The Stray Cats of Homs

by Eva Nour

  His mother seemed to feel guilty about the white duck and gave Sami a calligraphy set. The sharpened edge of the wooden pen was dipped in black ink and scratched across the paper. He slowly moved from right to left, letter by letter. His siblings each received a sign with their name on to put on the door of their room.

  First, he wrote his brother’s name, Ali, who was the oldest and tallest of the three. Sami looked up to him. When he walked, his tanned arms were in constant motion, as though he were restless or on his way somewhere important. Ali didn’t like being told what to do. He was sociable, well-liked and always surrounded by friends, who didn’t even seem to notice he had a stutter. He did well in school but it was not his first priority. That was why he got into so many arguments with their father. Nabil believed people should apply themselves and work hard, and, for some mysterious reason, that precluded spending a lot of time with friends.

  Sami wrote Hiba’s name in smaller script on his own sign because they shared a room. They played and fought almost all the time. He didn’t think of her as different but was aware something separated them. He could tell from the way their father gave Hiba, but not his sons, little presents, like jewellery and sweets. When Sami pointed that out, Nabil asked if he was a girl. It was the same thing when Hiba was allowed an extra hour of computer games.

  ‘Are you a girl? No, well, there you go then.’

  The computer had been a compromise in the family. Their father had also agreed to have a TV, so long as they put the remote in a plastic case to protect it from dust. For Nabil, the radio would have been enough. He listened with his chair turned to face the set, claiming he could hear better when he saw where the sound was coming from. Their father worked at the train station and had little time for new-fangled things. The railroad was a remnant of another era. Most people drove between cities; tourists and the odd commuter were the only ones who chose the train. Sometimes Sami went with his father to work. A white-haired man with a watch chain in his waistcoat would cycle up to the rails and turn the tracks when a train was approaching. Automated switches and the internet, what were those things? Nothing but a fad.

  In the end, their father let them talk him into buying a computer. He had grown up in less affluent circumstances and wanted his children to have what he hadn’t. Samira sided with the children and was used to having her way. Her strong will had come in useful when she and Nabil had first met and fallen in love. Her family were better off and considered more cultured, and required a good deal of convincing before they approved the marriage.

  Not long after the wedding – perhaps not long enough – Ali was born. A couple of years later, Hiba arrived. His parents had grown blasé with two children before Sami, their relatives would say, and that was why there were no baby pictures of him. In his first photograph, he was six and dressed in the black-and-yellow penguin jumper.

  ‘That’s because our parents found you in the street,’ Hiba said at the dinner table once.

  Sami ran into his room and pulled his quilt cover over his head, pretending he was hiding underneath all the rivers and deserts and hills his country contained. He knew Hiba was lying but he couldn’t be completely sure. Maybe something about him was different, maybe he didn’t belong? A corner of the cover was lifted and Hiba’s cat-like eyes squinted down at him.

  ‘I was just kidding, you’re my brother.’ She pointed to three white dots next to the thumb on his left hand. ‘Look, this is where I bit you when you were little.’

  Sami followed his sister back into the kitchen so as not to miss dessert. When they gathered around the table, their father said they needed him to write one more sign. Samira stroked Nabil’s back, and he returned her smile and gently put a hand on her belly.

  ‘Is it true?’ Hiba gasped. ‘Are we getting a little brother?’

  Sami muttered silently, looked down and scratched his spoon against the plate.

  3

  A COOL BREEZE wafted around his ankles when Sami put his feet down on the floor. He checked that the envelope was in the outer pocket of his new backpack, a gift from when he turned twelve last month, and felt a thrill of anticipation in the pit of his stomach. He even beat Hiba into the shower and didn’t have to worry about the hot water.

  No one seemed to notice that Sami wasn’t touching his breakfast. Samira was busy pitting black olives, asking Hiba about her chemistry homework and reminding Ali to pick up the chocolate cake on his way home from school. It was 1999 and that evening they were celebrating Malik’s first birthday. Malik, who was at that moment smearing hummus all over the kitchen table while screaming for attention, his cheeks a deep red. Sami felt he resembled a pet more than a new sibling.

