Sonallah Ibrahim - Stealth

Hajj Hamdi, Uncle Fahmi’s older brother, comes out and joins us. He wears a white gallabiya and moccasins. He has a big beard that he has trimmed carefully. White hairs have spread all through it. He is carrying silver prayer beads in his hand. He says: “Have you heard about the bombs?”

Father asks: “You mean the Benzion and Gattegno department store bombs? The Muslim Brothers are really pushing it to the limit.”

Uncle Fahmi brings in the backgammon board. “Let’s go to the veranda.” They go into the guest room and out on to the veranda. I follow them. I stop for a second, though, at the doorway. They sit on a country-style couch with metal chairs around it. I hear the voice of Hajj Hamdi asking about Shawqi and Shareen. Uncle Fahmi’s voice: “They’re playing downstairs.” “How did they do in the exams?” Nabila’s voice: “They passed easily, thank God. Like they do every year.”

Uncle Fahmi notices me. He asks: “What about you?” I go out to them and sit on the edge of the couch next to father. He cuts in and answers for me: “He has to make up English. Where is Sameera?” Uncle Fahmi says: “They’re getting some sun up at Ras al-Bar. We’ll catch up with them after Eid, inshallah.”

Nabila says: “Papa, can you imagine that Shareen wants to wear shorts?”

Uncle Fahmi opens the backgammon set. Hajj Hamdi plays a game with father, then excuses himself and leaves. Uncle Fahmi takes his place. I have a hard time following the game. I can’t believe how fast they play. They’re tied after two rounds. Uncle Fahmi suggests a rubber match to decide the winner.

The maid comes in and says: “Lunch is ready.” Uncle Fahmi closes the backgammon set and gets up. We head back to the dining room. He bends over and looks at himself in the mirror. He stretches his hand out and runs it over his light hair, then straightens back up. He snatches a cookie off the tray sitting on the sideboard and devours it. He points out a long picture hanging over the mirror and asks father: “What do you think of this? Be honest. Is it better than the old one or not?”

Father heads toward his chair, but Uncle Fahmi stops him, grabbing his arm as he shoots a glance at my sister. “What do you think of my taste? The lady of the house doesn’t like it.” I study the picture. Its colors are dark. In its corner, there’s a tiny person whose face you can’t make out and he is looking at something hidden in the blur of colors. Maybe an overturned boat.

He sits at the head of the table. Nabila sits at the other end facing him. Shawqi and Shareen come in and join us. Uncle Fahmi tells the maid to light the chandelier. His eyes move quickly from plate to plate. They stop at the roasted chicken in the rectangular pan. As he stretches his hand toward the chicken, he winks and says to father: “Breast or thigh?” They exchange smiles.

He raises a thigh up to his mouth. He looks out of the corner of his eye at my sister. She is using her knife and fork. He finishes it off quickly and has another go at the rest of the chicken. She gives him a stern look. He tears off a piece and raises it to his mouth. She says: “See, papa, he eats like a fellah.” He keeps chomping at the chicken as though he doesn’t care.

We finish off with slices of watermelon. We wash our hands in the bathroom. The maid brings in a tray with glasses of Kawther cola.

Nabila asks father: “Do you want to nap inside?” He says he prefers the couch on the veranda. She brings him a white gallabiya that she keeps especially for him. He takes it and goes into the guest room.

Khadra finishes taking everything back to the kitchen and cleaning off the table. Uncle Fahmi snatches a cookie with powdered sugar. He tosses it into his mouth. He asks me to sit down at the table. He sits down next to me. I open my English textbook. I read the lesson. He explains to me what the words mean. My attention is divided between his dull voice and the voices of the children in the street. He gives me an exercise to do, then goes into the bedroom. My sister follows him.

Quiet falls over the room. I start answering the questions, but I get up after a little while. I leave the dining room. I go to the country-style toilet and take a pee. I go back to the dining room. Then I step carefully over to the keyhole of the bedroom door. The bed comes into view. Fahmi is wearing white boxer shorts that go all the way to his knees. He is lying on his left side facing me. Nabila is behind him lying on her back. Her knees are up. Her bare thighs show.

