‘Was she, Uncle Hassan?’ I suddenly felt wistful. ‘Will you tell me about her? Baba never says anything. He can’t bear to talk about her. If we ever mention her, he just gets sad.’
He had driven down the ramp into the underground car park beneath the flats by now, and was reversing into a space. He switched off the engine and even though the light was dim, after the brilliant sunshine outside, I could see that he was smiling.
‘I’ll tell you as much as I can,’ he said. ‘She was a wonderful, wonderful person. Come on now, habibti. We’re home. No, don’t look so nervous. You have courage enough for anything – I can tell.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
It was all very well Uncle Hassan telling me not to be nervous, but how I could I help it? My heart was thudding as I followed him up the broad flight of pink marble-paved stairs to the landing.
As soon as we’d stepped into the flat, Aunt Israa fluttered out of a side room. Her eyes slid past me and fixed on Uncle Hassan.
‘Is she ready?’ Uncle Hassan asked brusquely.
‘No. She doesn’t feel like going out. She wants . . .’
‘I don’t care what she wants.’
He marched along the short corridor and thrust open a door at the end. I caught a glimpse of Saba lying on a bed, a headset clamped to her ears. Uncle Hassan bent down and pulled them off.
‘Get up,’ he said.
Saba jumped up and tried to snatch them back.
‘Stop it! What are you doing?’
Uncle Hassan held the earphones out of reach.
‘You’re coming with me now,’ he barked. ‘Put your coat on.’
There was a nervous cough behind me.
‘Please come in here,’ Aunt Israa said.
She opened a door and almost pushed me into a sitting room. Two sofas were arranged opposite each other with a large coffee table in between them. A huge TV screen hung on the wall.
‘Sit down, er – Safiya,’ she said. ‘I expect you’re hungry. I’ll get you something to eat.’
She’s only offering because she thinks I’m a refugee beggar, I thought. I’ll show her.
‘No thanks, Aunt Israa,’ I said, though I’d eaten almost nothing all day.
I could hear Uncle Hassan and Saba out in the corridor now, still arguing.
‘Get your coat on now,’ Uncle Hassan was saying.
‘That’s not the way to handle her,’ Aunt Israa muttered. She hurried to the door and went out into the corridor. I heard her say, ‘Your Baba will buy you an ice cream, my princess, at your favourite café.’ She sounded as if she was speaking to a toddler.
‘I don’t want an ice cream,’ snarled Saba. ‘Why can’t people just leave me alone?’ Through the open door, her eyes met mine. ‘And what’s that beggar girl doing here again?’
Uncle Hassan snapped the door shut. I heard him say, ‘For once in your life, you’re going to do as you’re told, Saba. There’s something I have to tell you. I didn’t want it to happen like this, but now it has.’
‘What do you want to tell me? Why can’t you do it here?’ Saba sounded sulky now, rather than rebellious. ‘If it’s about going to Dubai . . .’
‘It’s got nothing to do with Dubai. Here’s your coat. Put it on.’
At last the front door shut behind them and their voices faded down the stairs.
I sat on the sofa, stiff with shock, my hands clasped tightly together. I’d never heard anyone talk to their father like Saba had done, except in foreign soap operas. A Syrian father would never have stood for it and a Syrian daughter would never have dared.
She’s horrible! I thought, remembering the cold disgust in her eyes when she’d looked at me. She’s rude and mean and I don’t like her at all!
Where was the twin I’d been longing for, my soulmate, my long-lost sister? My dreams had once again shattered like broken glass.
Aunt Israa came back into the room. She was pale and shaking so much that I thought she was going to fall over, but I was too disappointed and upset to feel sorry for her.
‘Look, Aunt Israa, I shouldn’t have come,’ I said defensively. ‘But what else could I do? They took Baba away in an ambulance, and I was just left there, on the street, and this woman asked if I had any relatives in Amman and, well, you’re the only ones, and I was so frightened. I didn’t know what had happened to Baba, so I let her bring me here.’
She didn’t seem to be listening.
‘I’ll go away,’ I said. ‘I’ll go back to the hospital and sleep in a chair beside Baba’s bed. I honestly didn’t want to upset everyone.’
