A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  The wait was agonizing. A minute passed. It felt like an hour. At last, when I’d almost given up hope, the door opened so suddenly that I jumped back. A small round woman with streaks of grey in her thick black hair was standing on the doormat, staring at me, her eyes widening with horror as she took in the sight of me.

  ‘Aunt Israa?’ I said. ‘It’s – it’s Safiya. Is Uncle Hassan here? I have to—’

  ‘No!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t know you! This is a trick! Go away!’

  She slammed the door in my face. I reeled back as if she’d actually punched me. This was worse, much worse, than I’d expected.

  What could I do? Who could help me? If only I could find the Hawk! But I didn’t even know his full name, and Baba had never told me where he worked.

  Now all I wanted was to get away. I’d only seen Aunt Israa for a few seconds, but she’d looked at me as if I was a snake about to strike. I couldn’t face seeing her again.

  I was just about to go back down the stairs, when I heard the front door open below. A man’s deep voice said, ‘Good, they’ve started decorating at last. Watch out. The paint’s wet.’

  Two pairs of footsteps were on the stairs. The man rounded the last corner and came into view. He was quite short, grey haired, with deep-set eyes.

  He stopped dead when he saw me.

  ‘What’s the matter, Baba? Who is it?’ said a girl’s voice.

  She stepped out from behind him, and there she was, my double, my sister, my Saba, my twin.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  I’d imagined this moment a million times, but it was all going wrong. Saba didn’t even recognize me. She just looked puzzled and scornful. There wasn’t time for more. The door of the flat shot open and Aunt Israa darted out, flapping her arms like a demented chicken.

  ‘Saba! Come inside! At once!’

  She grabbed Saba’s arm and dragged her towards the door.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Saba said. ‘Who’s that girl? Stop pulling me, Mama. I’m coming.’

  She spoke Arabic with a Jordanian accent but her voice was high and light like mine and the braces on her teeth gave her a kind of lisp.

  I heard Aunt Israa say, ‘It’s no one, darling. A Syrian beggar. How was school? Did the test go all right?’

  Just before the door slammed shut, Saba turned to look at me again. She said, ‘That’s so weird. That girl looks exactly like . . .’ Then she and Aunt Israa had gone and Uncle Hassan and I were standing on the landing, staring at each other.

  ‘Uncle Hassan . . .’ I began.

  He looked shaken, as if he didn’t know what to do.

  ‘Yes, I’m your uncle Hassan,’ he said at last. ‘And you’re Safiya. I recognized you at once. Whatever are you doing in Jordan? How on earth did you find us? Where’s your father?’

  ‘That’s why I’ve come!’ I said. ‘Baba was hit by a car! He’s been taken to hospital! He . . .’

  My legs gave way and I staggered. Uncle Hassan took hold of my arm and steadied me.

  ‘What did you say? An accident? Which hospital? Where?’

  ‘The Al Bashir, I think the ambulance man said.’

  He led me towards the stairs.

  ‘We’ll go there right now. Don’t cry, Safiya. Tell me all about it on the way.’

  A few minutes later, we were driving fast along a big motorway, and words were tumbling out of me. I told Uncle Hassan how we’d escaped from Damascus and gone to live with Uncle Yasser, how Baba had met the Hawk again, and how the accident had happened. I talked so fast I wasn’t sure if he’d understood anything at all.

  I ran out of words at last. Uncle Hassan didn’t say anything, and I started to feel worried.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Uncle Hassan!’ I said at last as we turned into a quieter road. ‘I know I shouldn’t have come. Baba told me that Saba doesn’t know about me – about us – but I didn’t know what else to do.’

  He turned and gave me a quick, reassuring smile.

  ‘You did the right thing and I’m very pleased to meet you at last, Safiya. I’d heard on the grapevine that Adnan was in trouble and had been trying to get out of Syria. I’ve been trying to contact him through friends, in fact, but you know how careful we all have to be. I didn’t want to make things worse for him. I had no idea you were in Jordan! If I’d known, of course, we’d have . . .’ He paused, as if he was trying to find the right words. ‘It can’t be easy for you to understand why we – your aunt in particular – felt that Saba shouldn’t know . . .’

