Sonallah Ibrahim - Stealth

The front doorbell rings and I run to answer it. It’s two boys my age. One of them has smooth hair that he has parted on the side. The other is very dark skinned and carries a small drum underneath his arm. I lead them to the room. We leave our slippers at the door. The three of us sit on the edge of the bed. The two boys ignore me. She gives each of us a piece of Nestle cheese, a cookie and a piece of chocolate.

I hear father’s voice calling me. I leave the songbook on the bed and pick up my geography textbook. I go out to the living room. He stands at the door to our room holding his fez in his hand. He leads me inside then asks me if I’ve studied. I swear to him that I have. He takes me to the toilet to pee then tells me to get ready for bed. I beg him to let me stay up and play in Mama Tahiya’s room. He says it’s late. I answer: “Tomorrow’s Friday.”

“What about dinner?”

“I already ate.”

He gives in. I run to her. She’s wearing her white robe. She tells me: “Ask your father if he wants to have tea?” She leaves the room and heads toward the kitchen. I scamper to him and ask from behind the door. He answers, “No.” I call to her from the hallway: “No, he doesn’t want any.” I head back to her room. The boy with the parted hair is in front of the chiffonier. He puts some lipstick on his fingers then brushes his lips and takes a look at his face in the mirror. Mama Tahiya brings the tea. She bursts out laughing at the sight of him and says: “Holy hell, Effat, you little devil. You’ve turned yourself into a pretty little girl like the moon.” We sit on the floor. She pours tea into small cups for us. She takes a tambourine with little brass ringlets around its edges out from under the bed. When she shakes it, the ringlets jingle. She hands it to the boy.

She starts singing along with Abdel Wahab: “Our night is like wine, yearning croons like a dove. O my darling, this is the night of our love.” The other boy starts to beat the tambourine. He says to her: “Dance for us, ubla.” She takes off her robe and ties a white towel around her waist. She sings: “You, You, No one but you. .” Her body moves to the beat of the tambourine and drum. She’s all caught up in watching her breasts bounce lightly. She stretches her arm in front of her. Her palms clasp each other. She snaps her fingers. Gets up on her tiptoes. She shakes her middle in short trembles that follow one after the other. She shoots a smile at me. Blood rushes to my face.

As she finishes dancing, she is panting from the effort. She pulls two blankets from on top of the bed. She unfolds them and spreads them out on the floor. We sit down on them cross legged. She pulls out the playing cards. We play a round of battle. Then she suggests that we play Old Maid. She takes out three of the kings and shuffles the cards. She says: “Whoever is left with the last king has to do what we say.”

She deals. I draw a card. Seven of Hearts. I have another seven. I put them together and set them on the floor. The other two play quickly and with skill. We look up at each others’ faces. We’re trying to figure out who has it. I draw another card and it comes up the king. All the cards in our hands seem to empty out quickly. We put them down on the floor. I’m left with the king. We draw the hopscotch boxes on the pavement with chalk. Six wide boxes with a half circle at the top. I stand on one leg. I toss the pebble across the line. I manage to move from box to box. My father watches me from the window. I make it to the half circle and name myself the champion.

She says: “What shall we make you do?”

Effat says: “He should get down on his hands and knees and go around us in a circle barking.”

She looks at me, hesitates, then says: “No. He should sing to us.”

I say: “I can’t sing.”

“So what? Sing ‘The Postman Complains From All My

Letters.’ ”

I recite the song without being able to get its tune right.

We start to play again. My eyelids feel heavy.

I am having a hard time fighting off sleep. She says: “That’s enough.” She looks at me: “Ask permission from your father to spend the night with us.” I find him sitting on the bed resting his back against the headboard. He is reading a book. I beg him to let me spend the night with them. He says okay. I go back to the room.

She goes with us to the bathroom and stands waiting in the entrance to the hallway while we go. The boys wash their feet in the sink. We go back to the room. She unfolds the two blankets and lays them out on the floor. She waves at the two boys to lie down on them and gives them a long pillow. She covers them with a blanket. She says to me: “Sleep next to the wall so you don’t fall off the bed.”

I put my glasses on the chiffonier. Lie down on the bed. I stretch out beside the wall. She takes off her robe. The light goes out. She lies down next to me. She pulls me to her chest. My head snuggles against her breasts. I can smell her clean scent. She moves away and turns her back to me. She says: “Sweet dreams, my boys.” The two boys answer in unison: “Sweet dreams, ubla.” I say, “Sweet dreams, mama.” She spreads a blanket over us. I fall asleep. Suddenly, I am awake again. I can’t move. I realize I’m in her grasp and my leg is between her thighs. I hear her panting. She pulls me tight. I say to her: “Mama, do you want something?” She doesn’t answer. I move my leg out from between her thighs but she hangs on to me. She moves away a moment later. Her snoring rises up over us.

The dark face with its two red eyes comes slowly closer from behind the metal grating that lines the window. I recognize Abbas. The door opens and an oil lamp with long rectangular panes of fine glass appears. The lamp comes closer. Its flame grows. The white round face of Mama Tahiya comes into view behind it. Her hair is up. Her lips are covered with lipstick. The constable is behind her. He tries to hold her, but she resists. She pounds her fists against his chest with all her might trying to get out of his grasp. She screams: “That’s your son. . Your son, you liar, you cheat!” I’m surprised that she doesn’t recognize me. I open my mouth to start to tell her who I am, but my mother’s face suddenly appears in place of hers. Blood flows out of the cut on her lower lip. Her face shrinks and then twists up. It disappears. Two big hairy arms appear in its place. They come at me. I want to scream, but the sound can’t make it out of my mouth.

I wake up suddenly and I shudder. The light is shining. I call for father. I sit up. Sweat drips off me. I push away the covers and slide over to the edge of the bed. Tears sprout up in my eyes. I jump down and push on the door of the room until it opens. The light is on in the hallway. I call out again: “Papa?” “Mama Tahiya?” No one answers. The constable’s room is shut. I take a side glance over towards the toilet. I open the door to the apartment. My eyes move to the darkened landing. I shoot a glance at the corner, where the storage room is. I leave the door open and run down the steps to the entrance. I keep running out into the alley all the way to the main street. I turn right and keep running all the way to the shop of sheikh of the quarter.

Even without my glasses, I know the men seated on the chairs on the sidewalk in front. They are Sheikh Abdel ’Alim, Refaat Effendi, and the priest. I see father sitting to the side. He’s listening carefully to the turbaned sheikh in his glasses. I rush over to him. He turns to me frowning. I stand between his knees. He says to me: “What are you doing here?” A fit of coughing takes hold of me. He feels my throat and chest. “See how sweaty you are?” He stands up and says to the sheikh: “Excuse us, my good sheikh.”