Where the Streets Had a Name (21 page)

‘It shouldn't matter,' I say. I jump out of the bed and place the backpack between us.

She opens her eyes. ‘What's this?'

I unzip the bag and produce the hummus jar.

‘I've already eaten,
habibti
, thank you.'

I quickly open the jar and thrust it into her hands. ‘Look,' I say.

Frowning, she peers into the jar. She takes a sharp breath.

I take the jar from her. ‘Open your hands.' I pour some soil into her open palms.

‘Jerusalem soil,' I whisper.

I see her eyes and I know that every step of our journey was worth this moment.

With the wedding only a month away, Mama and Jihan are keeping me busy after school. Today Jihan picks me up from the school gates, producing her hot pink notebook and matching pen with white tulle flowing from one end. Glancing at her to-do list, her lips pouted in concentration, she excitedly reveals the afternoon's chore. We're shopping for wedding shoes and I'm forced to watch her and Mama argue about shades of white. At one point I'm invited to give my opinion.

‘This one or that one?' Jihan asks, holding up what looks to me to be two identical pairs of white shoes.

‘Um . . . what's the difference?'

‘Well, do you prefer this white or that white?' she asks impatiently.

‘Say the left,' Mama hisses at me.

Bewildered, I tell them I have a headache and run off and wait for them at the counter.

This evening a curfew of eight hours is imposed. There have been clashes near Rachel's Tomb when bulldozers started on some of the shops and surrounding houses that are in the path of the Wall. Mama is furious. She had invited some of her friends for dinner tonight. Baba is also angry, although his feelings are somewhat placated by the fact that he'll be able to stay home (he'd planned to escape Mama's friends by playing cards at Amo Hisham's house) and treat himself to all the special delicacies Mama has painstakingly prepared.

We sit in the lounge room, exchanging a communion of solemn silence as we listen to Mama from the kitchen. Tariq sits on Jihan's lap, his eyes wide open with both curiosity and fear. Baba has not dared enter the kitchen to burn his
argeela
coal over the stove and has resorted to Mama's packet of cigarettes. Even Mohammed has, in deference to Mama's anger, fallen asleep earlier than usual. Although Sitti Zeynab is not well, her energy for talking has not been sapped, but even she is exercising uncommon restraint, keeping her Koranic verses, Prophet's sayings and Arabic proverbs to a bare minimum and under her breath.

‘All that meat and chicken!' Mama grumbles. ‘Do they think I wake up and find money under my pillow?' The lid of a pot bangs down. ‘The first time I invite them over and' – the fridge door slams shut – ‘the
knafa
was perfect! Let them even try to clot the cream with honey the way I do.' A pot is thumped down onto the kitchen bench. ‘And that blithering fool Sarah tells me not to worry' – a cupboard door crashes closed – ‘we can reschedule and have it at her place. How' –
thwack
– ‘dare' –
thud
– ‘she' –
slam
– ‘miss the point?'

Then the phone rings. ‘I'll get it,' Mama hollers. ‘It must be Yosra.' She plunges into the lounge room, her eyes daring us to contradict her.

‘Yes? Okay . . . yes . . . of course . . . yes, we will make noise too.'

Discreetly, we exchange raised eyebrows and wait for Mama to finish.

She sighs deeply, runs her fingers through her hair, which Jihan had blow-dried and styled, and then wipes her lipstick onto the back of her hand.

‘There's to be a demonstration,' she says. ‘Jihan, Hayaat, go get the pots, pans and ladles. Foad, open all the windows.'

It's a case of Abo Somebody telephoning Um Anybody who tells Abo Everybody that at midnight everyone should bang on their pots and pans in protest at the curfew.

Tariq, Jihan and I grab onto metal ladles and pound down hard on Mama's pots and pans, positioning ourselves at the front windows of our apartment, competing with the drumming sounds emanating from nearby homes. Sweat drizzles down our faces, our cheeks redden with the effort, and we squeal in delight as our apartment block comes alive with the crashing and echoing sounds of our protest. Mohammed, who has inevitably woken, sits in Sitti Zeynab's lap, his bobbing head following the sounds. Sitti Zeynab looks at us and laughs. ‘Louder! Louder!' she cries, egging us on. Even Mama and Baba join in. I've never seen Mama so animated. The pot she is banging on is dented by the time she's finished. Her hair is matted wet with sweat, her eyes are almost insane with glee as she smashes the Tefal nonstick pan. Baba has to hold her back when she lunges for another.

‘We need at least one pan left to cook a roast chicken in,' he says.

Samy approaches me moments before the school bell rings for lunch, wanting to know if I will to skip school to join him. He's going to church.

‘What? You mean voluntarily?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Okay. I guess I owe you a visit anyway.'