  I rushed in to help him out.

  ‘Baba explained,’ I said. ‘I mean, about how she’s sensitive and everything and how you’d agreed not tell her about us. About me. I do understand, really I do. I’ve only just found out myself that our mother was ill after we were born. I’ve always known I had a twin, though. I’ve been so – well – lonely, I suppose. I thought we could be such close . . .’ I had to stop to control my voice. ‘I’ve longed to meet her, especially since we had to leave home, but Baba made me see – I mean, I couldn’t bear it if she met us and was ashamed of us.’

  ‘Ashamed? No!’ Uncle Hassan’s hands were gripping the steering wheel so strongly that his knuckles were white. ‘None of us could possibly be ashamed of you! How could we be when nothing that’s happened is your fault?’ He braked sharply as a rickety van with an open back, piled high with mattresses, swerved in front of him.

  ‘You want to kill us all?’ he shouted through the windscreen. ‘Go ahead! Be my guest!’

  ‘Baba says we should wait till we’re back on our feet,’ I went on. ‘I mean at the moment, we’re just refugees, living in a tent, and . . .’

  I stopped. I hadn’t meant to give so much away.

  ‘You’re living in a tent?’ He sounded appalled. ‘But at least you’re going to school?’

  ‘No. The school in Azraq was full. Anyway, Baba needs me to do the cooking and washing and stuff.’

  His face had darkened.

  I’m making everything worse! He thinks I’m begging! I thought.

  Aloud I said, ‘It’s all right, Uncle. We’re fine, really. Tariq’s going to school. He’s got a job in a bottling plant too. Afternoons and weekends. He earns 3JD a day and gives all of it to me for the food and everything. And my uncle Malik – he’s Baba’s half-brother – he’s living with us now and he’s really helpful. He gets building jobs sometimes and gives me some money. And now that Baba’s working with Abu Mustapha, perhaps . . .’

  I stopped. My throat had tightened up again. What if Baba was seriously hurt, or even . . . How would we ever manage without him?

  Uncle Hassan looked down at me again.

  ‘Inshallah he’ll be all right, Safiya. Look, we’re at the hospital. We’ll be with him in a few minutes.’

  He was already turning in through the gates. I took a deep breath. There was a confession I had to make.

  ‘Actually, Uncle Hassan, Baba will be really surprised to see you. He thinks you’re still in America.’

  ‘What? I don’t understand! How did you know we were here? How did you get my address?’

  We were at the front door of the hospital. I’d find out any moment now if Baba was alive or . . .

  ‘Please, Uncle, can I tell you later? And could you let me out here?’ I begged him. ‘I can’t bear to wait any longer.’

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘All right. Go in through the main entrance and give your father’s name to the reception desk. They’ll tell you where to go. I’ll come as soon as I’ve parked the car.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  I’m not used to hospitals. I should thank Allah for that, I suppose. The Al Bashir looked enormous and its bright white walls were so dazzling in the winter sun that I almost had to shade my eyes as I looked for the entrance. Inside, everything was cool and modern, but the super-clean hospital smell gave me the shivers. Had I come too late? Would Baba be . . . I couldn’t even think the word.

  I must have looked sm
all and lost, standing there in the entrance, because a woman in a white coat paused as she rushed past and asked me if I was looking for someone. She passed me on to someone else and at last, after walking for miles down endless long corridors, I was standing beside a kind of trolley bed, and there was Baba, lying on his back, his eyes closed, a bandage half covering his head. His face was deathly pale.

  I leaned over him.

  ‘Baba! Open your eyes! Please, Baba, don’t be dead. Baba!’

  His eyes flickered open. He winced as he turned his head to look at me.

  ‘Safiya! Alhamdulillah! Thank God you’re all right. How did you get here? I’ve been so worried!’

  The relief of hearing his voice made me almost dizzy. I touched his hand gently, afraid of hurting him.

  ‘I – don’t be angry, Baba – I . . .’

  His eyes moved past me and opened in astonishment. I looked round to see that Uncle Hassan had come silently up behind me. He pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed.

  ‘Hassan? Am I dreaming?’ Baba said, in a faint voice. ‘What are you doing here?’ He moved his head painfully in an effort to see past him. ‘Where’s Saba? Is she with you? Why aren’t you in America?’

