Baba had heard Um Masoud gossip before: she claimed that Bahloul the beggar was richer than all of us put together, that Majdi the baker didn't only sell 'innocent bread' – that was how she put it – but something else, too, called Grappa, which wasn't only haram, but also illegal in our country. Such rumours didn't bother Baba, in fact sometimes they amused him, but Ustath Rashid was his friend. The two would often go walking by the sea when the sun was low. And many times they sat talking softly in Baba's study, where they were sometimes joined by Nasser. I would bring them coffee. Mama would knock twice, then open the door for me. Walking in slowly, balancing the tray, I would be hit immediately by the coarse, smoke-filled air. It made the bitter smell of cardamon and gum arabic rising up from the coffee almost pleasant. 'Don't spill,' were often Mama's last words before she swung the door open on those secret meetings. I quickly learned that the best way was to look ahead; not caring if I spilled, or not caring overtly, seemed to be the trick. But at the beginning I walked with my head down, facing the three black pools of coffee on the silver tray, telling my hands to be firm as I caught to my left, in the periphery of my vision, the knees of the two men sitting in the comfortable butterfly-cloaked armchairs, and to my right the brown wooden expanse of Baba's desk. When I had safely placed the tray on the desk, Baba would say, 'Well done, Suleiman.' When I looked up to face him I sometimes heard my neck crack. Their conversation was suspended from the moment Mama had knocked on the door, they were eager for me to leave. 'Close the door,' Baba would say, but then he often called me back at the last minute. 'Here,' he would say, 'empty this,' handing me an ashtray full of cigarette butts and dead matchsticks. And a few weeks before Ustath Rashid was taken, I placed the tray on Baba's desk and saw tears in his eyes. He was reading something. Ustath Rashid and Nasser were sitting in silence watching him. I went to his side. I nudged him and asked, 'Who upset you, Baba?' Ustath Rashid held his hand up and smiled. 'I am afraid it's me, Suleiman.' I was confused; why would Ustath Rashid upset Baba? Nasser chuckled. Baba put his hand on my head and in a scratched voice said, 'No one upset me, Slooma. I was just reading…' He looked at the piece of paper in his hand. 'It's so beautiful. We will have to publish this,' he said, handing the piece of paper to Nasser. Nasser folded it twice and put it in his shirt pocket.
I had never seen Baba cry before. I couldn't understand why reading something beautiful made him cry.
When Baba heard Um Masoud click her tongue and say, 'That's the fate of all traitors,' he couldn't keep silent. 'That's a lie,' he told her, his voice bubbling with anger. 'A lie the authorities spread to justify the disappearance of the innocent.'
Um Masoud studied her fingers, comparing the length of her nails.
'But then they don't need to, obviously; there is always a volunteer more than willing to lie for them. The effortlessness, the automatism by which it happens Mama tugged at his sleeve. 'Let me,' he snapped. He squinted his eyes at Um Masoud. 'Weeds!' As he spoke the word he turned his hand as if tightening a screw, as if that word was meant to fix Um Masoud in her corner. 'Weeds, like rumours, need no help.' Baba's face reddened. It frightened me to see him like this because, although he was often serious, he very rarely became angry.
Um Masoud continued to study her fingers, smiling knowingly now, as if some old suspicion had finally been confirmed.
Ustath Rashid had once told Baba that their wives were like two lost sisters who had finally found each other. The first time they met – standing in Auntie Salma's kitchen among the half-unpacked boxes – the two women seemed happy that fate had finally brought them together. Since then, no two days would pass before one called or visited the other. They found excuses to interrupt each other's life. Many mornings Auntie Salma would come to our door to borrow sugar or flour or salt, and Mama would always ask her in. 'I am short of time,' Auntie Salma would say, but then forget herself until Ustath Rashid or Kareem would come for her, upset she hadn't even started preparing lunch yet. And sometimes it was Mama who went next door, and we were the ones left without lunch. Mama never forgot herself as she did with Auntie Salma.
They drank tea and talked endlessly; occasionally they would hunch over into whispers, then one of them would clap her hands and burst out laughing. They brought the latest music to play for each other, and sometimes one would play the tabla, calling out – aywa aywa - with the beat while the other danced, knocking her hips from side to side. And once I saw them dancing in Mama's bedroom to Julio Iglesias, dancing slowly the way men and women did in foreign films, then Auntie Salma bowed and kissed Mama's hand. Mama pulled her hand quickly away when she saw me. Auntie Salma came to me, held my hands and we danced. She was so sweet, full of smiles, her cheeks red.
When Baba was away and Mama became ill, we didn't answer the door, pretended we weren't in. But once I was so frightened I opened the door for Auntie Salma. She saw Mama on the floor in the bedroom, smelled her. It was as if a black shadow had fallen on Auntie Salma's face. She left the room, then came back with a wet towel. She patted Mama's face. Mama woke up, she seemed disoriented. 'What are you doing here?' she said. Auntie Salma helped her up to bed, then asked me to fetch a glass of water. When I returned I found Mama crying. Auntie Salma said, 'Praise the Prophet, girl,' and with a deep sigh Mama praised.
After Ustath Rashid was taken Mama didn't go to Auntie Salma and Auntie Salma didn't call or visit. Mama didn't want me to see Kareem either. 'No need for you to be so close to that boy,' she said. She had never called him 'that boy' before. 'This is a time for walking beside the wall,' she said. When I asked her what she meant, she said, 'Nothing, just try not to be so close to him, that's all.' She could feel my eyes following her, trying to understand, so she added, 'It just isn't good for you to be so close to all of his sadness. Grief loves the hollow, all it wants is to hear its own echo. Be careful.'
I was affected by Mama's words; I did feel myself nudged by guilt whenever Kareem and I were alone. She was right: a certain sadness had entered his eyes the day Ustath Rashid was taken, but it wasn't the sadness of longing, it was the sadness of betrayal, the silent sadness that comes from being let down. Or at least that's how it seems now. He became quieter – he was always quiet, but not this quiet – and refused to join in any of the games we played. Instead, he would lean on a car near by as we played football in the street, looking at us in a way that made me feel far away from him. At those moments I wished the Revolutionary Committee would return and this time take my father so that we would be equal, united again by that mysterious bond of blood that had up to that day felt like an advantage.
Later, when we were alone, I told him, 'Sorry, Kareem. Sorry we didn't all stand arm-in-arm to block the way. After all, Mulberry is our street.' He curled his lower lip and shrugged his shoulders. I felt the way Mama must have felt when, after she had been ill, I was angry at her; I wanted so much to bring him out of his silence. I took him swimming. But instead of heading for the deep, clear waters of the sea that touch the horizon, quickly past the blue-black strip that always frightened us because its floor was alive with dark weeds and movement and things, Kareem swam reluctantly. When I was past the dark waters, moving like a streamer with my long flippers, stabbing my arms fast into the pale turquoise, I looked back and saw him on the shore, walking away.
4
When Baba arrived home the following day he seemed preoccupied. It was eight days since Ustath Rashid had been taken. He didn't bring gifts as he usually did when he returned from his travels. This confirmed that he had been lying: telling us he was going abroad when he was escaping to his other life here in Tripoli, on Martyrs' Square.