Читать книгу Pluviophile - Yusuf Saadi - Страница 8

The gestalt of my kitchen includes madness: oval wooden cutting boards tinged with blood and an electric juicer extracting the guts from an orange. Terracotta flowerpots on windowsills shelter exhausted purple hearts that slump against the pane. The oven throbs. On the tiled floor a fridge and pantry pose as rook and bishop. Our ticking toaster counts down the end of time.

My mom walks in and turns the radio on: the adhan being recited to break fast. A man screams or sings in cryptic Arabic muffled by radio static. Steam rises from haleem my mom stirs on the stove; the frying pan’s oil sizzles aloo pakoras. Seedless dates on white china plates and glasses of water on the kitchen table.

The smoke alarm shrieks its sharp laments. My mom stands on a chair and fans the alarm with a J-cloth— as if waving a flag in surrender.