  ‘We’ve been here for a while,’ Uncle Hassan said gently. ‘Adnan, I had no idea of the trouble you’ve been in, or even that you were here in Jordan. I thought you were in Damascus! I’ve been trying to contact you. No wonder I couldn’t find you!’ He turned to smile at me. ‘Your remarkable daughter somehow knew we were here and had the good sense to come and find me.’

  ‘What?’ Baba frowned, as if the effort of understanding was painful. ‘How did she . . .’

  ‘I’ll explain it all later,’ I said hurriedly, desperate to stop him asking questions.

  A nurse came in to check Baba’s pulse and Uncle Hassan had to move out of the way.

  ‘What do the doctors say?’ he asked Baba when she’d gone.

  ‘They want to do an X-ray, keep me here overnight for observation.’ He spoke faintly, as if the effort was too much. ‘They said it’s severe concussion – I’m sure it’s not that bad.’

  I was doing sums in my head.

  ‘Baba, how much will the hospital charge? Have you got Abu Mustapha’s money? I’ve got about six JD in food money, and I can call Uncle Yasser and ask him—’

  ‘None of this is necessary.’ Baba was struggling to sit up. ‘I’m perfectly all right. Safiya, bring my clothes. They’re on that chair. We’ll . . .’

  Uncle Hassan put his hand on Baba’s shoulder and gently pressed him down.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Adnan. Safiya, stay here with your father and don’t let him move. I’m going to sort things out.’

  ‘Please, Hassan, there’s no need . . .’ began Baba.

  ‘Frankly,’ said Uncle Hassan, ‘after all that’s happened, it’s the least I can do.’

  Baba had closed his eyes again. I sat beside him, holding his hand, anxiously watching his face.

  ‘Safiya,’ he murmured, opening his eyes, ‘you need to call Abu Mustapha. He doesn’t know why I didn’t come this morning. You’ll have to explain. My phone’s in my coat pocket.’

  He waved a hand feebly towards a chair on which his clothes were heaped. I was relieved to have something to do.

  The Hawk answered at once.

  ‘Na’am? Yes?’

  ‘This is Safiya, Abu Tariq’s daughter,’ I said in my best Perfumes of Paradise telephone voice. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident. My father was hit by a car on the way to his appointment with you. He’s in Al Bashir hospital, awaiting treatment.’

  Uncle Hassan had come. He watched me curiously while the Hawk talked into my ear.

  ‘No, no, it’s all right,’ I said. ‘My uncle’s here. I’ll call you with more news as soon as I know anything. Yes, I’ll tell him. Thank you, sir. Al Bashir hospital. That’s right.’

  Uncle Hassan turned to Baba.

  ‘Don’t worry about anything,’ he was saying. ‘They’re taking you for X-rays in a minute. You’ll be staying in for as long as it takes to get you properly on your feet again.’

  The fight went out of Baba. He smiled weakly with relief.

  ‘And don’t worry about Safiya. She’s coming home with me,’ Uncle Hassan said firmly.

  My heart leaped with excitement at the thought of being with Saba, but plunged right down straight afterwards. What if Aunt Israa called me a beggar again? Would Saba turn on me too?

  Baba had been drifting off to sleep but now his eyes flew open.

  ‘Tariq,’ he murmured. ‘He’ll be . . .’

  I was still holding Baba’s phone.

  ‘I’ll call Uncle Yasser,’ I said. ‘He’ll tell Tariq and Uncle Malik. You mustn’t worry, Baba.’

  ‘I’ll bring Safiya back later this evening,’ Uncle Hassan said. ‘Here come the medics, Adnan. You’re in good hands now.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Back in the car park, I looked at my reflection in the dark, tinted window of Uncle Hassan’s car while he called Aunt Israa.

  I looked horrible! The rash on my face was a hideous red stain, my trousers were almost worn out and my shoes were only fit for the dump. No wonder Aunt Israa had called me a beggar.

  ‘Uncle Hassan,’ I said over the car roof. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I’d rather not come, if you don’t mind. Aunt Israa will be upset. She thought I was . . .’

