Stealth (New Directions Paperbook)

by Sonallah Ibrahim

  I open my eyes. The light is spinning in circles. His head is bent over me. It is covered with his woolen cap. That means he won’t go out again. He feels around my temples. He lifts my head up and puts a spoon of Belmonks in my mouth. He unfolds a wet handkerchief. Spreads it over my forehead. He disappears. He comes back with a glass of water, and squeezes two lemons into it. He brings out the aspirin bottle. He empties two pills into his hand. Dissolves them into the water. He raises my head. Forces me to drink. After the first sip, I push the cup away with my hand. I can’t breathe, so I open my mouth to breathe through it. My chest heaves and I gasp for air. He pulls me to his chest. Raises a handkerchief to my nose. He tells me to blow. My nose is clogged. He raises a small mirror in front of my face. I see my two nostrils stained with bright red spots of mercurochrome.

  He leaves the bed. I follow him with my eyes. He opens the dresser and starts to root around in it. He comes back with a thin glass tube. He gets up on to the bed. Leans over me. Puts the end of the tube in one of my nostrils. He drains the stuff clogging one nostril. He dumps it on a plate. Then he does the other nostril. He drains it and dumps it. I can breathe again. He puts his hand on my head and recites the verse of the throne from the Quran. The coughing won’t stop. I’m parched, and he gives me a drink of a coloring of iodine mixed with water. He takes me to a well that has a gas smell coming up from it. He sits me down at its edge. He tells me to lean my head over and breathe in. The well is deep. His strong arms surround me and hold me back from falling.

  I open the door carefully and look behind me. Father is deep into his nap. I go out to the living room. I walk softly to the door of the constable’s room. It is shut. I put my eye to the keyhole. The end of the bed. Four bare feet over it. The feet are all tangled and they’re not moving. I go over to the skylight and have a look at the window of Um Zakiya. It is open. The side of her bare arm is showing. I go around the table. I notice a mouse running towards the bathroom and the kitchen. I go back to Mama Tahiya’s room. I hear moving inside, so I hurry back to our room.

  Father is sleeping on his left side with his back to me. He’s snoring. I sit at the desk and open up my science book.

  I hear movement in the living room and hurry back to the door to look through the keyhole. The constable has a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms on and is standing in front of the wash basin. He washes up, then goes back to his room. I wait. Mama Tahiya is in her white robe. I wait until she finishes washing and goes back. I open the door and go out to the living room. She waves at me to follow her to the room.

  The constable is lying on the bed. He is still in the t-shirt. His hands are clasped behind his head, leaning against the wall. The hair under his arms is thick. The bed covers are piled up. She pulls them off to make a place for me. She gives me a plate with lotus fruit that I love so much and says: “Kareem brought it back with him from Assyut.” She combs her hair in front of the mirror then passes the lipstick over her lips.

  I pick out a fat orange-colored piece. Wipe it off with the sleeve of my pyjamas. I love the taste of the fruit’s dry, sweet flesh. I spit out the seed and look around me, not knowing what to do with it. I end up putting it in my pocket. I pick out another. It’s bitter. I spit it out and choose a red one instead.

  I look up at Mama Tahiya. She lets her hair down below her shoulders. Her eyes shine. She looks at “Kareem.” Some anger shows on his face. She smiles. I feel that he’s annoyed at my being there.

  “Shall I make tea?”

  She leaves the room without waiting for him to answer. I notice a picture magazine tossed to the side of the bed. I grab it and start flipping through its pages. A picture of the king at his meeting with the army officers heading to Palestine. In a military uniform with short sleeves. He holds the end of a staff under his arm. His glasses have big black frames. His thick moustache has two raised ends on either side of his mouth. He has a beret on his head leaning to the right.

  I ask the constable: “So, are we going to war?” He says it has to happen now that Israel has declared statehood. He adds: “There’s also America; they said they’d cut off petrol and farming materials if we go into Palestine.”

  Mama Tahiya comes back carrying a tray with three cups of tea. We drink them without talking. She throws herself into gathering up the playing cards scattered all over the room. She organizes them and counts them out while sitting cross-legged. Her robe slides up and shows her bare legs.

  She says: “Come on. Let’s play Old Maid.”

