by Eva Nour
Dear Nabil, it started. Sami’s cheeks flushed, but he forced himself to read on. You have no idea how much I appreciated the book of poems by Qabbani. I know my parents don’t want me to write to you any more, but I can’t possibly stop myself…
A young girl too! This was too much. Sami read on and his cheeks turned redder. She wrote about his hands and lips, even complimented his sticky-out ears. Your moustache, she wrote, is the most handsome one I’ve ever seen on a man. When he turned the page, he saw the name. It was signed Your Samira, for ever.
Sami smiled to himself, still embarrassed but for a different reason now – for catching a glimpse of his parents as young lovers. He tied the string around his mother’s love letters and locked the box. He wondered what kind of person his father had been back then, when Nabil met Samira and tried to get her attention with poetry, the oldest trick in the book for the infatuated. He thought about who he had been a few years later, when they were married and his older brother was a baby and the secret police had forced their way into their home. When they pulled out books, opened drawers and toppled furniture. When his father was dragged into the street and his fate was decided by a glance.
Sami put the key back under the marble ashtray. You could get used to most things, even the whistling sound of incoming rockets and missiles. But maybe not the knowledge that everything can be taken from you.
The next morning, his cousins called again, this time with sad news. Grandpa Faris had passed away during the night. Not from a rocket or a bullet in the back of the head, but peacefully, in his sleep, of age or sorrow.
25
SAMI’S BLOCK WAS now right in the line of fire. He had tried to ignore the obvious but the black fire clouds kept coming closer. In a short time he had learnt to sleep despite the anxiety. It fired his dreams instead; he would wake up with a jolt and hit the wall.
On a warm spring night, Muhammed called and said Sami couldn’t wait any longer. Sami reluctantly packed a bag and went, by the light of his phone, to his friend’s house a few streets over. He hesitated at first, when he thought of the bodies they had carried there before burial. But it wasn’t like Sami had many other places to choose from.
Muhammed’s mother and three siblings had all gone now, to the al-Waer neighbourhood on the other side of the river. Their old house had now been transformed into a teenage lair with empty bags of crisps on the tables and pillows on the floor.
‘I thought you’d cleaned the place,’ Sami said.
‘It’s not my fault,’ Muhammed said apologetically. ‘I told Anwar to pick up his things.’
‘The bookkeeper boy!’ A large figure got up off the sofa and it took Sami a second to recognize him. As a chef he had always been impeccably dressed, rolled-up shirtsleeves, starched apron, but now Anwar looked like he had gone with whatever was at the top of the laundry hamper. His trousers were too short and his pale gut peeked out from under his shirt. But he still wore a black bandana, as a reminder of the smooth kitchen master he had once been.
‘Anwar, I can’t believe it’s you.’
‘And I, for one, didn’t believe you would ever grow up.’
Sami embraced him and kissed his cheeks.
‘How is Abu Karim? And the restaurant?’
‘We had to close,’ Anwar replied. ‘Abu Karim said it was the rent but everyone knows it was because we handed out food to the protestors.’
Sami shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘You can take the other sofa,’ Muhammed said and picked a few pillows up off the floor. ‘If it drags on, we’ll carry the beds down to the basement.’
Although Sami had known Muhammed since they were young, he had only been to his best friend’s house a few times. In the beginning he had asked more often but Muhammed would say they had guests that day, or that his mother was cleaning, and another time would be better to visit. Sami assumed he was ashamed of the crowded space but he didn’t mind. On the contrary, he felt at home immediately.
They had lived on one floor with a small kitchen, a living room and a bedroom for Muhammed’s mum and one of the children. The basement consisted of another room, which Muhammed shared with two of his little siblings – the room lacked windows and had dark damp roses on the ceiling.
Muhammed’s mum rented the apartment and basement from an elderly woman who lived on the top floors in the same building, who only asked for a low rent in exchange for helping her clean, shop, and care for the front yard. Sami had met the old woman once and remembered her friendly smile, a visible golden tooth, her wrists rattling with shiny bracelets. The old woman had left now but Muhammed occasionally went up to her apartment and cleaned, in case she came back. He watered the rose bushes until they had to save on water, and they saw the dark red petals fall to the ground.
A few days after Sami moved in, a pressure wave broke the windows. They taped black bin bags over where the glass had been. But that first night, Sami lay awake in the gentle darkness, watching the stars come out. If he listened carefully, he could almost hear the plough being pulled through space, the star-glazed wood cutting through the heavens. When he fell asleep he did it safe in the knowledge that he still had a home. But the next morning, his home lay in ruins.
Muhammed held up his laptop. A grainy mobile phone video was playing.
‘There, see?’ Muhammed said.
‘Recognize that house?’ Anwar said.
Sami sat up and frowned. Projectiles whistled over the rooftops and then plumes of smoke started rising. He watched the clip again, the dot speeding across the sky and the explosion that followed. Muhammed took off his glasses and polished them. The crack was still there. Anwar put a big, sweaty hand on his shoulder.
