I envied Adnan. His illness had earned him a peculiar sort of strength and gained him something none of us had: a private world that involved books and syringes. His room was like a little house, with things that belonged only to him. And although the bruises on his buttock made me thank the Healer for my well-being, I also prayed for a disease that would give me what Adnan had, that thing that made him seem older and more independent than any of us and led us all to silently seek his approval, the approval of the only one among us who, with his own life and literature of illness, seemed to need no one. This is why, if he had been present the day before, I probably wouldn't have betrayed Kareem. Adnan had that sort of effect. The fact that he was closer to death aged him and gained him a higher moral authority. Like my heroine, Scheherazade, he, too, was living under the sword. And so the challenge – 'Last to Mulberry is a girl' – didn't apply to him.
Adnan placed his arm on my shoulder. I continued to stare at the empty school yard, our dark green flag draped under its own weight on the high pole. I remembered how we used to stand every morning in parallel lines under the weak winter sun, our school bags dense on our backs, screaming the national anthem to the lazy flag, competing with the scratchy music that blared out of the grey, cone-shaped speakers fixed to each corner of the yard, high enough so none of us, even if piled on another's shoulders, could reach them. Some mornings I stood so erect, tightening my fists and flexing my back, feeling tears sting my eyes as I sang our national anthem so loudly I had to spend the rest of the day trying to swallow the sore left in my throat. Other mornings I stood half asleep, miming the words, trying to hide my yawns under the cacophony.
Adnan pulled at my sleeve and together we walked back to our street. He didn't say anything, but I knew he was trying to comfort me. We could see the boys gathered by the entrance of our street, panting. Osama, who always won these races, leaned against the lump of stone that had the name 'Mulberry' written on it. Ali was standing beside his brother, looking unhappy. He always came last, he must have been whacked on the head by everyone and called a girl. They were all looking down our street at something Adnan and I couldn't see. When we reached them I whacked Ali on the head and called him a girl. I had no right, I hadn't taken part in the race. Still, I wasn't satisfied so I whacked him again and called him a girl three times. He tried to hit me, but it was easy to hold him off with one arm. Adnan pulled me to one side and with his shoulder nudged me away. When we were out of earshot he said, 'Is your father home?' Adnan rarely asked me a question, I couldn't help but feel flattered.
'He's on a business trip,' I said.
He looked ahead and said, almost to himself, 'That's lucky,' and walked on, his step much livelier than usual.
Beyond him I saw the same white car that had taken Ustath Rashid. This time it was parked in front of our house. 'That's the same car…' I heard one of the boys say from behind. I wondered what Kareem was thinking. I expected him to rush beside me, take hold of my arm and say, 'Now we are one, brother.' Adnan walked past the white car, looking only at the ground, pushed the garden gate to his house open and let it swing shut behind him. I could see only one head in the car. I looked back. All the boys were gone except for Kareem. He stood still, looking at me. I wanted to run to him, but turned instead towards the car and began walking forward. I tried to think of Scheherazade, her bravery, but no matter how hard I tried I kept hearing Mama's words: 'You should find yourself another model. Scheherazade accepted slavery over death.' I thought of Sinbad, but I never liked him because he was a thief. I thought of the slaves clapping in unison, but they had each other, one person clapping wouldn't do; besides, hadn't they also accepted slavery over death? I was close now to the car. The man spotted me in his side mirror. When I reached his window and saw his face I froze. I remembered him. He was the one with the old woman's voice who had stood in the doorway of the sitting room, blocking the way, looking down at me sitting on the floor beside the tray of food, shaking my head and waving my hand close to my chest as if to say, 'It's not me, I swear, it's not me,' the one who had slapped Ustath Rashid, the one who had followed Mama and me from Martyrs' Square. His skin was etched with small holes, like tiny chisel marks. His eyes were narrow and the white in them dull. His lips were dark, as if they were painted with blue dye. He could have been eating mulberries or drinking blood. Tight curls formed a helmet on his head. He smiled at me.
'Suleiman,' he said lazily, as if my name was chewing gum in his mouth. 'We meet at last.'
I couldn't stop looking into his eyes, a strange force within them seemed to be pulling me. I thought of the flames of Hell Eternal licking the sides of the Bridge to Paradise, how they will seem like a familiar voice to the unfaithful who will turn towards them the way you can't help but turn when you hear your name called, because, as Sheikh Mustafa said, 'Fear enters the hearts of only those who have a cause to fear.' 'Who are you?' I asked.
He placed his palm against his chest and said, 'My name is Sharief. I am a friend of your father.' I knew he was lying. 'You don't remember me?'
'You searched our house.'
'Yes. I needed to ask him an important question.' He faced forward and smiled to himself. He almost looked embarrassed. 'I suppose I was in a bit of a hurry.'
'So you weren't going to take him away like you did Ustath Rashid?'
'Ustath who?'
I pointed at Kareem's house. 'I saw you.'
'Oh,' he said as if it was something he had just remembered, then laughed. 'No, no, no. Your father is not like that. He's a good friend of mine. We have known each other for years, like brothers really. In fact, it was he who sent me to see you. I had heard so much about you, Slooma.'
I knew he was lying, but how did he know my nickname? I remembered the way he had pushed Mama's medicine bottle against her stomach. He knew our secret, I thought, knew it and chose to keep quiet. 'Is Ustath Rashid a traitor?' I asked.
'Yes,' he said without hesitation.
'And Baba, is he…'
'That's why I am here. I am trying to defend him, but I need evidence.' The word 'evidence,' so full of needles.
'Is that what you wanted to search for?'
'Exactly.'
Unlike Mama and Moosa, he answered my questions. He didn't treat me like a child.
'Where's Baba?'
'I can't tell you,' he said, digging in his pocket. 'He asked me to give you this.' He handed me one of Baba's English fiery mints. I took a step towards him. Then, on the seat beside him, black and fat, I saw a gun. I stepped back.
'Come, come,' Sharief said calmly in his thin, coarse voice. And I did. I walked to him. He handed me the gun, handle first, and said, 'Here, touch it.' As I extended my hand, he said, 'Men are never afraid. And you are a man, aren't you?' The gun metal felt as cold as a dead fish. He placed it on the seat beside him and said, 'Here, take the candy, it's from Baba.' My head was practically inside the car now, and the smell of old socks and cigarettes made me dizzy. The weight of the stench struck me as a sign of manhood, and so there was some excitement in being so close to it. Perhaps to be a man was to be heavy, I thought. The V of his safari jacket revealed the beginning of his chest. His skin was brown-red from the sun, glazed in sweat. Anyone seeing us like this would have thought us friends. I took the mint. Kareem was gone. Did he leave in disgust when he saw how close I and the man who had taken his father were becoming, I wondered.
'You know, it is very bad what your mother is drinking,' Sharief said, looking at me with half a smile, his eyes almost regretful. 'She could go to jail.'