  She sets aside three cards with old kings on them. She shuffles the cards again. The constable turns over on to his left side. He leans on his right elbow and draws a card. I look at my cards. I notice his hand sneaking to the thigh of Mama Tahiya. She laughs and pulls her body away. We start to run out of cards quickly. He only has one card left. He lays it down to reveal the other king.

  Mama Tahiya claps: “What shall we make you do?” She adds: “Cover your eyes.” My father teaches mother to play poker. He laughs when he wins. She puts the cards on the table and says: “This game is forbidden by God.” He says: “Go on, old lady. We’re playing for small change.” She’s stubborn: “No! It’s forbidden.”

  He lies on his back. She pulls out a sash and kneels on top of it. He stretches his hand toward her chest, but she gets away. She wraps the sash around his eyes and ties it over his ear. She waves to me to come closer, then whispers: “Spit in his mouth.” She tells him to open his mouth. He does it. I lean over him. I spit.

  He shivers, sits up, and screams: “You dog! You son of a bitch!” He unties the sash and throws it across the room. Mama Tahiya and I jump up off the bed. She opens the door and pushes me into the hall, then shuts the door behind me. I run to our room. Crashing and banging sounds come from their room. A moment of silence passes. Mama Tahiya’s voice rises up: “Ayyy!” I push on our door and go in. Father stands in the doorway to the balcony. I call to him: “Papa, hurry. Uncle is beating Mama Tahiya.”

  He turns around and comes to me. We go out of the room and head towards the other one without talking. Sounds of “Ays” come one after another. Father listens in a trance. He pulls me by the hand to go back to our room. He closes the door behind us. He smiles and says: “Those aren’t the sounds of a beating.”

  He prepares sakhina with warm milk for our evening meal. He boils some fenugreek. Adds molasses. The bread is cut into croutons. He throws it in a pan. Simmers it over a fire. He adds the fenugreek and molasses. Stirs it several times. He dishes it on to my plate and pours warm milk over it. I eat with a spoon while sitting on the edge of the bed. He raises the seat until it is level with the table top. Mother covers my chest with a bib that she ties behind my neck. She puts a bowl of soup in front of me. She gives me my tiny spoon. They sit on either side of me.

  He turns off the light then comes back. He tells me to prepare my satchel and get ready for bed. He goes with me to the toilet. The door to the constable’s room is open a crack. The sounds of the radio broken up by static come from behind it. Um Zakiya’s radio is turned up. “Oh warriors in God’s tour. This is the day you’ve longed for.” I repeat the rest along with the radio: “We’re the creators of the art of war.”

  Mama Tahiya moves across the living room. She is wearing a sleeveless, yellow silk dress. She is carrying a white handbag. A folded sweater rests on her arm. “Kareem” comes after her wearing a white shirt and grey trousers. A small hand towel in the palm of his hand flashes out from under his left sleeve like a flower. The two of them say “hi” to father. They leave the apartment. I settle into bed. Father sits in his full suit at my desk. He’s wearing his glasses and holding a book in his hand. Sleep starts to overtake me. I can sense that he wants to go out. I decide not to doze off until he takes off his clothes.

  The voice of Hajj Abdel ’Alim comes up from the alley: “Khalil Bey! Khalil Bey!” Father opens the glass door to the balcony and tells him to come up. He opens the door for him. Offers him the desk chair. He himself sits on
the edge of the bed. As always, the sheikh of the quarter starts clearing his throat. He says that Abbas has married and brought his wife from his home village. She is a nice, innocent girl. She might be able to clean up for us and do the cooking. Father says: “That would be great.”

  Abdel ’Alim asks: “Have you been outside today? The streets are full of protests and people chanting: ‘Where’s our food, clothes, and basic things, thou most womanizing of all kings?’ ”

  Father says: “They’re really raising the stakes.”

  “The papers are calling them, ‘our first fighters.’ Refaat Effendi was in Port Said yesterday and he says that it’s full of Palestinians running from the Zionist forces.”

  “How is Maged Effendi?”

  Abdel ’Alim says that Zeraksh became pregnant and took him away to the kingdom of genies, so she could give birth there. She had the child without help from anyone and he walked the moment he came out of her.

