17
The following morning I sprang out of bed the moment my eyes opened. I could still feel the warm shadow of Mama's arm wrapped round me. First thing I did was to shower – something I usually had to be asked to do – then I dressed in shorts, T-shirt and sandals. She was already up, sitting with the newspaper spread in front of her on the breakfast table. I kissed her hand and chattered on.
'When are we going for a drive? Let's go to Signor II Calzoni's.'
She placed a finger under the line she was reading and said, 'Why don't you go play with your friends, habibi?'
I didn't want to see the boys. I went and played in my workshop up on the roof for a while, then I suddenly felt worried about her. I went to find her. She wasn't in the kitchen, and her bedroom door was closed.
'Mama?'
The silence before she spoke seemed endless.
'Yes,' she said.
I didn't know what else to say.
'What do you want?' Her voice wasn't right. My instinct was to go in and stay beside her.
'Have you got the time?'
'The time?' Then I heard her say to herself, 'What a question!' She cleared her throat then said, louder than necessary, 'It's nine. Go and play.'
I went out to the garden again and lay in the shade of the glue tree. The sunlight filtered through the branches and leaves, burning their edges white. I recalled a dream I had had that night. Out of nowhere it returned. Mama was ill again. She was laughing at me because I couldn't walk. When I looked down I saw that I had no legs. She giggled in that crazy way she did when she was ill. I realized then that I had grown wings, wings as long as Mulberry Street. She clapped her hands and laughed so hard her eyes were crying. Remembering the dream gave me an excuse to run to her.
I opened her door without knocking. She was lying in bed, newspaper in hand. 'I have just remembered a dream, can you work it out for me?' I only got as far as saying, 'You were ill again,' before she interrupted.
'Why beckon disaster?'
'I am not. It was a dream.'
'Don't let such bad thoughts take hold of you.'
I faced the ground. 'What are you going to make for lunch?'
'Lunch? It's too early for lunch. Are you hungry?'
'No,' I said and left the room.
I was walking around the garden when I spotted Sharief talking to Ustath Jafer. I ran to my room, fetched the book from beneath the mattress and ran out. I stood beside them, not wanting to disturb their conversation, but unable to calm my excitement. They both looked at me.
'What do you want?' Ustath Jafer asked.
I shook my head and walked away. I put the book on the pavement in front of our house and sat on it, pretending to be drawing in the sand. Sharief nodded several times while Ustath Jafer spoke, pointing at our house, then at Ustath Rashid's. Then he waved his hand at Sharief as if to say, 'Off you go,' and walked into the dark shade of his house.
Sharief got into his car. I went to him.
'This is the book I told you about,' I said, handing him Baba's book, Democracy Now.
He took it, turned it in his hand, then handed it back.
'It's from Ustath Rashid to Baba.'
'Umm,' he said, uninterested.
'Look,' I said, opening the book, pointing to the dedication. He squinted at it. 'I have names too.' He didn't seem to know or care what I was talking about. 'Names to vouch for Baba, remember? I have Rashid,' I said, pointing at Ustath Rashid's house. ' Nasser. And Moosa.'
'Nothing new,' he said irritably, reaching for the keys in the ignition. I could see the line where the dry, dark skin of his lower lip ended and the moist, paler flesh on the inside of the mouth began. I looked at the infinite pockmarks etched on his cheek, each a different size and shape, the skin in them shiny and a shade lighter. He turned the engine on. 'I wouldn't worry if I were you,' he said. 'Your father was very cooperative, melted like butter.' He motioned towards Ustath Jafer's house. 'And now a mighty hand has come to his rescue.' I was leaning against the car. 'Move,' he said and drove off without saying goodbye.
I stood in the street, unable to make any sense of what Sharief meant by 'cooperative', 'melted like butter'. The sun had nibbled away all the shade, burning our dirt street white. It seemed an effort just to keep my eyes open. I walked into our house, thankful for its cool shade, thankful for the roof above it, blinking to erase the blotches of light stamped into my retina.
Later that day Moosa arrived. He was in a very agitated state and seemed unable to settle in one place.
' Tripoli is being turned upside down. They took everyone, gathering them like sheep.'
'Where's Faraj?'
'I don't know. Turn on the television. Rashid. Rashid will be judged.. .Judged"? I mean… The bastards.'
'When, when?' Mama asked. His restless anxiety had been transmitted to her.
He turned on the television in the sitting room and sat on the sofa. She sat beside him. Every time she tried to speak he raised his hand in the air.
Ustath Rashid was sitting down, a spotlight on his face. The broadcast was a repeat of what I saw during nap time, but now it was evening, the whole world awake to see it. 'Were you present at the meeting?' Ustath Rashid hesitated, then nodded and said, 'Yes, I was present.' Then repeated, 'Present, present,' loud enough now that there could be no doubt. Then the picture changed, they didn't show him saying, 'No,' to Baba's name. Instead, a man now sat at a desk strewn with papers. He sat like a news reporter, but from his clothes and his helmet of curly hair I knew he was a member of the Revolutionary Committee. 'Dark elements,' he said in the high, barking tone in which Revolutionary Committee announcements are usually delivered. 'Traitors who despise and envy our revolution have been detected.
We, the Revolutionary Committee, the Guardians of the Revolution, have captured all members of this misguided group and those who harboured and funded them and will punish them severely.' The man looked straight into the camera and added, 'The enemy has been miserably defeated. Long live the Guide, long live the September Revolution.' The camera stayed on him for longer than was necessary. He eventually called out, 'Enough. I am finished.' Then the screen went black for a few seconds before the flowers came on again, this time accompanied by revolutionary songs.
I was standing in the doorway, the same doorway where Sharief had stood, Sharief who by now must have returned to sit in his car outside our house, loyal, eternal, sure of his place in the world, heavy with a man's odour. I walked into the room and sat on the floor midway between the sofa and the television. Neither of them told me to leave. We watched the pink flowers and listened to the confident songs of the revolution, when, without explanation, the broadcast returned. All you could see was the dark night sky and, at the bottom of the screen, heads burnished by spotlights. Someone whispered, 'Zoom,' then irritably, 'Zoom, zoom out.' The camera swung down and now all we could see was the concrete floor. A foot stepped into the picture. I could see the threadbare stitching on the man's black leather shoe and the motif of an eagle with its wings outstretched on the narrow metal buckle that went across the front. 'I said zoom out, you idiot. Move.' The foot stepped out and the camera moved up and zoomed out.