Where the Streets Had a Name (23 page)

We approach a man standing outside a mixed goods store. Samy, who has memorised Wasim's address, asks for directions.

‘Do you think he would have forgotten to speak to the coach?' Samy asks me as we follow the man's instructions.

‘I pity him if he did!' I joke, but Samy's face creases with worry lines. We pass a butcher and my stomach turns at the sight of the sheep and cows stripped of their skin swinging in the shopfront. How funny that I forget such repulsion as soon as I sit down to a steaming plate of Mama's
maklobe
.

Samy's creased face suddenly smoothes out and, in a buoyant tone, he says: ‘I'm sure he remembered! How could he forget with me pestering him like I did? I told the guys at school, you know. They're so envious.'

‘Huh!' I grunt. ‘Why do boys all like to compete with each other?'

Samy gives me a strange look and I roll my eyes at him.

We soon find the street in which Wasim lives. His uncle sits in the front of their apartment block, an
argeela
pipe resting in his mouth. However, I notice there's no coal on the foil covering the tobacco, indicating that the
argeela
is not working. He studies us as we approach him and then bursts into strange, hysterical laughter. Frightened, I take a step backwards but Samy stays put. Suddenly the door bursts open and a woman rushes out. ‘Mo'ayad!' she cries, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to calm him.

‘What do you want?' she asks us.

Speechless, I can only stare at her.

‘We're looking for Wasim,' Samy says.

‘He's playing ball with his friends.'

Samy flashes me a conspiratorial grin and asks her for directions.

‘I wonder what's wrong with him,' I say, as we walk to a nearby alleyway where Wasim is apparently playing.

‘He seems harmless . . .'

Wasim is alone. A soccer ball lies on the ground beside him. He's bending down, pulling his socks up; when he hears the shuffle of our feet, he looks up and sees us.

‘You came!' he exclaims, grinning with delight and quickly rising. ‘I waited for you at the pharmacy every day this week,
ya zalami
! We were going to play soccer. Remember?'

Samy marches up to him. ‘Did you speak to the coach?' he asks anxiously.

Wasim's eyes instantly give him away. Flustered, he wrings his hands together, looking down at the ground and then back up.

‘I . . . of course it wasn't true,
ya zalami
. I mean, they were thinking of a team, the people who came here from overseas to help us, but, well, I was joking. It was just a bit of fun. I thought you would work it out. It's all about the soccer, though, isn't it? I mean, I'm an excellent player, I assure you. There
was
an Englizee coach once. He was here as a volunteer. He did tell me I was
momtaz
. I promise. Look, we could have a really brilliant match. And you could bring some of your other friends. Yes?'

‘You swore you were telling the truth!' I say. ‘On your mother's grave, you said.'

‘My mother's not dead,' Wasim says matter-of-factly.

I stamp a foot on the ground in frustration. ‘We believed you. Crooked buildings and . . . and . . . knee pads!'

Wasim flashes a lopsided guilty grin.

‘Why did you lie?' I press.

‘I don't know,' he mutters.

It occurs to me then that Samy is silent. A nauseating tension seeps through the alley. Wasim's words and mine are like lightning flashes inviting the crack of thunder.

‘I was . . . bored . . .' Wasim offers. Our eyes lock and I realise his eyes are incapable of masking his loneliness.

‘Talk, talk, talk!' Samy cries and lunges at Wasim, pushing him to the ground and pinning him down as he straddles him.

Wasim starts to cry. ‘I'm sorry!' he manages through his tears.

‘You're a liar!' Samy yells hysterically. ‘You made me believe I could get out of this hole! You liar!'

I've never seen Samy lose control like this and suddenly I'm afraid.

‘I'm sorry!' Wasim cries out again. Snot is dribbling down onto his mouth and I want to gag.

‘Get off him, Samy,' I say, trying to sound composed.

Samy raises his fist, ready to punch Wasim. ‘I'm going to beat the hell out of him!' he yells.

‘Samy! No!'

‘Stay out of this, Hayaat!'

‘Get off me!' Wasim screams.

I grab onto Samy's arm and pull him away. ‘Samy, stop! Have you gone mad?'

