Sonallah Ibrahim - Stealth

I look hard at the wooden blinds that let you see through their narrow slats. One of them is raised just a little. I say: “If they’d gone out, they would’ve closed them.”

We stop in front of the only grocer that is open. Boxes of dried cod for Eid are stacked up in front of it. They are wide and painted snow white. Stacks of watermelon and cantaloupe melons. Some crates of grapes and figs. Father buys one oka of binati grapes and another of faiyyumi figs. He chooses the figs that have just opened up and leaves the ones that are still closed. He carries them in two bags that he clutches to his chest, one in each arm. We go back to the house. There are two cars in front of it, a Skoda and a Chrysler with a bubble shaped bonnet. The front entrance is paved with colored tiles. We go up the stairs.

The noise of the Eid festival comes from the first floor. A big family is living in two connected apartments. We keep going up to the second floor. The door overlooking the balcony is closed, but the one facing the stairwell is open. We go inside. Father plops down on the couch panting. I stand next to him. He breathes in and relaxes, removing his fez and putting it on top of a pillow in the middle of the couch. A strong breeze runs from the door that opens on to the stairwell to the guest room that connects to the veranda. Shawqi comes running out. He is about my age. He is good looking with light skin and smooth black hair. He is wearing a complete new suit. It’s a brownish color with white stripes that run lengthwise. His crepe-soled shoes are also brown. His sister Shareen runs out after him in a bright colored dress with short sleeves. Her hair is brushed back, parted in the middle, and tied with a bow behind her head. Her forehead has a deep mark from some sort of fall. They grab on to father. He hugs them and kisses them. He gives them their Eid money.

My sister Nabila walks in coming from the direction of the kitchen. She wears a dark red sleeveless dress. Her face is made up with powders and rouge. She kisses father on the cheek. “Happy holidays, papa.” He tries to kiss her back, but she moves away. “No, papa, you’ll ruin my make-up. Come on out to the veranda. There’s a nice breeze there.” Father waves at her to wait just a second. He says: “Seems like I have a touch of sunstroke or something.”

She says: “I’ll bring you some water with a drop of vinegar.”

“Give me a glass of water first.”

She calls out: “Khadra!” The new maid comes running. She is dark and taller than my sister. She has a big chest. Moves around quickly in her colored gallabiya. Her hair is tied back with a colored handkerchief that matches the gallabiya. Her feet look clean in her nice plastic flip-flops. She goes for the jugs on top of the tray sitting on the sideboard next to the radio. She takes the brass cover off one of them and pours water from it into a glass. She puts it on a small silver tray and offers it to father. She turns to me: “Would you like a drink, sir?” She hands me another glass. I gulp down the cold water with a touch of rosewater. Nabila tells her to bring a cup of water with a drop of vinegar.

Father takes off his suit coat. He throws it to the side. Nabila picks up the fez and coat. She hands them to me: “Hang them up inside.” I’m still carrying the English textbook and the notebook in my right hand. She says: “Put them on the dining table.”

I fly off to the bedroom with the fez and coat. I have to get on my tiptoes to hang the coat on one of the hooks of the coat rack. I set the fez down over it. I look up and smell something. Nabila has gathered up some mangoes from the garden and left them on the dresser. Mother offers slices of mango on a round tray made of china with colored drawings on it. It has a metal border ringing it. I like to set it on top of the rug sometimes and use it as a square with my cars, made of match boxes, moving around it. She gives Tante Dawlet a small plate with a fork and knife. She takes a slice and puts it in front of her on the plate. I wait for my turn.

I go back to the living room. Father is stretched out on his left side over the couch with his head resting on a white towel under his arm. The maid brings the water and vinegar. I take it from her and say that I know how to pour the drops from it. I lean over him. I press a finger into the vinegar water. I put it on his ear. I keep doing it until I hear a sizzling noise. Father turns over to the other side, switching the towel with him. I put drops in his other ear. He sits back up, keeping the towel against his ear. He says: “There, I’ve snapped out of it.”

Uncle Fahmi joins us in his quick step with his big belly. He leans a little to the right to check how he looks in the mirror over the sideboard. A light breeze catches the folds of his white, flowing gallabiya. “Happy holidays, Khalil Bey! The backgammon table’s ready. It’s Eid today. The winner gets a riyal.” Father smiles: “Just let me catch my breath.” Uncle Fahmi drags one of the dining table chairs over and turns it around to face the couch. He lights a cigarette and gives me my Eid money. It’s a new bill worth five piastres with a picture of King Farouk inside an oval border.

Khadra brings a tray with Eid cookies, shortbread ones and ones with powdered sugar. She puts it down on a small table in front of father. Nabila hands me a small plate. I put two cookies on it. I bite into one and find it stuffed with melban, a clear nougat. Father takes a shortbread cookie. He eats it with approval. He says it’s just right because it melts as soon as he puts it in his mouth. Nabila says: “They’re handmade. Mama’s way. God rest her soul.” Father says to me: “Taste one.” I shake my head. She gets angry with me: “ ‘I’m not hungry! I’m not hungry!’ You’ll keep saying it over and over until you shrivel up and blow away.” Fahmi is smiling and looking away from her at us as he says: “Look who’s talking.” He picks up a powdered-sugar cookie. She turns towards him and shoots her eyes straight toward his stomach: “I guess I should just let myself look like a pregnant woman.”

He ignores her and talks to father instead. “Please could you tell her to get a little fatter? I brought her some peanut brittle from Al-Hamzawi to fatten her up, but she won’t go near it.” Father says to her: “He’s right. A man likes to have something to hang on to.” They laugh. Khadra comes in with cups of coffee. Father bends over to untie his shoelaces. Khadra jumps over to help him. She brings him some cloth slippers. He asks her what village she is from and he gives her Eid money. He lifts up his left leg and stretches it out on the couch under the right one. Fahmi lights a cigarette and then leans over and lights father’s too.

“Shall we play here or out on the veranda?”

Father answers: “The veranda, of course. But wait a second until my sweat is all dry.”

“It’s a person’s right in this heat to go out in a polo shirt and shorts.”

Father says that his cousin is happy to go out in a shirt with short sleeves and with no fez during the summer, like some queer.

I have a coughing fit. As she looks at me with concern, Nabila says that tuberculosis has started to spread. She comes up to the bed I am lying in with her two children. She stands over my head. She watches me cough. Uncle Fahmi tells her that it is a normal cough and that the whooping cough has gone away. She says: “Alright, tomorrow papa is coming to take him.” In the morning, I root around the nooks and crannies of the wide apartment in the pyjamas of her son Shawqi. I make sure to stay away from the covered furniture. I ask her when father is going to come. She says: “In the afternoon.”At noon, she shuts the windows and the room turns dark. She gets caught up in packing bags and closing up closets as though she’s going on a trip. She gets outdoor clothes ready for the children. No one speaks to me or gets clothes ready for me. I ask Shareen: “Are you going out?” She whispers: “We’re going to my aunt’s.” “Are you taking me along?” “No. You’re staying with S’aadiya until grandpa comes to get you.”