She took a tissue out of her pocket and wiped her eyes.
‘No, no, Hassan wants – he says you ought to stay. I knew this would happen one day. He’s been telling me for years that Saba ought to know everything, but I was so afraid she’d turn against me – against us!’
I shook my head.
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t do that.’
‘No, but she might! She might want to leave me and go and live with you, and . . . and . . .’
She was crying again.
‘Live with us?’ I almost felt like laughing. ‘I don’t think so. We live in a tent. I can’t even go to school any more.’
Her hand flew to her throat.
‘In a tent? Oh, how awful! Saba wouldn’t like that at all. I’ve always made sure she had the best of everything.’
She was starting to really upset me.
‘We might be refugees, but we’re not beggars,’ I said, not even trying to keep the sharpness out of my voice.
She looked down.
‘I shouldn’t have said that. It was the shock. I knew who you were as soon as I saw you. You’d look exactly like her if it wasn’t for the . . .’
The hideous rash all over my face and my crooked teeth, I wanted to say.
‘I just wanted to get her away!’ she went on. ‘You don’t understand. She’s very sensitive. You should have warned me you were coming.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. Was she stupid, or what?
‘How could I have warned you, Aunt?’ I was trying hard to keep my temper. ‘Baba had been taken away in an ambulance. I thought he was dead! Where else could I have gone? I was on my own. What could I have done?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Oh, well, I suppose . . .’
This is where you’re supposed to ask me how Baba is, I thought furiously.
But all she said was, ‘I wonder how long they’ll be? I hope Hassan’s being gentle with her. Finding out that I’m not her real mother! She’ll never get over it. I couldn’t bear it if she turned against me!’
She dropped her head in her hands and her shoulders started to shake while I sat awkwardly beside her, not knowing what to do or say.
At last she looked up. She seemed almost surprised to see that I was still sitting there.
‘I suppose I’d better make up a bed for you,’ she said doubtfully.
‘No, Aunt Israa, I can’t stay here! Please, just call a taxi to take me to the hospital. I want to be with Baba.’
She shook her head.
‘Hassan says you’ve got to stay.’
I hated the idea of being where I wasn’t wanted, but it seemed as if I didn’t have any choice.
Aunt Israa stood up.
‘I’ll do that bed,’ she said.
I followed her out of the room.
‘Let me do it. Just show me where to go.’
She looked surprised.
‘You know how to make a bed?’
‘Yes! Of course! Doesn’t Saba?’
‘I do everything for Saba,’ she said defensively. ‘Perhaps I should have taught her more practical things . . . encouraged her to be more . . .’
Her voice tailed away as she opened a door off the corridor into a tiny room without even a window, which had room only for a bed and a small table.
The maid’s room, I thought.
There’d been one like it in our old flat in Damascus.
Auntie Shirin had kept the vacuum cleaner in it. A moment later, Aunt Israa came back with a pile of bed linen and blankets. She dumped them on the bed and darted away again.
‘I think I can hear them! Yes, they’re back!’
She dashed out of the room. A key grated in the front-door lock. Quickly, I snapped the door of my tiny room shut.
‘Oh, my heart, come to Mama!’ I heard Aunt Israa say in a tearful voice.
Saba cut her off rudely.
‘Have you got rid of her yet, my so-called twin?’
‘My princess—’ That was Aunt Israa again.
‘Don’t – touch – me,’ stormed Saba, then her bedroom door slammed so loudly that my own door shook.
My hand was on the door handle. This was the moment to tackle Uncle Hassan, but now he was talking to Aunt Israa. I strained to hear what they were saying.
‘No, Israa! I won’t hear of sending Safiya away on her own. Think what you’re saying! A thirteen-year-old girl alone in a big hospital? Look, all these years I’ve given in to you about Saba. I knew it was wrong to keep the truth from her. I should have insisted. We should have tried harder to stay in touch with Adnan too. He’s my brother-in-law! He’s Saba’s father!’
‘He’s not her father!’ Aunt Israa almost screamed. ‘You are, and I’m her mother!’
