Читать книгу A Girl Made of Dust - Nathalie Abi-Ezzi - Страница 6

The following Sunday, Mami tried to hurry Naji. As we waited for him, she undid her hair and re-coiled it, but it must still have been wrong because she frowned and did it again. ‘Nabeel,’ she said finally, to Papi, ‘won't you come to church with us?’

Papi was still eating his breakfast. ‘Don't bring up religion, Aida.’

‘For my sake, Nabeel.’

‘I have no wish to see people and be stared at by them. To appear in church for the first time in years, like a fool.’

‘No one will look. And what do you care if they do?’

Naji's Sunday shoes clacked down the corridor.

‘Do what you want, that's between you and your God, but there's no place for me in a church.’ He cut a piece of cheese and wrapped some bread round it. The cicadas in the valley throbbed on and on like blood pumping round an aching head.

We went ahead of Mami and Teta. Outside, dust lay over everything. Cars passed, their engines noisy, their tyres sticking to the hot tarmac and squeaking round corners. Across the road from the church, a man was carrying crates of fruit and vegetables out of a dark store and setting them down in front: huge red apples and tomatoes, bananas, apricots, flashing pink pomegranates, hills of okra, beans and lettuce, while inside big bags of round flatbreads hung from hooks that shone as they caught the light.

‘Papi used to come to church,’ said Naji.

‘When?’ I asked, fingering the glass eye in my pocket; I'd decided always to carry it for protection.

‘Before. But everything was different then. Remember Jamila who used to cook for us?’

‘A little. She was soft and hot when she carried me, and her neck always smelt of parsley … and tiny balls of water popped out along her head where her hair started.’ I saw again the long cloth wrapped round Jamila's head and the long, thin black plait snaking down her back. ‘Did she make nice things?’

‘Nicer than Mami's food,’ he whispered, ‘and she played with us.’

‘Why did she go?’

‘Because of Papi. It was when he stopped working and we didn't have enough money. When she had to leave she cried, and kissed us so hard it hurt.’ He made smacking noises with his lips. ‘That's when Mami first started cooking.’

‘I remember.’ After Jamila left the house, Mami had stood alone in the middle of the kitchen squeezing her hands. It was around the time that she'd stopped going out so much. That was when the curse had begun. ‘The witch is still setting curses,’ I said. ‘The last time she went into the nut shop, they had a whole batch of bad ones. Ali said he'd never seen it happen that way before.’

‘Let's go and ask him,’ decided Naji, and we crossed the road and walked along it. My fingers touched everything on the way: rough leaves covered with the smallest white hairs, flowers that grew out of cracks in a wall, the ledge of the local shrine, the hot dusty bonnet of a car, a rough stone wall and, finally, the cool sharpness of peeling paint on metal railings.

The shutters of Papi's shop were closed, and inside everything would be in the dark – the pots and frying-pans, glasses and knives, step-ladders and cloths, plates and smiling porcelain statues, some of which had been standing in the same place for years.

As we went past, Naji gave the metal shutters an angry kick, but he brightened as we stopped in front of the nut shop. ‘If only Ali owned it,’ he said. ‘he'd always give us things.’

The brilliant colours of sweets, chocolates and drinks made it the prettiest place in town. Naji sniffed the smell of hot nuts that drifted out before he called up to Ali. A moment later Ali appeared behind a metal grille above the door in his white cotton vest, looking out as if it was the first time he'd ever seen the world.

‘It must be so hot up there,’ I called. ‘You're soaked in sweat!’

He waved. His round face was gleaming, the left eye pointing slightly outwards, the wide mouth a solid, straight line. ‘There's no one but me to roast the nuts. It's hot for them and it's hot for me: they're roasted and I'm roasted!’ He laughed at his joke and repeated it to himself.

‘Isn't it true about the nuts, Ali?’ I shaded my eyes. ‘Isn't it true the nuts got spoilt when the witch came in?’

Ali nodded, eyes widening in fear. His hands were caked with salt, his face red from the heat of the fire. ‘Couldn't sell them. A whole batch.’ He shook his head sadly.

‘How did she spoil them?’

‘He wouldn't know that,’ said Naji. ‘I don't know what he thinks about, but not about such things.’

‘Ali,’ I called, ‘what do you think about up there?’

Ali smiled. ‘Up here I can see everything so I think about everything.’ He vanished, then reappeared and threw down some sugared almonds for us to catch. Two purple ones came my way: he knew I liked the purple ones best.

We stood beside the church, gazing down at the terraces of olive and almond trees. Naji said the Phoenicians made them, but when I asked who they were, he wasn't sure. Below and further away, Beirut lay spread out along the coast like grey and white Lego, the sea glinting beside it.

A queue of traffic formed. A driver had stopped to speak to someone in the road. There was more hooting, and things shouted about one man's sister and another's mother.

Mami and Teta had finally made it up the hill. Teta, in her best black, was huffing to catch her breath. ‘It's proof to God that I'm devoted, an old woman like me climbing all this way,’ she muttered as she went slowly up the church steps.

