Father asks him about his dad who is going on hajj for a second time. He says: “He should be on top of Mount Arafat right about now.” Khadra brings in cups of coffee and glasses of Spathis fizzy drink.
Alwy removes a small cup made of glass from his pocket. Uncle Fahmi claps: “That’s it. He brought the goods.” Alwy says: “So you won’t have any excuses.” I know that he sets the dice before he throws them with his hand, so no one wants to throw dice with him unless they use a cup.
Everyone heads out to the veranda. Nabila puts on a sweater, saying that it’s getting a bit cold. Father’s cackles echo loudly. I go up to the children’s room. The door’s cracked open. I steal a peek. Shareen is leaning over the bed flipping through a magazine. I hear Selwa’s voice saying softly that she got hold of a novel by Yusuf al-Sabaey. Shareen shows them a page from the magazine about a new American game called the hula hoop. Nadeen comes into my view. She puts her hand on her small chest. She turns toward the door but I jump back quickly. I hear her say that the Americans invented a new bra that snaps and unsnaps in the front so a girl doesn’t have to reach her hand behind her back to take it off. Their laughing sounds like they’re embarrassed.
I push open the door and go in. No one turns to me. Shareen flips the pages of the magazine. In a loud voice she calls out the names of the films that are playing: “Fame or Riches, with Mohamed Abdel Motalleb and Hassan Fayek. The Island Princess with Tahia Karioka, Bishara Wakeem, Ismail Yaseen, and Shakookoo. The Man Who Doesn’t Sleep, at the Metro with Yusuf Wahbi and Mediha Yosri. Toward Glory, directed by and starring Hussain Sidqi. He’s a bore.” She throws the magazine away. I pick it up and flip through its pages. A picture of the king in military uniform wearing field glasses stares up at me. Under the picture in a fancy script, it says: “The first of the fighters.”
I leave the room and go from there to the outer parlor. I listen next to the wall that separates it from the kitchen. The sound of dishes being washed. The door to the terrace room is closed. I pass through the hall that goes to the country-style bathroom. There’s an open window facing the street. The pop of firecrackers blows through it. I get up on my tip-toes. I spot Showqi with a hunting rifle in his hand. I go into the country-style bathroom. I pee. I walk out. Open the door to the terrace room. I go in and close the door behind me. The brass handle of the dresser is broken. I pull on it. The drawers are empty. A few of them have some old clothes. I want to leave, but I hear the sound of someone running. Softly, I open the door a crack. Khadra is pushing on the door to the living room. Her face shows that she’s scared. Uncle Fahmi comes from the kitchen and pushes behind her. His Mantouvli slippers slap against the tiled floor. He tries to grab her. She goes into the dining room with him behind her. I go out to the parlor. I peek through the door to the dining room. My glasses bang against the wooden door handle. He throws her down on to the couch. His face is red, his eyes flashing. He reaches his hand to her chest. She pushes him away and begs in a low voice: “Please, no, sir. Please don’t cut me off.” She goes around the table then passes in front of the children’s room. She comes over to the door leading to the outer parlor. I jump back in a hurry. I go to hide on the terrace. I hear her open the door to the apartment and go out. I walk out of the terrace into the living room. Uncle Fahmi is bent over the mirror of the sideboard. He looks over his face. He sets his hair. He stands up straight. He goes into the guest room on his way to the veranda. The sound of his footsteps fades as he steps on to the thick carpet.
~ ~ ~
The knocking on the front door goes on. I climb over father’s sleeping body and come back down on the other side. I put on my slippers, and go out to the living room. I turn the key in the door. Fatima pushes it so that it almost hits me in the face. She goes ahead of me into our room.
“You two are still sleeping?”
Father pulls up the covers as he answers: “It’s Friday today.”
“Come on. I’ll make you breakfast.”
Father falls back on his right side. His gallabiya comes up and shows his bare legs. My eye falls on his prick sticking out of the opening in his underpants. Blown up, like a cat’s head. He stays stretched out on his side without bothering to cover himself. He looks at Fatima. He stretches out his hand and rubs his prick. He pushes up to a sitting position with his legs dangling from the side of the bed.
She asks: “What would you like to have for breakfast? Should I make hot cereal with milk or ful beans?” I say: “Tahini with honey.” She says: “There isn’t any.”
Father says to me: “Here. Take a half a franc and go get some from the oil shop.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
He says: “It’s Friday and Abbas will want his breakfast.”
She says: “Yeah, I have to go to him or he’ll skin me alive.”
I go to the bathroom. I get past my fears and go into the toilet room. I pee, then wash my hands and face. I go back to the room. Father is standing next to the dresser and Fatima is sitting on the edge of the bed. I dry my face with the towel hanging from the chair back. I start to take off my pyjama top, so I can put on trousers and a shirt. Father says: “Don’t waste time. Just go in your pyjamas.” He gives me half a franc. I say: “Where’s the dish to put it in.” Fatima answers: “On the sideboard.”
I go out of the room but leave the door partially open. I take the dish. Father closes the door to the room. I open the front door and then slam it shut. I rush to hide under the table. I sneak under the side away from the door to the skylight, so that the tablecloth will cover me completely. My head bumps against the edge of the table. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. I rub on the bump. I stay clear of the cockroach nests piled up in the corners. My heart is pounding. I cannot get out of my hiding place to get any closer to the room. I listen carefully. Not a sound. I can’t chance moving. My heart keeps beating hard. The morning’s light settles over the room. I enter quietly without the two of them sensing me. I hide behind the wooden post for the clothes line. I shrink up between my father’s suit, his fly whisk, and his umbrella. I can hear them moving on the bed. The sound of muffled laughter. His or hers? On the nightstand next to the bed, a cup of water holds his false teeth. I pull his jacket to the side. His back is to me. On his bare head, light grey hair surrounds his bald spot. I can see the side of his smiling face. His arms surround mother. She’s laughing too. I reach my hand out to his coat. I press on the inside pocket where he keeps his money. I take it all. I steal out of the room. They come out after a while. He goes back to the room. He calls me. He closes the door. Sits me in front of him. Questions me. He takes the bamboo cane from on top of the dresser. He beats me with it.
I hear movement. The door to the room opens. Fatima comes out. She moves between the sideboard and the kitchen. Her clogs clomp. She makes a plate of ful beans. She takes it to father and stays inside. After a while, she comes back out. She opens the front door and goes out, closing it behind her. Father comes out of the bedroom and goes to the bathroom. He mutters a few verses. I can tell he is doing ablutions. I crawl under the table in the direction of the front door. I can see his legs in front of the sink. I leave my hiding place, holding the dish. I go to the front door. Softly, I open it, then close it hard. Father is still at the sink. He rubs water over his ears. He turns to me and says: “Did Fatima forget to close the door?”