Oranges in No Man's Land

by Elizabeth Laird

  Chapter Seventeen

  Granny started looking better almost straight away. I don’t think, looking back, that the medicine could have worked at once. But I think she’d started to feel hopeful. She’d almost given up before I’d come home, and was waiting to die. Now, she knew she had a good chance to live, and she was determined to take it.

  I felt like a film star for the next few hours. People kept coming into our corner to praise me and ask me questions.

  ‘Wallah, Ayesha, you’re a dark horse. Who’d have thought a little thing like you . . .’

  ‘What’s it like over there, Ayesha? Did you look into the Burj? Is it still completely empty? Is the cinema still there?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to get medicines for free? My eye drops ran out weeks ago.’

  ‘I hope they’re suffering over there, same as we are over here.’

  Ahmed wasn’t impressed, of course. He’d grizzled for something to eat as soon as he’d seen me. But Latif crept in after a while, and sat cross-legged on the other end of the mat, staring at me with open eyes.

  When everyone had gone, he said, ‘Are you really a heroine, Ayesha? Did anyone shoot at you? Why didn’t you let me go? I’d have been a heroine too.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t. Only girls can be heroines.’

  He scowled.

  ‘That’s not true. I’m just as brave as you are.’

  ‘Boys can be heroes. Girls are heroines.’

  I realized, as I watched him think about this, that I hadn’t properly looked at my little brother for a long time. I saw how thin he was, and how dirty.

  ‘Granny’s going to get better,’ I said. ‘She’s not going to die.’

  His brows flew up.

  ‘What do you mean? She wasn’t going to die anyway, was she? You never said. You’re making that up, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m not. But she won’t, now I’ve got her medicine.’

  He shivered.

  ‘If you’re wrong, and she does, who’s going to look after us till Daddy comes and finds us?’

  ‘We’d have to look after ourselves. We’ll have to anyway. She probably won’t be really better for ages.’

  His eyes were enormous.

  ‘I can’t look after us.’

  I saw my opportunity and I seized it.

  ‘Yes, you can. You can come when I call you, and mind Ahmed when I ask you to, so that I can do the cooking and stuff.’ I thought of something else. ‘And you can go to the checkpoint and get our supplies when the refugee truck comes. You can be in charge of that.’

  I’d had enough of armed men and checkpoints. I never wanted to go near them again.

  He nodded, looking serious and grown up.

  ‘We’ll manage,’ I said. ‘Mrs Zainab will help us.’

  What he said next made me open my eyes in horror.

  ‘No she won’t. They’re leaving. Tomorrow. Didn’t Samar tell you?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  I don’t know how long I sat there, staring at Latif. I do remember saying, ‘No. No! It’s not true. You’re just saying it. How do you know, anyway?’

  Latif shrugged. His moment of seriousness was over. He wasn’t interested in Mrs Zainab and Samar.

  ‘Ask them,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t listening properly. Can I go and play now?’

  It was the first time he’d ever asked my permission for anything. In spite of my shock, I was impressed. I nodded, feeling important.

  ‘Yes, but come back soon. It’ll be dark in an hour.’

  I stood up when he’d gone. I looked at Granny, but she’d turned on to her back and was asleep, her mouth open. I realized for the first time that it had been at least two hours since I’d seen Samar. I was angry.

  Why didn’t she tell me they were going? I thought. Doesn’t she care about me at all?

  Then I remembered how Samar had been crying on the step, and how frantically she’d tried to talk to me. I lifted the curtain and slipped out.

  Samar was sitting patiently on the floor just outside. I could tell she was waiting for me. In her family’s corner, I could see Mrs Zainab packing things away into some big checked zip-up bags. Already the area looked half deserted.

  Mrs Zainab saw me and came over.

  ‘Don’t look so miserable, you two. Here, I’ll take Ahmed. Hop along on your own for a bit. Just for an hour, mind. And there’ll be enough in the pot tonight, Ayesha, for you and the boys.’

  Samar and I looked at each other and nodded. A moment later we were in our special place, on the stairs.

