A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  He thinks I’ve been mean to Saba, I thought. But I was too angry to care.

  Baba had been moved to a private room and we had to search the hospital for him all over again. We were in a lift, going to an upper floor, when Uncle Hassan cleared his throat and said, ‘Safiya, I know you’re angry, but try not to upset your father. He doesn’t need an emotional scene just now.’

  I didn’t answer. How could Uncle Hassan think for one moment that I would be as selfish as my horrible twin?

  We found Baba’s room at last and stood looking through the glass panel in the door, not knowing if we ought to go in. He was lying on his back with his eyes shut and his mouth half open. Below the bandage round his head, huge purple bruises were beginning to show.

  ‘You can go in,’ a passing nurse said, ‘but don’t stay long. He’s had some medication to help him sleep.’

  I tiptoed up to the bed. Baba’s eyes fluttered open.

  ‘Safiya! Habibti! Are you . . . ?’

  ‘I’m fine, Baba. Uncle Hassan’s looking after me.’

  ‘You’ve met . . .’

  ‘Aunt Israa, yes. She’s very kind.’

  ‘Saba . . .’

  ‘She’s lovely, Baba. You mustn’t worry about a thing.’

  My voice was wooden, but he hadn’t noticed. He closed his eyes. A smile of relief briefly lit his face, then faded.

  ‘He’s asleep,’ said Uncle Hassan. ‘Let’s go.’

  It was past nine o’clock by now and had been dark for hours. Although the headlights of oncoming cars lit up Uncle Hassan’s face in momentary flashes, I couldn’t read his expression.

  As we turned off the main road towards Um Uthania, he looked down at me with a smile.

  ‘Wallah, Safiya, just think what an incredible series of chances has brought our family together again! There’s nothing good to say about the terrible situation in Syria, but something wonderful has come out of it for us, at least.’

  I wasn’t ready for this. I didn’t know how to answer.

  ‘I expect you think I wasn’t very nice to Saba,’ I said at last, but so quietly that he had to lean over to hear me.

  ‘She wasn’t particularly nice to you,’ he said dryly.

  ‘The thing is, Uncle Hassan, I was angry and I . . .’

  He turned briefly to look at me.

  ‘Look, Safiya, none of this is your fault, but it’s not Saba’s either. Your aunt and I are the ones to blame. We all need to work to pull our family together again. I just hope that one day you’ll see what a wonderful girl Saba really is – can be – and that you’ll love her as much as I do. I think – in fact, I’m sure – that she’s going to love you too.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The wonderfulness of Saba was the last thing on my mind as I trudged up the stairs to Uncle Hassan’s flat. In my dreadful disappointment I’d closed my mind and heart to my long-lost twin. Anyway, I was totally exhausted and all I wanted was to climb into the cosy luxury of a real bed and go to sleep.

  Saba’s bedroom door was shut, but Aunt Israa had been hovering, waiting for us.

  ‘I’ve put a nightdress on your bed,’ she said, with a sideways look at Uncle Hassan as if she hoped for his approval. ‘And a toothbrush. Do you want some hot milk, or anything to eat?’

  ‘La, shukran, no thank you, Aunt,’ I said, trying not to yawn.

  A few minutes later, I was in bed, dressed in a soft, fluffy nightdress and was reaching for the light. But before I could switch it off, the door opened and Saba came in.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I accept that you’re my twin and that I’m adopted.’

  Reluctantly I dropped my hand off the light switch.

  ‘Oh, do you. Good for you.’

  ‘I suppose I was a bit . . .’

  ‘Yes, you were.’

  ‘It was the shock. I had no idea that . . .’

  She’d flipped my angry switch again. No chance of going to sleep now. I sat bolt upright and glared at her.

  ‘It was a shock. Poor you. Why does everyone go on about how important it is not to shock dear little Saba? I’ll tell you about shocks. Try finding out that your father is wanted by the secret police. Try having to escape out of your country in the middle of the night on foot across a desert with people out there who want to shoot you. Try finding yourself living in a lousy smelly tent. Try not being able to go to school any more. Try finding your long-lost twin and discovering that she hates you and calls you a Syrian beggar. Try—’

  ‘I don’t hate you.’