  Sami crept into the hallway and noticed that his grandpa Faris was already standing in front of the oval gold-framed mirror next to the mahogany chest of drawers. Half of him was in shadow; a ray of sunlight across his face lit up one cheek, his strong nose, a thick moustache that hid his top lip and his wavy raven hair, similar to Nabil’s, which made him look like one of the Roman statues at the national museum. He spent at least fifteen minutes in front of the mirror every morning in the quest for a perfect side-parting.

  ‘Would you like a couple of drops?’

  Sami’s friends used hair gel but he preferred hair oil. It was fragrance-free and smooth to the touch and had an aura of elegance, which probably sprang more from Grandpa Faris than the oil itself. He was wearing pressed suit trousers, a snow-white shirt and patent leather shoes. His cane was made of walnut and specially ordered from Aleppo. Walking with Grandpa Faris was like being out with a celebrity. He said hello to his neighbours, asked about sick relatives, girlfriends and newborn babies, smiled at clever anecdotes, dispensed advice to people who found themselves in a pickle and listened whenever anyone needed to vent.

  ‘You should run for parliament,’ people would tell him.

  Grandpa Faris would laugh and raise his hand in self-deprecation, which inevitably made his admirer insist.

  ‘You should. I would vote for you!’

  Grandpa Faris would resist making any sarcastic response about the so-called voting procedure, the kind of comment he sometimes made when they were alone, just the two of them.

  ‘When you’re older, you’ll see how it’s done. They give you a ballot with two boxes, yes or no, to the sitting president Hafez al-Assad. Because our leader is a generous man who listens to the will of the people, they are given a completely free choice … yes or no …’

  Sometimes Sami accompanied Grandpa Faris in the evenings, at the hour when the moon rose through the sky. The walk took them to the famous souk, the old market in the city centre, where the winding alleys opened into food stands and small shops that sold everything between heaven and earth. That was when Grandpa Faris would tell him about the French company he had worked for in the 1940s, when Syria was under French rule. Granted, the French had been no angels, and a lot of people had been killed back then, but they were respectful, according to Grandpa Faris. Like if the French soldiers were chasing a suspected rebel and he ran into a church or a mosque, well, they wouldn’t run after him and shoot him in there. Some things had been sacred, even to the French occupiers.

  ‘Besides, it’s thanks to the French we eat croissants,’ he said. ‘And some of the words you use are from the French, like canapé and chauffage.’

  Now they were standing side by side in front of the mirror, each applying oil to a dark swirl of hair. Grandpa Faris tilted Sami’s chin up, adjusted an out-of-place strand and asked if there was something special happening that day. It couldn’t be helped; Sami’s cheeks flushed.

  ‘It’s just a theatre play at school.’

  ‘Then maybe you’d like to try a bit of perfume?’

  Sami studied the result in the mirror. Newly ironed khaki shirt, oil-combed hair and a cloud of oud around him. Then he passed the kitchen, where Malik had moved on to throwing olives on the floor, and hurried out the door.

  His best friend Muh
ammed was already waiting at the corner, his freckly face hidden beneath a bird’s nest of curly hair. Sami was jealous because his friend was taller than him, but he was also proud because everyone believed that Muhammed was in high school already, which made Sami feel mature by association.

  ‘Wow, what’s that smell?’ Muhammed asked, sniffing the air.

  His friend had recently started wearing spectacles and the thick glass made his eyes look bigger, like he was in constant surprise.

  ‘Nothing,’ Sami said. ‘Come on. Let’s see who gets to Nassim first.’

  The street had flooded after the night’s spring rain and they zigzagged between pools that looked like drops of the sky had fallen on the asphalt. There was the rattling sound of metal shutters being pulled up, the chirping from small birds, the cries of mothers who shouted at their children to hurry up for school. Muhammed seemed to win the race but slowed down at the end to give Sami a chance to catch up.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Sami panted. ‘Your legs are too long.’