‘Lucky you came here when you did.’
Sami couldn’t help it; it bubbled up from some unknown cranny, like that time in the bank manager’s office. He started laughing. Muhammed and Anwar exchanged a glance but he couldn’t stop. It rose up from deep inside him, a convulsive sound that took over his body.
‘You need to eat. I’ll cook something,’ Anwar said. ‘Wait, where are you going?’
Sami had already got off the sofa and was tying his shoes.
‘Let him go,’ Muhammed said quietly.
* * *
—
Outside, the air was dry with dust and the smell of smoke. It was just a house. The main thing was that he and his family were alive. That was the most important thing, right? Yes, it was. Being alive was the most important thing. Just a house. He said it out loud, even though there was no one else around.
At first Sami had a hard time identifying his house among the others. The missiles had hit the façade on the street side. It was like looking into a dolls’ house. The rooms were exposed, except on the top floor, which had folded flat like a cardboard box.
Sami had to climb over debris to get in. Twice he got stuck and had to wrench his foot free. The staircase was intact apart from a large hole halfway up. The unharmed and unbroken was as strange as the demolished. It was as though two photographs had blended together, underscoring the contrasts between before and after: on the one hand, bricks and debris littered the kitchen floor, the backs of the chairs were broken and the table snapped in two. On the other hand, the fridge was untouched, though without power. On the one hand, dust and shattered glass covered the floral bedspread and the black Singer sewing machine lay on the floor with a broken needle. On the other hand, the gramophone had come through virtually unscathed.
For every step he took, it felt as though someone else took a step behind him, another Sami. The one who had moved through these rooms before and was unaware that his childhood home lay in ruins. He had an urge to clean up and set things right in case his parents came back. He picked up things that lay in his path: the silver sugar bowl, the remote that had slid out of its plastic cover.
When he reached his p
arents’ bedroom, his arms were full of objects that had lost their former significance. How was he to judge what was worth saving, which memories were significant to them? He let all of it fall to the floor and stopped moving.
He studied the pile he had collected, found the box with his parents’ secret correspondence and put that in his backpack, even though the key was gone. He filled the rest of the bag with tins and dry goods.
Once again, he felt as though someone was right behind him. Not a shadow. There really was something watching him. He froze. A faint rustling, followed by a faint squeaking. He turned around and squatted down. There they were, underneath the sofa. Four newborn kittens the colour of mustard. They meowed and showed their pink tongues, climbing over his hands. There was no sign of the mother. Sami opened the unharmed refrigerator and put out a bowl of yoghurt. The kittens immediately lost interest in him and hungrily lapped up the tart whiteness.
Just a house. Sarah was always telling him he closed up instead of expressing his feelings. Maybe it was a way of protecting himself, or of protecting the people around him. He didn’t want to put his troubles and worries on others. But just now, some form of venting would have been good, like crying uncontrollably or running himself ragged. Instead he walked around what had been his childhood home and felt the heat rise in his eyes and had no way to express his pain. Laughing didn’t work any more, nor did crying or running.
The kittens meowed and blinked, and he wondered if they could see or were still blind. He picked one up; it squirmed around his hand, resisting, until it resigned itself and started purring. This innocent tenderness, this trust towards a living creature who had fed them, was enough for now. There, there, tiny kittens. Your mum will be back soon. He decided to return the next day or when the bombing had slowed.
There was still lettuce in the fridge. Sami took a green leaf and climbed up on the roof terrace, what was left of it, but hard as he looked he couldn’t find the turtle. Maybe it had been crushed by a brick. Maybe it had seen a chance to live free and escaped. From the roof, he saw the utility pole next to the house and once again thought of his dad. One of the few transgressions Nabil had allowed himself, possibly the only one, was that he tapped the powerline out on the street to lower the family’s electricity costs. Now the pole had snapped in two, the top half dangling limply.
Sami’s eyes stung again. Just a house. What gave him the right to grieve when others had lost their entire families? It was just concrete, bricks, thresholds, wallpaper, door jambs, moulding. It was just a place he had lived for most of his life, his first and only home. He walked away without turning back.
26
IN MAY, WHEN the sun was warming the broken roofs and the Arab League monitors were allowed to visit Homs to inspect the damage, the blockade was temporarily lifted. People who had fled returned, but only to pack up things they had left behind.
Sarah wasn’t among the ones coming back. Sami called her and her voice sounded distant, as though something had shifted during the past few days.
‘I heard people are leaving,’ she said.
‘Not everyone. Some choose to stay.’
‘And you, are you staying?’
He closed his eyes and saw her face in front of him, remembering how she used to raise her voice during the meetings and speak for arms.
‘We’re fighting for our future, remember? You always said that. You said we’d never give up.’
‘But we can’t fight if we’re dead,’ Sarah sighed.
