by Prue Mason
The doorbell rang and Zafir nearly dropped his phone.
He grabbed his skateboard and raced to the door, followed by Mum who was laughing in a way that she had hardly done since before everything went wrong in Dubai. Everyone loved Uncle Ghazi.
Zafir dragged open the heavy apartment door and there he was: tall and slim, his long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a sloppy T-shirt and jeans, with a wide grin on his face and a camera slung around his neck. He was carrying a pot of red geraniums and three carry bags.
‘Hey, nice deck,’ he said when Zafir showed him the skateboard. ‘I did a bit of skateboarding when I was a kid. I can teach you a few tricks.’
‘Come in, come in,’ said Mum, dragging Uncle Ghazi into the apartment.
‘Ahlan wa sahlan, welcome,’ said Pops.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ said Mum, holding Uncle Ghazi at arms-length. ‘But you’re looking thin. Are you eating properly? Why don’t you visit us more often? Damascus isn’t so far away. And you are staying, aren’t you? I’ve spoken to Tetah and she said if you don’t mind using the sofa bed you can stay with her too.’
‘Let your brother answer at least one question at a time,’ said Pops.
Uncle Ghazi laughed.
‘Hi, Boulos. Don’t you find it’s easier to wait until the battery runs down?’ he asked. Pops laughed and Mum didn’t even get cross.
‘But you are going to stay, aren’t you?’ she asked again. They always slept at Tetah’s on Friday night.
‘No, I can’t,’ said Uncle Ghazi, sounding more serious. ‘I told you I have to see someone here in Homs this afternoon who I met through … other people I know. Then I’ll be catching the bus back to Damascus. There’s a meeting I need to go to.’
‘With Gulnaz?’ Mum asked.
‘Yes,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘And others,’ he added quickly.
Mum nodded. ‘I like Gulnaz. She’s a nice girl from a good family.’
‘Bas, enough of your matchmaking!’ said Uncle Ghazi, laughing but looking embarrassed. ‘We’re just friends. Honestly. Here, I’ve got something for you.’ He handed Mum one of the carry bags.
Mum pulled out a leather handbag with gold trim. ‘It’s just what I need. And it’s Ralph Lauren! Shukran, thank you.’ She gave him a quick hug.
Out of the bag Uncle Ghazi handed to Pops came a book of poetry.
‘Adonis: my favourite poet. Shukran, Ghazi. I will enjoy this very much.’
‘This is for you,’ said Uncle Ghazi, holding out the pot of geraniums to Zafir.
‘What? Flowers?’
‘Just kidding,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘They’re for your tetah. I remember when she used to come to Dubai how she always talked about flowers.’ He handed Zafir the last bag.
Zafir peered inside and saw a greenish glow.
‘A Protec classic,’ said Uncle Ghazi as Zafir pulled it out. ‘I never used to wear a helmet when I skated but I promised your mum I’d get you headgear if she got you the board. It’s pretty cool, actually, because it glows in the dark.’
Zafir put the helmet on. It fitted perfectly.
‘I hope you didn’t starve yourself to buy all these expensive gifts,’ said Mum.
Uncle Ghazi shrugged and grinned and Zafir knew he probably had.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Pops. ‘My mother will have prepared more food than we can all eat.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’d better go downstairs. I expect Abu Moussa will be waiting for us.’
‘What about my skateboard lessons?’ asked Zafir, his skateboard under one arm and helmet under the other.
‘Bring it with you,’ said Pops. ‘I’m sure Ghazi will have time after lunch to give you some tips.’
‘No problems,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘You’ll be catching some air before you know it.’ He turned to Pops. ‘I don’t want to hold up lunch but do you think we could go via the Homs Citadel? I’d like to take some shots of the city from up there.’
‘Why not?’ said Pops. ‘It’s a clear day so the views will be good. I’ll call Tetah and let her know we’ll arrive a little later than planned.’
Zafir was pleased. Since they’d come to live here they hadn’t visited the citadel, a hill in the middle of the city where the remains of an old fort could still be seen.
They greeted Abu Moussa and piled into the taxi. Almost as soon as the taxi began moving, Uncle Ghazi started taking photos. Uncle Ghazi was studying economics but he wanted to be a photographer. He even took a shot looking over the taxi bonnet of Al Kharab Street, the long, curving road from Al Waer into the city.
