A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  He frowned.

  ‘Don’t call him that, Safiya. It’s rude. Abu Mustapha may have a big nose, but . . .’

  ‘Sorry, Baba, but I’m scared of him! It was his fault we had to leave home! What if – if – they follow him here? We’d have to run away again!’

  Baba patted the mattress beside him.

  ‘Sit down, ya albi, my heart. That’s not going to happen.’

  ‘But . . .’

  He put his arm round me.

  ‘We’re safe now. Safe! I feel so bad about you and Tariq, but I had to do what I did. Abu Mustapha is a good man. He needed a lawyer, and I was the only one who would help him. If we don’t stand up for justice, what kind of people are we?’

  I snuggled against him. This was the old Baba, my real Baba, strong and brave. It felt so lovely sitting there with his arm round me that I stopped listening to what he was saying. I was in my bed at home. I’d had a bad dream and he’d come to me in the night to comfort me and send me back to sleep.

  He gave me a nudge.

  ‘Haven’t you been listening, little dreamer?’

  ‘Sorry, Baba. What did you say?’

  ‘No salon for you tomorrow. I need you here to get the tent cleaned up, buy some snacks, welcome our guest . . .’

  ‘But Um Khalid . . .’

  ‘She can do without you for once.’

  I pulled away from him, annoyed. Why was I always the one who had to give things up?

  ‘There’s no point in pretending we’re not homeless refugees,’ he went on, ‘but we can show that we have our self-respect. You need to clean the tent up, Safiya. Put on a good impression. All those dishes over there, and those clothes in a heap . . .’

  I flushed. It was true that since I’d been working at Perfumes of Paradise I hadn’t kept the tent very well. The floor hadn’t been properly swept for days and my kitchen things were piled messily by the entrance flap in a jumble of onions, empty cans, and soot-stained saucepans.

  But I’m working now, I thought angrily. Why can’t Tariq help out sometimes? Or Malik? Just because I’m a girl . . .

  ‘What am I going to tell Um Khalid?’ I said unhappily.

  Baba pulled out his phone.

  ‘I’ll speak to her.’

  I made one last try.

  ‘Can’t you meet Abu Mustapha in town, Baba? Why does he want to come out here?’

  Baba raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Discretion, of course. We don’t want the whole world to know our business.’

  There was no point in arguing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Once Baba had gone out next morning, I worked like crazy.

  ‘You’re not going to look down your beaky nose at us, Mr Snooty,’ I muttered as I cleaned up the tent.

  I arranged Tariq’s schoolbooks where the Hawk would see them as soon as he stepped into the tent.

  ‘See?’ I told him. ‘We can still read books, you know.’

  When it was all done, I ran across to Abu Ali’s shop.

  He beamed at the sight of me.

  ‘Alhamdulillah! I thought you’d given up poor old Abu Ali! I hardly ever see you any more.’

  I bought some little cakes, then some shiny red apples and green grapes. They’d look great arranged on a plate.

  Back in the tent, I looked around. I was seriously into décor now.

  A rug, I thought. That one Aunt Zainab keeps rolled up under her bed for summer picnics. I’ve beaten it often enough. Why shouldn’t I ask her to lend it to me? She can only say no.

  Before I lost my nerve, I dashed across to the house and knocked on the kitchen door. Aunt Zainab poked her head out of the window.

  ‘What are you doing here? You should be at the salon.’

  ‘I’ve come to ask you a favour.’

  ‘Now why didn’t I guess that?’

  ‘Baba’s got a guest coming this afternoon, Aunt. An important man,’ I told her proudly.

  ‘Who? What man?’

  ‘An old client from Damascus. Abu Mustapha. The thing is, I need to make a good impression.’

  She shut the window.

  You old meanie, I thought. After all I’ve done to help you.

  But a second later she opened the back door.

  ‘How old are you?’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘Thirteen.’

  And my birthday was just the other day, I added silently, if you’re thinking of giving me a late birthday present.

  ‘Hm,’ she said. ‘Too young to find you a husband. What’s this man coming for if it’s not for you?’

