I leave my seat again and step carefully toward the door. I look through the keyhole. Her back is to me. She takes up a piece of halva and puts it between her legs, then yanks it off. She lets out an “Ouch!” She takes the last piece; she puts it between her legs. She pulls it with force. She does the same thing over again a few times. She’s panting. She picks up a piece of rock, about the size of a Jaffa orange. She rubs it against her heels and turns towards the stove. The steam rises up from the pan. She uses a jar to pour warm water into the zinc basin. She stands up and stretches her hands out to pull off her gallabiya. Steam fills up the lenses of my glasses. I take them off and wipe them on my pyjamas. Mama Basima is naked on top of the toilet. Her hair is colored with henna. I stand between her huge legs. She pours water over my body as she studies my little prick.
The sound of steps echoes in the stairwell. I hurry to my seat and open my geography book. The two feet stop in front of our door. They continue on up the stairs. I am about to get up again when I hear the sound of the stove being turned off and I stay frozen in my seat.
The guest room door opens. Mama Tahiya comes out. She is wearing a nightshirt held up by shoulder straps. Her hair is wrapped in a big towel. She asks me: “Are you done?” I shake my head. I take the geography textbook and the notebook of songs and I follow her into her room.
She pulls the chair over and sits down. She takes off her clogs and lifts her feet up on to the edge of the bed. She looks at her heels. They glow red. Her two legs are shiny in the room’s light. She puts her feet down and stands, turning in the direction of the mirror. She unwraps the towel, picks up a comb and raises her arm up to her head. Her smooth underarm is shiny. As she combs her long hair, the water comes dripping off it. I sit on the bed. She leans in front of the mirror, pulling her hair out in front of my eyes. She lets it hang down in even strands on either side of her face. I tell her: “Put it in a bun.” She gathers her hair and makes a ball out of it on top of her head. She puts lipstick on her finger and colors her lips with it. She turns to me: “Am I pretty?” My face turns red.
The front doorbell rings and I run to answer it. It’s two boys my age. One of them has smooth hair that he has parted on the side. The other is very dark skinned and carries a small drum underneath his arm. I lead them to the room. We leave our slippers at the door. The three of us sit on the edge of the bed. The two boys ignore me. She gives each of us a piece of Nestle cheese, a cookie and a piece of chocolate.
I hear father’s voice calling me. I leave the songbook on the bed and pick up my geography textbook. I go out to the living room. He stands at the door to our room holding his fez in his hand. He leads me inside then asks me if I’ve studied. I swear to him that I have. He takes me to the toilet to pee then tells me to get ready for bed. I beg him to let me stay up and play in Mama Tahiya’s room. He says it’s late. I answer: “Tomorrow’s Friday.”
“What about dinner?”
“I already ate.”
He gives in. I run to her. She’s wearing her white robe. She tells me: “Ask your father if he wants to have tea?” She leaves the room and heads toward the kitchen. I scamper to him and ask from behind the door. He answers, “No.” I call to her from the hallway: “No, he doesn’t want any.” I head back to her room. The boy with the parted hair is in front of the chiffonier. He puts some lipstick on his fingers then brushes his lips and takes a look at his face in the mirror. Mama Tahiya brings the tea. She bursts out laughing at the sight of him and says: “Holy hell, Effat, you little devil. You’ve turned yourself into a pretty little girl like the moon.” We sit on the floor. She pours tea into small cups for us. She takes a tambourine with little brass ringlets around its edges out from under the bed. When she shakes it, the ringlets jingle. She hands it to the boy.
She starts singing along with Abdel Wahab: “Our night is like wine, yearning croons like a dove. O my darling, this is the night of our love.” The other boy starts to beat the tambourine. He says to her: “Dance for us, ubla.” She takes off her robe and ties a white towel around her waist. She sings: “You, You, No one but you. .” Her body moves to the beat of the tambourine and drum. She’s all caught up in watching her breasts bounce lightly. She stretches her arm in front of her. Her palms clasp each other. She snaps her fingers. Gets up on her tiptoes. She shakes her middle in short trembles that follow one after the other. She shoots a smile at me. Blood rushes to my face.
As she finishes dancing, she is panting from the effort. She pulls two blankets from on top of the bed. She unfolds them and spreads them out on the floor. We sit down on them cross legged. She pulls out the playing cards. We play a round of battle. Then she suggests that we play Old Maid. She takes out three of the kings and shuffles the cards. She says: “Whoever is left with the last king has to do what we say.”
She deals. I draw a card. Seven of Hearts. I have another seven. I put them together and set them on the floor. The other two play quickly and with skill. We look up at each others’ faces. We’re trying to figure out who has it. I draw another card and it comes up the king. All the cards in our hands seem to empty out quickly. We put them down on the floor. I’m left with the king. We draw the hopscotch boxes on the pavement with chalk. Six wide boxes with a half circle at the top. I stand on one leg. I toss the pebble across the line. I manage to move from box to box. My father watches me from the window. I make it to the half circle and name myself the champion.
She says: “What shall we make you do?”
Effat says: “He should get down on his hands and knees and go around us in a circle barking.”
She looks at me, hesitates, then says: “No. He should sing to us.”
I say: “I can’t sing.”
“So what? Sing ‘The Postman Complains From All My
Letters.’ ”
I recite the song without being able to get its tune right.
We start to play again. My eyelids feel heavy.
I am having a hard time fighting off sleep. She says: “That’s enough.” She looks at me: “Ask permission from your father to spend the night with us.” I find him sitting on the bed resting his back against the headboard. He is reading a book. I beg him to let me spend the night with them. He says okay. I go back to the room.
She goes with us to the bathroom and stands waiting in the entrance to the hallway while we go. The boys wash their feet in the sink. We go back to the room. She unfolds the two blankets and lays them out on the floor. She waves at the two boys to lie down on them and gives them a long pillow. She covers them with a blanket. She says to me: “Sleep next to the wall so you don’t fall off the bed.”
I put my glasses on the chiffonier. Lie down on the bed. I stretch out beside the wall. She takes off her robe. The light goes out. She lies down next to me. She pulls me to her chest. My head snuggles against her breasts. I can smell her clean scent. She moves away and turns her back to me. She says: “Sweet dreams, my boys.” The two boys answer in unison: “Sweet dreams, ubla.” I say, “Sweet dreams, mama.” She spreads a blanket over us. I fall asleep. Suddenly, I am awake again. I can’t move. I realize I’m in her grasp and my leg is between her thighs. I hear her panting. She pulls me tight. I say to her: “Mama, do you want something?” She doesn’t answer. I move my leg out from between her thighs but she hangs on to me. She moves away a moment later. Her snoring rises up over us.