of the scarf, which was pulled down modestly low over Tara’s forehead, to hide every stray tendril of hair.
‘Hey! Don’t do that! You’ll get me into trouble!’ said Tara, ducking her head. She was too slow. Hero quickly whisked the scarf off, and Tara’s mass of dark, curly hair, soft and springy from its fresh shampooing, rolled down over her shoulders.
Hero wriggled quickly out of her lap and danced off, waving the scarf triumphantly.
‘I’ve got it! I’ve got it! You can’t catch me!’ she chanted. She’d often played chase and catch with Yasmin at the other camp. It was one of her favourite games.
Tara scrambled to her feet.
‘Come here, come back at once!’ she shouted. ‘It’s not a game! Don’t you dare run away with it! Quick! Bring it back!’
She darted towards Hero, but her long straight skirt got in the way, and she nearly fell.
‘Can’t catch me!’ said Hero, laughing at her.
‘Hero! Please – give it back!’ said Tara desperately, her heart thumping with fright. ‘You don’t understand. If anyone sees me . . . !’
‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it,’ said Hero in a sing-song voice, backing away from her.
Tara heard men’s voices coming round the corner of the nearest row of buildings, and she turned to run away and hide, trying to gather up her hair in her hands. It was hopeless. There was too much of it.
Then, to her relief, Kak Soran appeared, alone.
‘Tara!’ he said frowning at her. ‘Where’s your scarf? You must be more careful. You’ve got to wear it all the time, you know that. If you’re caught without it I don’t know what they’ll do.’
‘Hero snatched it off me,’ said Tara indignantly. ‘She won’t give it back. Honestly, Baba, she’s the limit!’
Kak Soran turned round and saw Hero smiling naughtily at him from behind the tree.
‘I see,’ he said.
Tara waited for the smile that usually crossed Baba’s face when he dealt with Hero. For once, it didn’t come.
‘Give Tara her scarf,’ he said.
Hero whipped the scarf out of sight behind her back, and dodged further behind the tree. Feeling safe there, she peeped round the trunk at him.
‘No,’ she said experimentally.
‘Hero,’ said Kak Soran, ‘give Tara her scarf back at once, or I’ll . . .’
He didn’t have to say any more. Hero didn’t often hear him talk in that tone of voice but she knew quite well what it meant. She stamped forward, shaking her head crossly so that the wet curls flicked backwards and forwards over her cheeks, and dropped the square of navy blue material at Tara’s feet. Tara picked it up and tied it over her hair, her fingers shaking with relief.
‘You must never, never . . .’ began Kak Soran, shaking his forefinger at Hero, but he didn’t have a chance to finish.
‘Soran!’ someone called. He turned round. Teriska Khan, her long grey dress almost tripping her up, was hurrying towards him, her towel flapping over her arm.
‘Oh, be quick,’ she panted. ‘I’ve just heard they’re calling for you. You’ve got a visitor! He’s waiting at the main building, over by the gate. I’m sure it’s your cousin from Teheran! I hope to God it is!’
It seemed to Tara that Kak Soran was away for hours, but it was only three-quarters of an hour later when he came back. She and Teriska Khan spent the whole time watching out for him, and when he finally appeared they could see even from a distance that he looked happy. His back was straighter and he walked quickly, without the slightly drooping shuffle he’d had recently.
‘Well,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘You were quite right. It was Daban. He’s a good fellow. I liked him at once. A proper family man. He says he’ll do all he can to help us. He talked about my parents so respectfully, and said how kind Father was to him years ago when he was a student and his own father died.’
Hero had been watching him nervously from the other side of the room. She followed his every movement as he settled himself cross-legg
ed on the thin piece of carpet and stretched out his hand for the glass of tea that Teriska Khan had poured for him. She approached warily, then making up her mind suddenly, plumped herself down on his lap.
‘Hey! Careful!’ he said, holding his tea out of reach. Then he began automatically to stroke her head, hardly realizing she was there, while he went on talking to Teriska Khan. Hero snuggled into the crook of his arm and shot a cunning look at Tara. He’d obviously forgotten she’d been naughty.
Tara didn’t even notice her. She didn’t want to miss a word.
