The constable is lying on the bed. He is still in the t-shirt. His hands are clasped behind his head, leaning against the wall. The hair under his arms is thick. The bed covers are piled up. She pulls them off to make a place for me. She gives me a plate with lotus fruit that I love so much and says: “Kareem brought it back with him from Assyut.” She combs her hair in front of the mirror then passes the lipstick over her lips.
I pick out a fat orange-colored piece. Wipe it off with the sleeve of my pyjamas. I love the taste of the fruit’s dry, sweet flesh. I spit out the seed and look around me, not knowing what to do with it. I end up putting it in my pocket. I pick out another. It’s bitter. I spit it out and choose a red one instead.
I look up at Mama Tahiya. She lets her hair down below her shoulders. Her eyes shine. She looks at “Kareem.” Some anger shows on his face. She smiles. I feel that he’s annoyed at my being there.
“Shall I make tea?”
She leaves the room without waiting for him to answer. I notice a picture magazine tossed to the side of the bed. I grab it and start flipping through its pages. A picture of the king at his meeting with the army officers heading to Palestine. In a military uniform with short sleeves. He holds the end of a staff under his arm. His glasses have big black frames. His thick moustache has two raised ends on either side of his mouth. He has a beret on his head leaning to the right.
I ask the constable: “So, are we going to war?” He says it has to happen now that Israel has declared statehood. He adds: “There’s also America; they said they’d cut off petrol and farming materials if we go into Palestine.”
Mama Tahiya comes back carrying a tray with three cups of tea. We drink them without talking. She throws herself into gathering up the playing cards scattered all over the room. She organizes them and counts them out while sitting cross-legged. Her robe slides up and shows her bare legs.
She says: “Come on. Let’s play Old Maid.”
She sets aside three cards with old kings on them. She shuffles the cards again. The constable turns over on to his left side. He leans on his right elbow and draws a card. I look at my cards. I notice his hand sneaking to the thigh of Mama Tahiya. She laughs and pulls her body away. We start to run out of cards quickly. He only has one card left. He lays it down to reveal the other king.
Mama Tahiya claps: “What shall we make you do?” She adds: “Cover your eyes.” My father teaches mother to play poker. He laughs when he wins. She puts the cards on the table and says: “This game is forbidden by God.” He says: “Go on, old lady. We’re playing for small change.” She’s stubborn: “No! It’s forbidden.”
He lies on his back. She pulls out a sash and kneels on top of it. He stretches his hand toward her chest, but she gets away. She wraps the sash around his eyes and ties it over his ear. She waves to me to come closer, then whispers: “Spit in his mouth.” She tells him to open his mouth. He does it. I lean over him. I spit.
He shivers, sits up, and screams: “You dog! You son of a bitch!” He unties the sash and throws it across the room. Mama Tahiya and I jump up off the bed. She opens the door and pushes me into the hall, then shuts the door behind me. I run to our room. Crashing and banging sounds come from their room. A moment of silence passes. Mama Tahiya’s voice rises up: “Ayyy!” I push on our door and go in. Father stands in the doorway to the balcony. I call to him: “Papa, hurry. Uncle is beating Mama Tahiya.”
He turns around and comes to me. We go out of the room and head towards the other one without talking. Sounds of “Ays” come one after another. Father listens in a trance. He pulls me by the hand to go back to our room. He closes the door behind us. He smiles and says: “Those aren’t the sounds of a beating.”
~ ~ ~
He prepares sakhina with warm milk for our evening meal. He boils some fenugreek. Adds molasses. The bread is cut into croutons. He throws it in a pan. Simmers it over a fire. He adds the fenugreek and molasses. Stirs it several times. He dishes it on to my plate and pours warm milk over it. I eat with a spoon while sitting on the edge of the bed. He raises the seat until it is level with the table top. Mother covers my chest with a bib that she ties behind my neck. She puts a bowl of soup in front of me. She gives me my tiny spoon. They sit on either side of me.
He turns off the light then comes back. He tells me to prepare my satchel and get ready for bed. He goes with me to the toilet. The door to the constable’s room is open a crack. The sounds of the radio broken up by static come from behind it. Um Zakiya’s radio is turned up. “Oh warriors in God’s tour. This is the day you’ve longed for.” I repeat the rest along with the radio: “We’re the creators of the art of war.”
Mama Tahiya moves across the living room. She is wearing a sleeveless, yellow silk dress. She is carrying a white handbag. A folded sweater rests on her arm. “Kareem” comes after her wearing a white shirt and grey trousers. A small hand towel in the palm of his hand flashes out from under his left sleeve like a flower. The two of them say “hi” to father. They leave the apartment. I settle into bed. Father sits in his full suit at my desk. He’s wearing his glasses and holding a book in his hand. Sleep starts to overtake me. I can sense that he wants to go out. I decide not to doze off until he takes off his clothes.
The voice of Hajj Abdel ’Alim comes up from the alley: “Khalil Bey! Khalil Bey!” Father opens the glass door to the balcony and tells him to come up. He opens the door for him. Offers him the desk chair. He himself sits on the edge of the bed. As always, the sheikh of the quarter starts clearing his throat. He says that Abbas has married and brought his wife from his home village. She is a nice, innocent girl. She might be able to clean up for us and do the cooking. Father says: “That would be great.”
Abdel ’Alim asks: “Have you been outside today? The streets are full of protests and people chanting: ‘Where’s our food, clothes, and basic things, thou most womanizing of all kings?’ ”
Father says: “They’re really raising the stakes.”
“The papers are calling them, ‘our first fighters.’ Refaat Effendi was in Port Said yesterday and he says that it’s full of Palestinians running from the Zionist forces.”
“How is Maged Effendi?”
Abdel ’Alim says that Zeraksh became pregnant and took him away to the kingdom of genies, so she could give birth there. She had the child without help from anyone and he walked the moment he came out of her.
Father asks with interest: “What did he see there?”
“They don’t have either streetcars or buses up there. There’s neither birds, nor animals, nor insects, nor cemeteries. Their digestive systems are like car engines. When they shit — excuse the expression — it comes out as steam flowing from their backsides exactly like car exhaust.”
“So why did he come back? He’d be right to just stay there.”
“He was choking from the lack of oxygen, so he told her he wanted to come back. She had him stand on top of her feet and put his hands on top of her head. She puffed out her cheeks and he suddenly found himself back in his own bed.”
“Just like that? And nothing happened to him?”
“He just has a slight headache all the time and stumbles every now and then when he’s walking.”
Father asks about Abdel ’Alim’s children. He answers: “The girl had a fever last night. I telephoned a doctor. He sat there and asked about my work and where we lived and then demanded three pounds for a house call.”
“Good God! What did you do?”
“The Lord provided. I gave her two aspirin and made her a cold compress. By morning she was better.”