Nada Jarrar - Dreams of Water

NADA AWAR JARRAR

Dreams of Water

For Aida and Aref andfor Amou Ahmad

Cover

Title Page NADA AWAR JARRAR Dreams of Water

Dedication Dedication Dedication Prologue Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Keep Reading About the Author Praise Also by the Author Copyright About the Publisher For Aida and Aref andfor Amou Ahmad

Prologue

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Keep Reading

About the Author

Praise

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Standing in the back garden of her parents’ mountain home, Aneesa, at four, hears the angels, a chorus of sweet voices that tell her to dance for them. She twirls around beds of roses, down a dirt road and into the breeze, humming to herself. When Waddad calls to her, Aneesa stops beneath the shade of a pine tree and takes a deep breath before running indoors.

‘Time for lunch,’ her mother says. ‘Let’s wash your hands before you sit down.’

Aneesa stands up on the stool in front of the sink and puts her hands under the tap. Waddad pulls her sleeves up, turns the water on and lathers soap on to her own hands before grabbing Aneesa’s and kneading them with cool suds.

‘When I call my children in to eat, they wash their hands on their own,’ Aneesa says, looking up at Waddad.

‘Haven’t I told you not to put your dolls in water? You’ll ruin them.’

‘They are my children, mama , not my dolls.’

Waddad wipes Aneesa’s hands dry and gently pushes her towards her seat.

‘Always talking about children that are not there.’ Waddad sounds cross as Aneesa sits down to eat.

Later that day, Waddad takes Aneesa by the hand and they walk down to the village. The sun is strong and wisps of Aneesa’s long dark hair stick to her forehead.

‘Where are we going, mama ?’

‘We’re going to talk to the sheikh,’ Waddad replies in a firm tone.

They arrive at a house in a side street just before the main souq and go carefully down some stone steps on its side. The door of a basement room is open. An old man sits on the floor, his back propped up by large pillows against the wall behind him, his legs crossed neatly in front of him. He is dressed entirely in dark blue and has a grey-black beard that lies rigid on his chest like a small, coarse broom. He looks intently at Waddad as she speaks. When he opens his mouth to speak, the beard moves up and down with his words.

‘The child has spoken of a past life,’ he says.

Waddad pushes her hands down on Aneesa’s shoulders, the scent of fear emanating from her skin.

‘But what am I to do? Her father does not believe in these things and he will be furious if he hears her talking about it again.’

The old man shakes his head so that the white headdress slips forward over his forehead. Then he passes a hand over the length of his face. When he removes it, the stiff beard looks narrower and less impressive.

‘She may never speak of it again,’ he says.

He shrugs his shoulders and leans forward until his face is very close to Aneesa’s. She looks into his bright blue eyes and sniffs at the scent of olive-oil soap coming from his skin. When Aneesa reaches out to touch the beard, she hears her mother gasp and call out her name. She puts her hand down. The sheikh smiles and moves back to rest against the pillows once again.

Father is helping Bassam with his homework. The two of them are sitting at the dining table with books and paper and pencils before them. Aneesa can feel anxiety in the air but is not sure if it is hers or theirs.

‘Aneesa,’ her father calls out. ‘Get me a cup of coffee, will you?’

Aneesa looks up at her father and begins to say something but he stops her.

‘Go on, habibti ,’ he says. ‘Not too much sugar now.’

Aneesa glances quickly at Bassam and feels her heart sink. He is leaning an elbow on the table and holding his head up with his hand. He looks bored and clearly uninterested in his work. Father will be so angry with him, she thinks. Where has Mother gone?

In the kitchen, Aneesa brings water to the boil in the pot and adds half a teaspoon of sugar, then she puts in the finely ground coffee and stirs gently, taking the pot off the burner just as the mixture begins to come to the boil and then putting it back on again until the coffee is thick and frothy at the edges. She hears her father’s raised voice from the dining room.

‘Bassam, you’re not concentrating. I asked you a question and I want you to think about the answer before you say anything.’

Bassam murmurs something in reply but she cannot tell what he is saying. Aneesa pours the coffee into a cup.

‘What?’ Father asks tersely.

Moments later, Aneesa hears her father shout out loud. When she steps into the dining room with the coffee, he is no longer there but Bassam is still in his chair. His head is bent low and he has one hand over his ear. When he looks up at her and removes his hand, Aneesa sees that his face has gone very red. She remains perfectly still as Bassam stands up and slowly walks out of the room.

Aneesa stands on a chair by the kitchen table holding a large loaf of flat bread in her hands. She sees her child self carefully fold the loaf into quarters and then try to put it inside a plastic bag before it unfolds again.

‘Are you all right, Aneesa?’ Father comes up behind her.

She looks up at him, his round face, bulbous nose and greying hair, and waits for him to smile.

‘Shall I help you with that?’ he asks.

She nods and watches him hold the folded loaf with one big hand, put it into the bag and then tie the handles of the bag together to make a tight bundle.

‘Where are you going with the bread, habibti ?’

Aneesa steps off the chair.

‘I’m taking it to my children. They’re hungry.’

He puts his arm around her shoulders and they walk out of the kitchen.

‘Take me there, baba ,’ Aneesa pleads. ‘I can hear them calling to me. Take me in the car.’

Later that night, as she lies in her bed in the dark, Aneesa hears her parents arguing in the next room. She knows that no matter how loud their voices, they cannot drive away the sound of weeping children that fills her ears.

Waddad spoons a mixture of rice, tomato and parsley on to half-cooked vine leaves that she has placed flat on the kitchen table. Her hair is tied back and her face shines with perspiration. Once each leaf is filled, she rolls it into a small tube and places it in a saucepan. Little Aneesa stands on a chair and peers inside to look at the cigar shapes lined up tightly against one another. She sniffs at the tangy, uncooked smell of the stuffed leaves and feels her mouth water.

‘I like the old man best,’ Aneesa says.

‘What old man, dear?’ Waddad’s head is bent low and she is not looking at her daughter.

‘The one with the beard. I want to see him again.’

‘Shhh,’ Waddad whispers. ‘You know your father doesn’t want us to talk of such things.’

‘He’s out in the garden. He can’t hear us.’

‘What do you want to see the old man for, anyway?’ Aneesa reaches inside the saucepan, takes out a stuffed vine leaf and pops it into her mouth. The rice makes crunching noises between her teeth as she chews.