I catch up with some students on the stairs. We sneak out to a courtyard at the back where an annexe to the school is being built. They all spread out behind the piles of sand and gravel. They take out their handkerchiefs, fold them once, spread them over their noses, then tie them at the back of their heads. I take off my glasses, which have given me the nickname “Gandhi,” then I tie my own handkerchief over my nose before I put them back on. I squat down behind a pile of gravel, holding on to my six-shooter. The courtyard of the old school is surrounded by tall black fencing so we can’t see out. I buy a yam with hot pepper from a small opening in its side. We find an old staircase with worn out steps leading down. A student says that the schoolhouse used to be the palace of an emir. He’s sure that there’s a magic well underneath it. We are scared but go down anyway. We stumble upon a lizard. My mother tells me it’s a princess in disguise.
I stay in my place behind the pile of gravel without anyone calling for me. The bell rings. We go back up to our Arabic grammar class with heavy steps. The teacher has a skinny build. He has a long neck with a thick kaffiyeh wrapped around it. His shoulders are constantly wiggling inside his suit coat. We all know that he just stopped wearing his jubbah and turban less than a year ago.
I change places with Fathi so I can sit next to Maher. He has a ring full of keys, a Biro ballpoint pen, a Waterman fountain pen, and a soft, fat eraser. He puts them in a row in front of him on the surface of his writing desk. The teacher explains to us, without standing up, the rules of the stem form of the verb, the derivative stem forms, and the phonetic verbs. He doesn’t bother to stand in front of the board because he is so short. He asks one of the taller students to write on it: “The prince of poets addresses the young men.” We open up the book, Selections of the Masters. We read, along with him, a poem by Ahmad Showqi. He scolds us for our ignorance. In my notebook I write down what the words mean. I spell a word wrongly. I try to rub it out with my dried up, cheap eraser. I borrow Maher’s soft one.
The bell rings. I lift the tabletop of my desk. I take out the textbooks and notepads that I need for tomorrow’s homework. I put them in my satchel. I let down the desktop, take out my key, and lock it.
No sooner have I walked out into the open-air hallway than a cold wind slaps against me. I bury my neck under my kaffiyeh, and I shrink inside my clothes. It’s hard to drag my feet along. I move along the pavement outside the school, and I put off crossing the main street until I get to the square. I notice a little rectangle of iron. I want to kick it along my way, but then I remember my father’s warnings about bombs that explode at no more than a touch and that look like a medicine bottle, a fountain pen, or a toy. I look at it carefully then move away from it.
A pavement of multicolored gravel. A fenced-in villa with steel grating. I steal a look from between the poles. A wooden table and two chairs are at the side of the garden. The door to the villa is shut. I start walking again. The Jewish school. It’s made from pink bricks. There’s no outer wall surrounding it, like at our school. A flier calls for aid for Palestinian refugees. A black banner reads: “No negotiations without complete British withdrawal!” Another says: “Hey diddle diddle!” The school’s windows are at street level. Long halls with rows of dining tables behind them. The students eat and make noise. I keep walking to the corner, then I turn left. I pass next to the wall of the school. The road gets a little bit steep and it has more trees. The red and yellow flowers that started to bloom at the beginning of the summer have dried and fallen over the pavement now that it’s autumn. We try to hunt the sparrows with our bows and arrows, but we don’t get a single one.
I find myself in front of our old home. It’s also of pale yellow brick. The iron door is the first thing you see. Around the door is an old crumbling house. In front of it, there’s a big crater made by a bomb dropped by German planes. I put my satchel on the ground and lean against the wall of the school.
The house sits at the fork between two streets divided by a nasty open space surrounded by fencing made of metal poles. It used to be a storage house for the tram. The metal poles of the fencing are secured at the bottom by railings barely raised a foot off the ground. We stand on the railings between the poles and puff up our cheeks, then we toot our horns and drive.
The first street heads towards a shanty town and the second towards a factory that makes fezzes next to a square where the fair to celebrate the prophet’s birthday takes place. At the point of coming together, there’s a row of carriages with the heads of their attached horses buried in sacks of straw. The two streets come together where there’s a little bit of a downhill slope in the road, beginning past our house and going down to the street that leads to the square. At the corner, there’s a nursery with flowers for sale.
The place where we live takes up the first floor and has two windows looking down on to the street. The curtains cover one of them, but in the other, only the glass is closed. It reflects the trees and the blue sky. With my finger I trace my name and the names of my father and mother in the condensation that’s covered the closed window. I think to myself about the workers rushing to the factory, each one carrying a snack in his handkerchief. There are small children among them. The morning whistle of the factory blows, then I leave our house. I am met by the smell of exhaust from burners. I lift my head towards the window and see my father in his round white skullcap following me with his eyes from behind the glass. I cross the road to the pavement in front of the Jewish school. I pass by an old man with a big red turban, leaning on a walking stick with one of his hands while resting his back against the school wall. I give him two millimes as my father has taught me. I turn to see him in the window one last time. I adjust the book pack on my back and push my cold hands far down into the pockets of my jacket. I wind my way through the crush of students from the Jewish school. Boys and girls dressed in blue. I bounce towards the main street that goes to my school. The fog that I love so much swallows me.
I carry my satchel and I turn to follow the road. I move into a small passage. A shop to help find a maid. A wooden partition has little openings between the panels. Behind them there’s a bench with girls sitting on it. One of them wears a black headcloth and a gallabiya. Next to her a girl is dressed like the fellah women. I come out to Farouk street. I wait for the signal from the traffic policeman. I walk in front of the Abdelmalik bakery and the Alsabeel pharmacy. I read its sign: “The acting manager is Helmy Rafael.” A few steps farther and I have entered Al-Nuzha Street that leads to our new house.
~ ~ ~
Father puts on his robe. He opens the glass door to the balcony. He pushes the wooden shutter to the outside. He fastens it to the metal loop in the wall with its hook. The pale light of the morning sneaks into the room. He closes the glass pane and studies the balcony across the way.
I cough and complain to him that my throat is sore. He touches my forehead. He probes underneath my ear, feeling for my tonsils. Then he leaves the room and throws himself into making a plate of fava bean paste with hot oil.
He puts the plate on to the wooden four-sided table that Abbas has brought out from storage. The table’s at the same level with the bed and spread almost all the way across it are the plate of beans, the piece of white cheese wrapped in paper, the loaf of bread, and the split key lime. He takes a small onion from under the bed and puts it down between the door and the wall without bothering to peel it. He pulls the door into the room then pushes with it against the onion a little bit. He puts the door back where it was and catches the onion before it falls down. He takes out its heart, which has started to stick out, and he throws the outer skin to the side. He says it’s the best way not to lose its taste and to stay healthy.