In the Country of Men

4

When Baba arrived home the following day he seemed preoccupied. It was eight days since Ustath Rashid had been taken. He didn't bring gifts as he usually did when he returned from his travels. This confirmed that he had been lying: telling us he was going abroad when he was escaping to his other life here in Tripoli, on Martyrs' Square.

I waited and waited, then asked, 'What did you bring me?'

'Nothing,' he said without even looking in my direction.

The time before he had brought me a watch that worked under water and had its own light. He usually got Mama a perfume bottle. She would open it, put a drop on the inside of her wrist, smell it, then smile to herself.

And he wasn't full of stories, nor did he comment about the things Mama had done to welcome him. She had spent the whole morning in the kitchen. She hollowed courgettes then stuffed them with rice and meat. The whole kitchen was alive with the smell of parsley, lemon and cardamon. She soaked pomegranate seeds in rose water and sugar. Then after she had showered, blow-dried her hair and put on a fresh dress, she burned musk incense sticks and dug them into the plant pots around the house in anticipation of his arrival. She looked beautiful; she always looked beautiful when he was home.

Baba's signature ring was made of one ring followed by three rapid ones: Ding-dong. Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong. Like a rabbit hopping once, then leaping three times. When Mama heard it she picked a pink rose from the vase that was stuffed full of them and planted it in her hair, just above her ear, before running to open the door.

He came around lunch time, like he said he would. When we sat down to eat he didn't sigh deeply with contentment or say, 'There's no place like home.' I wished he would because these words always made Mama's cheeks blush. Instead, he stuffed his napkin above the knot of his necktie, stretching his chin towards the ceiling, which made his lips frown, and began sipping his soup.

Mama did all the talking and hardly ate anything. She tried to serve him seconds, but he held his hand over his plate and shook his head.

'Any news of Rashid?'

'We still don't know where he is.'

'Faraj, I am worried, worried for us.'

'We'll be fine. How's Salma?'

Mama sighed.

'She needs us now more than ever,' he said, placed his napkin on the table and left the room.

'You have chosen a dead-end road,' she said after him. When he didn't respond she looked at me.

I extended my plate to her, to serve me some more even though I was full.

When he came out of the bathroom he went into the sitting room and shouted, 'Where's the tea?' Baba had to have green tea after lunch. He said it aided digestion. It was so bitter it made the roof of my mouth itch.

Now that he was safely in the sitting room and she making tea in the kitchen, I took the opportunity to sneak into their bedroom. I searched his jacket for those huge sunglasses. His scent – a mix of pipe smoke and cologne – felt like a presence in the room. I didn't find them. I went to sit beside him, kiss his hand and tell him how happy I was that he was home, but I found Mama in his arms, her make-up melting. 'Come, you know how I hate tears,' he told her. She looked at him, attempted a smile. 'I need you,' he whispered and she nodded wearily. She dried her face and left the room. 'Maestro,' he said when he saw me. 'My darling boy.' He got hold of both of my cheeks, pulled me towards him and kissed me on the nose. My cheeks were in agony, tears in my eyes, but I was grinning so broadly I couldn't hide my teeth even if I had wanted to.

Mama returned with the tea tray. Baba nudged me with his knee. I poured the tea, the steam pungent with mint and sage. I held the pot as high as I could, creating as much froth as possible. 'OK, enough,' he said, but I kept going higher. 'Careful,' he said anxiously, but I could feel him smiling proudly at me. It made my chest tickle.

When he finished his tea he looked at his watch, stood up and said, 'Wake me up at four. I have an important appointment.'

'With who?' she asked, following him. 'But you just got here.'

I could hear them talking before they both fell asleep. And although they never woke up before their time, I walked around the house quietly. I listened to the radio low against my ear, sat a few centimetres away from the television. I felt such relief now that Baba was home.

Now everything can be normal again, I thought. Now I can leave the house without worrying.

Particularly in summer, when the sun swelled with heat, the whole world went to sleep: children, adults, even dogs found a patch of shade to slumber in. I never learned how to nap. It always felt strange to get into my pyjamas at three in the afternoon. It reminded me of being ill. Instead I would search the neighbouring building plots for things I liked or thought useful, things that used to be knives or parts of old radios, and took them to our garden. There I scraped glue that was always oozing out of the joints of the glue tree, got whatever wood I could find, and carrying everything in the wrap of my arms I climbed the straight flight of stairs up to the flat roof.

