The Allspice Bath

by Sonia Saikaley

  “We’re still thinking about it,” Youssef answered, his tone harsh.

  “Well, sir, we’ll need a name because your wife’s being discharged tomorrow and the baby needs to be registered with the province.” The nurse picked up the baby, held her in her arms. She rocked her back and forth, then handed her to Youssef. “What about Adele? Adele Azar. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you agree?”

  “Adele Azar,” Youssef repeated over and over as he cradled his new daughter in his arms, the creases in his forehead gradually softening.

  PART I: 1976-1985

  CHAPTER 1

  “SO WHAT’S YOUR NAME, HONEY?” a customer asked. Adele stood behind the counter beside her father. Her thick curly hair was the only thing the customer could see. Standing on her toes, she peered over the edge and glanced at the man.

  “I’m Adele,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Youssef looked down at his youngest daughter, then patted the unruly head of curls.

  “I haven’t seen you here before, except when you were a wee thing. Youssef, you start working them young, eh?”

  Youssef laughed. “Well, she’s almost six. Back in the old country a child starts working in the fields as soon as he can walk.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the customer said, smiling. He looked at Adele again. “Don’t believe a thing your old man says.”

  Adele smiled timidly at the man with grey hair who held a large cigar between his fingers. The smell of tobacco floated in her nostrils, making her rub her nose. She then hid her face in her father’s hip.

  “She’s a little shy,” Youssef said.

  “That’s okay. She’ll grow out of it.” The customer leaned over the counter and patted her head, then handed her a quarter. “A tip for the beautiful girl.”

  “What do you say to the nice man, Adele?” Youssef said in a humble voice.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, holding tightly onto the coin before slipping it into her pocket.

  “So how many does this make?” the man asked, lifting the cigar to his mouth and taking a long puff.

  Youssef looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “How many girls you got now? Four? You poor man! Wait until they hit puberty. Being the beauties that they are, you’ll have tons of hounds at your door. You remember how young guys are, don’t you?” the man chuckled. Then he looked down at Adele. “And that little one with her curly hair and large eyes, she’ll drive the boys crazy. You poor man!”

  Youssef frowned and gazed down at his daughter beside him. Looking up, he said, “Thanks. Have a good day.” He began to wipe the counter with a rag.

  “Okay, okay, I get the hint. No more talk about hounds!” the man laughed then puffed on his cigar once more, leaving a strong scent of tobacco in the air before pulling open the door and stepping outside.

  Youssef folded the rag and placed it under the counter in a small drawer. Without once making contact with his daughter’s large, curious eyes, he grabbed a thicker rag and led Adele to the wooden cupboards, showed her how to dust the jars of marmalade, boxes of pasta, and canned foods, and then wipe the surface clean before placing the items back in neat, perfect lines. On her knees, she followed her father’s directions, wrapping her small hands around the cloth, gathering balls of dust.

  You poor man! Four girls. As Adele grew up, she heard this again and again. She knew that being a girl was not a good thing but she couldn’t understand why her father had wanted a son so badly. One Sunday morning, she had ventured to ask him this very question while he was tending the shop before his cousin arrived to relieve him so he could attend Sunday mass with his daughters and wife. Adele was nine. Standing in her church clothes, Adele said, “Babba?”

  “Yes, Adele,” Youssef answered, filling up the shelf behind the front counter with packages of cigarettes. His navy suit jacket fit tightly around his shoulders and for one second, Adele thought the seams might rip when he reached into the carton to get more packages.

  “Why do people feel bad because you don’t have a son?”

  Youssef stopped his task and looked across at his youngest daughter. She crossed her arms over her small chest, wrinkling her lacy pink dress. Her full lips were pale against her olive complexion and her eyes were opened wide. Without answering her question, he bent down, lifted the last pack of tobacco, and placed it on the wooden shelf.

  “Babba, what’s wrong?” Adele asked, her voice rising slightly.

  “Nothing, babba,” he said, using the endearing term for his children which was also the way his children addressed him.