  Father asks with interest: “What did he see there?”

  “They don’t have either streetcars or buses up there. There’s neither birds, nor animals, nor insects, nor cemeteries. Their digestive systems are like car engines. When they shit—excuse the expression—it comes out as steam flowing from their backsides exactly like car exhaust.”

  “So why did he come back? He’d be right to just stay there.”

  “He was choking from the lack of oxygen, so he told her he wanted to come back. She had him stand on top of her feet and put his hands on top of her head. She puffed out her cheeks and he suddenly found himself back in his own bed.”

  “Just like that? And nothing happened to him?”

  “He just has a slight headache all the time and stumbles every now and then when he’s walking.”

  Father asks about Abdel ’Alim’s children. He answers: “The girl had a fever last night. I telephoned a doctor. He sat there and asked about my work and where we lived and then demanded three pounds for a house call.”

  “Good God! What did you do?”

  “The Lord provided. I gave her two aspirin and made her a cold compress. By morning she was better.”

  He says he has come to visit father to ask a favor.

  “At your service, inshallah.”

  He says that Hajj Mishaal had trumped up a drugs charge against him and he needs father to testify for him in the case.

  Father says right away: “I’m happy to help. What happened exactly?”

  “He took the shop across from mine and wants to buy mine also, but I didn’t want to sell.”

  He stands up saying: “I have to go by the shop now. Did you notice the loudspeaker that Mishaal has hung up?”

  “Yeah. It reaches all the way to here. It doesn’t let me sleep.”

  “Are you going to sit with us tonight? Um Kalthoum is singing The New Moon Has Risen.” Father turns toward me then says: “I’ll have to see.”

  ’Abdel Alim goes out. I sit up and say to him: “Papa, don’t leave me alone.” He studies me for a second then says: “Okay, get up and put your clothes on.”

  I get dressed in a hurry. I wipe off the lenses of my glasses with a handkerchief. We go out into the alley. Siham looks out of her window as usual. We go out to the main street and head toward Sikakny Square. After crossing several more wide streets, we make it to Cinema Rialto. The crowded foyer. A whistle, noises and shouting. We climb up a short staircase to a raised viewing stand at the back. We sit on a wooden bench. The man selling pumpkin seeds, peanuts, and pretzels goes from bench to bench. I want to sit on her lap but she pushes me away from her. My father takes me between his knees. A seller passes by in a clean gallabiya with a basket covered by a cloth. He buys a giant pretzel with sesame for each of us. The vendor gives us each a bite-sized slice of Egyptian Romano wrapped in a paper.

  Father buys me a tube of roasted seeds. A double feature. First there’s a short feature. It’s an episode of the adventures of Jesse James. The main feature is Bulbul Effendi, starring the singers Farid Al-Atrash and Sabah.

  The screen goes dark suddenly and the lights come up. Shouts go up. Father takes off his fez and his bald head shines in the light. He lights a cigarette. Cinema Hillal in Sayida Zainab Square. I am with ’Azmy, the son of the maid of Mama Basima. We stand at the ticket window. The ticket seller wears a complete, fancy suit with a tilted fez. We don’t have enough for the tickets. He waves at us to sneak in through the third-class door. We stop close to the screen. It is filled with the face of Laila Murad.

  The hall goes dark. The film starts up again. The air inside is choking. Father takes off his coat. The movie ends and lights shine. His face is frowning. He wipes the sweat from his brow and forces his lips into a smile. We wait for the crowds pushing through the exit to disperse. He takes my hand in his strong grip. We go out into the street. He buys me a semolina cake from the sweet shop. We walk slowly. Our alley is drowned in darkness. The entrance to the house, too. I hang on to his coat. His arms wrap around me.

  We wash for prayer together. He lays out a blanket over the floor. While holding on to a long string of prayer beads, he sits on the blanket cross-legged. A frown. He recites the invocation. He repeats it as he counts off the beads on the string. He calls it “the millennial” because it has a thousand beads. The sound of the Friday sermon comes from Um Zakiya’s radio. The sermon ends. I pray with him. The prayer is over, but he continues with a few extra bows. He tries to make sure I’m clean. He says I can’t go to the bathroom for the next hour. He warns me not to answer if the doorbell rings or if anyone knocks on our door. He says that Abbas’s wife has said she’ll come this afternoon.