The roof tiles were baking, you could see the heat rippling above them. I had forgotten my sandals so I hopped, running for the shadow made by the water tank, to my workshop. I rubbed my feet on the coolness of the shaded tiles. I looked up at the sun. I thought, how strong the sun is, how mighty, and felt frightened by it, by the possibility of it not moving, or coming closer, pressing down against us like a giant balloon. I remembered my Quran teacher Sheikh Mustafa's story of the Bridge to Paradise, the bridge that crosses Hell Eternal to deliver the faithful to Paradise. We all will have to cross it some day, and some of us won't make it. Those will fall into the fires below, the fires that call for them. What a sight it will be! The heat, the screaming – there's bound to be screaming – the flames licking the sides of the bridge, making the handrails – Sheikh Mustafa said nothing of handrails, but there are bound to be handrails – hot to the touch. 'The heat will reach some of us faster than others,' Sheikh Mustafa said, 'because for some the heat, the fires of Hell themselves, will be like a voice calling.' I suppose it's like when you hear your name and you can't help but turn to the source that spoke it. Some of us will be longing for Hell Eternal – God forbid – the way we long to respond, to obey, when our name is called even by someone we have never met before, or by a teacher who has asked a question we know we can't answer: we raise our hand and say, 'Yes,' and if he can't see us, we reach higher and shout, 'Over here, sir!' when we know there'll be nothing to do except curl our lip and shrug our shoulders. Because the fire calls for the fire. Sheikh Mustafa warned me about this, he said, 'You must try to ignore the heat, Suleiman. When you are on the Bridge to Paradise, you must keep your eyes focused on Paradise and the beauty of Paradise. And whatever you do, don't look down.'

Watching the heat ripple off the tiles on the roof, I thought I should train myself for that day. I decided to walk – not hop, not run, but walk – in a line as straight as an arrow, without even arching the soles of my feet, back to the staircase. The staircase was to be my paradise. The first step didn't feel as bad as I expected, but after a few steps the soles of my feet were on fire and I found myself hopping and running, wondering if hopping and running were allowed on the Bridge to Paradise.

I wished I was like the Sheikh. Surely he won't feel any heat, I thought, the man is holy. He led the prayers at the local mosque. Baba liked his voice, and so after Friday prayer, later in the afternoon, he had him come to recite some Surahs to bless our house. His voice, soaring and expansive, seemed to reach and fill each room. He was blind. I never got a good look at his eyes, they were always hidden behind thick black lenses, but sometimes I glimpsed one from the side, open and searching for light like a snail waking up in the rain. I liked to sit beside him, to watch his body flex in a breathless, suspended moment: his face tilted upwards and his right hand beside his ear, before it comes, his voice, from wherever it comes, and sails throughout our house like a thing unbound. Sometimes it brought tears to my eyes that I wiped away quickly. Sometimes I wanted to ask what he saw, how he imagined us and the world, but I didn't know how to ask such questions then.

My feet were burning. I ran down the staircase to the garden and walked under the shade of the small fruit trees, digging my toes into the cool earth then flicking my feet ahead with every step, imitating Baba's walk. I picked a blue plum, but it tasted sour, so I threw it under its tree. Where it lay I could see my teeth marks and the white gap my bite had left. At the foot of the wall that separated our house from Ustath Rashid's house a few mulberries had fallen in the dirt and were being attacked by ants. This was the last surviving tree from the mulberry orchard that our street had erased. I looked up at its thin branches and the small berries that still clung to them, hanging over the wall. How much longer before they too will fall to the ants, I wondered.

I fetched the ladder and climbed very slowly. Each berry was like a crown of tiny purple balls. They reminded me of the grapes carved into the arches of Lepcis. I decided that mulberries were the best fruit God had created and I began to imagine young lively angels conspiring to plant a crop in the earth's soil after they heard that Adam, peace and blessings be upon him, and Eve, peace and blessings be upon her, were being sent down here to earth as punishment. God knew of course, He's the Allknowing, but He liked the idea and so let the angels carry out their plan. I plucked one off and it almost melted in my fingers. I threw it in my mouth and it dissolved, its small balls exploding like fireworks. I ate another and another.

I don't know how long I was up on the ladder, but the nearby branches had certainly begun to look barer when I started to feel dizzy. I touched the top of my head, and it was as hot as a car's bonnet at midday.

