Sonallah Ibrahim - Stealth

I follow her to the hallway. I turn my face away from the doorway to the toilet. She goes ahead of me into the kitchen and then comes back with the stove. It is giving out a little bit of light. She sets it on the floor under the sink. She unhooks the oil lamp from its nail. She opens its window. She uses the stove to light the paper, and lights the lamp’s wick. She gives me the lamp, saying: “Come with me to the kitchen.” I say: “It’s better to stay here in the hall.” She says: “I have washing to do.” I carry the lamp and follow her into kitchen but don’t really want to. She puts the stove down on the floor next to the tub full of dirty clothes. She takes the lamp from me and hangs it on the nail on the wall. She puts the pan of water on the fire. Sits down in front of the tub on the wooden foot stool. She reaches over. Tips out a bucket of mop water. She spreads it around with her foot between the tub and the door. She waves at me to sit down on a seat that’s facing her, between her and the door.

“Do you think papa’s going to be late?”

She answers with a scowl: “He’ll be back any minute.”

The steam comes up from the pan of water. She throws the clothes into it. She stirs them around with the end of a metal ladle. She takes out one thing. Throws it into the tub. As she rubs soap over it, she shouts out from its heat.

A burst of wind rushes in from the window. The flame in the oil lamp flickers. The shadows dance on the wall. I follow them anxiously. My eyes go to a huge cockroach. It is fixed on the wall. The head is pointed at me. Its whiskers are shaking. I look up at the tub. The clothes are still piled up in it. I feel sleepy. The strong, striking smell of the toilet comes to me. She wrings out the clothes as she studies the darkness behind me in fear. I fight off the urge to turn around and look. The ghoul shows itself, coming from far away. A huge swirl of hair spun around by the wind. The ghoul sniffs a scent of Hassan the Brave then says: “The smell of human, not like our smell or the smell of our clan!”

I blink my eyes. She kicks me to keep me awake. She stares at me with her two cold eyes. “You have to stay up until I finish the washing.” She is looking behind me, scared. “Or should I just leave you in the guest room, all alone with the afreets ?”

I hear something that sounds like father’s steps. My chin falls suddenly down to my chest. She pinches my thigh with her wet fingers to keep me awake. It is a hard pinch. The tears well up in my eyes. I rub the spot. She threatens to cut off my ear if I tell father.

The children in the alley repeat the call for the prayer of the Big Feast: “To God the Supreme be acclaim/ All praise to His great holy name.” Father takes the scissors and sits me down between his knees. He gives me a haircut. I have the mirror with the cracked metal frame in my hand. I tell him the right side is higher than the left. He throws the scissors on to the desk and pushes me away from him.

“No. It’s fine.” The barber unrolls the leather strip hanging next to the door of the shop. He runs the edge of the blade over it as hard as he can. He finishes shaving the customer’s beard. My turn comes. He spits into the iron spittoon. I sit in the barber’s chair and he ties a towel around my neck.

I put on my suit. I look around the desktop for the notebook of songs. My hand hits the bottle of ink and spills it on to the front of my jacket and my trousers.

Father blows up: “You clumsy. . You’re completely worthless. Take off your clothes.”

I take off my jacket and trousers. He gets mad and pulls them off me. He examines the ink spot. I follow him to the kitchen. He sprinkles salt over it. He comes back to the hall and takes a lemon off the fruit tray. He cuts it up with a knife and squeezes one of the wedges over the salt. We go back to the room. He studies the spot in the light. He puts the jacket and trousers over the back of the chair.

He says: “It won’t come clean right now. Put on your light pyjamas.”

I am surprised and ask: “You mean go out in them?”

“What else can we do? I’ll iron them for you and they’ll look great. Pass the iron.”

I drag the heavy metal iron from under the bed. He takes it to the kitchen to heat it up. He brings it back in with a wet towel. He folds the pyjama top over the bed. He covers it with the towel and passes the hot iron over it. He goes to the sleeves, then to the back. He gives it to me then irons the trousers. Grumbling, I put them on.

He prays the midday prayer then puts on his brown suit. We leave the house. We head toward the main street. A wide poster congratulates Mishaal on his return from the hajj. “May your hajj bring forgiveness and acceptance from God.” We take the tram. Abbasiya, then Heliopolis. We pass in front of a fancy villa. A crowd of country women has gathered in front of it. Father says they’re poor women, waiting to receive their portion of the zakat, the rich man’s tithe of meat slaughtered for the holiday. It may be the first time they have tasted meat.

Nabila greets us by saying: “Why are you so late? Lunch has been ready for a while now.” She turns to me: “Who gave you that haircut?”

Father says: “I did.”

“Couldn’t you’ve taken him to the barber?” She feels the hair on my head. “Your hair is all curly like your mother’s.” She looks over my clothes. She starts to say something then keeps quiet. Mother opens the glass pane in the front door to see who is there. She says to Nabila: “What do you want?” “To see papa.” Mother tells her: “He’s not your father and he doesn’t know you.” She slams the glass shut. I run to the room. I push the door open. Mother forgot to lock it. I go in and tell my father what happened. He steps back from the window. Nabila passes underneath it. She raises her eyes. A strange smile is on her lips.

Showqi and Shareen come to father so he can hug them. Their clothes are new. Shareen looks over my clothes: “Oh my gosh. Are you wearing pyjamas?” Uncle Fahmi throws her a harsh look and she shuts up.

We wash our hands and sit around the table. Nabila serves us beef bouillon out of a large soup dish. Meat pastries, stewed lamb meat, and okra. Father slurps the soup loudly. My sister watches me until she catches me making a slurping sound too, then she scolds me.

After eating, we fall in along the couch in the living room. Showqi asks his father if he can go out and play with the children in the street. Uncle Fahmi tells me: “Go with him.” I bend my head down and look at my pyjamas. “I don’t feel like it.”

Tante Samira, Uncle Fahmi’s sister, shows up at the door. Her husband and her daughter Nadeen have come with her. Father uncrosses his legs and welcomes them. He studies Samira carefully. Tall and wide, like her brother. Her face is round and white and beautiful. Her big eyes are laced with kohl. Her mouth is tiny and reddened with lipstick. The smell of her perfume drifts off her clothes and spreads through the room. She wears a dark black jacket, a blouse with a high collar that comes up over the jacket collar, a full, orange skirt with pleats, and white and black shoes with high heels. Khadra brings in the chairs from the dining room, so everyone can sit.

Her husband is a clerk in the finance ministry. He wears a fez. His suit is beige. He undoes the buttons of his jacket and a big pot-belly hanging over his waist pops out.

Nadeen is seven years older than me. She has full lips, narrow eyes, and a small chest. She wears a silk dress with a tiny collar and baggy sleeves that narrow down into tight wrists. Her blouse has baggy folds around the chest and shiny buttons.

My sister seems in love with the blouse: “Oh, your little chemise is divine.” She drops her eyes down over the blue skirt that hangs just above the tops of her feet by a few inches. Then down to the shoes with fat high heels: “What’s that? What’s that?”