Sonallah Ibrahim - Stealth

His voice filters out from inside the apartment. The door is open. The light in the hall is on. The washing line is hanging from the top of the constable’s door to the top of the door to the living-room. A short woman with light-colored skin and bare arms hangs up wet clothes while she sings along with the radio. The hall is clean. The tablecloth on the dining table is washed. The top of the sideboard is shiny. The door of our room is open a crack. I go in and put my satchel on the desk. I go to the glass doors to the balcony. Father is still talking to the doorman. He leaves him and heads towards our house. I hear the sound of his careful steps on the stairs outside. He closes the door to the apartment behind him. He comes into the room. Closes the door. I ask about the woman who is hanging the laundry. He says she’s the constable’s wife.

He comes over to the balcony and stands next to me. He studies the house across from us. Lights a cigarette. He walks back to the door of the room. Returns again to the balcony. After a while, the doorman appears at the entrance of the doorway across the street. He crosses the alley and comes towards our building. Father goes to the door of the room. Opens it a crack. He waits a while until he hears knocking at the door of the apartment. He goes out to open it. I move towards the door that has been left open. I stretch my head out, being careful that he does not see me. I can see him whispering with the doorman. He gives him money and turns to come back to the room. I rush to my desk. Father comes in and says that the neighbors on the balcony across from ours want to see me.

I leave the apartment. I cross the alley. The entrance to the building is dark. The doorman indicates the door at the top of the first flight of steps. I knock on it. Hekmet opens the door. She is tall and heavy and wears a rose-colored light robe over a nightshirt. Her hair is long. Her face is smiling. She has smeared her mouth with lipstick. She gives me a hug and pulls me inside the apartment. Sound of a door slamming shut. Her brother, or her little sister? The cramped living area is cluttered with furniture. She sits me down in an armchair covered with white cloth. A medium-sized radio is on top of the sideboard. The voice of Ismahan sings: “I went once into a garden; I smelt the aroma of flowers.”

She sits across from me and asks me my name. She wants to know how old I am and how I like school. I answer all her questions. She asks about my mother. I don’t say anything. She asks if I have brothers or sisters. I say: “Two sisters and a brother.” She asks about the two sisters and I tell her the older one is married.

“And the younger one?”

“She died a long time ago.”

“And your brother?”

“He’s grown up.”

“Where is he?”

“At his house. See, he’s married.”

She offers me a sweet. She asks me if I would like something to eat. I shake my head. She brings me a cookie. She insists that I eat it. She watches me with a smile. I finish the cookie and I stand up. She asks me to stay for a while. I tell her I have homework. I head towards the door. She asks me how I’m going to spend Shem al-Naseem, the spring holiday. The house is full of lettuce and green chickpeas. My father hangs a bow tie made of a green onion stalk on the mantle of the bed. He wakes us in the morning with an onion that he uses to tickle our nose.

She invites me to come along with her and her brother and sister to the zoo. I say: “I don’t know. I have to ask papa.”

He tries to get me to eat another stuffed cabbage leaf. I don’t like it. I pull my mouth away from his hand as it holds the piece. He says: “There’s a roll left. Eat it so we can take the plate back.” We pay the constable’s wife to leave us part of what she cooks for him. I say no. He eats the remaining roll. Takes the tray back to the kitchen. He comes back after he has washed it, shaking the water off on to the floor. After drying it with a towel, he gives it to me and says: “Don’t you dare drop it.” I take it and go out to the living room. I knock on the constable’s door. The light of the electric lamp shines from underneath it. I knock on it again and call out: “It’s me, Mrs. Tahiya.”

She opens the door for me with a smile. She has a white silk robe on, fastened with a tasseled belt around the waist. The smell of cigarettes. My eyes sneak a glance behind her. No one is there. The covering of the narrow bed is unmade. Is it wide enough for both of them? To the right, a chiffonier made up of several drawers has a large mirror hung on the wall over it. There’s a crack near the top of it. She takes the plate from me. The blood rushes to my face.

I run back to our room. I sit at my desk and solve my math homework problems. I feel hot and have a hard time swallowing. Father touches my forehead. He brings me a cup of water. I try to turn away but firmly he orders me to open my mouth. I swallow the aspirin tablet. He wraps a handkerchief over my collar around my swollen tonsils. He goes with me to the toilet to pee. The door to the constable’s room is closed. The sound of the radio comes out from behind it. We go back to the room. He helps me lie down on the bed. He wraps the covers carefully around me and tells me not to worry because he will solve the math problems for me.

I doze off then wake up again. I see him facing me, resting his back against the headboard of the bed. His glasses are sliding down his nose and the math notebook is in his hand. On top of his head there’s a square white cap. I nod off again.

I wake up to a booming voice. It is Ali Safa, a friend of father’s. He carries in his hand a short, shiny-brown, wooden cane with a patch of leather on the end. He wears a brown suit. Tufts of snow-white hair appear from under the edge of his fez. He cries out: “Is that the same Khalil I used to know? Impossible! Get up old man, and let’s go out. There’s a hopping poker party tonight.” Father says: “Shush. The boy’s asleep with a fever.”

Ali Safa pulls the desk chair over in front of the bed. Father sits in front of him on the bed letting his legs hang down. Ali Safa sets his glasses in the corner of the room. He shakes his head in amazement. He starts to say something, but then remains quiet.

After a while, he says: “Have you heard about the king’s latest scandal? He had the hots for an officer’s wife. He told his commanding officer to assign him to barracks duty. The officer smelled a rat, so he snuck out and went back home and found his wife in bed with the king. The king raised his pistol and blew him away. The next day, he granted the victim’s father the status of Pasha. Who knows how much longer the people will put up with this?” Father says: “And what exactly are the people supposed to do? Leave it to God.” Ali Safa asks himself: “I wonder who the Muslim Brothers are planning to assassinate now that they’ve done the secretary for the appeals court.”

I struggle to stay awake. His voice begins to slip away. He seems to be talking now in a whisper. I listen carefully: “. . she’s sixteen years old. Her father died and she lives with her mother by herself. They were standing on the stairs in front of our building haggling with the woman who sells butter. Her mother played shy and hid behind a doorway. The girl just stood there. She was wearing a nightshirt that showed lots of cleavage. She had put on a thin line of lipstick. That was the first time I realized that she had grown up. I’d always passed her on the stairway without even noticing her. When she bent over to get the basket of butter, I saw her tits. Pray on the prophet! I pretended I was thinking of buying some. I asked how much it cost. She gave me this shy smile, and I noticed that she was rubbing her lips together, maybe thinking it would make them redder.”