‘Yes, tomorrow, I told you. I’ve got passes for all of us. We can go out about nine in the morning, and we don’t have to be back in the camp till six o’clock. Daban’s going to pick us up in his car and take us to his house in Teheran. He says he’s got a really good place there, in a nice district. I should think he’s done well for himself in the last ten years.’
‘What’s his wife called?’ Teriska Khan said, thoughtfully stirring sugar into another glass of tea. In this camp, you could buy extra supplies of everything, and the whole family were still enjoying the luxury of having as much sugar as they liked in their tea.
‘Noor, I think,’ said Kak Soran. ‘I haven’t seen her since the wedding, years and years ago, but she comes from a village not far from ours. They got married several years before we did. There are a couple of older boys, and a daughter of Tara’s age, I think, and one or two younger children. Daban says she’ll be happy to take you and the girls shopping in Teheran, if you like. Then we’ll have a meal with them, and they’ll bring us back here in the evening.’
Teriska Khan had jumped up long before he’d finished talking, and was ferreting round in one of the worn, shabby bags that lined the wall.
‘My goodness,’ she said nervously, ‘going out to visit, and cousins of yours that I’ve never met! I don’t know – I’ve got nothing to wear! Whatever will they think of us? We all look like . . .’
Kak Soran lifted Hero off his lap and stood up.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said laughing. ‘They know what we’ve been through. And anyway, you can buy some new things. We’ve got enough money for that.’
They smiled at each other triumphantly.
‘And the best thing is,’ said Kak Soran, shooting back his cuff to look at his watch as he used to in the old days, when time was something precious, ‘Daban has promised to help me with my papers. He knows the ropes, how to get things sorted out. I haven’t had a chance to discuss it with him yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re out of here and in our own home in Teheran, and the girls settled back into school before the end of the year.’
Tara shivered and Teriska Khan spoke for them both.
‘Oh, don’t say it,’ she said. ‘Don’t tempt fate. It’s too dangerous to say things like that – yet.’
21
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ yelled Uncle Daban, leaning out of the window of his car and making a rude gesture to the driver of a taxi, who was cruising slowly along near the kerb in search of customers and holding up all the traffic behind him.
Tara was sitting in the back seat with Hero and Teriska Khan. She shut her eyes and breathed deeply. It seemed like years and years since she’d been in a busy city street, and she felt quite shaken up and scared. Baghdad in the rush hour had been pretty awful, but surely it had never been as bad as this! The traffic in Teheran was chaotic, and everyone went so fast! Cars, buses, trucks, bicycles and taxis all seemed to hurtle towards each other in a terrible free for all, horns blaring, tyres screeching, drivers cursing.
Nervously she opened her eyes and looked out of the window. What a huge city this was! She’d forgotten the feeling of being in a crowded street full of shops and tall buildings and street sellers. She’d forgotten what ordinary people looked like, people who lived in ordinary houses, doing ordinary things, leading ordinary lives. She felt as if she’d been in prison, and was seeing the world again for the first time after years of being locked away. Now she knew what it must be like to be a country person, coming for the first time from a village to the big city.
The car slowed down at a set of traffic lights. A fruit and vegetable stall was set out. Tara had almost forgotten what carrots and cabbages and onions looked like. She couldn’t take her eyes off the huge scarlet tomatoes, that looked so swollen they might burst. She could just imagine herself biting into one, and feel the juice running down her chin. Next to the tomatoes was a heap of cos lettuces, with drops of dew still glistening on their crinkly leaves. Behind them were piles of grapes. Never, never, thought Tara, would she thoughtlessly munch her way through a bunch of grapes again. For the first time she realized how beautiful they were, each pearly green globe dusted with a frosty white bloom just asking to be picked gently from its bunch and delicately eaten.
Hero had been watching a crowd of schoolchildren walk past on the opposite pavement. She turned just as the lights were changing and saw the fruit stall.
‘I want some grapes, I want some grapes,’ she started to chant, bouncing up and down on Teriska Khan’s knee.
‘Yes, later, be quiet now,’ Teriska Khan whispered.
‘No, now! I want some now!’ said Hero loudly.
Uncle Daban laughed over his shoulder.
‘Wait till you see what your Auntie Noor’s got for you. You’ll get more than grapes, I can tell you!’
