I knew that when I fell asleep the smoke would fill my lungs. I knew that I would wake up with the taste of ash on my tongue. But it never frightened me to dream of the fire, it comforted me, because it brought me Noor.
Mama was asleep beside me. Her face hidden by her matted hair so that I could not see her expression. Was she dreaming of the fire? She had not cried out yet so I could only hope she dreamed of nothing, that her thoughts had faded to white and that these few hours of sleep brought her peace. Still, it was only two in the morning, there were four hours left for her to scream before the alarm woke her so she could be at Ricky’s bedside again.
Even sleeping, Mama looked fragile. I loved that word! Fragile sounded fragile. Tomorrow I would write a poem for Mama and name it ‘Fragile’. Tomorrow being today, of course. It tired me to think that. I knew I should switch the lamp off and lie down. But it was as hot as the hottest of summer nights, even though it was the first day of autumn. I had been praying for a drop in temperature to come with the changing season and hoped Allah would answer my prayers soon.
The quick cold shower I had to wash out the chlorine from my hair had cooled me when I’d stood under it but I was sweating again now. I needed only another hundred and eighteen dollars, which I would have after one and a half more shifts at Black Salt, and then I would have enough money to replace the broken air conditioner.
My good uncle, Ahmo Fariz, did not know the air conditioner was broken because he rarely came into our room. He would have bought us a new one if he knew, but he had been too kind to us already, letting us live here at no expense. And anyway, very soon, after my next pay, with a new air conditioner in place, I would surely feel less tired during the day and hopefully it would also give me more energy in the pool.
My half-hour swim today depleted me even though I swam only three kilometres instead of the usual four. Was it the heat or the lack of sleep or both causing me to be so slow?
At least my hair was not making me hotter tonight. Cutting it was the wisest thing I had done in a long time. And I liked it short, it suited me. I did think I should go to the hairdresser soon and have a professional fix it up, but I was still proud of my haircut. The feeling of fresh air on the back of my neck today was heavenly and I was particularly fond of the fringe that I had left long enough to tuck behind my ear.
Mama liked it too, I think. She did not say anything but she smiled, and then she even laughed a tiny laugh when she felt the bits on top, hard from the gel, tickle her palm.
But Tante Rosa hated it. She yelled at me in English – so that the milkman could also enjoy her insults – that I looked like a Lebanese, and that now everyone would think I was a Lebanese and that I would bring shame to the family, and that all our patrons would stop coming to Masri’s – my uncle’s restaurant – leaving us destitute.
I laughed, ‘Tante Rosa, do you mean that I look like a lesbian? Do you think it is the style of my hair that will make people think that? Do you truly think it is that simple?’
Tante Rosa replied in Arabic now that the milkman had left, ‘The only thing that is simple is you! Your poor mother, Allah have pity on her. At least I can say to people, “What can I do about her cutting her own hair so it looks like a toilet brush? She is not my daughter!” But poor Leila has no such excuse to save her from the shame you bring.’
Ah, what to do about Tante Rosa? I reminded myself that if it were not for Tante Rosa giving up her big bedroom for Mama and me and moving into the tiny bedroom in the house we shared behind the restaurant, then we would have had nowhere to stay. But, still, it was hard to ignore Tante Rosa’s tongue at times.
And today had been one of those times. It started with a lipstick.
I was passing the hospital pharmacy this morning and saw a tray of brightly coloured cosmetics for sale. I remembered how Mama used to love wearing pretty colours on her lips and leaving a kiss mark in the shape of her lips on our foreheads before she went out to the important State dinners that she used to attend. And I had the thought that a new lipstick might bring her some happiness, no matter how temporary. So I went in and chose one for her.
When I gave it to Mama she did smile, but for one short moment only. ‘I have no use for this, habibti. Who would I wear lipstick for?’
‘Wear it just for you, Mama, and for me and Ricky, so we can see how beautiful you look.’
But she dropped her head and said, ‘Give it to your Tante Rosa, habibti. My days of lipstick are over.’
‘As you wish, Mama.’
So I gave Tante Rosa the lipstick, which happened to have the magical name of Sugar Plum. It reminded me of the enchanted princess in ‘The Nutcracker’, a story I had enjoyed as a child.
‘Tante Rosa, perhaps your prince will be waiting tonight, disguised as a restaurant patron instead of a nutcracker!’ I took her hand to give her a twirl.
But she shooed me away and growled at me, ‘The only thing cracked in this restaurant is you!’ as she dropped the lipstick into her apron pocket.