  We said nothing until we’d unpacked our treasures and laid them out properly on the windowsill. Then we huddled together on the lowest step, not noticing the people who went past us. Slowly, we puzzled out each other’s stories.

  I’d never before felt such a need to understand Samar. Although she’d taught me many of her signs over the past few months, there weren’t enough for that special conversation. I could see in her eyes, too, how desperately she was trying to understand me.

  But I’ll never have an audience like Samar again. For her, I acted it all out – the scary ruins, the horrible men at the checkpoint, old Abu Boutros with his ivory-topped cane, the racing paraffin tankers, the vast emptiness of the Burj, the orange seller’s boy, Dr Leila, her nasty aunt and the mad ride home in the UN ambulance. She laughed, and gasped, and held her breath, and she sniffed at the lingering scent of soap on my dress with delight, putting back her head to hold the smell in her nostrils.

  And slowly, I pieced together her story. It was simple. Her uncle had come that morning. He had found a flat just for them. They would be leaving early tomorrow. They would have two rooms, running water, electricity and windows with glass. And Samar would be going to a new school – a boarding school this time. A special one for deaf children. Her uniform would be blue.

  The hour passed quickly. It was dark now. We knew we had to go back in. We stood at the windowsill to reclaim our little treasures, but before I’d even touched them, Samar had swept them all into the box and handed it to me.

  I still have those funny things: the ring with the red glass bead, the plastic yellow rose, and the tiny teddy with its dented, faded hat.

  I never saw Samar again. Just as the war had brought us together, it brutally divided us once more.

  Granny slowly grew well again over the next few months, and then, one stifling summer day, my father came. He’d searched for us for weeks throughout the city, and he swept us off to a flat of our own. Our life began again. Slowly, carefully, we put down new roots, afraid at first that they’d be torn up.

  Peace returned to Lebanon. Latif went back to school, and so did I. Ahmed learned to walk and talk. We all went on growing up.

  I often remember that dusty, ruined flat in old Beirut. And I know that a little part of me will stay there forever, laying out those treasures on the windowsill and playing at cat’s cradle with my friend.

  Also by Elizabeth Laird

  Turn the page to read an extract . . .

  Chapter One

  In my dreams I’m always running, running, running. Sometimes my feet fly over the ground and I’m sure that if I could just go a little bit faster I’d take off and fly like an eagle. Sometimes my legs feel as heavy as tree trunks, but I know that I must go on and reach the finishing line whatever it costs.

  I’ve been running almost since I was a toddler. As soon as I could toddle, I’d stagger after my father as fast as my little legs would take me when he set out for the market on our donkey.

  ‘Solomon! Come back!’ my mother would shout. I wouldn’t listen, so she’d have to run after me, snatch me up and laugh with me all the way home.

  That was how my childhood began. And I can remember, as clearly as anything, the night when everything changed.

  I was eleven years old. At least, I think I was eleven. In the countryside in Ethiopia, nobody takes much notice of how old you are.

  It was the end of the day, a
nd the door of our house was firmly shut. It always made me shiver to think of the night outside. Not just because it was dark and cold, but because there might be a hyena or two, lurking in the darkness, or, even worse, something – demonish.

  I’ll have to explain what our family home was like, in case you have never been to Ethiopia. It was round, like most other people’s houses up there in our cool highlands, and it had a thatched roof that went up to a point. There was only one room, with the fire burning away in the middle. It got a bit smoky, but it kept us warm and gave a glowing light. There was a screen at one end, and our animals lived behind it – at night, that is. In the daytime, of course, they were out grazing.

  Anyway, that evening Ma was stirring the pot of stew that was cooking over the fire. The smell was so good it was making me feel very hungry.

  ‘How old am I, Ma?’ I said suddenly. I don’t know what put the idea into my head.

  ‘Let me see,’ she said vaguely, dropping another pinch of red-hot pepper into the pot. I could tell she wasn’t listening.

