by Hala Alyan
“Souad, have some strawberries.”
“Strawberries have worms.”
“Suit yourself.” Alia turns to Atef, pops a piece of bread in her mouth. Flour dots her lower lip. “What’s the plan for today?”
Atef catches Riham’s eye and smiles.
“We’re going to the dunes,” he announces to the table.
“What?” Alia frowns; Atef immediately sees his mistake. He wishes he’d spoken to her earlier. “In this heat? The car ride out will take so long. And the scorpions.”
“Scorpions sleep during the day,” Riham says quietly and Atef’s heart clenches.
“I want to take her,” he says, harsher than he intended. “It’s still early.”
Alia gives him a sidelong look, a glint in her eyes. You want to do this in front of the children? After years, the two of them are fluent in this wordless language.
“Riham.” Alia turns to the girl with a coaxing smile. “Wouldn’t you rather go someplace else? Like the toy store. Or the shops? We can buy you a new dress.” She reaches over and tucks a stray hair into Riham’s braid.
“We go to the zoo!” Souad upends a cup of orange juice.
“Souad!” Alia swats Souad’s hand and begins to blot the juice. Souad’s face turns thunderous. Karam intervenes from across the table, leaning forward on his elbows.
“You want to see the peacock?” Karam asks. “Or the camel?”
For an instant, Souad’s face wavers between tears and curiosity; curiosity wins out. “The camel,” she says. “With the big head.”
“Even the zoo will be hot,” Alia says. “I think somewhere indoors is better.”
You’re unbelievable, you know that? Atef turns to Riham. “Don’t worry, duckie. Today’s your day.”
“Zoo!” Souad cries out, but Atef keeps his eyes on Riham. The girl shreds the pita bread, a nervous habit. She looks up at Atef.
“It’s okay, Baba,” she says. “I like the zoo.”
“We’re going to the dunes,” he says helplessly to the table. “It’s Riham’s birthday.”
“It’s my birthday!” Souad calls out.
“Hush,” Atef says. “We’ll do whatever Riham wants today. Mama knows that.”
He widens his eyes at Alia. Temporary cease-fire. It’s her birthday. Irritation travels across her face, then passes. She pushes the napkins away from her, leaving a slick trail on the table.
“Of course,” Alia says primly. “Habibti, whatever you want.”
“I want to go to the zoo,” Riham says, her eyes on the torn pieces of bread. “The dunes are really far. Besides”—the perky, bright voice that breaks Atef’s heart—“this way we get to see the deer again.”
“But the zoo’s going to be hot—” Alia begins, and Atef glares at her. You’ve done enough. She falls silent.
“Camel! Camel!” Souad turns to Karam and demands, “Make the lion noise.” The boy obligingly growls.
Atef leans over and taps the table in front of Riham. She looks up. “I’ll take you next weekend,” he whispers. “Just us. We’ll get shawarma for the trip.” The girl’s eyes shine.
“Souad,” Riham calls out. “Do you want to see the elephant or the tiger?”
Souad considers. “I want,” she says slowly, “to see the tiger eat the elephant.” In spite of themselves, they all laugh, even Alia, who reaches over to ruffle Souad’s curls.
“You barbarian,” Alia says, and they laugh even harder.
The zoo is at the outskirts of town, past the marketplace. The children pile into the back of the car, Souad in the coveted middle seat, dangling her feet. Alia fidgets with the car radio, turning up the volume too loud and humming along. As he drives, Atef peers into the rearview mirror, stealing glances at the children as they chatter.
“I’d be an eagle,” Souad is saying. “No, a bear.”
“Bears live in the forest,” Riham says patiently. “Think of something in the desert.”
“Bear!”
“What about a snake?”
“Okay! A snake.” Souad makes a hissing sound and the other two children pretend to cower.
He is lifted, as always, by the sight of so many people in the car, bickering and talking and laughing, this family, his family. Atef’s own father had been more mythical than real for him, his mother made zealous with grief after he died. The only memories he has of his entire family together are at funerals and Eid dinners.