  He closes the door of the balcony firmly then stuffs a piece of cloth at the bottom. Another piece under the door to the room. He puts the primus stove down on the floor at the edge of the blanket. On top of the flame, he sets a sheet of tin that he made from the lid of a can of shortening. He throws some frankincense, seeds and herbs on top of it from small bags lined up on the desk next to a white plate made of china. He pulls down the book The Great Star of Knowledge. The fragrant vapors rise up and fill the room. I cough. He mutters to himself the ninety-nine names of God. He brings a sheet of paper and ink. He sits cross-legged. He throws more of the incense on to the fire. He recites: “Say, ‘I seek refuge in the Lord of the dawn/From the evil in His creation/From the evil of the dark as it spreads/From the evil of the sorceress who casts her breath on the knot/From the evil of the envious one who envies.’ ” I study the fire. He pokes me with his elbow so I’ll repeat the verse. We recite it several times.

  He takes a pin and a sheet of paper. He pokes it and says: “Against Nabila’s eye. Against her husband’s eye. Against Tahiya’s eye. Against the constable’s eye. Against ’Abdel Alim’s eye. Against Ali Safa’s eye. Against Um Safwat’s eye. Against Hikmet’s eye. Against Sheikh Afifi’s eye.” He thinks for a second, then adds: “Against Khalil’s eye.” He throws the paper on to the fire and watches it go up in flames.

  I try to get up but he says we aren’t done yet. He takes the china plate from on top of the desk. He puts it in front of himself. He takes the bottle of blue ink and a reed pen. He opens The Great Star of Knowledge to a page marked by a white sheet of paper. He sticks the pen in the bottle of ink. He grabs the plate and starts to write out the fatiha around its edges. He turns the plate around in a circle and keeps on until he has finished the whole chapter. He reads from the marked page of the book. He takes from it a big square with long columns covering it lengthwise and across the width. He pours a cup of water on to the dish and adds a few drops from the bottle of rose water and a spoon of honey. He gives it to me to drink. I pull my head away. He shouts at me: “Drink it!”

  I drink the mixture. He tells me to repeat after him: “May God bless what I have drunk that it might help me with learning and comprehension.” He reads from the The Embryo: “Recite in the name of thy Lord who created; created the human from an embryo. Recite and thy Lord is all giving, who taught by the pen, who
taught the human what is known.” He prostrates himself in prayer twice, and I pray with him. My mother’s voice from the bedroom: “Ya Seen, and the Quran is wisdom. Verily you are one of its messengers.” He puts the small shaving mirror in my hand. He tells me to press my finger on its brass frame that keeps falling off.

  He opens the book to another page. He says that the exam questions are going to appear on the mirror’s glass and that I need to pay close attention. He reads from the book in a voice that shakes: “O Lord, employ Your angels on my behalf, there is no god but You, O Lord of dignity and generosity, O living and ascendant One I implore You, Giver of sustenance to sustain me.” He repeats the incantation forty times while counting on his fingers. He says: “O Answerer, answer my call and fulfill my needs.”

  I stare at the surface of the mirror and repeat after him: “I ask You by Boqallim, Shounahil, Shahareen, I ask You by the holiness of Kashheel, Bardeem, Baha’eel, Ajajeel, ’Anaseel, and I ask You by the holiness of Gabrael, Micha’il, Israfeel, and Azra’el. O Lord, I ask You verily O Lord of dignity and generosity, O living and ascendant One. I ask in Your name, O most supreme One.” He scolds me: “Slow down.” He continues: “And I ask You in your name, Allah, Allah, Allah, the Beautiful, the Generous, and I ask You in Your name, the One, the Glorious, and I ask You in Your name, God the Prince of holiness and peace, the Trustworthy, the beloved Grand Ruler, the grace of Allah fall on our pleas. If You should come to us conveyor of these names, answer us with the righteousness of He who speaks the heavens and earth, may our will and our obedience come to us and speak, addressing us in our obedience, in the rightness of A’aya, Sharaahiya, Adotay, Usbawat, with haste, with haste, right now, right now.”