  “Did you want a boy?”

  Turning around, he looked at Adele. This time her eyes narrowed and her small teeth tugged on her bottom lip.

  “Every man wants a son, of course. I’m no different but your mother didn’t give me one.”

  “So,” she paused, “you wanted me to be a boy?”

  “What I wanted doesn’t matter now, does it? I have you. I can’t change that.”

  Adele turned and ran out the front door, slamming it hard against the yellow stucco of the grocery store, shutting her father’s tiny shop out of her world.

  Later, Adele pulled one of the hefty wooden double doors of the church open, holding it for her sisters, mother and father. But her Babba refused to walk through it, staying behind until she walked ahead of him. The church was crowded. Adele stared up at the domed ceiling, eyeing the colourful icons of the saints. The priest was going around the church with a censer filling the enormous room with the aroma and smoke of incense. The Azar family hurried to a pew, and filled its entire length with five females and one man.

  In contrast to the priest’s extravagant, golden robe, Youssef’s suit looked out of style. Adele stared at Father Chafic as he made his way around the church that was the worshipping place for all of Ottawa’s Orthodox Lebanese. The pews were packed with people. Adele couldn’t remember another parish priest; Father Chafic had baptised her and conducted all the sermons she had attended in her short life. He was a tall and domineering man with a body as sturdy as a fisherman’s. A full beard, streaked with silver in some places, covered his wide jaw. His nose was long and hooked like a bird of prey, Adele thought. She was always afraid of getting pecked when she leaned in and accepted a piece of holy bread at the end of each service.

  While Father Chafic reminded her of a vulture, the women in the church made her think of movie stars because they were dressed stylishly in skirts, fancy blouses and dresses, hair held in place by clips or layers of hairspray. Gold bangles clunked on their wrists every time they made the sign of the cross, which was frequently, given the number of times Father Chafic chanted “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Make-up was thick on the women’s faces, darkening their olive skin even in the glow of the huge chandelier, hanging in the centre of the domed ceiling. Adele glanced from the painted icons to the beautiful faces of the women to the priest. A few altar boys surrounded him, hands clasped together, heads bowed in prayer.

  Shortly after, Father Chafic stretched his long, husky arm towards the large hampers of holy bread on the gold-embroidered cloth table by the altar. The boys hurriedly gathered the woven baskets filled with the sweet, orange-blossom flavoured ourban. Adele took a deep breath, letting the smell float into her small nose. She knew these loaves were offered to the church by one of the parishioners who was celebrating a baby’s baptismal or remembering a loved one who now lived in Heaven. Tiny religious seals were stamped on the holy bread. She had learned from her mother what they had meant and why five large loaves should be offered to the church: the seal taken from the first loaf became Holy Communion; the second was offered to the Mother of God; the third to the angels and saints; the fourth to the living; and the fifth to the deceased. After the altar boys collected the baskets, they took their spots beside the priest as parishioners began to make their way down the g
reen-carpeted centre aisle of the church. Before this procession, Samira touched Adele’s head, patting down the loose curls. “Remember to cross yourself after you drink from the cup, habibti,” Samira whispered, bending down to her youngest child.

  “I don’t want to.”

  Youssef heaved a sigh of impatience, then glared across at Adele. “Ayb. This is a holy place, remember? You mustn’t disobey your father. He’s watching you.” He raised his index finger to the ceiling, pointed at the icon of Jesus, his arms stretching open.

  “I don’t want to drink that stuff. It’s gross. I hate it!” Adele pouted, clasping her hands on the edge of the pew. She looked at her sisters but they only fidgeted and waited until their parents were ready to guide them down the aisle.

  Samira was pleading now. “Please, habibti, don’t be difficult. If you do it, I promise to make your favourite dish for lunch, okay?”