“Take me with you,” Alia sings along to the radio. Despite her sunglasses and the way she bobs her head to the music, he knows she is furious. With him. He feels a pang of remorse, for breakfast and the quarrel last night. Their arguments have the quality of a monsoon, gaining momentum, as they batter against each other until, finally, they flounder uselessly as shorn branches.
“We won’t stay long,” he says now, as a peace offering.
“Widad said to be back by five.” She raises the volume more.
He tries another tactic. “Priya’s making that fruitcake,” he says in a stage whisper. Alia turns to him. In her large, glossy sunglasses, he sees his face duplicated.
“She’ll like that.” Her tone turns mischievous. “But Widad’s going to be annoyed.”
Atef grins. “Remember the party for Ghazi?”
“‘I told you not to bring a thing!’” Alia mimics Widad’s high, anxious tones perfectly.
“And the thing about the chicken.” Atef laughs.
“‘What are we going to do with two of them?’”
They laugh companionably. Alia settles back into the seat, her curls unbrushed around her face. In profile, she still looks young, all angles—cheekbones, square jaw, strong nose. As she tilts her head back and begins to sing again, he glimpses her former self, the girl who teased him for ironing his ties. The likeness is breathtaking. He plucks these moments when they come, gathers them as proof—though of what, he is unsure. Love? Permanence?
Years ago, in Umm Mustafa’s garden, Atef had been dazed at the sight of Alia. Sitting with her unbrushed hair, her feet propped on a chair as she cracked pumpkin seeds with her teeth, he’d been jolted by a memory of sitting in the mosque as a boy, sneaking his eyes open during prayer to watch dust motes sparkle in the sunlight. The two things merged in his mind—Alia, the memory of the mosque—making the meeting seem holy, a manifestation of fate.
This is why he writes the letters, he knows. Thousands of times he has thought of coming to her, dropping them in her lap. Begging her. This is what really happened, all those years ago. It’s all in there. This is why we don’t talk about your brother. You always said you wanted to know, and now you do.
When he remembers that afternoon, he can forgive her everything—the resentment, the detachment, the way she is cruel at times, going off for long summers in Amman and returning tan and happy, sighing when she walks through the house as though she has been on furlough and is now returned to her prison. But he has known Alia for half his life, and with those years is the understanding that if she knew the truth about Mustafa, she would never return to Atef.
At the entrance of the zoo, families line up in front of the ticket booth. The gate is covered in chipped paint. Up ahead, children skip in front of their parents, yelping and laughing. The sky is blue and clear, unfurled like satin.
“Five,” Atef tells the young Indian man at the booth. As they walk ahead, the children discuss where to go first. “Riham chooses,” he calls.
“The monkeys!” Her favorite. When she was younger, he’d perch her on his shoulders to pitch grapes into the cages. Once, a larger monkey swatted some baby monkeys for eating them and Riham began to cry.
After the monkeys they go to the deer, then the jackals. The cages are halfheartedly decorated with painted backgrounds and fake plants. The animals stare back at them with bored, unfathomable eyes. Atef feels bad for them, listless from the heat. The sun is dizzying, and when they pass the ice cream shack, he buys the children shaved ice.
“I should’ve let her w
ear the pajamas,” Alia says as Souad dribbles red ice onto her collar.
“We’ll wash it.” Atef smiles down at Souad’s sticky face.
“What’s gotten into you?
“What?”
“You’re so”—Alia wrinkles her nose—“chirpy.”
He feels a childish hurt. “It’s a beautiful day,” he says spitefully, then raises his voice. “Isn’t it, kids? Isn’t it a beautiful day?” The children turn and nod, clamoring to get to the elephants. He tilts his head to Alia. “See? Everyone’s happy.” But you. He cannot help but feel satisfaction at the annoyance on Alia’s face. It quickly dissolves into shame. It’s Riham’s birthday, he tells himself.
“It’s good to see them so excited,” he says, contrite. “It makes me happy.”
Alia’s face softens and he feels an urge to kiss her. You love that woman too much, his mother had told him before the wedding.