  Abba (that’s what we called my father) was listening, though. He had just come in from his work out on our farm. He sat down on a little stool beside the fire, and I could see he was as hungry as I was.

  ‘You were born the year the harvest was so bad, and we had to borrow all that money from your uncle,’ he said.

  Ma looked reproachfully at him.

  Abba blinked, and looked a bit guilty.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking,’ he said quietly. ‘It was Hailu who was born that year.’

  Hailu was my older brother, but he died when he was little. Ma always sighs when anyone reminds her of him.

  Abba shot her an understanding look, then he scratched his head.

  ‘Oh no, I remember now,’ he said. ‘You were born the year the magician came and turned my stick into a wand of gold.’

  I loved it when Abba was in his teasing mood. Konjit, my little sister, had been picking up the unburnt ends of twigs and throwing them on to the fire, while twisting a bit of hair over her forehead at the same time. She only ever seems to use one hand for anything useful. The other one is permanently fiddling with her hair. Now, though, she stopped for a whole long minute.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, her big brown eyes as round as the buttons on Grandfather’s cotton jacket. ‘A gold wand? Where is it?’

  I nudged her, just to show that I knew she was being silly, then had to pull her upright in case she toppled over into the fire.

  ‘It turned back into a stick again, just like that,’ Abba said, giving me a sly look. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t that year. You were born just at the time when Twisty Horn had twins, only they didn’t turn out to be calves but a couple of chickens. You should have seen them! They went flapping about all over the place.’

  Everyone laughed, and even Grandfather, who had been sitting on the clay bench that ran right round the wall of the house, made a sort of rusty, wheezing sound that meant that he was laughing too, but Konjit didn’t even smile. She looked quite shocked.

  ‘Cows can’t have chickens for babies, Abba,’ she said seriously. ‘Everyone knows that.’

  She falls for it every time.

  Just at that moment, a whiffling snort came from the stable behind the screen of sticks. I knew it was Twisty Horn, and not Long Tail or Big Hoof. I know the sound of all our animals. I can tell our donkey (her name is Lucky) from all the other donkeys at the market just by the way she brays. I know our three dogs too, of course, but they don’t come into the house with us. Their job is to stay outside and guard our farm. They pretty much look after themselves.

  ‘You’re quite right, darling. Cows only have calves,’ said Abba, pulling Konjit sideways so that she could lean against his arm. I could tell his teasing mood was over. He was too tired for much when the evening came. He’d been out working all day on the farm.

  ‘Supper’s ready,’ Ma said at last. She fetched out the big enamel tray and laid a huge round piece of pancake bread on it. (Our bread is called ‘injera’, and it’s soft and thin and delicious.) Then she scooped spoonfuls of stew from the pot and set them out in front of each of our places.

  Grandfather stood up and walked over to join us by the fire. I waited expectantly.

  Five, I said to myself.

  I counted the steps he was taking, and, sure enough, his knees cracked like breaking sticks at the fifth step.

  (I like doing that – guessing numbers, I mean. It’s a private game I play with myself, and with my friend Marcos, when he’s in the right mood.)

  Grandfather sat down on the little stool that Abba had pulled up for him.

  ‘Solomon’s eleven,’ he said.

  I’d forgotten by now that I’d asked about my age. It was my job to take the bowl and the little jug of water round so that everyone could wash their hands before they ate, yet I was too hungry to think about anything but food.

  No one said much while we were eating, but when we’d had enough Grandfather sat back on his stool and said again, more thoughtfully this time, ‘Solomon’s eleven.’

  I thought his mind was wandering, but it wasn’t. He suddenly squared his shoulders, pulled the end of his thick white shawl away from his neck, as if he was too hot, and said, for the third time, ‘Eleven. Quite old enough. We’ll go tomorrow.’

  My parents went quiet. Ma froze with her hand halfway up to her mouth. Abba had pulled his little tooth-cleaning stick from his inside pocket. He froze too.

  ‘Go where?’ whispered Konjit. She didn’t dare speak up in front of Grandfather. I knew she was burning to add, ‘Wherever it is, can I come too?’ but she would never have been so disrespectful. I was glad she’d asked the question, though, because I was burning to ask it too.

