She Who Writes

For Sumer


When

She moved closer to the mirror. She smiled, frowned, put her hair up in a ponytail, let it go, made some braids and then undid them. She put the hairbrush down, picked up a bottle of perfume and sprayed it about her neck. She left the bathroom shortly after. ‘When’s my birthday?’ she asked.

Measuring

‘Where’s my brown shirt?’
‘In my wardrobe.’
‘Where’s my yellow jacket?’
‘I’m wearing it.’
‘Where are my socks?’
‘They’re dirty. I wore them for a few days.’
‘Where’s my little mirror?’
’In my bag.’
‘Where’s my pen?’
‘I’ll give it back to you … straight away …’
‘Where’s my daughter?’

Time. She folded her arms over her chest, hugged herself and laughed. Time drew apples on her cheeks. ‘Let your hands go,’ I said. She changed her shirt quickly and folded her arms over her chest again. She was hiding time under a loose garment.

No Entry

She closed the door and disappeared inside. I waited. I knocked on the door and she announced she was busy. I kept quiet, became impatient, went away and missed her. I knocked on the door. She opened it.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
She put up a barrier between my tongue and her eyes. The next day she closed the door and disappeared inside. I waited. I went over to knock on the door: ‘DO NOT DISTURB’. Her reply was hanging on a sign, written badly in red ink.

Language

A live coal in my throat and a flame on my tongue. I shouted for ages. She bit her nails and stayed as quiet as a mouse. I punished her. She didn’t protest and went away. Then I saw her in a dark corner. A beam of light from between the folds of the curtain adorned her hair. Quiet as a mouse she sat and her fingertips said: ‘A tune, pain, anxiety.’ They jumped and swayed over the organ’s keyboard. Voices talked tenderly to her quietness and to the dark. A live coal in my throat and a flame on my tongue. Her fingertips quenched me and I drew closer. Will the tune apologise?


Shame

She giggled and winked at her friend: ‘Do you like breast?’
‘I like thigh.’
‘Shhh … shame on you!’
Their cooing spread around the room. When I drew close they went quiet. They finished the food in silence.
‘Do you like chicken Mum?’ she asked.


He Who Writes

For Haidar

‘Pick me up,’ he said. I picked him up. He parted his legs, wrapped them round my side and pressed against my waist with all his body. He kissed me and felt my upper arm: ‘Your arm’s fat’. I put him down. ‘Will you pick me up after you’ve listened to the news?’ I nodded. He went quiet and played with a football in the corridor. He opened the door to a friend who picked him up, but he got restless and slipped away. After a while he came back. ‘Pick me up,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘I’ll drink tea with you.’
I scolded him and with this he disappeared for a while. He came back carrying his gun. ‘What does enemy mean?’ he asked suddenly.

Early September 1983

He sat on my lap and clasped his hands around my neck.
‘When I grow up I’ll visit you. Will you still be in this house? How will I know that you’re here?’
‘You’ll learn about maps and places.’
‘I’m going to have a large house, like a palace, with a garden like a forest. It’ll have four dogs guarding it, like the ones that guard policemen, and I’ll have a servant and a cook.’
‘And your wife, your children?’
‘No, I’m not going to get married so that I don’t hit my children and so that my wife doesn’t stay at home on her own.’
He was quiet for a while and then got down from my lap. He raced about the small room, playing with the football. He broke some crockery and I scolded him. We ate dinner. He drank a glass of milk and went to bed. I pulled the covers over him and wondered what he dreamt about, and how.

Early September 1984

‘Is it true what the teacher said about angels sitting on my shoulders?’ he asked.
‘It’s true.’
We were finishing our daily walk in the quiet street. He freed his fingers from my hand and raced about on the wide pavement. He laughed, picked a wild flower from the edge of the park wall and turned towards me. He ate a sweet from his little basket, started racing around again, rushed over to me and calmed down. Soaring like a bird he got out of the way of a speeding bicycle that had invaded the pavement. We went down an alleyway and he asked if he could give a dirham to the beggar. He laughed and started racing around again, making his arms fly like a bird. Then he rushed over to me and calmed down. I was feeling tired and said, ‘Let’s go back’.
He shrugged his shoulders and grumbled.
‘Angels sit on my shoulders,’ he said suddenly, ‘but I’ve moved my hands a lot and they’ve fallen off.’

Late October 1985

I closed the window and drew the curtains. He heard me moving and came in from his room yawning. ‘Are you awake? Good morning.’ He crept towards me.
‘It’s nearly time for school,’ I said.
‘I’m just warming up a bit.’
He pressed his icy feet against my leg.
‘Turn your face towards me,’ he whispered.
I turned my face. He asked me about the rings under my eyes and some blemishes on my skin.
‘Why’ve you got those lines when you smile?’
‘Because I’m old.’
He looked at the ceiling. A redness hovered on his cheeks.
‘Mariam isn’t going to get old, we decided yesterday when we were coming home from school. I told her not to tell Khalid what we’ve agreed. Khalid says that she’s his girlfriend because she sits next to him in class, but he doesn’t know that we swap riddles, or that we can understand each other at a distance. I tell her the riddle, she laughs because she doesn’t know it and I solve it for her. Mariam isn’t going to get old. Why did you decide to get old?’
‘So that you became you.’
He snuggled up by my chest and I felt warmth flowing in his toes.
‘It’s time for school,’ I said.
He buried his head under the covers and put his arms round my neck.
‘I’ll just warm up a bit and then I’ll go to school. Mariam will be waiting for me at the gate.’

Winter 1986

They cleared the streets and people gathered behind the iron railings. The procession moved along and the spectre of the leader appeared awesome from behind the black glass. He came out onto the balcony. ‘When will the news finish so I can watch the cartoons?’ he asked. The procession took him by surprise. He stopped the engine of his wind-up tank and watched the spectacle. ‘Do all leaders own beautiful big cars like that one?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
The motorbikes whistled past, keeping their formation as they tilted with the curve of the road.
‘Wow, they’re great. Can everyone have a motorbike like that?’
The leader smiled and waved at the people.
‘He’s waving at me,’ he shrieked. ‘Wow, he’s great. Why aren’t you like him?’
‘I can’t be.’
‘I want …,’ he said turning the knobs on his tank, ‘How can I be like him?’

Summer 1986

‘Where does this ocean go?’ he asked as he built sand mountain on the beach.
‘To America.’
‘I’m going to cross those waves and get to America. I’ll go to Disneyland and play with all the games. Why don’t they bring us games like the ones in Disneyland? Why do they only show them in cartoons? I’m going to become an engineer and build a steamship and go to America. Will you come with me? But you don’t like the sea. When do you think I should go?’
‘When you’re grown up and can build a steamship.’
‘How will I be able to play in Disneyland if I’m a grown-up? Are there games for grown-ups in America?’



He took me by the hand and led me to the sitting room.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘lean on me. I’m strong and you’re still ill.’
‘I’ll be better tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I took the medicine, I wasn’t put off by its horrible taste.’
He lifted up his hand and stroked my back. I bent down to kiss him. We were still in the corridor.
‘And even if you’re still ill,’ he said, ‘don’t worry, you can rely on me. I’m strong. I’ll bring you food and look after you. Watch television now and keep an eye on me while I play so you forget that you’re ill. Are you scared you’re going to die?’
He surprised me. I hugged him.
‘I’m not going to die until you’re grown up.’
‘Don’t be scared. Don’t worry. Even when you die it won’t be like you’re dead. I’ll still be me and I’ll always remember you. You’re my mother aren’t you?’

Morocco, late 1985