“That’s nice,” Alia says now, trailing her fingers on his wrist. She speaks loud enough for the children to hear. “But Karam’s already getting sunburned. Did you see his cheeks? I knew it would be too hot.”
He pulls his hand away. “Your daughter’s enjoying herself,” he mutters. “That should matter more than being right.” Even beneath the sunglasses, Alia’s expression is a kaleidoscope of hurt and anger and, finally, retreat.
You look beautiful in red. I miss you. Remember that afternoon in your mother’s garden? I was watching you earlier. You look exactly the same.
After circling the zoo twice, they pile back into the car, Souad punctuating the trip to Widad’s house with various animal sounds. Alia turns the radio on, stares out of the window. At Widad’s compound entrance, Atef turns left and goes past the villas. There are already several cars parked in the driveway.
“That’s Sahar’s dad’s car!” Riham calls. “And Miriam’s. So many people!”
At her happy voice, Atef and Alia glance at each other and—as though galvanized at once—Alia turns off the music, Atef cuts the engine, and they turn to their three children, smiling.
“There are, sweetheart,” Alia says.
“Ready to have some fun, everyone?”
The children laugh and say yes. Doors clank open; seat belts are unbuckled. The fight, formally, is over.
For the cake, they seat Riham at the head of the table, Souad and Karam at either side. Widad has decorated the table with garlands of flowers and silver balloons tied to the chairs. The guests have piled gifts with colorful wrapping paper and ribbons. There are children from Riham’s school, Atef and Ghazi’s coworkers, the circle of friends they’ve made over the years. The girl looks dazed with joy, shy from the evening’s attention, the adults complimenting her dress and calling her aroos.
Alia lights the nine slender candles on the cake and nods at Ghazi standing in the doorway.
“To the birthday girl!” Ghazi calls out as he turns off the light. Everyone cheers, suddenly bathed in candlelight. Souad stands on her chair and claps.
“Chocolate,” she calls out.
“Hush,” Alia says, smiling, and begins to sing. “Happy birthday to you.” The others join in. Atef stands and watches: Karam hugging Riham as he sings, Souad’s grinning face. And Riham—she leans toward the cake, exquisite in her delight. Emotion engulfs him, tears springing to his eyes, his view a tangle of candlelight and figures. Mustafa, you should see the way they sang for her, Alia’s voice carrying above all the others. He takes a breath and recites: He has a daughter. Three healthy children. A safe home. He is here, surrounded by these lovely, warbling voices.
The singing ends and everyone applauds, whistling and calling as Riham leans toward the cake, blows through her pursed lips. The candles waver and go out.
“More fire!” Souad cries and the adults laugh. Ghazi turns the lights back on, and the women begin to slice the cake, calling the children to sit and eat. After several moments, Alia walks over to him, balancing two plates of cake.
“Those children are savages,” she says. “There’s nearly none left. I managed to salvage this.” Atef notices that she has lined her eyelids with kohl.
“Thanks,” Atef says, taking the plate.
“I saw you,” Alia murmurs. Atef looks away, swallowing. And yet, buried beneath the shame is a tentacle of hope—she watches him. He is touched by this.
Unexpectedly, she leans her head on his shoulder. How infrequently they touch, really touch, not brushed fingertips but their bodies aligning with each other’s, naked and feverish. When they were younger, newly wed, every second alone had been stunning. It felt like a stolen galaxy, the kisses, lips trailing skin.
He sighs and eats his cake. Against him, Alia’s body is relaxed, rising with each breath. It is unnecessary, to always lust for the past. He knows this. There is no good in greediness.
As guests begin to leave, Widad and Alia wrap up the food and the remaining men go outside.
“A smoke?” Ghazi asks but Atef shakes his head. Instead, he walks through the house, looking for an empty room. The clamor of the evening has tired him. His head is beginning to ache, the tendrils of a migraine unfolding. In the guest bedroom, a group of children play in a semicircle. Karam is helping Souad build a tower with Legos, one of Riham’s birthday gifts. Atef catches Souad’s eye and blows her a kiss.