  ‘What?’ I almost shouted. She’d driven birthdays right out of my mind. ‘Baba wouldn’t – he’d never . . .’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Don’t be so naive. What else is there for you but an early marriage?’

  She was making me angry. I had to get her back on track.

  ‘Abu Mustapha’s coming on some other business,’ I said, talking quickly before my confidence fizzled out. ‘I want to make a good impression. Please can I borrow your picnic rug?’

  ‘A good impression?’ she scoffed. ‘It’s a tent, not your posh Damascus apartment!’ Then she seemed to pull herself up short and I was surprised to see a flicker of anxiety in her eyes. ‘I suppose this grand person will think we’re all country bumpkins,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘That’s just what I don’t want him to think, Aunt,’ I said in a softer voice.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she said, taking me by surprise. ‘Get it. You know where it is. Don’t stand there dithering. I’ll come over with you.’

  I darted to her bedroom and pulled out the picnic rug. Aunt Zainab was in the sitting room when I came out. She piled a couple of embroidered cushions into my arms and picked up two more to carry herself.

  ‘Aunt Zainab!’ I gasped. ‘This is more than . . .’

  ‘If you think,’ she said irritably, ‘that I want your guest to look down on us, on our family, you don’t know me, Safiya. Now, for heaven’s sake, let’s get on with it.’

  An hour later, after Aunt Zainab had finally gone, I stood back to admire the tent.

  ‘If that doesn’t impress you, Baba, I’ll – I’ll run away!’ I said out loud.

  What a transformation! On the picnic rug, which was a lovely deep crimson colour, I’d set Aunt Zainab’s brass tray on its low wooden stand, with her best coffee cups laid out nicely. Cushions from her sitting room were heaped on the mattresses and, most cunning of all, an old striped tablecloth was tacked to the ugly wooden partition.

  I’ve got a talent for this, I thought. Maybe I could be a set designer on films.

  But there was no time for daydreaming. I needed to tidy myself up before Baba came back. Luckily, Malik had found a broken piece of mirror on a rubbish dump the day before, and had fixed it to the partition. I put on the flowery hijab Um Khalid had given me and fastened it with the pearl pin.

  I was only just ready when the gate squeaked open. They were here! Abu Mustapha came in first, but I was watching Baba’s eyes open with surprise as he looked round the tent.

  I’d only seen the Hawk a couple of times, but I would have recognized that long, lean face, the smooth silver hair and beaky nose anywhere.

  I listened carefully as I laid out the cake and made the coffee, but they were only talking about the Azraq roads and the shortage of water. I took the tray over to them, set the fruit bowl beside it and waited.

  ‘Thank you, habibti,’ said Baba, waving his hand dismissively.

  So he wanted me to leave them to it? I wasn’t allowed to listen? That meant sitting in my stuffy room with nothing to do.

  Then I saw that the Hawk had put a newspaper down on the mattress beside him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said with a modest smile, ‘but may I borrow your newspaper?’

  He nodded without looking at me, so I picked the newspaper up and went into my room, trying not to look at Baba, who was frowning at me for pushing myself forward. The paper wouldn’t be very
interesting but it would be better than staring at the canvas wall for an hour or more.

  I sat on my bed, yawning and leafing through it. It was as boring as I’d expected and I was just about to put it down when the words Askil International sprang out at me. Under them was a short announcement: Askil International has announced that its Middle East headquarters are relocating to Dubai next month.

  My skin prickled with horror. Dubai! I’d never find Saba in Dubai! I had to act quickly, or she’d be lost forever!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I leapt to my feet and started pacing the narrow space beside my bed.

  I’ve been wasting time! I thought. I’ve just got to find them before they go!

  I sat down on my mattress again.

  Maybe I should talk to Baba again. If he knew they were so close and going away so soon, surely he’d be willing to get in touch?

  But then I remembered how sad he’d looked when he’d said, I’d be ashamed for my daughter to see us as we are now. I didn’t want to hurt him again, even though I knew in my heart that he was wrong.

  Once I’ve found Saba she’ll show him he was worrying about nothing, I thought. She’ll be thrilled to find us all. I know she will.