The mulberries were so ripe I could see now that many more had fallen on the other side of the wall. Armies of ants, I thought, were probably gathering to eat them. I looked up at the clear blue of the sky and thanked the angels and asked God to please forgive their mischief. I was full, and my stomach wasn't feeling good – this fruit was delicious in the mouth but turned as thick as blood in the stomach – but every time I tried to stop my mouth wanted more. So I decided I would sit over the wall, dangle my feet one on either side as if sitting on a horse and eat all the berries I could reach. I turned and pulled the branches closer. And when I couldn't eat any more I filled my pockets with them.

When I reached the ground I almost lost my balance. I turned on the garden tap and put my head under it. The cold water felt good, but when I stood up I saw the world spin. I quickly put my head under the water again and shut my eyes but saw colours and strange figures dancing. My eyes, shut or open, were covered in a curtain that blurred everything. My ears too filled with a whistling noise. The world turned even faster. I sat where I stood. I felt the damp earth come through my shorts. I must turn off the tap, I thought. Then I heard Mama calling. I pulled out all the berries in my pockets and stuffed them in my mouth, chewing and swallowing as fast as I could. Then I noticed Bahloul the beggar standing outside the garden fence. He was staring at me. How long had he been standing there, I wondered. He pointed his finger at me. 'I see you, I see you,' he shouted. Although I knew Bahloul was mad, these words, these meaningless words that he always repeated, increased my confusion. I wondered if he thought I was stealing my neighbours' berries and was announcing himself the witness. Was I stealing? I wasn't sure, but I was sure that even if I was I would be forgiven. After all, the berries belonged to Kareem and Ustath Rashid and Auntie Salma. But all that wouldn't matter; if Bahloul went spreading rumours someone will believe him, because 'there's no smoke without fire'. My heart shuddered. I tried to look, to seem, to feel innocent because, as Sheikh Mustafa had told me, the innocent have no cause to fear. Mama called again. I leaned against the wall for guidance, hearing the water beat into the dirt behind me. I thought of going back to turn the tap off, but continued walking towards the kitchen. 'There's no smoke without fire,' the sentence repeated itself once more in my head.

The cool shade of our house made the blood in my head disappear. Even though I could barely see anything except the movement of this strange curtain of light and dust, I sat down where I knew a chair was. In the distance – could Mama hear him too? – I caught Bahloul screaming fervently, 'I see you!' and I wondered if by walking away like that, weak and dizzy, I had confirmed my guilt and so hardened his conviction.

'Why are you wet? What is this red on your hands and face? What is the matter with you? What happened? What happened? And why, in the name of God why aren't you answering me?'

I sat arched over the kitchen table, my lower lip dripping with saliva. I wanted to speak to comfort her but I couldn't. My eyes stared into nothing, through a curtain of flickering light. I didn't know what was the matter with me, but was now more concerned for her. Normally, at this time, I would be pulling her hand up the stairs to my workshop to show her what I had made. She would kiss me then walk to the edge of the roof to look out on to the sea, her long silk house-robe, decorated by a giant fanning tail of a peacock, billowing behind her. The sun would be weak and many colours by that time, mirroring itself on the sea. I would stand beside her, leaning against her leg, and every time I looked up her eyes would be fixed and squinting at the shimmering water. She would tell me how the sea changed because the sea changes every day. At those moments I could ask her any question, and she would give me the answer, any question I could think of and as many as I could think of.

'What happened to you?' She banged the table and stood up. I could feel her moving all round me. She began to speak to herself: 'It's all your fault. If anything happens to him everyone will blame you, say you were napping while your own son needed you. He's only a child, Najwa, what were you thinking?'

It's very odd to hear your mother call herself by her name, it's very odd to hear anyone do that, but particularly Mama, because almost no one called her Najwa. To me she was Mama, to her family she was Naoma, and to the rest of the world she was Um Suleiman. Baba called her Um Suleiman or Naoma or Mama and only very occasionally Najwa. It came so sweetly from his mouth.

As I thought this I heard Mama's voice travel and scream Baba's name. I didn't feel myself rise or leave the kitchen but found myself at the entrance of their bedroom. I could barely see her bent over and shaking him. He woke up startled and confused. I wondered if it was four yet, time for his important appointment. They both looked at me. The curtain on my eyes thickened. I saw in Baba's face a look of annoyance at Mama for waking him up like that because there I was standing and obviously all right. Then everything went dark.