The sound of the primus stove is coming from the kitchen. I take light steps out toward the hallway. I avoid looking in the direction of the toilet. I come close to the door of the kitchen. Cling to the wall. My head leans out with care. She’s sitting on the little kitchen stool and peeling cloves of garlic. There’s a plate of ful beans next to her. I take a step back towards the living room. I go around the table to the door to her room. It’s open. I go closer. On top of the bed, there’s a blue patterned dress and on the floor are white shoes with high heels. On the wall a big picture hangs in a gilded frame. In it, the constable wears a military uniform. He’s smiling. He has a high fez on and it is leaning to the left. A chiffonier to the right has a big mirror over it in a pale-colored metal frame. The mirror is sitting on the top of the chiffonier. It has a crack at the top of the glass. On top of the chiffonier many things are scattered including a box of chocolates. Would she notice if I took one? I prick up my ears. She’s singing in the kitchen: “the day we met, we two. .” Her voice comes closer.
I back away from the door to the room. Stop next to the door to the skylight. I can look down into the window of Um Zakiya. It is closed and darkened. She comes into the living room. A cup of tea is in her hand. She heads towards her room, and waves at me to follow her. She sets the cup down on top of the chiffonier. She opens the box of chocolates and takes out a piece wrapped in shiny gold foil. She hands it to me. She asks about my mother. My face goes red. I don’t answer. She’s sitting in a chair in the middle of the living room and her thick hair is hanging down over her shoulders. She’s crying: “Ahhh! My head!” Her face looks like she is in pain. My father gives her a piece of ice. She puts it on her head and presses it.
She lights a cigarette. She leans over the mirror set against the wall. She combs her hair and studies her features. She twists her hair in a bun on the side. Her finger spreads a bit of lipstick over her full lips. It’s the first time I have seen a woman putting on make-up because mother never used it. Her lower lip is cracked, with drops of blood trickling from it.
I am under a spell watching her. With each movement, her face becomes more beautiful. My eyes meet hers in the mirror. I turn red. I suddenly come forward, saying: “Mama Tahiya, you’re very pretty.” She takes me in her arms and pulls me to her chest. Her clean smell with hints of Lux soap creeps up my nose. She covers my face with kisses, planting them on my eyes, cheeks, and mouth, saying: “You’re pretty too.” She pulls me back from her chest and studies me. She stretches out her finger towards my mouth and pulls apart my lips, then she tugs on the lower one lightly as though she’s tickling a small child. A serious smile flickers in her eyes. She pulls me in again. She says in a hushed voice: “I have a son who’s two years younger than you.” I ask her: “Where is he?” She says: “With his father.” Tears start welling up in her eyes. All of a sudden, her features brighten and she laughs.
She pulls me away from her and points to my cheeks and lips: “Your face is covered in red. Look.” I come close to the chiffonier and look up into the mirror. She leads me next to her and sits down on the edge of the bed. She brings me between her legs, takes a wet towel and wipes off my face for me. She runs her fingers through my hair. She starts to pick through it while she sings. I kiss her on her soft arms and shoulders. I ask her to tell me a story.
She thinks for a second, then starts: “There was an old man who was very poor and had a son.” I look at her, suspicious. She keeps going: “They were living in an apartment on the second floor.” I know now that she means father and me. I am mad because she called us poor. I decide to complain to father when I leave. I step back away from her. She hugs me as she laughs: “Don’t be angry.” I step out of her hold, all mad. She gives me a pat and tries to make up. She says: “Come on. Let’s go out.” I say: “What about papa?”
“He’s not coming until late. Get dressed, so we can go.”
I go to our room. After a while, she calls to me. I tell her I’m putting on clothes to go out in. She says: “You don’t have to. You can just come in your pyjamas.”
“What about shoes?”
“Just come in your house slippers.” I go to her room and find she has put on the blue patterned dress and white shoes. She wraps a black shawl around herself. She smooths its edge over her head to cover her hair and wraps it tightly around her waist. She studies herself in the mirror, spinning around to see her back. I suggest that she writes a note to father to tell him that we went out. She says: “You write it. I don’t know how.” Mother sharpens the pencil. The tip breaks. She gives it to my father along with the sharpener. He puts the sharpener down, brings a razor, and whittles down the pencil with care. He never lets the tip break. She turns to a clean page in her big notebook.
I write out the note and put it on top of our bed. I lock the door to our room and put the key in my pocket. We walk out of the building, turn left, and head up the street. The snack shop and the clothes presser’s shop. Heads turn to us. Eyes follow us. One of the men sitting in front of the dried fish shop yells out: “O Pasha!” I know that he’s calling out to us. I look at the ground. She keeps walking, sure of herself and carefree. Bags of cotton are set out in front of the upholstery shop. It’s brushed and made into rolls set in the middle of the shop. He sits in the living room. He beats the rug with a strap fixed to a large stick. Mother opens the window on to the courtyard to let the dust out of the house. He straightens out the sheet covers. I hide the scissors from him. He becomes crazy looking for them.
We cross the wide street and pass in front of the church then turn towards a dark alley. There’s another alley at the end. A cart is set up in front of it carrying a barrel of pickles. A dark and dirty entrance. We go up some narrow stairs. A rotting smell. I stumble on one of the steps. She catches me with her hand and brings me to her. We stop in front of the door to an apartment. She knocks. A little girl opens the door, carrying an oil lamp. She leads us into a living room with no furniture. It opens on to a room with a wide bed in it. A woman is lying on it under the covers. She could be the same age as Mama Tahiya, or a little older. There’s a handkerchief around her neck. Mama Tahiya says: “What’s wrong with you, Sabah?” She answers in a hoarse voice: “Just a touch of cold.” She looks at me smiling.
“His son?”
Mama Tahiya starts laughing: “No. He’s my son.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He’s the neighbor’s son.”
She pulls off the cover and throws it on a chair. Sabah studies her dress. Mama Tahiya asks: “What is it? Do you like it or something?”
“A lot.”
“He’s the one who bought it for me.”
She sits on the edge of the bed and I sit next to her. She grabs a picture magazine off the top of the covers. She opens it up to the fashion page and points to a silk dress with a flower pattern and ruffles covering it from top to bottom. Next to it there’s a handbag made from wicker. She says: “I’d like a dress like this.” Mama Tahiya answers: “It’s divine!” Sabah puts the magazine down and asks about the constable. Mama Tahiya says: “They transferred him to the south.”
“Why?”
“Because the police went on strike.”
“So why did they go on strike?”
“They want to make the same money and get the same promotions as the army.”
Sabah says: “The nurses are on strike too. They’re only making four or five pounds. What are they supposed to do with that?”