It was warm and dim inside. The stone floors were lined with wooden pews in the main part of the church, while chairs were set out in rows down the left and right sides. The tall stained-glass saints looked hot and red-faced in the brilliant light that shone through them and fell on the congregation, making pale outfits glow pink and blue like cartoons. The pews were filled with stiff suits and gold jewellery, the air thick with cologne.

We sat near the aisle, Teta and Naji in front of me and Mami. Beside me was a fat lady with a clinky bracelet and a man with a fleshy roll of neck.

‘Sit quietly,’ whispered Mami to Naji, who was humming and knocking his heel against the pew.

A priest in black robes and a puffed-up hat stood at the pulpit. Like all priests, he had a long beard he chanted through. Then it was our turn and the grown-ups chanted back to him.

Naji glanced back and rolled his eyes, but I was trying to guess when Mami would bow her head, and when the priest would turn round to speak to the altar and the big gold cross again instead of to us. He spoke a foreign language a lot of the time, maybe so God could understand, only I didn't think God would be interested if He'd heard the same thing every Sunday for a hundred years.

The lilies and carnations near the altar were wilting, and the pages of the Bible belonging to the lady next to me stuck sweatily together. Up on the right, a stained-glass saint looked like Uncle Wadih, except that Uncle didn't wear a long cloak. Or blush.

It seemed Mami and Teta had plenty to pray for. They knelt on the cushions with their eyes closed and their lips moving while the priest walked about swinging incense in a container he held by gold chains.

I heard Teta begging God and Jesus to keep a long list of our relatives safe and to bless the souls of her husband and mother. Most of all, though, she wanted ‘the children and my sons and daughter-in-law to be happy’. I didn't think God had much work to do with Uncle Wadih, though, because he was always happy.

Mami was praying too. ‘Give him back to us. Oh, Allah, please make Nabeel come back to us.’

I prayed too: that the curse on Papi would be lifted, that Uncle would come in time for my birthday, and that I would never have to wear grandmother pants like Teta's.

Outside again, I could almost hear the sun beating down. The men took off their jackets and stood in groups smoking and talking while the women crossed the road to the nut shop to buy boxes of chocolate for Sunday visitors. One gave money to the man in the wheelchair who was always waiting near the steps after church. He had a pair of tattered boots at the ends of his shrivelled legs, and crutches laid across his knees.

‘How did the priest swing that incense so high without any falling out? It was over his head.’

‘He does that so that God can hear our prayers,’ said Teta. ‘So they go up to heaven with the smoke.’

They went on ahead.

‘The Rose Man says it's no use,’ I told Naji, ‘that we're like plants – we're here and then we're not. Why do people go to church anyway?’

‘I don't know. Perhaps they want something from God. That's when most people go and pray. The rest of the time they don't care much about it.’

The leaves hung loose on the trees, and white morning glories spilt down a wall.

‘What does Mami want, then?’ I thought of her hardened, dried-up fig heart.

‘To be rich, probably. That's what everyone wants.’

But I hadn't heard her pray about that. ‘Doesn't God get annoyed because people only go there for Him to fix things that are wrong, the same way they go to a doctor when they're ill?’

He left a wavy finger line along the side of a dusty car. ‘Well, He'd be annoyed if you bothered Him when everything was fine, wouldn't He?’

‘Taste this.’ Mami held something in either hand between thumb and fingertip for each of us to taste. It looked like a piece of stuffed meatball, or it might have been fried cauliflower.

Once it was in my mouth I didn't want to swallow it, but Naji was good at lying about the things that came from Mami's hands.

‘Mm.’ He smiled, then hurried away.

Mami pounded meat using a stick with a wooden block at the end. She hit the thin piece of meat so hard and for so long that the animal must have hurt even though it was dead. A warm sweet smell of frying onions and pine nuts came from the large bent pan, and a soft khrish-khrish-khrish from the wooden board where she was chopping parsley. Her green-specked fingers stopped as she glanced up at the petunias on the window-ledge.

‘Why do flowers die in winter?’ I asked.

‘Because it's too cold.’

She'd put them there to have something pretty to look at, and now I wondered how she would feel when they died.

Naji and I ate enough lunch to stop being hungry, then pushed the food round our plates. Something was bitter, although Papi didn't seem to notice: he just ate at a steady pace with plenty of salt.

Mami was pleading with him to open the shop the next day. ‘School's starting soon and we need money. I haven't much left.’

The lines in Papi's face deepened.

‘You haven't opened for a week now. Must I go up there again?’

He continued eating, staring at his plate as he chewed.

The rice shook on Mami's fork. A few grains fell off. Maybe Naji had been right and it was being poor that was making Mami unhappy.

Papi spoke quietly. ‘I'll open the shop. But not tomorrow.’

‘When, then? The day after it'll be the same thing.’ No one was eating now. ‘You'll go back to that chair and not get up.’ She put a hand to her forehead. ‘You'll sit in that chair and—’

Papi's fork clattered onto his plate. ‘What do you want me to do, my love? Go out there and chit-chat with whoever walks in – about nothing? About nothing!’