  We looked at each other for a long moment in silence.

  ‘And I’m sorry I called you a beggar.’

  Another silence.

  ‘What do you mean, you live in a tent, and all that stuff about the desert?’

  ‘Oh, never mind. Can I please go to sleep now? I’m really tired.’

  ‘It was what you said,’ she went on, as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘about always knowing there was someone else, someone you’d lost. I felt that too.’

  Silence again.

  ‘I was just so angry about being lied to! I mean, to find out that my mother was crazy and my father gave me away . . .’

  ‘He didn’t give you away. They lied to me just as much as they did to you. OK, our mother was sick, but she took you and left me. How do you think that makes me feel? Look, I really need to go to sleep, OK?’

  ‘What’s it like, where you live?’

  ‘If I tell you, will you go away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. We’re refugees. Poor Syrian beggars. We used to live in a beautiful flat in Damascus, much bigger than this one. Now we live in a tent. Tariq . . .’

  ‘Who’s Tariq?’

  ‘My – our – brother.’

  ‘I have a brother?’

  ‘He’s fifteen. He goes to school in the morning and works all afternoons, evening and weekends in a bottling plant. He earns 3JD a day and that’s most of what we live on. I do all the cooking, washing, cleaning . . .’

  ‘You live on three JD a day? You don’t go to school?’

  ‘No. There was no room for me in the school in Azraq. Anyway, we can’t afford the fees.’

  ‘That’s so cool, having a big brother! Tell me about Tariq.’

  ‘Not now! Don’t you get it? I’ve been up since five o’clock this morning, I’ve walked miles in broken shoes that are two sizes too small, I’ve watched my father being horribly hurt in an accident, I’ve been called a beggar and a dirty refugee and my Baba’s been called a fraudster. Now I just want some peace and quiet.’

  ‘Oh!’ She backed away towards the door. ‘I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t think.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  I’d had enough of Saba and, anyway, I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I switched off the light, turned my back on her and pulled the crisp clean sheet up around my neck.

  I heard her say softly, ‘Good night. Sleep well.’

  Then I let the embrace of the soft warm bed carry me towards sleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The next day was Friday. I hadn’t slept so well since I’d been in my old bedroom at home. Perhaps it was the delicious comfort of the bed, the warmth, the soft pillow or the hushed quietness of Uncle Hassan’s flat that confused me, but when I woke up at last I thought for a long moment that I really was at home in Damascus, that Auntie Shirin was in the kitchen making our Friday breakfast and that I’d have the whole day to relax, watch TV and hang out with Farah before we started helping each other with our homework.

  Then I realized where I was. It was completely dark in my windowless room. I groped for the light switch and looked at my watch. Ten o’clock already! I needed the bathroom, and slipped out of my room.

  No one was around, but from the kitchen I could hear the tinny crackle of music from a radio. I made it to the bathroom and back without anyone seeing me, quickly got dressed in the clothes Aunt Israa had given me, then sat on the bed, wondering what to do.
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br />   Yesterday, I’d just been in a disappointed rage with Saba, but now I was furiously jealous of her, and that was the worst feeling of all.

  ‘She’s got everything I’ve lost! It’s so unfair!’ I said out loud. ‘I’ve got to get out of here, and forget we ever met.’

  Aunt Israa knocked on the door.

  ‘Come and eat your breakfast,’ she said. ‘Saba’s at her piano lesson. She won’t be back till twelve.’

  Piano lessons for Princess Saba! I thought resentfully.

  I followed Aunt Israa to the kitchen, but I couldn’t eat much breakfast. All I could think of was how to get away. When I’d finished, I stood to help clear up the dishes.

  Aunt Israa stopped me.

  ‘No need to do that.’ She put a pile of clean clothes – my clothes, which she’d washed and ironed – into my arms. Before I could thank her, she went on, ‘Your shoes are too small for you, aren’t they? I’ve looked out an old pair of Saba’s. I suppose you’re the same size.’ She bent down to pick up a pair of trainers that had been tucked under my chair. ‘She doesn’t wear these any more,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d like to have them.’