The car drew up outside a high modern building.
‘Here we are,’ said Uncle Daban, smiling broadly. They got out and stood on the pavement while Uncle Daban locked up his car. Tara looked up and down the street. She had a sudden feeling of panic. There were no walls or guards here. She could walk down this street, and no one would stop her. No one would even notice her because in a strange way the chador made you invisible. For a moment she wanted to bolt, she didn’t know where to.
‘Come on, let’s go up,’ Uncle Daban said, enthusiastically making for the entrance to the building. He wasn’t a bit like Baba, Tara thought, smiling at him. Kak Soran was tall and dignified. Uncle Daban was short and a bit overweight, and by the time he’d taken them up the two flights of stairs to the front door of his flat, he was puffing, and beads of sweat were starting out on his balding head.
Several hours later, Tara was leaning back against an embroidered cushion, feeling too stuffed to move. All around, on the cloth spread over the silk rug, lay the wreckage of Auntie Noor’s hospitality.
I’ll never forget this meal, thought Tara. It was the most wonderful I’ve ever had in my whole life. I’d forgotten what real food tasted like.
They seemed to have been eating for ever. The men had been served first, then they’d hurried off to meet a business contact of Uncle Daban, who had useful friends in official places. After that the rest of them had settled down to it, and now the great dish of spicy stewed lamb, the plump pieces of chicken, the bowls of fresh yoghurt and crunchy salads had almost been cleaned out. Only the big tray of pilau rice, studded with pine kernels, still seemed hardly dented.
‘Almaz,’ said Auntie Noor to her daughter, ‘give Tara another honey cake.’ Almaz leant over and tried to slide one on to Tara’s plate.
‘I couldn’t, really, I’ve never eaten so much in my life. It was fantastic,’ said Tara, feebly waving the plateful of cakes away.
‘Go and show Tara your things then, darling,’ said Auntie Noor in a firm voice. Tara knew what that meant. She and Teriska Khan wanted to have a good talk without the girls overhearing.
Almaz stood up and smiled at Tara uncertainly.
‘Oh, yes – thank you,’ said Tara. She struggled to her feet. Perhaps she shouldn’t have had that last helping of lamb. She was feeling a bit too full. After such a long time on bad, plain food, Auntie Noor’s cooking seemed almost too rich.
She followed Almaz into the bedroom she shared with her sisters. It was a small room, and the three beds took up much of the floor space. The window was covered with criss-crossed bands of sticky tape.
‘That’s in case of air-raids,’ said Almaz, following the direction of Tara’s eyes. ‘It stops the glass shattering. There’ve been a lot of air-raids. It’s so awful when you hear the explosions. Thank goodness we haven’t had any round here. I just die when I hear the sirens go off. I’m too sensitive, really, Daya says.’
Tara didn’t answer. At home in Sulaimaniya every window in every house had been taped since the first week of the war.
‘Do you like the curtains?’ said Almaz, trying to think of something to say. ‘They’re new. We only got them this year.’
‘Yes, they’re lovely,’ said Tara, sitting down on the lilac bedspread. She looked round, desperately trying to think of something to say. She’d been looking forward so much to meeting Almaz, a cousin of her own age, someone she could really talk to and make friends with. She’d imagined herself doing things with Almaz just like she used to with Leila and her other friends. It would be like the good old days at home again. They’d be able to gossip and giggle and talk about their parents and schoolfriends.
But now she was here in Almaz’s bedroom she couldn’t say a word. Uncle Daban’s flat was nice, though their own house in Sulaimaniya had been much bigger and grander, and the girls’ bedroom wasn’t half as pretty as her room at home had been. None of that mattered now. What mattered was that at six o’clock that evening she’d have to go back to the bare whitewashed cowshed where her few ragged possessions were packed in one torn bag. She was an outsider now, looking in.
‘What’s it like in the camp?’ said Almaz curiously.
‘This one isn’t as bad as the first one,’ said Tara. ‘At least there are showers, and not so many bedbugs.’
Almaz gave a little scream.
‘Bedbugs! You’re kidding! Oh, I couldn’t stand that. I’m funny about insects. I just go mad if I see a spider even. I’d die if I saw a bedbug. Daya says—’
Kiss the Dust Page 15