  At last the Hawk got up to go and I was able go back into the tent.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, handing him the newspaper.

  He hardly glanced at me.

  ‘I’ll be in touch next week,’ he said to Baba. ‘Let me know your bank details so I can transfer the fee for your retainer.’

  Baba looked embarrassed.

  ‘I don’t actually have an account.’

  ‘Of course.’ The Hawk nodded. ‘I’ll give you cash for now.’ He took his wallet out of his pocket and pressed some banknotes into Baba’s hand. Then he hesitated. ‘It can’t be easy living in a place like this,’ he said, his face softening. ‘I see you’ve made the best of it. Resourceful. Just like all us Syrians.’ He hesitated. ‘I know how much you’ve done for me, Adnan. If you hadn’t taken my case and supported me . . .’

  Baba interrupted him.

  ‘No, no, you mustn’t blame yourself. I’ve been walking a tightrope for years. I’d had plenty of warnings. Your case just tipped things over the edge.’

  ‘Even so,’ the Hawk said, but by then they were out of the tent and walking towards the gate, so I didn’t hear the rest.

  Baba came back smiling delightedly.

  ‘Well done, Safiya! You worked a miracle!’

  ‘Aunt Zainab lent me the stuff,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to take it back.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But we’re going to have to keep this standard up. There’ll be more visitors from now on, inshallah. You’re going to be kept busy.’

  His praise had made me glow, but now I had a horrible feeling about what he was going to say next.

  ‘You don’t need to go to that salon any more,’ he went on. ‘Abu Mustapha’s setting up a business and he wants me to work with him. He was clever enough to get some of his money transferred to an international account before he left Syria. I wish I’d done the same! This is the beginning, Safiya, don’t you see?’

  I didn’t care about Abu Mustapha’s business.

  ‘Baba, please! I love going to the salon!’ I said desperately. ‘I’m learning new stuff all the time. It’s like going to school!’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No. I need you here. You can go till the end of the week, but then it stops. If I’m going to work with Abu Mustapha, I’ll have to entertain clients. The tent needs to be clean and tidy. Proper meals, not just cakes and coffee. Look, you stay here and clear up. I’ll take Zainab’s things back to her.’

  I wanted to pick up the coffee pot and hurl it after him as he grabbed an armful of cushions and went out of the tent.

  That’s it, then, is it? I shouted in my head. I’m just a servant! You don’t care about me or my future at all!

  I flung myself down on the mattress where the men had been sitting. Something hard was underneath me. I pulled out Baba’s mobile phone. It must have fallen out of his pocket.

  If I hadn’t been so furious with Baba, I don’t think I’d have dared to pick it up and switch it on. I scowled into the tiny bright screen, and knew exactly what I had to do next.

  ‘I don’t care what you say, Baba,’ I said out loud to the empty tent. ‘I’m not going to let you keep me and Saba apart any longer.’

  I’d learned the Askil number off by heart, but as my fingers hovered over the keyboard, I forced myself to calm down. I couldn’t mess things up again.

  I punched in the number.

  The same girl, with the same bored voice, answered at once.

  I put on my grown-up voice and my best Jordanian accent.

  ‘This is Blossoms of Paradise Florist,’ I said. ‘I have an order for flowers for the family of Hassan Ahmed. Could you kindly give me his home address?’

  ‘Sorry,’ the girl at the other end said. ‘We don’t give out our employees’ personal details.’

  I was ready for this.

  ‘Oh, I quite understand,’ I gushed. ‘it’s just that I’ve got a bit of a problem. It’s his daughter’s birthday soon, and the order’s supposed to be a surprise from a family friend in New York.’

  I was clutching the phone so tightly that my fingers were starting to cramp. I transferred it to the other hand. The girl was tapping on her keyboard at the other end. She’d stopped listening.

  ‘It’s such a shame,’ I went on lightly. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go back to the client and tell her it’s not possible.’

  The typing stopped.

  ‘Well . . .’ the girl said.