I go back to my seat and stare at the picture. From outside, a familiar voice reaches my ears. “Kaymak Gelato!” An old man in a hurry pushes a handcart in front of him with metal cans of ice cream covered by cheesecloth. The sweet cream-flavored barrel is made from whole milk. The strawberry flavor has real fruit in it. He repeats his call like a braggart. I am hoping the maid will go down and buy from him, but I don’t hear the door of the apartment opening up.

Father appears in the doorway of the guest room in shirt and trousers. Uncle Fahmi comes out of the master bedroom in his gallabiya. Nabila follows him in a blue dress. Khadra brings in some green tea. Uncle Fahmi says: “We have Lipton too.” He snatches a powdered sugar cookie. We drink the tea then move to the veranda.

Khadra brings the coffee. Uncle Fahmi asks father if he is up to a new backgammon match. Nabila insists we should play a game of gin rummy instead. She shuffles and deals the cards. When I say I want to play, father scolds me. I move away to the end of the couch. I stick my finger up my nose. Nabila wins the hand. Happily, she gathers up the cards and the piastres that she has won. Her husband hides his anger by pretending to smile.

Her voice rises suddenly: “Shame on you! Get up and go wash your hands.” I jump up right away without looking at anyone. I follow her to the French-style bathroom. She points to the plastic cover of the toilet. There’s two footprints on it. “Are you the one that climbed up on it and left these?” I tell her I peed in the other toilet. She doesn’t believe me. I wash my hands with soap. She asks me: “Does papa have money in the bank?” I say I don’t know. She keeps asking questions: “Doesn’t he have a checkbook?” I repeat that I don’t know anything.

I follow her back to the veranda. I stop at its door. A gentle breeze is swaying the light fitting on the ceiling. In the distance, a small, weak spot of light trembles. The dining room is dark. Its window is open. Light from the street lamp shines down on the dinner table.

I go over to my sister’s husband. I stretch out my arms holding the workbook. He takes it but puts it to the side until the hand is finished. He reviews my answers and gives it back to me. He pats my shoulder in encouragement. Father gets up. We go to the hall. I bring him his jacket and fez. My sister disappears. She comes back with a shoebox wrapped in string. She puts it on the table. We head toward the door. Nabila says: “The cookies.” Father pokes me with his elbow. I go over to the box and pick it up by the string. A large, round spot from the shortening has stained its side.

We gather in the afternoon on the five steps that lead up to the house on the corner. Samir, Safwat, and a fat boy all live in the last house at the end of the alley. We play cards. Selma, Samir’s sister, joins us. About my age or a bit older. She wears a sleeveless dress. Her arms are small. She sits on the landing in front of their apartment. We are down below her. She is staring with a serious look. I raise my head. She parts her legs. I notice her thighs. Her mother’s voice comes out from inside the apartment. She’s yelling at her husband. I wait for my father’s voice to call me, as he does every night at just the time when it starts to grow dark. I make out strange noises coming out of our house. Leaving my playmates, I run to the entrance of the house and push on the iron door. The light is on in the stairwell. I go up two steps. The apartment’s door is open. My father is fully dressed and sitting in a chair under the window that faces the skylight. He is holding his fez upside down in his lap. He is frowning. Mother is going back and forth with her hair all messed up. She shouts and yells and swears. She attacks him, snatching the fez from his hand, throwing it on the ground, and stomping it hard with her feet. She snatches the reading glasses from the breast pocket of his coat. She crushes them on the tiles. My father is frozen in place. He says firm words to her: “That’s enough now, Rowhaya. Don’t cause a scene.” She runs to the window to the skylight. She opens her arms up as wide as they’ll go and starts saying strange words over and over. After a while, she calms down. My father takes up the fez from the ground. He puffs out its sides again. He sets its border straight again and presses on it a couple of times. He rubs it with his hands, then puts it on. He stands up and he takes me outside.