‘I know the army inside and out. I know what kind of people they are. When the rest of the world realize they’re shooting at civilians, they’ll be forced to withdraw.’ He continued, though he wasn’t sure she was listening. ‘The whole thing will be over by the end of the week. By the end of the week.’
‘Is this it?’ she asked quietly.
‘What do you mean, is this it?’
‘Well, this, us.’
‘I told you I’ll be there in a few days.’
‘Yes, so you said.’
Her voice sounded remote. He preferred it when she hurled arguments and opinions at him, when she spoke loudly and intensely, rather than these unspoken undercurrents of disappointment, or maybe anger, or grief. She had returned to her city; surely she had to understand he didn’t want to abandon his.
‘What are you reading?’ Sami asked.
He wanted to talk about something that reminded him of everyday life, of what life used to be like when she would read her favourite passages out loud to him. If she could be made to remember that, she would remember the rest.
‘Nothing,’ Sarah replied. ‘I don’t read any more.’
The silence swelled and surged as though they were standing on opposite beaches, trying to persuade the other to cross the sound in between. They listened to each other’s breathing: his slow and light, hers heavy and rapid.
‘We’ll stay in touch. We’ll write every day,’ he told her.
‘Sure.’
‘Every day that there’s not a power cut.’
‘Look, I think I have to go now.’
The call ended before he could say the most important thing. Normally he had no difficulty expressing his affection and love, but now it was as though words of that kind would have underlined the sense of an ending. And maybe this was the beginning of the end. He had a gnawing feeling one of them was right and the other wrong. He just didn’t know who.
* * *
—
Sami’s parents came back to their ruined house for a few hours. Nabil kept blowing his nose into a handkerchief, while Samira mechanically moved bricks and swept the broken staircase. Sami helped, even though the wind soon covered it with dust and dirt once more. His mother packed carrier bags full of photographs and clothes. Nabil walked around aimlessly, searching for his razor and putting the gramophone under his arm.
‘This time you’re coming with us,’ Samira said. ‘Come and see Malik and Hiba.’
‘I promise I’ll join you in a few days.’
‘My son,’ his dad said and shook his head.
Samira had to call out three times to Nabil before he left the house, or what was left of it, and walked slowly to the car. His father got in the passenger seat and looked straight ahead, one hand on the glove compartment. Sami watched as the car left. How could he make them understand? Homs was his home. No matter what happened, he wanted to see it with his own eyes, to bear witness. Especially since he had missed the start of the revolution. He had so many lost months to make up for.
* * *
—
A few days later Sami heard a familiar knock on Muhammed’s door and, when he opened it, his ears filled with sound, like water seeping into a sinking ship, imperceptibly at first, then rushing in from all directions.
‘What are you doing here?’
Standing on the front steps was a lanky fourteen-year-old boy. His little brother, who had grown up without him noticing.
It must have happened overnight, no, over many nights, years even. Malik, who followed his every step and listened to every word he spoke. Malik, who was disappointed with Sami for not deserting, for not joining the rebels, when he was trained to handle weapons and all. But then Sami had chosen to stay behind and that had made that possible for Malik too. Why hadn’t Sami noticed that his little brother took after him, even when they disagreed? Now moments like this made it painfully clear.
‘I’m staying,’ Malik said and pushed his way into the room.
‘You are not, you’re too young.’
He understood all too well his little brother’s frustration. How infuriating to see through the contradictory behaviour of the adults and still not be considered an adult yourself.
‘Really, you’re too young.’
‘Everyone’s needed in the revolution.’
Malik glared at Sami. The words soun
ded too big for his mouth.
‘How did you get past the checkpoints?’ Sami sighed.
His little brother jutted his chin out and pulled himself up straighter.
‘It doesn’t matter, that route is closed now.’
‘I’m serious,’ Sami said.
‘So am I,’ replied Malik.
He didn’t want to think about what his parents would say when they discovered their youngest child had left them. Sami and Malik were of the same build and people said their eyes were identical. Do you see what I see? he wondered. Do you see yourself with your arms crossed and your chin in the air, ready to be as old as the situation requires? What did the situation require? Neither one of them knew yet.
‘There’s another thing,’ Malik said, his eyes darting this way and that, as though he had just remembered something he had been trying to forget. ‘It’s about Yasmin.’
* * *
—
Sami hadn’t heard from Yasmin in a week, which had worried him, but at the same time sometimes it was necessary to lie low, or there could be practical obstacles to communication. The last time they talked it was about the next issue of their newspaper. Now Yasmin’s brother had asked Malik to relay what had happened.
‘Come in,’ Sami said. ‘Tell me everything.’
Malik followed him but was too restless to sit down. Yasmin had been arrested but granted bail, he told Sami. When her brother arrived at the military detention centre, the officer had asked if he would like a cup of tea. Yasmin’s brother realized he had no choice.