‘That’s not very interesting,’ said Zafir. ‘It’s only a road.’
Uncle Ghazi laughed. ‘Ah, but you aren’t seeing it with a photographer’s eye.’ He passed Zafir the camera and showed him the photo he’d just taken. ‘See how the lampposts and trees make nice shapes against the skyline?’
Zafir looked closely at the photo and realised that Uncle Ghazi had taken it so that the road curved away and you couldn’t see where it went. Zafir knew that the Khalid Ibn Al-Walid Stadium was at the end of road, but in the photo it looked like it could lead anywhere.
Mum got it too. ‘You could call this photo “Mystery Road”,’ she said.
There was quite a lot of traffic on the wide Bassel Hafez Al Assad Korniche, named after the president’s martyred brother. Abu Moussa muttered under his breath and had to swerve a few times to avoid a collision with pedestrians running across the road. As they turned into Al Midan Street and drove towards the rounded mound that covered the remains of the old fort of Homs, Zafir took more notice of what showed up on the skyline – a few bent trees, the tall metal radio towers and the outcrops of rocks.
‘The wind is so strong up here,’ said Mum as they stepped out of the taxi at the top of the hill. Her long coat flapped against her shins and the end of her headscarf, which wasn’t properly tucked in, streamed out.
They looked at the city spread below.
‘I want a few panoramic shots,’ said Uncle Ghazi.
‘There’s the Old Clock Square,’ said Pops.
Zafir looked in the direction his father was pointing and saw the tall blue-and-white glass City Centre building with the white archway. Further over he could make out Maskuf market, where you could buy everything from vegetables to clothes to televisions.
‘And there is the Khalid Ibn Al-Walid masjid,’ said Pops, pointing to the shiny dome and black-and-white minarets of the mosque. ‘I think I can see Tetah’s house too.’ He pointed to the maze of narrow, winding streets around and behind the Old City, but Zafir couldn’t pick it out.
‘How odd to stand here and think that a whole town is buried under our feet,’ said Mum.
Zafir shivered. ‘Are there people buried under here too?’ he asked. The wind was making an eerie whistle as it blew through the radio towers.
‘Of course,’ said Pops. ‘Many people once lived here and defended Homs against the crusaders.’
Zafir looked around. The citadel was bare now except for the towers and the crumbling ancient wall. There weren’t even any tourists up here. He looked down at the city that was full of buildings – apartments, offices, shops, mosques and churches.
‘Just think,’ said Pops, leaning in towards him and waving at the scene below. ‘Nearly a thousand years ago there were no shops or houses down there, but a camp of crusaders besieging this citadel.’
Zafir tried to imagine it. There would have been horses and flying pennants and large pavilion tents and men wearing suits of armour.
‘And one of those knights down there was your father’s great, great – well, lots of greats – grandfather,’ said Mum, linking her arm with Pops’s. ‘All those years ago he was fighting my ancestors who were on the side of Salaadin. But it’s hard to imagine now.’
Zafir nodded. Today, Homs looked calm and boring. It was too hard to imagine a real war being fought in this place.
‘I’m done,’ said Uncle Ghazi, putting the cap b
ack on his lens. ‘It’s so cold.Yallah, let’s go.’
‘Yes,’ said Pops. ‘Tetah will be waiting.’
‘Alhamdulillah, praise God! It is as if for a wedding ceremony,’ said Abu Moussa as they drove up the narrow lane that led to Tetah’s house and saw the whole front wall was decorated with a cascade of flashing coloured lights. Besides this, tied to the metal security gates that led into the house were a bunch of balloons with ‘Mabrouk’ printed on them.
Zafir groaned. Everyone else laughed.
‘I’ve got to get a photo,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘And you have to be in it, Zaf.’
After Abu Moussa backed out of the lane, Uncle Ghazi took photos of them all. They laughed when Mum took a photo of Uncle Ghazi taking a photo of them.
‘Mabrouk, fata, congratulations, young man.’ The door opposite Tetah’s had opened and Ustaaz Farook appeared. The professor was bald and wore glasses and a tarboosh, small round hat. His wife had died years ago and his children now lived in Canada and America. Because he used to work at the university he often rented his spare room to a student. The latest one was Ammar, who was studying mechanical engineering.
‘Your grandmother has been looking forward to this day.’