‘All right. In every real sense, we’re her true parents. She knows that, however much she kicks against it. We won’t lose her. She needs us, now more than ever. But Safiya needs Saba too. And Adnan needs us badly. We’re family, Israa! Family!’
I opened the door a crack and looked out. Aunt Israa’s arms were flailing and she looked hysterical. Uncle Hassan was trying to hold her.
‘Look at me, Israa!’ he almost shouted. ‘Don’t you understand? We have to accept Safiya too.’
Aunt Israa slowly stopped struggling. Uncle Hassan dropped his hands as the fight seemed to go out of her. He glanced quickly towards my door, and pulled her into the sitting room, but I could still just hear what he was saying.
‘We can learn to love Safiya.’ His voice was gentler now. ‘She’s a remarkable girl. She’s had to grow up much too fast, her education’s been wrecked, she’s living in a tent, cooking and caring for three grown men. She’s lost her home, her wider family and all her friends. On top of that she’s obviously been hideously exploited by some woman in a beauty salon who’s been paying her one JD – one JD! – for a day’s work.’ He stopped. ‘Israa, are you listening to me? Safiya will be a wonderful friend for Saba. She’s the girl that Saba could become. Israa, have you heard a word I said? No, don’t go to Saba. Give her time. She doesn’t need you at the moment.’
But I could already hear Aunt Israa’s slippers slapping on the marble tiles as she ran down the corridor. A door handle rattled.
‘Habibti, open the door. Let me in. It’s Mama!’
Then came a crash as if something had been hurled to the floor and smashed.
‘You’re not my mama!’ Saba shrieked. ‘Go away! I never want to see you again!’
Out in the corridor, Aunt Israa was wailing loudly. Another door opened and closed. The sound of her sobs and Uncle Hassan’s quiet murmurings died away.
I sat down on the bed feeling awful. I’d upset everyone.
Even Uncle Hassan only wants me to stay because he thinks I might be good for Saba, I told myself. She’s all anyone cares about. No one cares about me. I hate her, anyway. I never want to see her again.
I made a sudden decision.
I’ll go right now. I’ll find my way back to the hospital on my own.
I was still wearing my coat and my old white hijab, and my bag, which I’d been carrying around all day, was on the bed.
I opened the door of my room as quietly as I could. No one was in the corridor. I picked up my bag and tiptoed towards the front door, but just as I reached it Uncle Hassan came out.
‘Safiya!’ he said. ‘No. Please.’ Gently, he prised the handle of the bag out of my fingers and set it down. ‘Don’t run away. It’s not the answer. Please.’
‘I must, Uncle Hassan. Don’t you see? I can only do more harm here. I just want to be at the hospital with Baba, and as soon as he’s well enough I’ll take him home to Azraq.’
‘And it just so happens that I want to see him again too,’ said Uncle Hassan, trying to sound cheerful. ‘We’ll go together. But, look, it’s six o’clock already. You must be exhausted. I thought you’d like to take a shower and have something to eat before we leave. You don’t want Baba to think you’re not being properly looked after. The worry would set him back.’
I must admit that it wasn’t the thought of Baba worrying that persuaded me. It was the magic word ‘shower’. Hot water! Nice soap! Proper shampoo! The joy of washing myself all over without shivering and gasping with cold!
I let the bag go.
‘All right. But I can’t stay the night here. The hospital will let me sleep on the floor beside Baba. I’m sure they will.’
‘We’ll see about that later. There’s the bathroom. Use whatever you find there. Take your time. We’ll have something to eat when you’re ready.’
That shower, in that clean, warm bathroom, was the greatest treat of my life. I lathered myself in a rich, sweet-smelling gel, shampooed and rinsed my hair till it squeaked, scrubbed the grime away from under my fingernails, then wrapped myself in an enormous, soft towel.
There was a hair dryer with a brush beside it, lying below the mirror. Use whatever you find there, Uncle Hassan had said. I’d take him at his word. I swept the brush through my long hair, feeling the knots untangle, and was about to switch on the dryer when someone tapped on the door. I opened it a crack. Aunt Israa stood there, holding some clothes out to me. Her eyes were down as if she couldn’t bear to look at me.
