Khadra brings a tray with Eid cookies, shortbread ones and ones with powdered sugar. She puts it down on a small table in front of father. Nabila hands me a small plate. I put two cookies on it. I bite into one and find it stuffed with melban, a clear nougat. Father takes a shortbread cookie. He eats it with approval. He says it’s just right because it melts as soon as he puts it in his mouth. Nabila says: “They’re handmade. Mama’s way. God rest her soul.” Father says to me: “Taste one.” I shake my head. She gets angry with me: “ ‘I’m not hungry! I’m not hungry!’ You’ll keep saying it over and over until you shrivel up and blow away.” Fahmi is smiling and looking away from her at us as he says: “Look who’s talking.” He picks up a powdered-sugar cookie. She turns towards him and shoots her eyes straight toward his stomach: “I guess I should just let myself look like a pregnant woman.”
He ignores her and talks to father instead. “Please could you tell her to get a little fatter? I brought her some peanut brittle from Al-Hamzawi to fatten her up, but she won’t go near it.” Father says to her: “He’s right. A man likes to have something to hang on to.” They laugh. Khadra comes in with cups of coffee. Father bends over to untie his shoelaces. Khadra jumps over to help him. She brings him some cloth slippers. He asks her what village she is from and he gives her Eid money. He lifts up his left leg and stretches it out on the couch under the right one. Fahmi lights a cigarette and then leans over and lights father’s too.
“Shall we play here or out on the veranda?”
Father answers: “The veranda, of course. But wait a second until my sweat is all dry.”
“It’s a person’s right in this heat to go out in a polo shirt and shorts.”
Father says that his cousin is happy to go out in a shirt with short sleeves and with no fez during the summer, like some queer.
I have a coughing fit. As she looks at me with concern, Nabila says that tuberculosis has started to spread. She comes up to the bed I am lying in with her two children. She stands over my head. She watches me cough. Uncle Fahmi tells her that it is a normal cough and that the whooping cough has gone away. She says: “Alright, tomorrow papa is coming to take him.” In the morning, I root around the nooks and crannies of the wide apartment in the pyjamas of her son Shawqi. I make sure to stay away from the covered furniture. I ask her when father is going to come. She says: “In the afternoon.”At noon, she shuts the windows and the room turns dark. She gets caught up in packing bags and closing up closets as though she’s going on a trip. She gets outdoor clothes ready for the children. No one speaks to me or gets clothes ready for me. I ask Shareen: “Are you going out?” She whispers: “We’re going to my aunt’s.” “Are you taking me along?” “No. You’re staying with S’aadiya until grandpa comes to get you.”
Hajj Hamdi, Uncle Fahmi’s older brother, comes out and joins us. He wears a white gallabiya and moccasins. He has a big beard that he has trimmed carefully. White hairs have spread all through it. He is carrying silver prayer beads in his hand. He says: “Have you heard about the bombs?”
Father asks: “You mean the Benzion and Gattegno department store bombs? The Muslim Brothers are really pushing it to the limit.”
Uncle Fahmi brings in the backgammon board. “Let’s go to the veranda.” They go into the guest room and out on to the veranda. I follow them. I stop for a second, though, at the doorway. They sit on a country-style couch with metal chairs around it. I hear the voice of Hajj Hamdi asking about Shawqi and Shareen. Uncle Fahmi’s voice: “They’re playing downstairs.” “How did they do in the exams?” Nabila’s voice: “They passed easily, thank God. Like they do every year.”
Uncle Fahmi notices me. He asks: “What about you?” I go out to them and sit on the edge of the couch next to father. He cuts in and answers for me: “He has to make up English. Where is Sameera?” Uncle Fahmi says: “They’re getting some sun up at Ras al-Bar. We’ll catch up with them after Eid, inshallah.”
Nabila says: “Papa, can you imagine that Shareen wants to wear shorts?”
Uncle Fahmi opens the backgammon set. Hajj Hamdi plays a game with father, then excuses himself and leaves. Uncle Fahmi takes his place. I have a hard time following the game. I can’t believe how fast they play. They’re tied after two rounds. Uncle Fahmi suggests a rubber match to decide the winner.
The maid comes in and says: “Lunch is ready.” Uncle Fahmi closes the backgammon set and gets up. We head back to the dining room. He bends over and looks at himself in the mirror. He stretches his hand out and runs it over his light hair, then straightens back up. He snatches a cookie off the tray sitting on the sideboard and devours it. He points out a long picture hanging over the mirror and asks father: “What do you think of this? Be honest. Is it better than the old one or not?”
Father heads toward his chair, but Uncle Fahmi stops him, grabbing his arm as he shoots a glance at my sister. “What do you think of my taste? The lady of the house doesn’t like it.” I study the picture. Its colors are dark. In its corner, there’s a tiny person whose face you can’t make out and he is looking at something hidden in the blur of colors. Maybe an overturned boat.
He sits at the head of the table. Nabila sits at the other end facing him. Shawqi and Shareen come in and join us. Uncle Fahmi tells the maid to light the chandelier. His eyes move quickly from plate to plate. They stop at the roasted chicken in the rectangular pan. As he stretches his hand toward the chicken, he winks and says to father: “Breast or thigh?” They exchange smiles.
He raises a thigh up to his mouth. He looks out of the corner of his eye at my sister. She is using her knife and fork. He finishes it off quickly and has another go at the rest of the chicken. She gives him a stern look. He tears off a piece and raises it to his mouth. She says: “See, papa, he eats like a fellah.” He keeps chomping at the chicken as though he doesn’t care.
We finish off with slices of watermelon. We wash our hands in the bathroom. The maid brings in a tray with glasses of Kawther cola.
Nabila asks father: “Do you want to nap inside?” He says he prefers the couch on the veranda. She brings him a white gallabiya that she keeps especially for him. He takes it and goes into the guest room.
Khadra finishes taking everything back to the kitchen and cleaning off the table. Uncle Fahmi snatches a cookie with powdered sugar. He tosses it into his mouth. He asks me to sit down at the table. He sits down next to me. I open my English textbook. I read the lesson. He explains to me what the words mean. My attention is divided between his dull voice and the voices of the children in the street. He gives me an exercise to do, then goes into the bedroom. My sister follows him.
Quiet falls over the room. I start answering the questions, but I get up after a little while. I leave the dining room. I go to the country-style toilet and take a pee. I go back to the dining room. Then I step carefully over to the keyhole of the bedroom door. The bed comes into view. Fahmi is wearing white boxer shorts that go all the way to his knees. He is lying on his left side facing me. Nabila is behind him lying on her back. Her knees are up. Her bare thighs show.
I go back to my seat and stare at the picture. From outside, a familiar voice reaches my ears. “Kaymak Gelato!” An old man in a hurry pushes a handcart in front of him with metal cans of ice cream covered by cheesecloth. The sweet cream-flavored barrel is made from whole milk. The strawberry flavor has real fruit in it. He repeats his call like a braggart. I am hoping the maid will go down and buy from him, but I don’t hear the door of the apartment opening up.