At the end of the hallway is Ghazi’s study, the scent of leather and smoke pungent as Atef opens the door. It is dark, and it takes him a second to see the figure sitting on the windowsill behind the desk, her silhouette outlined by the open window.
“Riham?” The girl startles, turns around. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m making a wish.” Her voice is small.
“You forgot to make one earlier?” He smiles as he walks toward her. “What did we pile that cake with candles for?”
“In the old days, people used to do this,” Riham says, turning back toward the window. Outside the moon is a crescent, slender as a fingernail in the sky. “I read about it. They’d make their wishes by the moonlight. They believed that smoke carried the wish all the way up.”
She taps the windowsill beside her, a white candle next to a box of matches. Atef moves closer to catch another glimpse of the moon.
“How’d they do it?”
Riham leans her head against the window frame. “They would light a candle and hold it up to the moon.”
“And then?” Atef asks. He is drowsy from the food and the dark and Riham’s voice.
She smiles beatifically, her face suddenly much older. “And then you blow it out.”
They both look up at the thin moon. Atef thinks of his bookish daughter reading about the old days and birthdays, hoarding that knowledge like a jewel until today. It saddens him, the thought of her slipping away to make wishes.
“Can I stay?” he asks.
She nods and takes a match out, strikes it against the box’s side. As Atef watches her touch the flame to the wick, her face illuminated, he suddenly thinks of Mustafa. Before the war, before the prison. There had been a girl, Atef remembers. He’d completely forgotten about her, a girl Mustafa mentioned at times. Atef tries to hunt the grottoes of his memory for her name. Something buoyant, delicate-sounding. He thinks of the stacks of letters without an address.
Riham holds the candle up to the window, peers through the flame to the moon. Atef is awash with love for her, her thin lips, her thick nose, all the awkwardness of adolescence beginning to crowd her face. He imagines time-lapse photography of her—her youth, then womanhood, wrinkles creasing her forehead, the years whirling by.
He will write to Mustafa about this moment, about her silhouette against the window, how he saw her years come before his eyes. He will tell him about the ways the world has changed. He can see the blank paper in front of him, his fingers curving instinctively. I’m addicted to this, he wrote a while ago. My confessional.
She takes a deep breath and exhales; the flame disappears in a wisp of smoke.
“What did you wish
for?” he asks his daughter.
“I’m not supposed to say, Baba.” She hesitates. “For nothing to change.” Her eyes shine up at him.
“That’s a good wish,” Atef says. He imagines Mustafa in a small bungalow in Latin America, tanned, wearing leather sandals. That long-lost girl with him. “A very good wish, duckie.”
How tiny our lives are, he thinks, swelling to impossible size with love, then shrinking again. He puts an arm around his daughter and pulls her close, this girl he will lose eventually to something. She settles against him. For long moments, they sit together in the dark, watching the sky and smelling the sulfur around them.
Riham
* * *
Amman
July 1982
Of the dozens of things that Riham dislikes about spending summers in Amman, the worst is the noise. She has been making a list all morning on the inside cover of her tattered Gone with the Wind, sitting in the kitchen of her grandmother’s house, the quietest place she can find.
It isn’t the mosquitoes that leave itchy welts in the cruelest of places—her eyelids, the space between her toes—or the soap operas the aunts watch compulsively. Not the vague smell of rotten meat when they visit Khalto Mimi’s, a scent Riham attributes to their two cats, of whom Riham is shamefully afraid—once when they leaped onto the dining-room table, Riham jumped and Khalto Mimi’s daughters, Lara and Mira, stared at her—or the fact that her father isn’t with them. Not even that Karam stayed in Kuwait this summer, part of a sports club at his school.
It is the noise. The tireless clamor that Riham cannot escape no matter what she does. Back home in Kuwait, she has her bedroom at the corner of the house, with her rows of books. Any sounds, Priya’s cooking or her parents talking, are always muffled by distance.
Here, the noise is like another creature in the house.
“It’s not mine!” Souad is yelling.
“Now,” their mother says. She is standing in the kitchen, an open pouch of pita bread in her hand. “I’m not saying it again.”