‘You don't have to talk to them. No one's asking you to have a conversation.’

‘No, just to behave like nothing ever happened. Like this country's not hell! Can't you understand, Aida?’

‘No – no! I don't understand how you think we're going to live. Time is passing, the children are growing up, and still …’ Her hand slid down to cover her eyes.

‘Still nothing changes. But am I going to let you all starve? Is that what you think?’ Roughly, he pushed away his plate. ‘I'll do it, didn't I say so? Just not tomorrow.’

‘How are the children going to learn with no books, and how are they to go to school with no clothes or bags or pens?’ She was breathing hard. ‘Why can't you …?’

Papi smiled bitterly. ‘Have you lost patience with me, ya Aida, you, with your bottomless well of patience? You might have to be patient for ever. Do you understand? For ever.’

Mami's lips disappeared into her mouth and she got up.

‘Don't bother her,’ Naji said to me after lunch, but it was hard not to watch. She must have cleaned every tile in the kitchen: every white one, every blue one, and the ugly spaces where there were no tiles any longer. She had to know every wall and surface and crack in the house, I thought, as I hopped around on one foot. She must know the tassels at the edges of the living-room carpet, which was really an island you couldn't step off barefoot or you'd fall into the cold sea of tiles; she must know the swirls in the peach-coloured lampshade, which looked like a shell and which she said came from Manila but was really from a shop on the high road, only no one wanted to tell her; and she must know that the metal coat hook on the wall was bent from the weight of Papi's heavy winter coat.

I lay on the bedroom floor reading while she swept the veranda. The scratch of the thick straw came through the window, a strong steady brushing except when she stopped to rest. I'd nearly finished the book when the singing started. It wasn't often that she sang, only occasionally when she was alone and thought no one could hear.

I lay there listening to her. The brushing slowed to the speed of her song and blended into it. In the high parts, her voice was clear and wavered, but when she sang low, it came out rough and grainy as sand. It was a beautiful voice, and she was like a princess going round and round sweeping – round and round until one day something wonderful would happen, and then she'd sing all the time.

I sat against Mami that evening and watched her sew holes shut. In his chair on the other side of the room, Papi was staring at one spot, the muscles in his neck tightened into ropes. His head hung low, while his fingers pulled the large green worry beads along, as if they were an endless abacus.

Pulling the sewing basket onto my lap, I busied myself with the different-coloured spools, loose pins, saved patches, zips and worn measuring-tape. I emptied the babyfood jar full of buttons into the lid. There were large flat gold ones, shiny red ones, little carved white ones, warm leather ones – dozens of different colours and sizes.

‘Where did they come from?’ I picked up a blue button that shone silver when it was tipped in the light.

Mami cut a thread with her teeth. ‘That one was Naji's, a costume he wore in his first school play.’ She smiled. ‘He didn't want to go.’

Naji glanced up from the floor where he sat with his books spread out round him, then something on the television caught his attention.

‘And this one?’ I picked up a carved white one that felt like bone.

She twirled a thread tight on the spool. ‘It's from a dress I wore before we were married, when I was’ – she stopped for a moment – ‘when I was young.’

I saw Papi twitch as though a mosquito had landed on his cheek, but his eyes didn't move from the carpet.

‘Do you remember all the buttons?’

She nodded. ‘Most of them. Look, this one's yours.’ She pushed a small red one out of the pile. ‘One of your first outfits when you were little.’

‘Are the big ones Papi's?’

‘Some of them.’

‘Which ones?’

She started straightening the spools in the basket. ‘Never mind now.’ The wooden reels tapped softly against each other and the pins wedged into them gleamed secretly among the coloured rolls.

I yawned. ‘Why do you keep them when the clothes are gone?’

‘I never throw anything away without taking a button off it first. They're memories – each one is like a photo.’

I settled into Mami again, her breast soft and warm against my head, the scent of her a touch vinegary, and sifted her memories through my fingers. They fell with small, hard ticks and clacks onto the lid. I watched them sleepily: their shine, their holes, their dips and textures. I imagined her head filled with coloured buttons, and suddenly she was walking round and round inside each one, sweeping and crying. Very occasionally she would sing, and her pockets were full of dead yellow petunias.

When I opened my eyes again the room felt different. Naji wasn't there and neither was Mami's warm shoulder. She was on the other side of the room, squatting next to Papi's chair. The television was turned low.

‘How can I carry on this way, Nabeel?’

‘None of us wants to. Ask anyone,’ he replied.

‘But darling, time is passing and it won't come again. Won't you just try, ha?’ Slowly, she slid a hand onto his arm. ‘Please.’

Something seemed to swell in him, rose into his mouth and was swallowed down again.

Mami knelt now, her bare feet disappearing beneath her skirt. ‘Please, Nabeel.’

The knuckles of Papi's hand turned into white pebbles. His fist banged the armrest.

Mami pushed herself up. ‘Don't try, then. Just sit here and do nothing!’ Her underskirt rustled against her legs. ‘You might as well be dead!’ She swished past, and as she went, I saw she was crying.