Our eyes lock. For a second I hardly recognise him. Then his face collapses and he falls to the side of Wasim, who's sobbing loudly.

‘Shut up!' Samy yells at Wasim.

‘Don't hurt me!' Wasim cries, raising his hands to his face.

Samy gives us both a disgusted look and then takes off, sprinting out of the alley.

‘Wait!' I cry and chase after him.

The camp is full of alleyways and passages, and my heart pounds hard as I try to match Samy's cracking pace and keep him in my vision.

‘Stop!' I cry out through panted breath, but he doesn't. I follow him through the crowded streets, dodging pedestrians and traffic. My lungs are burning now and I want to cry from the pain. Finally, Samy turns into a dingy alley between two crumbling apartment blocks. It's a dead end. Parked at the end is a wrecked car. The alley reeks: overflowing rubbish bags lie in stinking piles here and there.

I stop and rest my hands on my knees, leaning forward and trying to catch my breath. I'm too shattered to look at Samy. I concentrate on relaxing my lungs. I wonder where Wasim is but then I decide I don't care. I don't care about anything except breathing.

Finally my lungs calm and that's when I hear the sound of glass smashing onto the ground. I look up and see Samy standing next to the car. Shards of glass dangle precariously from the rear window. The trunk of the car is covered in shattered glass. Samy bobs down to the ground and picks up a big rock.

‘Stop!' I yell. I run up to him. I'm angry now. Angry that he's lost control. Angry that things have turned out this way. Angry at Wasim, at this stinking alley, at stupid soccer dreams. But most of all I'm angry at Samy for giving up so easily.

I place myself between him and the car and give him a menacing look. ‘Put that down,' I say in a no-nonsense tone. ‘Get a grip. You're acting like someone who's escaped from an asylum.'

‘Mind your own business. You're always in my face.'

‘Yeah, and that's a good thing. Somebody with a bit of sense has to keep an eye on you.'

‘This has nothing to do with you.'

‘I'm not going anywhere,' I say, folding my arms across my chest. ‘You've already damaged this car and nearly bashed Wasim. And I bet you still feel like crap.'

‘Yeah I do. But I'd feel better if you shut up and let me smash this other window.'

He moves to the front of the car and raises the rock, aiming it at the windscreen. ‘Get out of the way or you'll get hurt.'

‘You moron, look at my face. There's glass lodged in there that the doctors couldn't even remove. You think I'm scared of a bit of windscreen? Go ahead.' I'm scared but I stand my ground, trying to sound as fearless as I can.

Samy seems determined. He raises the rock higher and I resist taking a step back. He takes aim again and then screams, throwing the rock against the wall, away from us. He falls to the ground and starts to cry noiselessly. I'm shocked. It's too terrible to imagine Samy crying, let alone witness it.

I don't approach him until he regains control. It seems the decent thing to do.

He crunches his knees up under his chin and stares down at the ground. I take a tentative step towards him, slowly lower myself down to his level and then sit.

‘If you tell anyone I cried—'

‘Cried?' I scoff, cutting him off. ‘I didn't see you cry.'

He nods once and I know we have an understanding.

We sit in silence for a while. I stare at the broken glass on the ground, admiring the way the last rays of the afternoon sun bounce off the little pieces and create small rainbows on the wall.

It's Samy who breaks the silence. ‘I told you there was no point in dreaming,' he says quietly.

‘That's not true . . . It's all we have. Sitti Zeynab says—'

He looks up, his face twisted with disappointment and anger. ‘You have a grandmother to talk to, but my mother is dead and my father is locked up. I can't speak to Amto Christina and Amo Joseph. I've got nobody . . . I'm nobody. I thought this would be my chance . . . Well, there's no point, is there?'

‘There is a point . . . Look at me. My face is wrecked. And Maysaa is dead. Samy, she's dead! And Baba mopes around all day and Mama nags and Sitti Zeynab remembers and always there's the mirror or reflection in a shop window, reminding me of that day. But Mama says we have two choices in this world. We either try to survive or we give up.'

‘But I don't want to simply survive. Can't you see the difference between surviving and living?'