  ‘Too long! Your legs are too short.’

  They walked into Nassim’s store, which was similar to many of the small shops on the street. All owned by old men who spent their days listening to the radio channel Monte Carlo, talking to customers and filling the shelves with goods from floor to ceiling.

  ‘You are lucky, boys, the bread car just came.’

  Sami bought them a croissant each, and Muhammed promised to pay him the next day, which he rarely did, but it didn’t matter. Muhammed had lived with just his mother and three siblings since their father was imprisoned when Muhammed was little. It wasn’t something they talked about. Like Sami never mentioned that Muhammed’s school uniform was slightly outgrown, the colours faded and the sleeves frayed. Sami’s mum usually put an extra apple or banana in his backpack to give to his friend at lunchtime.

  ‘Bye, Abu Nassim, see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Bye, boys, be good and study well.’

  On the street they greeted a teacher, and when they passed an all-girls school, they slowed down and peeked silently through the fence. Their school was mixed, with boys and girls, but there was something special about that place. At least, up until recently, when Sami had found a new interest in his own school.

  Their school was built out of basalt – Homs was known as the city of black stones – and surrounded by high walls and fences. Songs with zealous choruses echoed across the schoolyard from speakers. A lot of them were about the invisible enemy just down the road: Israel, waiting for a chance to destroy them. Back then, he didn’t connect the songs with a real country with real inhabitants. It was just part of the school day, like maths, art and military studies.

  Sami lined up with his classmates and waited for the morning lecture, delivered by their headmistress, an older woman with candyfloss hair gathered in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. First the Syrian flag was raised, then the flag of the Baath Party.

  ‘Repeat after me,’ the headmistress said as feedback surged through the speakers. ‘With our soul, with our blood, we submit to al-Assad.’

  ‘With our soul, with our blood, we submit to al-Assad!’

  ‘And what do we fight for? Unity, freedom and socialism.’

  ‘Unity, freedom and socialism!’

  She inspected the rows of khaki school uniforms over her rimless glasses. The morning assembly continued with her scolding the students, one by one or in groups, while thwacking the ground with a switch. Sami had never seen her use the switch on anyone but even so it was a relief when, after repeating her phrases about the almighty father of their country, the eternal and wonderful, they were allowed to march into their classrooms. Especially since this term he had been sitting behind a girl he had only recently noticed.

  Yasmin never raised her hand if she could help it, but if she was asked a question she always knew the answer. Sami studied the back of her neck during English class until she turned around and he looked down at his notebook. He wondered how it would be to run his hand through her dark hair, gathered in a ponytail, and feel the gentle curve of her head under his fingertips.

  A few months earlier, while he was lost in thought at his desk, a crumpled-up note had hit his cheek. Sami saw Muhammed’s crooked grin on the opposite side of the classroom. His best friend had a way of butting into situations that were none of his business. Sometimes in an attempt to come to the rescue, like by taking the blame if Sami forgot his homework, or, like this time, by throwing a note to set things in motion. 1 + 1 = 69. He wasn’t sure what it meant but he sensed it referred to something adults did in secret.

  ‘Can I borrow your pen?’ Yasmin asked.

  ‘This one?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a pen, isn’t it?’

  He gave it to her and the note accidentally slipped from his hand. ‘Oh, I guess I wrote that wrong …’ he mumbled when she read it.

  ‘I guess you did. It’s actually two,’ she said and drew a 2. ‘Which is also good.’

  After that, Yasmin always greeted him with an ahlain or marhabtain, two hellos or double hi. If Sami grabbed a juice box in the canteen, Yasmin would appear behind him. Shouldn’t you be grabbing two? When they were sitting on a stone bench in the schoolyard and someone asked if there was room for them, she said, Sorry, this is a bench for two. They lay down on their backs with their heads close together and looked for shapes and signs in the clouds. When he quickly kissed her on the way home, under a tree with low-hanging oranges, she said: Two. Everything was better doubled.

