Sonallah Ibrahim - Stealth

I come in and sit on the couch. The sugar and water start to boil. She squeezes a lemon into it and stirs it some more. I ask her what she’s doing. She says: “Halva for the hair.” Um Ibrahim gives me a small piece, then carries the pan to my mother in the bathroom. She closes the door behind her.

She goes on stirring until the mixture becomes a soft transparent paste. She lifts the pan off the flame and puts it down on the floor. I follow her as she leaves the room. She fills a tin pan with water, brings it back in, and puts it on the fire. She touches the paste to see how hot it is. She gives me a tidbit. I put it in my mouth and suck on it. She spreads out the paste, kneads it with her hands, and keeps on working it until the paste gets softer and turns a dark color. She rolls out the paste, cuts off a small section, and spreads it tightly over her forearm, then yanks it off all at once. She presses it a little more with her fingers to keep it soft. She does the same thing again and again until she gets down to her hand, then she throws that piece away and takes up another piece. She raises her arm up high and flattens the piece on her armpit. She pulls it off quickly. She keeps doing it until her underarm is soft and white, then she moves to her other arm.

The front doorbell rings. I stand behind the door and yell out: “Who’s there?” A woman’s voice answers: “I am Attiyat. Is Tahiya there?” I run back to the room to tell Mama Tahiya who it is. She tells me: “Let her in. She’s my cousin.”

I open the door. Dark and tall and wrapped tightly in a shawl. She follows me into the living room and slaps her chest, saying: “Oh no! Not in front of the boy!” Mama Tahiya answers back without a care as she passes her hand lightly over her bare arm: “What’s the big deal?” She sits down and asks when the constable will get home. Mama Tahiya says: “Maybe tomorrow. Send the kids to spend the night with me tonight. Have Ragui bring his tar drum with him.” Attiyat stands up and wraps her shawl tightly around her. She passes a look from Mama Tahiya to me and then goes out.

Mama Tahiya moves on to her other armpit. She twists her head to have a good look at it. She touches it with her finger. Stands up. She takes me gently by my ear and says: “Off to your room. Sit in there and don’t come out.” I take her hand and plead with her: “Please no, mama, by the prophet, don’t leave me there alone.” She studies me with a smile: “Okay. You can sit in the living room on one condition: don’t look in on me.” She turns on the light. I bring my geography book and sit down at the table by the front door.

I put the book in front of me, opening it to the notebook full of songs stuck between its pages. She moves quickly back and forth between her room and the living room, carrying clothes over her arm. She has Lux soap, a loofah, and a small mirror in her hand. She goes to the sink to fill a tin pan with water then carries it to the living room. She comes back to the door to her room and closes it. She shakes her finger at me and warns: “Don’t get up from your place until I’m done.”

“What if someone knocks?”

As she goes through the living room, she says: “Don’t answer.”

“Well, what if Tante Attiyat comes back?”

She closes the door behind her saying: “Don’t worry. She’s not coming.”

“What about papa?”

“He has a key.”

“Or if the lights go out?”

“When that happens, I’ll tell you what to do.”

I open the song book. I look for the song, “I am in love and I bring you your coffee.” I put the songbook aside. Stand up carefully. I sneak away from my place without letting the chair move. The electric light grows dim until it almost disappears, then comes back weakly.

I turn the knob on her door. I push on the door and go in. The light is on. I go towards the chiffonier. A photograph is pressed between the corner of the metal frame and the surface of the mirror. She is next to the constable in a crowded street. She wears a sleeveless dress and high heels, and he is wearing a dress shirt and slacks. The top of the chiffonier is cluttered with many things: a Gazelle brand bottle of perfume, tacks, a sewing needle, a spool of thread, a broken eyeliner pencil, an old thimble, a tube of lipstick in a brass case, a can of yellowish face powder, hairpins, torn playing cards, an old picture of her with a piece torn off and the torn piece showing a part of a leg in a man’s shoe, a small pack of Hollywood brand cigarettes (the kind that holds five of them), a silver strip of aspirin tablets, a dried up key lime, a toothbrush, a bottle of Anatolian hair oil, a steel comb, a metal statuette of a naked woman and a metal ashtray with a slanted edge.

I pull on one of its drawers. Pieces of clothing are carefully arranged. I push it back the way it was and pull on the one above it. A jar of jam. A box of pieces of cheese shaped like triangles. A large metal cigarette case. I close the drawer. Leave the room. I gently pull the door shut behind me.

I lightly move over to the door to the guest room. I press my eye against the keyhole. I see her sitting on the kitchen stool. Her right side is turned to me, so I can’t see her face. She is leaning over her folded right leg. A piece of halva sits on top of her foot. She pulls it up and smoothens it, then she puts it on the middle of her leg. She repeats the move higher up on her thigh. She turns toward the door and I jump back quickly. I hurry over to my seat. I sit down and open the song book, flipping through the pages. I linger over the songs of Ismahan. I listen. The sound of the stove.

I leave my seat again and step carefully toward the door. I look through the keyhole. Her back is to me. She takes up a piece of halva and puts it between her legs, then yanks it off. She lets out an “Ouch!” She takes the last piece; she puts it between her legs. She pulls it with force. She does the same thing over again a few times. She’s panting. She picks up a piece of rock, about the size of a Jaffa orange. She rubs it against her heels and turns towards the stove. The steam rises up from the pan. She uses a jar to pour warm water into the zinc basin. She stands up and stretches her hands out to pull off her gallabiya. Steam fills up the lenses of my glasses. I take them off and wipe them on my pyjamas. Mama Basima is naked on top of the toilet. Her hair is colored with henna. I stand between her huge legs. She pours water over my body as she studies my little prick.

The sound of steps echoes in the stairwell. I hurry to my seat and open my geography book. The two feet stop in front of our door. They continue on up the stairs. I am about to get up again when I hear the sound of the stove being turned off and I stay frozen in my seat.

The guest room door opens. Mama Tahiya comes out. She is wearing a nightshirt held up by shoulder straps. Her hair is wrapped in a big towel. She asks me: “Are you done?” I shake my head. I take the geography textbook and the notebook of songs and I follow her into her room.

She pulls the chair over and sits down. She takes off her clogs and lifts her feet up on to the edge of the bed. She looks at her heels. They glow red. Her two legs are shiny in the room’s light. She puts her feet down and stands, turning in the direction of the mirror. She unwraps the towel, picks up a comb and raises her arm up to her head. Her smooth underarm is shiny. As she combs her long hair, the water comes dripping off it. I sit on the bed. She leans in front of the mirror, pulling her hair out in front of my eyes. She lets it hang down in even strands on either side of her face. I tell her: “Put it in a bun.” She gathers her hair and makes a ball out of it on top of her head. She puts lipstick on her finger and colors her lips with it. She turns to me: “Am I pretty?” My face turns red.