He leads me to the Church of the Nativity. When we arrive I follow him through a corridor of massive archways made of chiselled brown and beige stone. I've never been so deep inside the church. Not because I'm Muslim, but because at my age churches, mosques, schools and the dentist are normally places to avoid.

We reach two huge doors and step through them. Candles throw giant shadows on the ancient walls. The heavy incense tickles my nose and makes me dizzy. Rows and rows of enormous marble pillars line the open space and lead to another massive double-door. The floor is marble of different shades of grey and white. We walk to the altar and I'm stunned by the richness of the church. The place is filled with gold and silver, cascading chandeliers and candelabras.

‘Wow,' I whisper. ‘It's beautiful.'

‘Follow me,' Samy says quietly.

‘Where are we going?'

‘The Grotto.'

‘What's that?'

‘Where Jesus was born, stupid. Everyone knows that.'

‘What are we going to do there? I'm Muslim, remember.'

‘Yes, I know that! I want to light a candle.'

‘Why?'

‘For my father,' he says, without looking at me. ‘It's seven years today.'

‘Oh.' I feel ashamed to have forgotten.

We descend a flight of stairs to an oblong-shaped altar. Tourists and worshippers are gathered around a silver star fitted into the white marble paving.

‘How could they fit a bed in here?' I whisper to Samy. ‘Or did Mary give birth on that stone floor?'

Samy gives me an exasperated look. ‘She gave birth in a manger. And this was later built over it. Don't they teach Muslims
anything
?'

‘I don't even listen in my own religion classes, let alone yours.'

He nods solemnly. ‘Fair enough.'

He lights a candle and approaches the silver star.

‘Can I light one for your father too?' I whisper hesitantly.

He passes me a candle and nods. We lean down next to each other and pray.

On our way home Samy asks me if I'm ready.

I look at him blankly. ‘Ready for what?'

‘To find Wasim. Don't you wonder if he waited for me? At the pharmacy?'

‘Oh . . . yes! I forgot all about him.'

‘Typical girl. This is soccer we're talking about, Hayaat! I want to find him. I'm going to Aida camp tomorrow. After school. We can say we have
dabka
practice.'

I raise an eyebrow at him.

‘Okay, we'll try another excuse. Damn, we'll never be able to use
dabka
practice again. You're coming, yes?'

‘Sure. But I can't tomorrow. Jihan wants me to help her pack her bags.'

‘Why?'

This time I raise both eyebrows.

He gives me a sheepish look. ‘Oh yeah. The wedding . . . Well, we'll go the day after tomorrow.'

‘Okay.'

‘It's going to happen, Hayaat,' he says excitedly, rubbing his hands together. ‘I'm sure to impress the coach. And then watch me leave this place! Watch me become a huge star. And then I'll buy my way back here and I'll find somebody to pay so I can see my father. Money talks, Hayaat. Just think of what he'll say!'

 

 

Sitti Zeynab is tired. She asks me to help her to her bed. She leans her heavy body against me and I slowly lead her to the bedroom. I help her get comfortable and pull the blanket up to her chest, fluffing the pillows behind her. Her white veil is draped around her head; wisps of her hair fall around her face. Her breathing is laboured and her breath stale.

‘My life has been all politics,' she whispers as she touches the pile of photographs of my aunts and uncles on her bedside table. ‘I do not watch the television for politics because it is in every breath I take. It is here in this apartment, in the empty chairs that should hold my children who were forced to scatter around the world. It is here in the mint leaves floating in this cup of tea beside my bed. Mint leaves that should have been picked from the garden bed in my home, not bought from Abo Yusuf's store. It is in the olives I eat from somebody else's tree and the patch of sky I am told I must live under.'

I pat her hand. ‘Calm down, Sitti. You need to save your energy. Don't work yourself up.'

She reaches a hand out and touches my face.

‘Hayaat, I have sometimes wanted a refund on my dreams. I have known feelings of such desolation that they have threatened to bury me under the ground. I have sobbed for my land and it cries out for me in return. But I have watched you grow, Jihan fall in love, Mohammed arrive into this world, Tariq enter school. My heart, it is like a flower and you are like my petals. What more do I need?' She kisses the top of my head. ‘Now, be a good girl and bring me my medicine.'

‘It's with Mama.'

‘She thinks I'm too senile to know what to take. Pah! My body may be giving up on me but my mind is still sharp, Hayaat. And anyway, she's the one who spent an hour looking for her purse yesterday. It was in her sock drawer. Did she tell you that?'

I shake my head and smile.

When I pass by the bedroom a little later, I peek in. Sitti Zeynab is asleep, snoring loudly. Her hands are resting on her chest, her fingers barely touching the jar of soil which she must have reached across to her bedside table to get.

I absorb her face like it's the last kite of summer and grin from ear to ear.