  ‘It’s a big commission too,’ I went on. ‘Frankly, it’ll be a loss to us if we can’t fulfil it. Times are so hard at the moment.’

  I held my breath.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ the girl began. I could hear the indecision in her voice. ‘Look, there’s no harm in it, I suppose. All right. Give me a minute. I’ll find it for you.’

  The seconds ticked by agonizingly slowly. At last she came back.

  ‘I really shouldn’t be doing this,’ she said doubtfully.

  I resisted the urge to plead.

  ‘Well, if it’s too much . . . It’s a shame for Saba, since it’s her birthday. She’d have been so pleased.’

  ‘You know the daughter’s name?’

  ‘Of course. It’s on the card the client wants us to write.’

  ‘I see. In that case, OK. Here’s the address. Have you got a pen?’

  My jaw dropped. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  ‘Silly me!’ I said breathlessly. ‘Hold on a minute.’

  I plunged my hand into the pocket of Baba’s coat, which he had left lying on the mattress, thanking Allah when my fingers closed round his biro.

  ‘Go ahead.’ I wrote the address down on my hand as she read it out. ‘Thank you so much! You have no idea what this means . . .’

  ‘What?’ She sounded puzzled. I stopped short. I’d been almost squealing with excitement, and my Jordanian accent had slipped. I was in danger of giving the game away.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, improvising rapidly. ‘My colleague’s just come in and brought me something. ‘Thank you. I really appreciate your help.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ the girl said. ‘But, if anyone asks you, don’t tell them it was me who gave it to you.’

  ‘Of course not. Goodbye.’

  I put the phone down and punched the air. I’d done it! I’d got Saba’s address!

  ‘What do you think of that?’ I asked her. ‘Clever, or not? Now I’ve just got to get to Amman and find you.’

  But that, I knew, would be much harder.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  As usual, Tariq was late coming back from the bottling plant. I was burning to tell him what I’d discovered, so as I cleared away his dishes I started winking at him and nodding towards the tent entrance.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?�
�� he said. ‘Got something in your eye?’

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘I – I just want you to help me take these dishes outside so I can wash up.’

  ‘Do it in the morning,’ he yawned.

  Then he saw my face, and got it at last.

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, all right.’

  Typical Tariq! No subtlety at all.

  Once we were outside, I pulled him away from the tent entrance, out of earshot of Baba and Malik. He listened, goggle-eyed, when I told him what I’d discovered.

  ‘Safiya, you cunning little devil! Blossoms of Paradise! That’s brilliant!’

  I smirked with pride.

  ‘We’ve got to get to Amman and find her. Them, I mean. Before they go to Dubai.’

  ‘Yes! Yes, we must! It might be our only chance!’ He frowned. ‘But how? I mean, Amman’s miles away and we don’t know our way around. Think of the cost! Buses, taxis . . .’

  He was right, of course. I hadn’t thought it all through.

  ‘Um Khalid might lend me a bit,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘Safiya, you know that’s ridiculous. Why should she? And, anyway, you can’t ask her. No, the only thing to do is to tell Baba.’

  ‘Yes, but you know what he’ll say, that Saba will be upset, he promised Uncle Hassan, he’s ashamed of being a poor refugee, blah blah.’

  ‘Blah blah or not, they’re good reasons. And I don’t want to go behind his back. He’d be furious if we did. And, what’s worse, he’d be upset and disappointed in us. Look, why don’t I speak to Baba? Maybe I could talk him round. It’s just so . . . so incredible to think of our own sister, a few miles away, and we can’t even . . . I’ll talk to him now if you like.’

  He turned to go back into the tent. I caught his sleeve.

  ‘No! He’ll only put you off again. Give it a few more days. I’ve got a feeling in my bones that something’s going to turn up.’

  ‘Well, all right. But don’t leave it too long.’ Then he smiled. ‘Isn’t it great about Abu Mustapha giving Baba work? Maybe things really will change and he’ll make Baba a partner and we can move somewhere decent. He wouldn’t be ashamed any more. We’d be able to hold our heads up again. It’ll be much better if he contacts Uncle Hassan himself, don’t you see?’