A Girl Made of Dust. Nathalie Abi-Ezzi
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phone she stood quite still, and the black kohl that she pencilled round her eyes in the morning made them seem enormous now. Slowly, she unwound the phone cord from her fingers. ‘It was Wadih.’
Papi looked at the phone, then back at her. ‘Why didn't he speak to me?’
‘I don't know.’ Her feet shuffled uncomfortably. ‘He's coming over.’
‘Uncle Wadih's coming?’ yelled Naji.
Papi moved to the edge of his seat. ‘Coming here? When?’
‘Today.’
Papi got to his feet. ‘Has something happened?’
‘No, nothing. All he said was he's coming. You know how he is. That's just his way.’ She frowned and laid a hand on top of her head, as if to stop it flying off. ‘And now I have even more to do.’
‘But what did he say?’
‘Didn't you hear me? Nothing!’ She clicked her tongue in annoyance.
The nut-shop owner had asked us about Uncle Wadih not half an hour ago, and now he was coming.
Naji and I didn't know what to do with ourselves. The hands of the clock in the dining room refused to move round as fast as they usually did, and we grew jumpy as two fleas. The walls felt too close, the ceiling too low, and the smell of cooking too heavy. Mami's sighs and tuts fluttered through the stillness like moths, and even though no sweat droplets formed on her upper lip, her cheeks burnt redder and redder.
‘That's him!’ Naji cried each time he heard a car, but every time it carried on past.
‘When will he come?’ I asked Mami for the hundredth time. ‘Is he going to stay?’
She didn't answer, so I tried again.
‘Don't pester me about your uncle,’ she snapped, so we went outside to wait.
Beneath the darkening sky, a strange cotton-wool quiet had fallen.
‘When was the last time he came, Naji?’
‘Maybe two years ago, or three. He used to come more often – he used to come all the time.’
‘Why did he stop?’
‘Maybe …’ Naji hesitated. ‘He was here the day it happened, the day I was telling you about.’
I hopped off the gate. ‘Let's go and tell Teta.’
Standing in the doorway with Jesus's sun-head blazing above her, Teta smiled, laughed. Her eyes almost cried. A minute later she hurried across the road to our house, her bare heels peeling off her slippers with each step, shlupshlup-shlup through the still air. And a little before one o'clock, a shiny cream Mercedes pulled up underneath the large fig tree across the road.
Plenty of old, dusty brown Mercedes passed up and down the hill during the day, their exhaust pipes exploding every now and then, their rears hanging low to the ground, but this one was new and gleamed, like a sucked sweet.
The man who stepped out of it looked as though he'd been polished too. For a moment I was nervous, but then he held out his arms. ‘Is this pretty young lady my niece?’ He laughed, lifting me up to kiss me.
His neck smelt of hot wood and brown spices, and his pale yellow jacket was crisp against my arms. When he put me down, I couldn't help asking, ‘Weren't you taller before?’
‘No, stupid,’ said Naji, ‘you were smaller.’ For that he got a slap on the shoulder and a ruffle of the hair, something that would usually have annoyed him, only today he didn't seem to mind.
‘Yalla, let's go and see your parents.’
It was only then that I looked properly at Uncle Wadih. He had heavy-lidded eyes, a sleek, well-fed air that made me think of a rabbit, and his shoes were mirror-clean. We jogged on ahead of him, and when I glanced back I noticed how calm he seemed, how there was a neat line down the front of each trouser leg, and how he moved at the same pace the whole time, like mercury.
Teta was waiting. She disappeared into his chest and came out with wet eyes, her face squashed in joy. Then Mami came out. She had on her best shirt, a brown silk one with pink trimming along the neck and waist – a shirt that usually hung in the back of her wardrobe, but was hardly ever worn. She mustn't have wanted Uncle to crease it because when he reached out, she took a step backwards. In the end, though, he laid a hand on each of her arms and they kissed three times on both cheeks, as adults did.
‘How are you, my brother?’ Uncle beamed as Papi came forward, and the brothers hugged each other hard the way Naji and I did when we fought. When they drew apart, Papi's face seemed tauter and younger. ‘Did you think you'd got rid of me?’ Uncle asked as we stepped indoors.
‘Don't joke, Wadih,’ replied Papi. ‘They're fighting all round your building down there, and still you don't come up.’
Naji stopped in his tracks and shot me a look as Uncle settled himself into Papi's chair.
Papi hesitated, but a moment later sat down on the sofa. ‘Tell us what's been happening. What's your news?’
‘What can I tell you?’ Uncle shrugged. ‘Life continues as always, only worse.’ He gazed round the room – at the old sofa, the table with its tray of cigarettes, the vase of plastic flowers, the wall with its single picture of a small boat far out to sea. And Mami sucked her bottom lip and lowered her flushed face to examine her fingernails.
Naji and I helped to carry Uncle's two cases to Teta's and watched him unpack. One case was full of clothes, perfectly folded, which he removed and smoothed out with his long hands before hanging them up in the empty old wardrobe. The clinking of the spare metal hangers sounded like bells as he closed the door and turned to the second, heavier, case that still lay on the candlewick bedcover. When he opened it there was nothing inside but books, written in Arabic, French and English.
‘Are they all poetry?’ asked Naji, flicking through one with his thumb.
‘Not all. Some are plays, some philosophy.’
‘What's this one?’ I picked up a book with dozens of naked figures on its cover, all crammed so close together that they were nearly falling off the page. Some were tied and injured. Others pushed boulders up slopes or struggled out of coffins or drowned in blood. And everyone in that strange, cruel place was trying to get out. I looked to see if snipers were shooting from the top of a building anywhere.
Uncle glanced over. ‘You see those people? They're in hell.’
I studied it more closely. ‘Is that what hell looks like?’
He shrugged. ‘No, maybe not.’
We went back to our house for lunch. It was true that Mami's cooking had improved lately: there was boiled chicken with rice and nuts, stuffed aubergines and a dish of hummus as well. When she finally carried in the rice, though, it smelt burnt.
Papi brought out the bottle of arak and poured a little for himself and Uncle, then added some water so the clear liquid turned to a thin milk. After the first sip, the aniseed scent came light on his breath.
Teta watched each mouthful of food Uncle took. ‘I don't know what you eat down there in Beirut,’ she muttered. ‘I don't know who cooks for you or looks after you,’ but Uncle only smiled. As he ate, he moved as though his joints were well oiled.
When he was full, he wiped his mouth and fingers carefully with a napkin, leant forward to let out a soft belch, then sat back. ‘What's all this cooking? Are you trying to make us fat?’
Mami turned red and started clearing up. Papi never said anything about a meal, whether it was good or bad.
‘Her touch is good for food,’ said Teta, smiling.
Mami shook her head. ‘The rice was burnt and the chicken was tough. The hummus had too much lemon in it.’
Uncle tutted.