‘Shukran, thank you,’ said Zafir.
‘Are you coming over for lunch?’ asked Pops.
‘Yes, your mother has kindly invited me. She said one o’clock.’ He looked at his watch. ‘In fifteen minutes.’ He raised his tarboosh to Mum and disappeared behind the door.
‘I’ve been wanting to visit your mother’s house ever since Nadia told me she lived in an old courtyard house,’ Uncle Ghazi said to Pops. ‘So many of these original houses are being pulled down in Damascus these days.’
‘God forbid that will happen here,’ said Pops. ‘My mother has had it renovated so the first floor has a modern bathroom, but when I was growing up we used the latrine in the basement. All the same, this house will always be my home. My father was born here as I was.’
‘The stone steps inside have got hollowed-out grooves,’ said Zafir. ‘Pops says every time we go up and down we’re standing in the footprints of everyone who ever lived here.’
‘That is neat,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘Can you get up onto the roof? It would be great for photos.’
‘The maid’s room is up on the roof terrace and if you climb onto the roof of that you can get excellent views. Ah, salaam aleiykum, peace be upon you.’ Pops waved to Mr Mohammed, another neighbour who was coming back from the masjid. He worked in the Ministry for Parks and kept pigeons in a loft on his roof.
‘Aleiykum salaam,’ replied Mr Mohammed. ‘And mabrouk, Zafir. You are getting tall. It doesn’t seem so long ago when you were only a baby.’
Zafir nodded. He was just glad Mrs Mohammed wasn’t there. She loved to tell everyone the story about when Zafir was two years old and he’d gotten into Tetah’s make-up bag and painted himself with lipstick. She always laughed like it only happened yesterday.
Pops rang the bell and called out, ‘Rosa! We’re here.’
They heard the light footsteps of Rosa, Tetah’s maid who was from the Philippines.
‘Hello and ahlan wa sahlan, welcome,’ she said, smiling as always. ‘Madaam Haddad is in the kitchen cooking Zafir’s favourite food – kibbeh and rice – with swar es sett for dessert.’
Zafir didn’t like to say his favourite foods were actually hamburgers and fries and soft serve ice-cream. That sort of fast food was banned in Syria. Luckily, a close second best was Tetah’s burger-like mounds of fried minced lamb followed by a pastry cup full of syrup and smashed pistachios.
‘It smells good,’ said Pops. Usually on a Friday Tetah only ate fish, like all Orthodox Christians, so Zafir knew that she had cooked a special treat just for him.
He raced inside, through the cool passageway to the large, light-filled sitting room. Deep-set windows and French doors led out to a basalt-and-marble paved courtyard that faced south, capturing the warmth of the sun. There was a fountain in the middle that birds liked to splash in. An archway led to the original kitchen with its stone floor. Tetah had never modernised it, apart from adding a gas stove.
‘Habibi, my dear one! You’re here at last. Kull ‘am wa anta bi khayr, may you be blessed for years to come.’ Tetah turned from the stove where she’d been stirring a pot and opened her arms. Her dark hair was piled up in a mass of curls that Zafir knew were stuck in place with half a can of hairspray. She hugged him, spoon in one hand. Hugging Tetah was like hugging a feather pillow: as soft bits were squeezed in, other bits bulged out. She kissed him on each cheek and he knew there’d be smears of red lipstick left behind. As he attempted to rub his cheeks clean, Tetah turned to Pops and kissed him too.
‘Did you all have a safe journey?’ she asked.
‘A twenty-minute taxi ride is hardly a journey,’ said Pops.
‘But it is across the river,’ said Tetah. ‘Why you should choose to live so far from the city, I do not understand. How often must I tell you, Paul – I could so easily move to the old bedroom on this floor and you and your family could have the whole apartment above. Your father and I lived here with his parents.’ She spoke to Pops but glared at Mum, who had looked away.
Zafir wished Mum and Tetah got along better but he knew it was hopeless. Tetah blamed Mum for Pops not being a Christian anymore and she refused to call him by his Muslim name, Boulos. Religion was so important to Tetah that she would probably never change but Pops didn’t mind answering to both his Christian and Muslim names. Boulos and Paul were the same name after all.
‘We’ve been through this before, Mama,’ said Pops. ‘The hospital has a lease on the apartment at Al Waer and the rental is part of my salary package.’ What he didn’t say was that Mum and Tetah would never get along under the same roof and Pops would end up being in the middle of the continual arguments.