  Saba’s cast-offs, I thought with disgust. I nearly refused them, but my feet were still so sore from yesterday that I couldn’t bear the thought of forcing them into my horrible, small shoes again. I managed to say, ‘Thank you, Aunt Israa. That’s kind of you. Of her.’

  Then I took the clothes and scuttled back to my room to get dressed.

  A moment later, Aunt Israa knocked on the door and handed me Baba’s phone.

  ‘It was in your pocket,’ she said. ‘I nearly put it through the wash. Someone keeps trying to text you.’

  I switched the phone on. There were dozens of texts, all from Tariq.

  What’s going on? Where’s Baba? Where are you?

  I felt awful. I hadn’t let him know anything since that first phone call the day before.

  If you’ve got Baba’s phone, Safiya, for Allah’s sake call me!

  I scrolled through the rest of the messages.

  Are you all right? Where are you?

  Malik and I are on the bus from Azraq. Where is Baba?

  I started trying to reply but there was too much to say for a text so I gave up and called instead.

  Tariq answered at once.

  ‘Baba? Is that you?’

  There was a lot of background noise, rumbling and the sound of people talking.

  ‘No, Tariq, it’s me. I’ve got Baba’s phone.’

  ‘He gave you his phone? Wallah! He must be really badly hurt!’

  ‘It’s concussion. He’s going to be all right. Where are you?’

  ‘At the bus station. Just got here. Where is he?’

  ‘Al Bashir hospital.’

  ‘What? I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Al – Bash – ir – hos – pit – al.’

  The line went dead.

  I hurried back to the kitchen, feeling as relieved as a lonely soldier whose comrades have arrived to help win the battle.

  ‘Aunt Israa,’ I said, ‘I really need to get to the hospital. Can you call a taxi for me? I – I can pay.’

  She looked horrified.

  ‘A taxi? On your own? No, no, I’d never let Saba . . .’

  ‘I’m used to it,’ I said. ‘In Azraq I go in a taxi on my own all the time.’

  She looked disapproving.

  ‘Hassan wouldn’t like it at all.’

  ‘Anyway,’ I said cunningly, ‘I’m sure it’ll be nicer for Saba to have you to herself for the rest of the day. I mean, after the shock she’s had . . .’

  Her face lit up, then she had the decency to look a bit guilty.

  ‘That’s kind of you, Safiya. I need to help her come to terms with . . . It’s been such a – such a surprise for all of us. I’ll make up some little treats for her and . . .’

  ‘And you’ll call a taxi for me?’

  ‘All right, dear. If you’re sure.’

  She was already reaching into her pocket for her phone.

  I allowed myself one last lingering moment in the bathroom before I left, putting Dr Hannan’s lotions on my rash, which was looking better already, then I washed my hands in the lovely scented soap and worked sweet smelling hand cream into them.

  The taxi was waiting when I came out. Aunt Israa was clearly eager to see me go. She embraced me politely, but without affection, and had shut the front door before I’d got to the top of the stairs.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  It took me ages to find Baba’s room again in that huge confusing hospital, and when I got there at last I found Tariq and Malik standing beside his bed. I rushed at Tariq and flung my arms round him.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call back sooner! It’s been so – I was so . . .’

  I was afraid he’d be angry, but he wasn’t. He held me away so that he could look down into my face.

  ‘Are you all right? You weren’t hurt too?’

  He looked so worried that I wanted to hug him all over again, but Baba called me, so I went over to the bed.

  He was half sitting up and looked much better. The bandage round his head had gone. A patch of his hair had been shaved off and there were ugly black stitches holding together a short wound.

  I bent to kiss him.

  ‘Oh, Baba! Are you all right? Does it hurt much?’

  ‘Just a bit of a headache. Where’s Hassan?’

  ‘Taking Saba to her piano lesson. He’s coming later. Aunt Israa sent me with her own special driver.’

  Don’t ask me about Saba, I begged him silently. Please don’t. And don’t make me tell you that I came in a taxi on my own.

  Malik came over to ask Baba something. Tariq was tugging my sleeve, pulling me over to the window.

  ‘How on earth did you get hold of Uncle Hassan?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Look, when are you going back to Azraq?’