  “Enough!” Youssef bellowed, his voice rising above the shuffling feet and whispered conversations of the others. Some people turned around to check the commotion, eager to witness an outburst that would become gossip over a cup of ahweh. The stares made Youssef lower his tone. “Don’t bribe her, Samira. She has to learn our ways.” He grasped Adele’s hand and tugged on her arm until she stood before Father Chafic. She opened her mouth and swallowed the red wine filled with crumbs of holy bread and a few seconds later snatched a large piece of bread from the basket. Then she began to walk towards the altar. But before she could take another step, the chanter of the church blocked her way. “What are you doing? You’re not allowed here. Go,” he said, shooing her with his hands and speaking in a flat voice, beads of sweat dripping around his temples. His head was shaved, though stubs of black patches were beginning to grow. A dark cloak covered his short, heavy body.

  “I just wanted to…” Adele struggled to find the right words. Her eyes scanned the room, trying to find her mother and father but they had started to make their way down the aisle, towards the front gigantic door.

  “You hear me. Don’t ever come this way. It’s not right for a girl to be up here. You’re not allowed.” He didn’t make eye contact.

  “I’m sorry,” Adele replied in a barely audible voice. The man waited for her to leave before he joined the priest and altar boys. Adele turned and glanced at him. He now smiled, standing with the men. Looking away, she saw her father, his hand on the door, ready to push it open, but then he hesitated and watched her, his head shaking. Adele opened her mouth, tried to explain to her father that she only wanted to see what was behind the altar like the altar boys. Why couldn’t she go back there like them? It didn’t seem fair. But instead she said nothing. Her father’s accusing eyes bore into hers. Then he muttered something under his breath and ushered his daughters out into one of the last hot days of summer.

  “Why can’t I go behind the altar, Mama?” Adele said, now running up to her mother.

  Samira looked down and sighed. “You just can’t.”

  Just then, her father blurted, “Women don’t serve behind the altar, so there is no reason for them to go there. It’s just the way things are. You have to learn to accept this, Adele.”

  Adele clasped her mother’s hand as they quickly walked away, carrying the smell of incense and rosewater in their thick, curly hair.

  At home, Adele followed her sisters upstairs and stripped off her pink dress, replacing it with her swimsuit. Her father had promised them earlier that they could head out to their neighbours’ house after church to cool off in the sprinklers. With a few quick movements, Adele gathered her towel and put on her sandals then raced down the stairs behind her sisters. They all ran through the store, shouting goodbye at their father before being engulfed by the humidity of the noon hour.

  Adele walked a step behind her sisters down their small street. She watched them speak to each other as if they had their own special language. They talked about clothes, music and, lately, a lot about boys. Rima was now sixteen and that’s all she seemed interested in, Adele thought. Boys. Boys. Boys. Katrina seemed the least concerned with the other gender, but she still leaned in close when the sisters huddled together and giggled about one of the neighbourhood boys while he pedalled down the road, waving at the sisters. Her sisters walked close together as if one unit, connected by the same dark hair and similar strides—small shoulders slightly hunched and a bit of a bounce in their swaggers. From behind, Adele studied her sisters. They seemed to fit together. Now, walking with a bounce and rolling in her shoulders, she tried emulating them. She wanted to squeeze her body between theirs and fit in too, but instead she lagged a step behind. If she knew then that this was how things would always be for her with her sisters, she wouldn’t have bothered to protest when they excluded her or tried so hard to fit in with them.

  Shrugging, she quickened her pace, skipping past her sisters and unlatching the steel fence to her neighbours’ house. She ran up the walkway, up onto the porch and softly knocked on the large wooden door. Behind her, she watched her sisters sitting patiently on the steps, hands folded on their laps, towels wrapped around their waists, barely covering their bony legs. In a matter of minutes, the door opened and a woman with sandy-coloured hair streaked with silver at the temples greeted Adele. Estelle Foster had lived on this block for many years. She and her husband owned the enormous house that the sisters called “The White House.” It was a three-storey Victorian home with pillars positioned along the spacious veranda. Adele was enchanted by the old white house, convinced the large house itself yearned for the voices of children.

