The stove crackles. The colors of its flame spread out. He turns the meat over with his spoon. He lifts up the pan and pours out its juice into the sink.
I ask: “Isn’t it done yet?”
He says the meat has to come to a hard boil to get rid of all the microbes. He opens a jar of liquid butter, digs out two spoonfuls, and throws them in the pan. He flips the meat a few times, then adds the water. He throws in a pinch of salt, then another of black pepper, then covers it.
He goes with me to the small bathroom to pee. When I complain about the smell, he says the plunger is broken. I recite the Quranic “verse of the throne” the way he taught me. He gives me a gentle shove to help me up on to the base of the stone toilet. I resist and he climbs up with me to stand by my side. He holds me by my shoulders while I undo the buttons on my underpants. I look up at the wall. Rays of weak hall lighting beam down on the big black spots. Suddenly a black spot comes flying up. I cling to my father’s clothes, but he tells me: “Don’t worry. It’s just a house spider.”
We go back to the kitchen. He flips the meat and adds more water. He waits until the water boils, and then he turns off the flame. He carries the pan to the hall while I hang on to him. He leaves it on top of the sideboard. We go back to the hallway and he washes his hands with soap.
We go into our room and he closes the door carefully. The door to the balcony shakes violently and father says that it is the winds of the month of Amsheer with its dust devils and whirlwinds. He grabs an old gallabiya from one of the hangers and uses it to plug the open crack between the door and the bare tiled floor. He puts another piece of cloth under the door of the balcony. He places his head on the floor and studies the empty space between the wardrobe and the wall, then bends down again and stares at the long narrow open space between the base of the wardrobe and the floor tiles. He pulls open the two doors of the wardrobe and takes a look inside. Lifts up the end of the bed sheet. By now, he is panting from the effort. He takes off his robe and hangs it on a knob of the rack. He recites: “There is only one God, none but Him, the Living, the Eternal, Who takes not slumber, nor rest.”
I climb up into the high metal bed before him. He follows me. I slide over to my place next to the wall. He bends over and wraps the covers around me while he keeps reciting. He finishes up the verse of the throne, then follows it up with another. His voice becomes softer and softer until the words become faint. He brushes my face with his warm hand. My eyelids fall in surrender. The ghoul smells the scent of Hassan the Brave, then says: “Fee, fi, fo, fum; I smell the putrid scent of a human.”
He raises his hand and I open my eyes. He puts his hand back. I close my eyes. He lifts his hand again and I open my eyes again. Hassan the Brave and the beauty jump at the chance to escape when the ghoul goes out. The beauty paints everything in the castle with henna and forgets about the drums. The ghoul comes back and calls out to the girl, then the objects painted in henna start to spin around her. The sieve calls out in a beautiful singsong voice in harmony with its movements: “Straaaain, straaaain, straaaain.” The quern says: “Griiiind, griiind, griiiind.” The cutting board sings: “Choppp, choppp, choppppp.” But the forgotten drum takes revenge for itself by crying: “Hassan the Brave, took her and flew away!”
I follow his movements. He stands up straight. He bends over. He rubs his knees. He pulls off the wool wrap, the robe, and the vest. He slips his braces off his shoulders. He sits on the edge of the bed. He pulls off his socks and shoes, then puts on long woolen stockings. He lifts his right leg and pulls on his trousers, then slips on the other leg. He gets back up. He pulls off his tie and his shirt. All that’s left is the woolen undershirt with its long sleeves and the woolen long johns. He presses his feet into his clogs. Puts his clothes on the hanger. He bends over and spreads his legs out. He has a hard time untying the laces of the hernia belt between his thighs. He strains to get out of it and throws it on the desk then gasps with relief. He rubs his knees and then lets loose a loud fart.
He puts on a striped flannel gallabiya. Tosses the shawl over his shoulders and chest. He stretches his hand to his mouth and pulls out his teeth, then he puts them in a cup of water on the desk. He drinks out of a jug in a metal pan on the ground. Wipes his mouth and his moustache with the back of his hand. He fills a cup with rusty nails up with water, so he can have a drink as soon as he gets up. He raises his hands to his head and presses on the skullcap. Takes two steps. He stretches his hand out toward the dresser. He puts out the light. Climbs up next to me. He tucks himself under the sheets and blankets, and rolls over to me to make sure that I’m also covered. His hand stays there on top of me. My mother’s round face draws near. She rocks me while she sings the song coming out of the radio: “Sleep o love of my soooul.”
~ ~ ~
In the beauty of the spring, your birthday draws near,
You are more splendid than spring, and more dear.”
We repeat the chorus behind the music teacher. A big colored handkerchief dangles out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He will be coming with us to Abideen Palace for the king’s birthday. They give us sandwiches made from yellow cheddar cheese. We also get a piece of halva made from crushed sesame. Monday will be a half day. The English teacher writes the date at the top of the blackboard. I can see clearly what’s written, thanks to my glasses. A rumbling starts up in the back rows of the class. The teacher turns around and goes to his chair. His clothes look all fancy and expensive. The cuffs of his trouser legs are wide, in the style of the day. They are stiff over the fronts of his shoes and cover his heels at the back, down to the point where they touch the floor. He says without looking up at any of us: “Whoever doesn’t want to have a lesson, please help himself to the exit.”
The older students in the back rows get up and leave the room. I take my six-shooter out of my drawer and I follow them. The outer hallway runs down to the empty courtyard. A total calm has settled over the school. The way is empty. I bend over so I can pass underneath the windows of the ongoing classes. Another classroom. The teacher’s lounge. Its door is closed. I put my eye against the keyhole. There’s a rectangular table with a bare-headed man sitting at the end. He’s bald. His fez is in front of him on top of several notebooks. I manage to recognize that he is the science teacher. He looks strange with no fez and no hair. He picks up one of the notebooks. He’s staring disapprovingly at the corner of the table. I can see a number of hands playing cards at the edge of my vision.