Nada Jarrar - Dreams of Water

‘I suppose we need each other so much more now,’ he says, shrugging his shoulders. He puts a hand into one of the bowls, takes out a handful of almonds and begins to peel them. He has folded his shirt cuffs back so that Aneesa can see his thin forearms and the blue veins on the inside of his wrists.

‘I wonder what my mother is doing now,’ she says.

‘Will he be up there?’ Aneesa asks her mother.

‘Who?’

‘Will the boy be at the orphanage tomorrow?’

‘Yes, yes,’ replies Waddad, her voice slightly breathless. ‘It’s a school day. Ramzi will be there. I suppose we should aim to get there around lunchtime.’ She reaches up, pulls Aneesa down to her and plants a kiss on her cheek. ‘I’ll call and let them know we’re coming.’

Once at the orphanage, the two women walk through the main building and into a small courtyard. Young trees and rose bushes are planted at regular intervals throughout the garden and a white plastic table and chairs stand under a trellis covered with a wilting vine in one part of the courtyard. They walk on a stone pathway that leads to another section of the old building and through an arched doorway on to an open terrace that overlooks the village.

‘We’ll wait here for him,’ says Waddad.

Ramzi comes out to meet them dressed in a new pair of denims and a blue shirt. His hair is slicked back off his forehead and his face looks like it has been scrubbed very hard.

‘This is my daughter Aneesa,’ Waddad says.

Ramzi nods and Aneesa takes his hand.

‘Hello, Ramzi.’

They stand in an awkward silence before Waddad hustles them away.

‘Come on, habibi ,’ she says, putting an arm around the boy. ‘Let’s show Aneesa around. It’s her first visit here.’

He reminds her so much of Bassam as a boy that Aneesa is taken aback. His colouring, the fine down at the top of his hairline, his small frame and the energy that appears stored within it, all of these remind her of her brother. She wants to hold him for a moment, to gather him together, the pieces that have been missing for so long and which she has so badly missed. Instead, she follows him around the orphanage, virtually speechless while her mother chatters in the background, wondering if she will ever again with her mind’s eye see Bassam as he had really been.

On one of their excursions, Salah and Aneesa venture down to the river where the city becomes a series of bridges that hang over the dark, muddy water that runs beneath it. They get off the bus and walk at a leisurely pace along the banks of the river, stopping occasionally to look down into it or to sit on the wooden benches placed at even intervals along the pavement. It is a work day and except for a few tourists out sightseeing, there are very few people around them.

This is where London appears truly magnificent, Aneesa thinks. Everything – the roads and bridges and the old buildings, some grimy still and others almost pristine – seems large and beyond her reach. There are no intimate corners here in which one can hide; the river, deep and real and redolent of so much history, is very nearly overwhelming. She feels immeasurably small in its presence.

She takes Salah’s arm and stops to look at the scene before them.

‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ Salah says. ‘I never tire of coming here. It reminds me of how unimportant my own concerns can sometimes be.’

‘It’s a little frightening, though,’ she says.

Salah shakes his head and moves closer to the ledge to look out on to the water.

‘See how fast it moves?’ he asks. ‘No single drop of water flows over the same place twice.’

Yes, Aneesa thinks, but it must be very cold and dirty; moving towards everywhere but here. She shudders.

‘So, what are you so afraid of, Aneesa?’

They move on, Aneesa letting go of Salah’s arm to wrap her scarf more tightly around her neck.

‘You know, habibti , sometimes I think these are the very things that give me comfort,’ Salah says, gesturing at the places and people around them. ‘The thought that everything will continue to change no matter how hard I try to stop it from doing so. That I will grow steadily older, though different and better defined, and that because of this there will always be newness in me too.’ He pauses. ‘Coming to this city has made me understand many things that I had not been aware of before. It’s made me think of myself in a different way.’

Aneesa nods.

‘That’s happened to me too. But what about all the things we left behind when we left home?’

‘They’re still here.’ Salah taps at his chest. ‘I see them in a different light now.’ He stops and looks at her. ‘You must feel the same way too?’

‘I can’t forget everything that’s happened,’ she replies. ‘Bassam, my father and what’s happened to our country. I can never put those things behind me.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Salah says, shaking his head. ‘It’s not a question of forgetting.’

‘What is it then, Salah? What do you think I am meant to do?’

He runs a trembling hand over his hair and smiles.

‘Just be happy, my dear. Do just that.’

There is something beautiful about the neighbourhood in winter, Aneesa thinks as she treads carefully through the rain-soaked streets of her childhood, cars splashing through water that streams past gutters, dark, murky, and often smelly. There is something apologetic about it too, long-ago haunts that speak to her in melancholy whispers, and a muffled tenderness in the way the wind strokes her face.

She tries, as she walks, to hold on to her solitude, to feel unfettered again, but there is too much belonging here after all, blatant and unforgiving, reminders of the person she has always been, of the ties that go far beyond what she knows for certain, and into an unsuspecting future.

Today, Bassam and her father are foremost in Aneesa’s thoughts. They are part of a general unease that will not leave her, though she tries callously to shake them off, images of their faces, dear and familiar, like lights within her recalcitrant mind. Aneesa, Bassam calls to her as she goes past their once favourite bookshop, do you remember it? Habibti , says Father, his voice filled with gentleness, hold on to my hand as we cross the street, that’s a good girl now.

In a car park round the corner from her block of flats, she stops to watch children at play. Some are kicking a football about, others have set up a makeshift ramp to fly off with their bicycles and skateboards. A young boy she has seen here before is sitting on the bonnet of an expensive-looking car. He is watching his playmates intently, stillness amidst a sea of movement. For a moment, Aneesa thinks that were she to reach out across the road, through the car park and to that car in the corner, she could touch the boy on his shoulder and he would turn at last to look at her.

Making her way home again, Aneesa remembers what her mother said to her only last night.

‘You talk to yourself. I hear you late at night when you cannot sleep and again in the mornings as you move around the house. It is a sign of an unsettled mind, my darling.’

We live and falter, Aneesa decides, in recollection and regret, in the throes of endlessness and the reluctant grace of muted goodbyes. I am hopeless at all of this, at making things work, she says out loud to the indifferent gods and to her fragile, wavering self.

The bar is small and filled with smoke and people. Aneesa follows behind Bassam as he pushes his way through the crowd to a counter at the far end of the room by a large glass door. Outside are the darkened shop windows of the small shopping mall in which the bar is located.

‘This is Chris,’ Bassam says in English, pushing Aneesa towards a man who is sitting at the counter with a glass in his hand.