In the Country of Men

22

The days that followed seemed muffled by dread. Anything that was said in them seemed meaningless and empty. I often felt a quiet anger rise in me, and heard the door slam behind me when I only meant to close it. The first few times this happened I went to where Mama and Baba were and looked at them, expecting one of them to tell me off, but neither did. When I helped Mama set the dining table I let the plates fall loudly. And I often threw my shoe at the wall when its lace refused to become untangled. I sensed a silent, nervous wave ripple around these sudden outbursts, making me feel that my influence in this world might not be as insignificant as I had thought. And sometimes, when I was in the bathroom and had flushed the toilet, I heard, in the hiss of the cistern filling up, Mama's voice calling me. The first few times this happened I would walk out in an anxious hurry, yelling, 'Mama?' the silence seeming endless before I got her voice asking, 'Yes, is anything the matter?'

Moosa didn't visit. Once he called, the line crackling, 'Slooma,' I heard him say, then, 'Where's Mama?' It wasn't like him to be so brief. Mama rushed to the telephone, then snapped her fingers and pointed at the pen and pad. I handed them to her. She wrote something down quickly, asking, 'Is it a good school? Are you sure?' Then they were cut off.

One exceptionally warm night I woke up from a bad dream. There was no story, just a deep trembling dread hot in my chest. I saw a soft light coming from the sitting room. I couldn't hear Baba snoring. Mama was spread on the sofa, the covers were off, the window beside her wide open. A cricket outside was piercing the night. There was no room to lie beside her. I stood for a moment, considering my options, then I lay on top of her. I hugged her. She woke up with a sudden jolt. 'In the name of God,' she mumbled quickly, her hand against her chest, her eyes squinting at me. 'Suleiman? What are you doing here? Did you have a bad dream?' She took me by the hand back to my room, turned on the beside lamp, kissed me on the forehead and left.

She never fell ill. She never came to my bed to whisper her secret stories of the past. She seemed quite happy with Baba. Some mornings I even heard them giggle together, but when they saw me they stopped. Their new life together, where Baba never went away and Mama was never ill, distanced me from them, and I began, for the first time ever, to long for the summer to end and for school to begin.

One night I was awakened by the sound of a strange moan. I went to their room and saw Baba on top of her again. But this time it was different. Mama didn't lie beneath helpless, her face turned away, with one hand secretly stretched beside her and open towards the sky. Her eyes were glued to his and her legs curled round him, and the moan wasn't his alone; they both shared the pain, it seemed. I didn't wonder this time whether I should intervene. Nothing, it seemed, could stop them. I wanted to take a step further into the room. Maybe if they see me they will stop, I wondered. I wanted them to stop, or pause for a moment.

I ran out through the kitchen, slamming the door behind me, and up to the roof, hiding where my workshop was. The sky was full of stars, I saw them blur beyond my tears, but there was no moon. I am safe, I thought, they wouldn't be able to see me even if they came up here. I waited, breathing as quietly as I could, hugging my knees and the salty smell of their skin. I recalled Sheikh Mustafa's words: 'These bodies are our vehicle, they will perish while we will continue.' I expected Baba, half naked, his waist wrapped in a towel, to climb up to the roof, angrily calling out my name, followed by Mama, begging him not to hurt me. But no one came. I dried my face and went back. Suddenly the darkness frightened me, and I ran, ran, expecting a hand to reach out and grab me round the neck. I sneaked into the kitchen and tiptoed to my room. Their light was still on, they were awake, talking, discussing something in whispers that Mama in particular was barely able to keep down, not angry, but urgent, excited almost. I slammed my bedroom door behind me.

After a few minutes Mama came in and watched me in the faint light that came from their room. I looked straight back at her, not pretending to be asleep, not pretending anything. She closed the door behind her and went back to Baba. I heard them resume their whispered conversation.

The following morning I felt Mama's weight sink beside me on the bed, then her fingers in my hair. 'You are going on a trip,' she said, 'to Cairo, to visit Moosa and his family and see the Pyramids.'

'But Moosa is here,' I said, my voice made older by sleep.

'He left a couple of weeks ago. He said to tell you he can't wait to see you in Cairo.'

I turned away from her.

'What's the matter, don't you want to see the Pyramids? They are much bigger than Lepcis.'

'I don't want to go,' I cried.

Baba came and hugged me. 'Come, Slooma,' he said.

'Many people would die to see the Pyramids,' Mama said.

'I don't want the Pyramids.'

'You always wanted to fly though, didn't you?' Baba said.

I nodded. 'But school starts soon.'

They both looked at each other and, as if considering carefully what he was going to say, Baba said, 'You will love Cairo,' his voice cut by grief.