  He frowned.

  ‘Just get in, Safiya. I heard what your aunt said. She was in a panic. She didn’t mean it.’

  But I was the one in a panic now.

  ‘Couldn’t you take me to the bus station? I’d like to go back to Azraq. I’ll be quite safe. Please, Uncle.’

  He came round to my side of the car, opened the door and gently pushed me into the passenger seat. Then he got into the driving seat beside me, and turned to face me without switching on the engine.

  ‘Listen, Safiya. You’re coming home with me.’ I was shaking my head vigorously. ‘No arguing. I want you to understand. Your Aunt Israa . . .’

  ‘I know. Baba told me. She desperately wanted a baby, and when my mother came with Saba . . .’

  ‘Don’t interrupt. Your aunt is – she’s a nervous person. She’s easily upset. Israa has thought of no one and nothing except for Saba for the last thirteen years. She has protected her from every bump, scratch, disappointment and challenge since she was a tiny baby.’

  ‘I do understand, Uncle Hassan. That’s why I really, really think it would be best for you to—’

  He smiled.

  ‘You don’t understand at all, my dear. And I can see that you’re as obstinate as your twin, although I suspect you’re rather better behaved. I must warn you that she might not react well at first when we tell her the truth.’ He sighed. ‘We should have told her years ago! I always knew it was wrong to let her think . . .’ He leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition. ‘I’m afraid,’ he went on, inching the car forward out of the parking space, ‘that Saba is hopelessly spoiled and self-centred. As a matter of fact, I think you’re exactly what she needs.’

  The journey to the hospital had seemed to take forever because I’d been so worried about Baba, but the drive back to Uncle Hassan’s flat passed in a flash. I didn’t want to arrive.

  We had turned off the main road and were driving up the hill into the quiet back streets when Uncle Hassan suddenly said, ‘So how did you know we were in Amman, Safiya? And how did you get hold of our address?’

  I’d been waiting for this. I’d tried out several explanations in my head, each one sillier than the next, but now that the moment had come there was only one way to go. I had to tell the truth. I stole a sideways glance at him. There was something familiar about his face.

  It’s his eyebrows, I thought. They swoop up in the middle, like Tariq’s.

  The eyebrows made me feel better. Uncle Hassan was family, after all.

  ‘It was before Baba explained – before he s
aid that he didn’t want us to try to meet Saba,’ I began. ‘I couldn’t believe he really meant it.’

  I stopped.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was so desperate to find her! I’ve really missed my best friend, Farah, and I kept thinking about Saba, that she was just like me and we’d be closer even than friends! It was an accident finding out that you were here. Uncle Yasser caught sight of you going into the Askil building. Till then, I’d thought you were in America.’

  We were nearly at the flats. I needed to hurry up.

  ‘Anyway, I managed to go online at Perfumes of Paradise . . .’

  ‘Perfumes of Paradise?’

  ‘It’s a beauty salon in Azraq. I’ve been working there, doing the accounts and being the receptionist.’ I glanced at him again. He was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘I liked being there,’ I went defensively. ‘I was good at maths at school. Doing the accounts – it was using my brain a bit. Better than nothing, anyway. And I got paid one JD for every day I worked there.’

  ‘One JD. I see.’

  He looked angry again, but I had no choice but to blunder on.

  ‘Anyway, I looked up Askil, and found the phone number for Amman. Then I phoned up and persuaded the receptionist to give me your address.’

  He drew in his breath sharply.

  ‘She should have done no such thing. Do you know her name? That’s a serious breach of security!’

  ‘Oh no, please, Uncle Hassan, don’t get her into trouble! She didn’t want to tell me. She tried not to, really she did, but I – persuaded her.’

  ‘How on earth did you do that?’

  ‘I told her I was a florist. From Blossoms of Paradise.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of them.’

  ‘No, well, I made them up. I told her I had a big flower order for your daughter’s birthday, and it would be a pity if she didn’t get them. She only gave in when I said her name was Saba, as if I really knew the family.’

  To my relief, he burst out laughing.

  ‘Wallah, Safiya, until this moment I never realized how much I missed my sister. That’s exactly what she would have done. She was a firebrand, just like you.’