  Yasmin and he spent all their time together, just the two of them, for a while. Then a new boy started in their class. Haydar. He wore the same school uniform as the rest of them, but it looked more ironed, and he had a silver wristwatch as well. The school guard wasn’t supposed to accept jewellery but she only smiled and let him pass at the gate. Both the guard and their teachers were delighted at Haydar’s politeness and sarcastic jokes, little knowing that during break-time he swore more than all the other students put together. Worst of all was that the new boy was good-looking. Handsome, even. High cheekbones and dark eyes under thick, blond hair. Yasmin invited Haydar to join their games and let him sit with them at lunch. There’s only room for two, Sami wanted to say, but heard how silly it would have sounded.

  He noticed how Yasmin changed when Haydar was around. Before, she loved asking him to crack his knuckles. Now she said it sounded gross. Before, they would compare comic books, but since Haydar didn’t bother with reading, now Yasmin didn’t either.

  This particular day, during lunch break, the envelope was burning in his breast pocket as the students gathered around the kiosk to buy croissants and manakish, a sort of mini pizza with thyme and sesame seed. Sami looked out for Yasmin but just as he spotted her among a group of girls playing basketball, the bell rang.

  Military class was next. Their usual teacher was ill and there were no substitutes, so their religious studies teacher filled in. She wore a silver cross around her neck and balanced her short and stout body on a pair of black heels. She was a mild woman who took the time to answer their questions, and sometimes her eyes would wander to the orange trees outside the classroom as she took off on philosophical flights of fancy. In the schoolyard, however, she underwent a personality transformation before their very eyes.

  Clouds hid the sun, plunging the schoolyard into shadow, when she called out for everyone to line up. The first fifteen minutes was theory. She held up a Kalashnikov, described the various parts – the wooden butt, the magazine, the adjustable iron sight – and where to insert the cartridges.

  ‘This is the setting for fully automatic, and this is for semi-automatic, in other words, for firing one bullet at a time.’

  A student raised his hand.

  ‘Miss, how fast can you shoot?’

  ‘Well, it depends on the model, but this could probably do six hundred rounds a minute.’

  Then it was time for practical exercises, but not with the rifle. Their teacher ordered them to d
o gymnastics and formations. Dressed in their school uniforms, they obeyed her commands. When Yasmin fell and scraped her knee, she was told to do ten extra push-ups. When she was done, Haydar held his hand out to her and the silver watch shone in the shade.

  ‘Straight line!’

  The teacher asked Sami to stay after class was over. Why had he looked so distracted? She leaned forward and sniffed the air. He was afraid she would comment on the perfume, even though she herself walked around in a cloud of artificial lavender, but she pointed to his oil-combed hair.

  ‘Ask your mother to take you to the hairdresser. Your hair is getting long.’

  He had not managed to talk to Yasmin yet, but then he saw her waiting for him on the front steps. There she sat, with a beaming smile and sparkling braces. Haydar sat next to her.

  ‘Hello, hi,’ Sami said.

  ‘Hello,’ Yasmin replied.

  Haydar rummaged around in his bag and said there they were, the theatre tickets.

  ‘Great, what are we seeing?’ Sami said.

  He tried to sound normal, as though his heart was not in his mouth. The envelope he had brought from home, which had been sitting in his breast pocket all day, contained exactly that, theatre tickets. He would have preferred to take Yasmin to the cinema, but Homs had only old cinemas that showed black and white films and were rumoured to be places where criminals went to strike deals.

  ‘We only bought two,’ Yasmin said, shifting uncomfortably. ‘They’re for Romeo and Juliet, and you don’t like it.’

  Granted, he didn’t, but he could have liked it if they had asked. The tickets he had bought were for a comedy that Yasmin would probably find childish, he realized now.