  She liked the scent of pine that floated into her nostrils every time she followed Mrs. Foster inside. It was so different from her parents’ home. There were piles of books in every room, even the bathroom. There was also a grand piano. Given the right amount of coaxing, which wasn’t much, Mrs. Foster would pull out the bench, stretch out her legs under the piano, and play a lovely tune of Bach or Mozart, her long fingers gracefully flying over the ivory keys. Now her fingers ruffled Adele’s mop of curls. “Hello, dear. I see you’ve come all prepared.” She looked down at the young girl’s pink and white-striped swimsuit. “You want to cool off in the sprinkler, don’t you?”

  Smiling, Adele nodded.

  “Well at least you don’t beat around the bush. You know what you want. That’s one of the reasons I like you—you’re feisty,” Mrs. Foster said, throwing her head back and laughing a big belly-laugh. Mrs. Foster was different. Most of Adele’s older women aunts and cousins never laughed out loud, only smiled occasionally with their painted lips pressed tight together, hiding or preventing a wide grin from overtaking their faces. Motioning for Adele to follow, Mrs. Foster said, “Let’s get some brownies for you girls to munch on before playing in the water.” Her slightly plump body strode toward the kitchen in a confident, happy way.

  Adele followed her neighbour down the dimly-lit hallway, stealing glances into the large rooms she passed on her way to the kitchen. When she entered the pantry, she noticed Mr. Foster sitting at the small oak table, reading a newspaper. As soon as he saw her, he folded the paper and laid it down on the table. “Hello, Adele,” he said in a deep, warm voice, his smile wide. “How’s one of my favourite Azar girls?”

  “Good,” Adele replied timidly.

  He smiled again. Harold Foster was a tall, lanky man, his long legs spread wide and cramped under the kitchen table. When he leaned his elbows on the edge of the table, his tall posture was more predominant in the way he held himself up. He wore metal-wired glasses and a dark plaid shirt.

  “The girls are beating the heat by running through the sprinkler. What do you think, Harold? Should we join them?” Mrs. Foster said, winking at her husband.

  “Most definitely!” He pushed back his chair and rose, his towering frame in its full magnificence. “Let me grab my trunks!”

  Raising her hands to her mouth, Adele giggled. “Adults aren’t allowed to play.”<
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  Mr. Foster placed his hands on his hips and frowned, biting his lower lip to prevent a grin from breaking forth. “Jeez, but I was looking forward to joining you girls. It seems like such fun!”

  “It is,” Adele said.

  “Well, can’t you make an exception and let an old man like me play?” Mr. Foster loved teasing Adele.

  Adele stood firm in her conviction. “But you can’t. Adults can’t play. Adults only work and take care of family things.” She tried to remember if her parents had ever joined her and her sisters when they played together but she couldn’t recall such a time.

  “I see,” Mr. Foster said, rubbing his chin. He went to pull the chair back so he could sit down again, but then Adele tugged at his shirt. Sighing loudly, she gave in. “It’s your sprinkler so I can’t say ‘no’. You can play but only this one time, okay?”

  He clicked his heels together and bowed to Adele. “Thank you, dear.” Then he bent down and scooped Adele up in his arms. He spun her around and around. Adele laughed out loud.

  With a good-humoured groan, Mrs. Foster said, “Now, Harold, put her down. You’ll make her so dizzy that she won’t be able to stand straight.”

  When he put Adele down a few minutes later, she wobbled unsteadily on her feet, holding onto the edge of the kitchen table for support. “Now, now, dear, don’t worry. She’s okay. See,” he said, pointing at the young girl who now stood with her back straight, having regained her balance.

  “Mr. Foster’s right. I’m okay. Don’t worry, Mrs. Foster.” She felt a deep awe for Mrs. Foster. She would have liked to embrace her but she didn’t. Instead, she waved at Mr. Foster, as he resumed his reading at the kitchen table and followed Mrs. Foster down the hall, who carried a tray of lemonade and brownies. Adele wished she could live inside these walls permanently rather than only on certain occasions.