  ‘I’ll wait till Baba’s discharged and go back with him. But Uncle Hassan . . . ?’

  ‘I said I’d tell you later. How long is Malik staying?’

  ‘He’s going back this afternoon. On the bus.’

  I shut my eyes.

  ‘Alhamdulillah! I’m going with him.’

  ‘What? Why? Baba said you’re staying with Uncle Hassan. What’s he like? What’s Saba like? I can’t wait to meet them!’

  I made a face.

  ‘He’s nice, I suppose. You’ll like him, but Saba – oh, Tariq, she’s awful! She’s totally spoiled and selfish! She thought I was a beggar! She said “Syrian” and “refugee” as if they were insults! She’s mean and totally self-centred and I hate her!’

  Tariq whistled.

  ‘Calm down, Safiya. Think about it. She’d had a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘If,’ I said dangerously, ‘one more person tells me that poor little Saba has been hateful to me because she’s had a shock, I’ll – I’ll . . .’

  He grinned.

  ‘All right, Miss Volcano. I get it. You’ve had a shock too, but there’s no need to erupt all over me.’

  ‘Don’t you see, Tariq?’ My voice started wobbling. ‘I can’t take this any more. I feel broken up inside. I’ve got to get away! If you can stay and look after Baba, I’ll creep off with Malik, and I won’t even have to say goodbye to her. To them.’

  He nodded.

  ‘If that’s how you feel.’ He gave me a playful punch on the arm. ‘I’ve been really worried about you, you know, but you’ve been brilliant, getting hold of Uncle Hassan like that. I can’t wait to hear how you did it.’

  ‘It’s a long story. I will tell you soon, I promise.’

  In my pocket, Baba’s phone buzzed.

  ‘It’s Uncle Hassan,’ I mouthed to Tariq, and put the phone to my ear.

  Tariq leaned in annoyingly close, trying to listen, and I had to push him away. My hands were shaking as I put the phone back in my pocket.

  ‘He’ll be here any minute,’ I said, looking around wildly. ‘With
Saba. They’re already at the hospital!’

  Tariq put up a hand to ruffle the back of his thick thatch of hair as he always did when he was excited.

  ‘That’s kind of – interesting,’ he said, trying and failing to look cool, as if he didn’t care about meeting his sister for the first time since he’d been a toddler.

  My stomach was curdling.

  She’s going to pretend to be sweet and nice and he’s going to love her, I thought. Baba will too. They’ll end up wishing they had her instead of me.

  I set off blindly down the corridor.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Tariq called after me.

  ‘Anywhere!’ I called back. ‘Anywhere you’re all not!’

  The lift ahead of me was whirring and the panel above it showed that it had already reached the second floor. Two more floors to go and they might be here. In a blind panic, I opened the nearest door and darted inside.

  I found myself in a small, empty consulting room with a desk and chair for a doctor and another chair for a patient. I could hear the ping as the lift doors opened. Very carefully, I peered out through the glass panel in the door. Uncle Hassan and Saba were walking quickly past. He had his arm round her. Her hair was falling in long glossy waves round her face, and she was wearing a tightly cut jacket. A smart leather bag swung from her shoulder. I caught sight of her face. She looked scared and excited.

  When they’d gone, I sank down into the patient’s chair and screwed my hands together.

  Let them all have a happy family reunion, I thought. See if I care. They won’t even notice I’m not there. They’ll fall for her and think she’s wonderful, but she doesn’t fool me.

  I don’t know how long I sat there. Time passed very slowly. I dreaded that the door would open and a doctor would come in and demand to know what I was doing there. I braced myself every time I heard someone hurrying down the corridor. Once Malik and Tariq walked past.

  ‘And you’ve got no idea where she went?’ Malik was saying.

  ‘No!’ Tariq answered. ‘She just bolted.’

  I didn’t hear Malik’s reply.

  It was probably no more than half an hour, but it seemed like ages before at last I heard a man’s heavy tread and a girl’s lighter steps beside him. I opened the door a crack. Uncle Hassan and Saba had already gone past. I heard Saba say, ‘I don’t know why she had to run away like that,’ and Uncle Hassan reply, ‘None of this is easy for her, you know. Just think what she’s been through.’