‘I don't know . . . There are times I want to curl up in my bed and shut down . . . But I can't bring myself to because I think . . . well, I think it's easier to hope than to give up. It doesn't seem that way but it is. I look at Baba and his depression is eating away at him. He walks past the pantry door and when he sees the jars of olive oil we buy from the shops he slams the door shut and mopes around for the rest of the day . . . But I look at Sitti Zeynab. And she can still laugh and forgive.'

‘Forgive?' he says bitterly. ‘Never.'

I shrug. ‘Who knows? But maybe Mama's wrong, Samy.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Maybe it's not about survival. Maybe we have to learn how to live with purpose.'

‘Well, what's my purpose?'

‘How am I supposed to know?'

‘You mentioned it.'

‘All I know is that it's not contained in this alley. And it was never in Wasim's hands.'

He stands up and dusts his pants off. ‘What's that smell?'

I stand up too. ‘It's the alley. Of all the places to stop in you had to choose this dump.'

‘It's not my camp. How was I supposed to know where to stop? I was tired. An empty alley seemed like a good idea at the time.'

‘Leave the good ideas to me next time.'

‘You sure do talk a lot.'

I raise an eyebrow at him. ‘What did you expect? That I'd let you break Wasim's nose?'

‘At least it would have felt good and we could have avoided all this girl talk.'

I throw my hands in the air. ‘I give up on you!'

The corner of his mouth turns up into a half-smile. ‘Don't do that, Hayaat,' he says quietly. ‘Come on, I'll race you back.'

 

 

I ask Baba to take me to visit Maysaa's grave. I haven't been since the funeral and I want to say goodbye properly. He's surprised but he agrees.

He walks with me through the Christian quarter of the cemetery. I grab onto his hand. He squeezes it tightly and I'm glad.

‘Here it is,' Baba says softly, and I look at the headstone. Fresh flowers have been placed on the stone. I bury my face against Baba.

‘It's okay,' he says quietly, over and over again. ‘She's at peace. To God do we belong and to God will we return, Hayaat.'

I remember hearing that when Maysaa's mother returned home from the funeral she closed the bedroom door behind her, sat in front of her dressing table and tore out chunks of her hair with her fingers. Plucked it out like a cook plucking the feathers from a chicken. She wore a black veil to the funeral. Her husband and sons held her up as she wailed and beat her fists on her chest.

My face was covered in bandages. People stared at me and I wanted to climb into Maysaa's coffin and bury myself with her. Mama held me tight, ensconcing me against her soft stomach as tears poured down her face. Baba wore his
keffiyeh
and carried a pocket-sized Koran in his trembling hands. He didn't read from it, merely stroked its edges, turning it over and over in his hands. He didn't bring his larger Koran. Maysaa was Christian and Baba didn't want to offend her family, although, as all good Muslims do, he probably prayed for her soul and, as all good Christians do, they probably prayed for ours.

The coffin was mahogany, the priest's face rosy-pink. He stood over the coffin, reading aloud from the Bible. Maysaa's brothers threw themselves onto the coffin, their eyes wild with grief as they hugged and kissed the wood. I wanted to run up to them and reassure them Maysaa was not,
could
not, be lying lifeless in that box of wood. Later that night I marvelled at the fact that the moon rose and the stars shone as though untouched by Maysaa's death. They had no right, I thought to myself.

As I watched Maysaa's coffin being lowered to the ground, I tried to ignore people's stares and hushed conversations about me. The priest was talking about Maysaa returning to the Creator. He was telling us to be brave. He didn't understand that she was going to be a
dabka
star. That we had dreams to win every competition. That we planned to make it to the championships and maybe even get on television. Nobody understood that she died with her eyes open because she wasn't ready to leave.

I hid behind my bandages, fighting back the tears. I watched them bury Maysaa and I wanted to vomit. I kept seeing her bullet-shattered head, her lifeless body. The men poured dirt over the coffin and I willed myself to throw my memories of that day into the hole in the ground.

But instead my memories of all the good times with Maysaa had been buried.

‘Hayaat?' Baba cups my chin in his hand and tilts my head up. ‘You'll be okay. I know. You're stronger than I am. Sometimes I feel like I've failed you all. I cling to the past when I know it's dangerous to do so . . . But if I let go, what else do I have?'