  ‘To Addis Ababa,’ said Grandfather, as casually as if he was talking about Kidame, our nearby town, where I go to school and Abba goes to the market on Thursdays. ‘There’s a man I need to see. Solomon can come with me. It’s time he saw something of the world, and I might need him, anyway.’

  My heart had started pumping, and my face felt as if it was on fire. Addis Ababa! Our capital city! Marcos’s brother had been there once. He’d come home and told the most amazing stories, about huge buildings with walls of glass, and streets crowded with cars, and everyone wearing smart clothes, and staircases that moved. I’d never been further than Kidame. It’s all right, I suppose, but it’s only a small town. It’s got one main street, which gets really muddy in the Big Rains. The bus comes through once a day, and cars sometimes too.

  It was about five miles to my school. I usually ran all the way there in the mornings, because our teacher got furious if we were late. Then, of course, I had to run all the way home again in the afternoon. Only sometimes I walked the last bit.

  We weren’t complete country bumpkins in Kidame. There was a shop in the main street so that if people needed anything they could buy it between Thursdays. Thursday was market day, and you could get practically anything in the market. There was electricity in Kidame too. There was even a TV in the bar. Marcos and I used to creep up to the window sometimes to watch it, and we usually got five or ten minutes in before the barman came and shooed us away.

  Marcos even had electricity in his house. He could do his homework under a light in the evening, unlike me. Lucky him. I had to hold my books as near as I could to the fire. I could never see them very well, and they got all smudgy. If I held them too close, they even ended up singed. Marcos’s house was near the pump too, where there was always running water. My mother had to fetch our water in a big heavy jar from the stream way down at the bottom of the hill every morning, with Konjit running after her, carrying her own little pot.

  Anyway, to get back to the story.

  Ma was still staring open-mouthed at Grandfather.

  ‘How – how long will you . . . ?’ she said to Grandfather, looking pleadingly at him.

  ‘It’s a day’s walk,’ Grandfather said. ‘We’ll start tomorrow at sun-up, and be there
by sundown. You remember my nephew Wondu? We’ll stay two nights with him near Piazza. Then we’ll get the bus back to Kidame the following morning. Now no fuss, please. Solomon will be all right, and it’s the school holidays at the moment so he won’t miss any lessons.’

  I loved the way he talked, in that casual, confident way about ‘Piazza’, wherever that was, and getting the bus home. A bus! I’d never been on a bus before.

  Abba was looking worried.

  ‘It’s years and years since you were last in Addis Ababa, Father,’ he said. ‘How will you find your way? It’s changed so much, I hear. And walking all that distance . . .’

  ‘That’s why I need Solomon,’ Grandfather said briskly. ‘I’m not done yet. It’s only twenty-three miles. I’ve walked a lot further than that in one day in my time. But I’d rather have company, and Solomon will do just fine.’

  I don’t remember the rest of the evening. Ma fussed about whether my shirt was clean (I only have one, apart from my school uniform). Then she worried about what we were going to eat on the journey. Grandfather didn’t take any notice. He was looking pleased with himself. He stood up, and went to lie down on the clay bench, folding his shawl over himself like a blanket. A minute later, he was asleep.

  Abba nodded at me to come and sit beside him.

  ‘I hadn’t expected this, Solomon,’ he said quietly, looking down into the still, glowing heart of the fire. ‘I’d planned to take you to Addis Ababa myself one of these days. Now you be careful. Your grandfather is an old man and Addis Ababa is a very big city. He may not remember the way too well. Don’t hurry or fuss him. Let him lean on you when he gets tired.’

  He felt inside the pocket of his tunic, and brought out a little roll of tattered dollar bills. He peeled off a few of them, and put them into my hand.

  ‘For emergencies,’ he said. ‘If your grandfather can’t find his nephew, or if something goes wrong, you’ve got a little bit to help you out. Only if you really need it, mind. I know I can trust you not to lose it.’