Читать книгу Deborah Kerbel's YA Fiction 3-Book Bundle - Deborah Kerbel - Страница 10

She was coming into the store almost every day now and, even though Nasir knew it was wrong, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her skin was so pale, it seemed to be almost transparent. And with her long yellow hair and blue eyes, he thought she looked just like the American doll that his sister Amar kept hidden under her bed — away from the disapproving eyes of their parents.

He wanted to say something to her. He wanted to say, Hi, my name is Nasir … what’s yours? He was so sure that’s what they would say in America. He was sure that’s where she came from.

Every time she came to the store, he would watch her wandering up and down the aisles pretending to shop. He knew she was pretending because all she ever bought was gum and candy. He thought she looked timid and lost — like she didn’t know how she arrived or where she was going next. Lately, he spent most of his free time at work daydreaming about her beautiful face and staring out the grimy store window, waiting for her to come back.

His keys jangled in his jeans pocket with each step he took towards home. With no customers in the last hour, he’d decided to close up the store a few minutes early. He knew his boss wouldn’t mind — it’s not as if business had been booming. In fact, lately their best customer had been the “gum girl.”

As he neared his home, he shook his head to clear his mind of her, worried that his thoughts would somehow shine through his eyes and betray him to his parents. The sun was starting to go down behind the Old City walls as he entered the building and climbed the stairs to his family’s apartment. As soon as he opened the door, a familiar smell filled his nose. His stomach growled with hunger: he knew right away Mama was cooking baed u batata, his favourite dish. Heading straight for the kitchen, he kissed his mother and leaned down to greet his sisters. Sameera and Amar were helping with dinner while Rana crawled underfoot, mop-ping the floor with her favourite rag doll. Hearing his son arrive, Mr. Hadad hurried over to say hello.

“Nasir! How was your work today?” he cried, kissing his cheeks three times.

“It was fine, Baba,” he replied, returning his father’s embrace. His father was quite tall, but so was Nasir. Not long ago, Nasir would have to stand on his toes to reach his father, but in the last year he’d grown so fast that he now matched his height.

“You’re just in time for dinner,” Baba said, leading Nasir over to the tiny dining table. “Come sit down and tell me what happened.”

While father and son sat and discussed the details of their day, Mama and the two older girls brought the dishes to the table. They started the meal with mezze: olives, hummus, baba ganoush, and tabouleh. Sameera passed around freshly baked loaves of taboon bread, which they tore into small pieces to scoop up the dips. They continued with the baed u batata — cubed potatoes and eggs fried in olive oil and allspice — and ended with fruit and mint tea.

Throughout the meal, Mama pressed them all to refill their plates several times — she was only ever truly happy when those dining at her table had stuffed themselves. As usual, she served herself only after everyone else had finished.

When the meal was over, the family sat back in their chairs and lingered over their empty plates and full stomachs. Sameera told a story about two of her girlfriends from school, giggling and covering her mouth so much that her words were almost unintelligible. In contrast to Sameera, Nasir’s middle sister, Amar, was quite shy. Her parents tried to persuade her to perform the little song she was learning in her class, but she blushed and ran to Mama’s lap, burying her face in the folds of her dress. Baby Rana, who was still learning how to feed herself, sat in Mama’s arms, babbling and fingerpainting her round cheeks with the leftover hummus. As messy as she was, her older siblings couldn’t help kissing her.

By the time the table was cleared, it was getting late. One by one, Mama began carrying the sleepy girls to their bed. Once they were alone, Mr. Hadad pulled Nasir aside to talk.

“There’s something I’d like to speak to you about,” he said, motioning for his son to join him on the couch — the same couch that would be Nasir’s bed in just a few more hours. Nasir sat down beside him, guessing from the low hang of his father’s eyebrows that this was going to be serious. He was right.

“I don’t know if you’ve overheard Mama and me talking about it, but our family in Askar is in real trouble. Your grandparents’ health is not good, and your aunt has just lost her job. They need our help. We have to start sending more money.”

Nasir nodded. He knew that their relatives in the West Bank had a terrible life. Compared to the way they lived over there, their own tiny apartment in Jerusalem was luxurious. Ever since Nasir could remember, his parents had been sending money to support them.

“I know you’ve been helping out with your salary from the store,” he continued. “But it’s just not enough.”

Nasir nodded again. “What do you want me to do?”

Baba leaned his head close to his son’s and lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. Clearly, he didn’t want Mama to hear what he was about to say. But that would be difficult. Their apartment was too small to keep many secrets — a fact that was made embarrassingly clear to Nasir every few nights when noises from his parents’ room travelled through the walls and into his mortified ears.

“I’ve found a way to make some extra money,” he whispered. “I’m going to need your help and strong arms to do it. It’s going to mean hard work and late hours — you might have to miss some soccer games.”

Nasir watched his father’s eyes moisten with sadness as he spoke. Baba had grown up in Askar, moving to Jerusalem only after his parents arranged his marriage to Mama, who was already an Israeli citizen. Because of the tight border regulations, he’d only been back to visit them a handful of times over the past twenty years. Nasir could only guess how hard it was for him to be away from his family. And it was probably even harder not to have enough money to support them.

Years ago, Baba used to earn a decent living as a tour guide. But ever since the second intifada began, the whole tourism industry had really suffered. Lately he’d only been working sporadically. As the oldest child and only son, Nasir had always known that he would one day be expected to stand beside his father and help support their family. But he never imagined the day would come when he would be asked to take a second job. And especially not while he was only sixteen.

The call to prayer sounded in the distance, bringing a quick end to their conversation. Baba jumped up from the couch and reached for his prayer rug, which had been carefully rolled and placed in the corner of the room. Nasir went to get his, too. The Hadad household was a fairly traditional one. Mama still covered her hair in public and Baba prayed five times every day. He expected his son to pray, too, and Nasir went along with it to please him. Over the years, this had all become a well-established routine.

In almost perfect synchrony they washed their hands, removed their shoes, turned towards Mecca, and rolled out their prayer rugs side by side on the floor. Then they dropped to their knees and brought their foreheads down to meet the matted woollen fibres of their rugs.

But that is where the similarities of their routines ended. As usual, while Baba started praying, Nasir’s mind began to wander. Against all his best efforts, his thoughts crept back to the girl. He wondered if she’d ever noticed him watching her. He wondered what it must be like to have the money to waste on gum and candy every day. He wondered what her name was and what her voice sounded like.

Every time she came up to the counter he opened his mouth to talk to her, but always ended up losing his courage. Maybe he would manage to say something tomorrow — he was almost certain she’d be back.

Turning his head slightly, he snuck a quick peek at his father praying so intently beside him. Their conversation replayed itself again in his mind. He knew his father felt guilty for living in Israel while their relatives languished in a refugee camp. Nasir sometimes wondered whether he should feel guilty, too. But he never did. He was very happy not to be over there. In fact, most of the time he didn’t even want to be over here. He couldn’t imagine living the rest of his life this way. There were places in the world where people didn’t have to struggle so hard to support their families — places in the world where life was easier. Nasir knew this for a fact.

Just then, Baba opened his eyes and saw his son watching him. Nasir quickly turned his eyes back down to his rug and continued on through the motions of his prayer.