Читать книгу Somewhere, Home - Nada Jarrar Awar - Страница 10

Maysa

Summer

I wake to the sound of someone knocking on the front door. The early mornings are still cool and I wrap myself in a blanket before going to open the door. Wadih is standing on the terrace with a small suitcase in one hand and a large leather folder in the other. He has no jacket on. ‘Come in,’ I tell him.

He walks past me and stands in the hallway for a moment.

‘Come through here.’ I point to my room. ‘Just give me a moment to get dressed and make us some tea.’

He places his things on the floor and sits on the unmade bed.

‘Will you wait?’ I ask him.

He nods his head and looks away. This, I think to myself, is the moment I usually feel anger at his silences. I take my clothes into the bathroom and shut the door.

When I come out again, Wadih is not in the room. I run a hand through my wet hair and go into the kitchen to find him stirring a pot of flower tea, his head bent low over the fragrant steam floating from it.

‘It smells wonderful, doesn’t it? Like a garden in spring.’

‘Wonderful.’ Wadih is smiling.

‘Let’s have the tea out on the terrace,’ I say, putting cups and saucers on a tray and grabbing the biscuit box.

We carry the things outside and make ourselves comfortable on the sofa, now warm with the early morning sun. Wadih pours the tea and hands me a cup. I place it on the table, put my hands on top of my belly, feeling for our child.

‘It’s very soon, isn’t it?’ he asks, looking down at my hands.

‘I’m having it here in the house.’

‘Yes, I thought you would.’

I feel a sudden remorse. ‘There will be a doctor with the midwife in case of any problems,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve had all the tests and everything. It’s going to be alright.’

‘Did you find your stories?’ Wadih asks after a short silence.

‘Stories?’

‘Your grandmother and her family, did you find out about her? You talked about it so much, I just assumed . . .’

I had forgotten telling him. It was long ago, very soon after we met. I said I wanted to spend time on my own on the mountain to gather stories about my grandmother and her children and put them in a book to read to my own children one day.

Wadih leans forward in his seat and looks closely at me. His eyes, the lines in his handsome face are achingly familiar and I feel the urge to reach out and touch him. Instead, I stand up and pick at branches of the vine that are draped over the balustrade.

‘Are things alright in the city these days?’ I ask my husband.

‘The fighting flares up and calms down again. We manage to live during the gaps in between.’

‘I haven’t felt lonely,’ I tell him. ‘Nor have I,’ he replies. ‘I only missed you.’

I return to the sofa. ‘I missed you too,’ I say truthfully. ‘I haven’t really discovered anything new, but I’ve been trying to write my own thoughts down, my own unfocused musings.’ I laugh sheepishly and look up at him but he says nothing.

A rush of heat makes its way up into my face and I place my hands on my cheeks in an attempt to cool them. ‘That silence,’ I say, ‘that relentless, obstinate silence, it makes me feel unloved.’

Wadih gets up and goes into the house. He returns with the leather folder he brought with him, places it on the dusty tiles and unzips it open. Inside there is a small pile of white cardboard squares with drawings on them. He brings the top one to me. The drawing looks remarkably like my house except that the façade is much neater, the rooftop is even and the terrace is wider underneath the clean stone arches.

Wadih brings me the second drawing. This one is of the inside of the house. There is a bright kitchen that opens onto a large dining room, and the living room is spacious and colourful with furniture and patterned Persian carpets. ‘This is of the bedrooms,’ he says, handing me the third drawing. ‘I think we’d have to add on another bathroom, especially now the baby is coming.’

I pull at his sleeve. ‘What is this?’

‘You do want us to live here, don’t you? The house will have to be renovated so I made some preliminary drawings for you to look at before we make a final decision.’

‘Did Selma tell you to come here?’ I ask him.

He reaches out and places his hand on the back of my neck and rubs gently at my skin. ‘Does it matter now?’

I shake my head and look down at the drawings.

There is music in this house, the kind that pushes gently against the outlines of my body and makes me sway this way and that. Wadih has brought the old stereo player with him from the city and plays our favourite records in the same progression again and again every evening until I find order in anticipation and am strangely comforted.

While Wadih and the men he has hired work on the house in preparation for our child’s birth, I lie on the terrace sofa, notebook in hand and a humming between my lips. I have taken to making small illustrations in the page margins, butterflies, shining suns, flowers and geometric shapes in the same pattern as the tiles, which I fill in with the colours Wadih keeps on his desk. He is amused by the childlike drawings, though he does not ask to read the words that lie alongside them.

Occasionally, whenever Selma comes to sit outside with me and to shake her head at the noise the workers are making, she inquires about the contents of the notebook.

‘Just my thoughts, Selma,’ I reassure her. ‘Nothing important.’

Each time she seems satisfied with my answer. ‘I’ve never been one for reading, anyway.’

I feel a sudden inexplicable envy at the freedom implied in her words.

Despite the heat, there is a slight breeze blowing across the terrace when Wadih comes out to join me. I pull up my legs to make room for him to sit down and feel the baby kick through my skin and against my knees.

‘She’s very active today.’ I smile at my husband and rub my belly.

‘You’re going to have a real shock if it ends up being a boy,’ Wadih says and ruffles my hair.

I shrug my shoulders and reach for the notebook.

‘Still writing?’

I nod. ‘About my mother this time.’

‘But your mother never lived here,’ Wadih says.

‘No, but this is where they met, isn’t it?’

I can almost swear to having heard Adel’s and Leila’s voices murmuring along with mine on lonely nights in this house, but I do not mention this to Wadih.

‘What are you going to do with it when you’re done?’ he asks, pointing at the notebook.

‘I don’t know. Read the stories to our child perhaps.’

‘Yasmeena,’ Wadih says in an uncertain voice. He lifts my legs and lays them in his lap.

‘Yasmeena,’ I call into the breeze. ‘Yasmeena.’