Luckily Uncle Ghazi stepped in, holding out the pot of geraniums.
‘Madaam Haddad, these are for you,’ he said.
‘Mama, you remember Nadia’s brother, Ghazi?’ Pops asked.
‘Of course, I’ve met him on many occasions when I came to visit you all in Dubai.’ Tetah looked Uncle Ghazi up and down and Zafir could tell by her expression that she didn’t approve of the ponytail or his clothing. ‘You were much younger then and had less hair.’ All the same she let Ghazi kiss her on both cheeks.
‘What a beautiful deep red,’ Tetah said, admiring the flowers. ‘Do they come from a hothouse in Damascus?’
‘Yes,’ said Uncle Ghazi. He stepped back and Mum and Tetah finally greeted each other with small pecks on the cheeks.
‘Now come,’ said Tetah. ‘I have a gift for Zafir. Rosa, bring us all tea in the sitting room.’
‘Yes, Madaam,’ said Rosa. She’d just finished setting the table at the end of the sitting room.
When they were all seated on the hard blue-and-gold striped lounge suites and Rosa had brought them tea, Tetah handed Zafir a small rectangular box. It was wrapped in gift paper that had dinosaurs on it and ‘Happy Birthday’ written in English. Seeing the paper, Zafir was worried. Did she remember he was thirteen years old and not eight anymore? The parcel contained a stainless steel case. He snapped it open and inside was a watch with a gold band and a large face with Arabic numerals, three small dials and a date window.
‘Do you like it?’ asked Tetah.
‘It’s brilliant,’ said Zafir. He pulled the watch out of its case, strapped it to his wrist and started fiddling with the dials. He was so concentrated on his watch that he didn’t take any notice of the conversation until he heard Tetah say, ‘They’re from Sydney in Australia.’
‘Who is?’ Zafir asked, looking up.
‘Reverend Father Papadopoulos and his wife Presbytera Sophia,’ said Tetah. ‘Weren’t you listening? He’s our new parish priest, here on an exchange for a year with Father Toumas. And Presbytera Sophia is happy to be close to her family in Greece.’
Zafir looked back to h
is watch, but Tetah went on.
‘The Papadopouloses have one daughter and two sons a similar age to you and I thought it would be nice for you to meet them. Presbytera Sophia suggested afternoon tea on the fifteenth of February, the holiday for Mawlid al-Nabi, the Prophet’s birthday.’
Zafir glanced at Mum. Did he really have to? He willed her to say no.
‘That would be good for Zafir,’ said Mum.
Zafir groaned. When Mum and Tetah agreed on something he knew he wouldn’t be able to get out of it – unless he miraculously came down with a fatal illness. But the Prophet’s birthday was still more than two weeks away. Anything could happen. And now, before Uncle Ghazi left, he needed some skateboard lessons.
When Zafir got to school on Sunday morning Rami wasn’t waiting for him. Zafir made his way to the bus park and arrived just as the minibus from Wadi Al Dahab, where Rami lived, pulled up.
Zafir could see Rami sitting up near the front. He watched as Rami stood up, carrying his school backpack, and made his way to the exit. Behind Rami were a group of students, including Mustafa. Zafir saw what was about to happen but he couldn’t stop it.
‘Hey, Rami. Watch out!’ Zafir was too late. As Rami stepped off the bus, Mustafa shoved him hard. Rami stumbled and ended up sprawled on the ground on top of his schoolbag.
‘Eat dirt, Ibn al Homar, son of a donkey,’ jeered Mustafa. The other boys laughed before they ran off.
‘Why do they pick on you?’ Zafir felt angry as he helped Rami up. ‘You don’t do anything to them. And look – your knee is bleeding.’ Blood was oozing from a scrape.
‘Is my bag okay?’ Rami didn’t seem to care about his knee. ‘I hope none of the glass got smashed.’
Zafir looked at the backpack and saw it had a bank of solar panels attached to it with wires running into the various pockets.
‘That’s lucky. Nothing broken,’ said Rami.
‘What does it do?’ asked Zafir.
‘It’s my new invention,’ Rami hissed. ‘I’ll tell you when we get to the back of the indoor swimming pool.’ This was another place Rami liked to tell secrets.