‘Hassan said – you needed some clean clothes.’
I wasn’t ready for this.
‘Are they Saba’s?’
‘No. They’re mine. Please take them, dear. I’m sorry. I haven’t been very . . . You mustn’t think . . . Look, give me yours. I’ll wash them and they’ll be ready for you tomorrow.’
Her eyes were swimming again. I didn’t have the heart to refuse.
‘Thank you, Aunt Israa,’ I said, and smiled.
At last she looked up at me.
‘Oh!’ She took a step back. ‘You’re exactly like her! With your hair loose and everything I can see you properly now. It’s – it’s extraordinary. Please, habibti, come and eat with us.’
‘Is Saba . . . ?’
‘No. I’ll take her something later.’
I’d forgotten what it felt like to eat at a table in the western style, rather than round a cloth on the floor as I’d learned to do in Azraq. I was suddenly starving, and I couldn’t wait to dive into the delicious food that Aunt Israa had magicked out of her fridge. Aunt Israa didn’t sit with us. She bobbed back and forth, bringing more dishes and clearing away the ones we’d finished.
‘Please, Aunt, eat with us,’ I kept saying.
‘I’ll eat with Saba later,’ was all she’d reply.
‘Time to get going,’ said Uncle Hassan at last. ‘Are you ready, Safiya?’
I jumped up eagerly and went to fetch my coat. My crumpled hijab had been lying on top of it, but it had gone, and Aunt Israa had left a clean, nicely ironed one on my bed.
I was putting it on when the door burst open and Saba stormed in, brandishing a hairbrush.
‘How dare you barge in here like this? Into my home? Use my special shampoo and my hairbrush? Your dirty hair’s all tangled up in it. My God, you’re even wearing my mother’s clothes!’
She raised the hairbrush. I thought she was going to hit me with it and backed away. My knees hit the edge of the bed and I collapsed on to it. She stood over me, her hands on her hips.
‘I suppose you must be some relation or other, since you look so like me, but if you think I believe all this stuff about twins you must take me for an idiot. It’s a tr
ick, isn’t it? A fraud. You’re out for what you can get. I know you Syrian beggars. I see you everywhere round town. You people are all the same. Why don’t you go back where you came from? No one wants you here, least of all me.’
I leaped to my feet.
‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do,’ I said. ‘Go back to where I came from. I can’t wait to get away from you. I’ve been such a fool, believing that you’d be like my other self! I’ve dreamed about you loads of times, even talked to you in my head. All my life I felt that a part of me was missing, and that part was you.’ A quick frown creased her forehead and her eyes flickered. ‘Now I wish I’d never set eyes on you. You’re a spoiled baby, Saba Adnan, and I’m ashamed to be your twin.’
She recoiled as if I’d hit her.
‘I’m not Saba Adnan. Don’t you dare call me that! I’m Saba Hassan, and you know it perfectly well.’
I pushed her out of the way and opened the door.
‘Call yourself what you like. I couldn’t care less. I’m going to the hospital to see my – our – father.’
‘Then I’m coming too.’ She followed me out into the corridor. ‘I’m going to get the truth out of this fraudster, whoever he is.’
I gasped.
‘Fraudster? You’re calling our father a fraudster? You want to go and shout at him, in his hospital bed? How selfish are you? Baba’s got a serious head injury! He needs peace and quiet! But you couldn’t care less about him. You only care about yourself!’
Uncle Hassan came out into the corridor, his car keys in his hand. Saba ran up to him.
‘Baba, take me to the hospital! I want to come too!’
She was whining like a little girl. I didn’t wait for him to speak.
‘You can want whatever you like,’ I said, my voice full of disgust, ‘but you’re going nowhere near Baba until he’s strong enough to stand the shock of finding out what kind of daughter he’s got.’ I paused, saw with satisfaction that this had hit home, and followed Uncle Hassan out of the flat. ‘And when he does,’ I added cruelly over my shoulder, ‘he might never want to meet you at all.’
Uncle Hassan didn’t say anything as we drove to the hospital.
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