I suspected that perhaps she was cranky on account of Ahmo Fariz’s comment. ‘You are wasting your money, Anna ya habibti,’ he had said, ‘buying lipstick to draw attention to the lips of a woman who does not bleach her bushy black moustache.’
That was not the kindest thing for Ahmo Fariz to say about his sister, in my opinion.
I retold Mama the story of the nutcracker, who was really a prince, when we were in the bathroom getting ready for bed, and she smiled at all the parts where I changed the name of the Sugar Plum Princess to Princess Leila. I promised Mama I would take her to the ballet one day to see the real nutcracker.
‘But I have already seen “The Nutcracker”,’ Mama said with a faraway smile. ‘Queen Rania was my guest when the Russian ballet performed it in Cairo.’
‘Well, one day you shall see it again with Queen Anna.’ I gave her a deep curtsey, pulling out the sides of my pyjama pants as I would a fancy dress.
The laugh that escaped from Mama was hollow.
I promised myself that one day I would make this happen. One day, I would have saved enough money that I could take Mama to the ballet, and she could wear something beautiful and be out among people and feel alive again. What I would not give to see her enjoy herself once more?
I checked the time again. I would now only have five hours sleep.
I rolled onto my left and slowly, slowly opened the bedside table drawer, careful not to disturb Mama. I pulled out the worn journal from underneath a tissue box and smiled at the photo of my beautiful sister and me in our shared stroller as two-year-olds on a sunny Alexandria morning. Flipping the book over, I pressed my lips to Noor’s forehead in another photo, this one of her at sixteen standing outside La Glace – our favourite gelato shop at the beach closest to us. She had lemon gelato on the corner of her mouth and her head thrown back in laughter.
Pulling the lid of a pen off with my teeth, I settled in to write in the hope that a letter to Noor, a letter which would never be posted, like all the other letters in this journal, would make my eyelids grow heavy and then maybe I would fall asleep in spite of the heat.
Darling Noor,
You will be pleased to hear that Ricky continues to grow stronger every day. He was up for long periods this afternoon, watching Tom and Jerry and laughing and laughing. Oh how his laughter melted my heart! Mama tells me that he ate both lunch and dinner with no vomiting, just like yesterday. One of the nurses removed the drip this afternoon, which left angry red marks on the skin of his forearm and made him cry a little (which made me cry a little on the bus after I left).
I hope and pray that tomorrow sees Ricky improve even more, the way the doctors promised he would after all these transfusions. Twelve transfusions! Now that he is eating again, Mama said we shall ask Tante Rosa to prepare him hot falafel in pita bread and baklava drowning in rosewater to take to him tomorrow.
Before I left the hospital, I read another two chapters of The Folk of the Faraway Tree to Ricky. Tomorrow he shall discover what happens to the children in the Land of Dame Slap. And the best thing of all was that when I kissed him goodbye, his forehead did not taste as sour, of poison. A good sign, yes? Yes, I think it is.
What else can I tell you about today? Ah, well, at Ahmo Fariz’s restaurant this evening we had a large group of forty, celebrating the fiftieth birthday of a surprised lady by the name of Laura. I have told you before, of the Australian custom of the surprise parties, where everybody hides and then they all jump and shout ‘surprise’ which usually terrifies the poor surprised person.
Tonight, it was the lady Laura’s turn to be surprised. I think she was indeed shocked because as she walked into Masri’s, through the kitchen, she was deep in a loud argument with her husband and she called him a ‘lazy git’ twice in the same sentence for parking at the back of the restaurant instead of the front.
The lazy git did not seem too happy that he had organised his wife a party and in return she had called him names in front of us. In the end, it seemed the evening was pleasant for all, with many presents opened and glasses of pink champagne drunk, and Ahmo Fariz improved the lazy git’s mood when he served him his first beer ‘on the house’.
There was something else that happened today. Something quite funny and quite beautiful when I was at the hospital visiting Ricky. There is a girl I have seen around, I think she may work here. She has golden ringlets that fall down to her waist. And while I ate my lunch at the table, I saw her fall in love. Noor, I saw it with my own eyes! She does not know she is in love, of course, and neither did the man, Toby, realise that he fell in love too.
I know Toby from the oncology ward. I have mentioned him to you before. He is the tall one with the worried face who visits someone in another room. Perhaps his mother? I do not know. For the last two weeks he has been coming and going alone, often arriving as I leave. We mostly wave or say hello in passing.
I am happy for Toby that he fell in love, even if he is not yet aware of it. Lily and Toby have given me hope that maybe someday I will also fall in love when I am not expecting it and that I will also be loved in return.
Do you think this is a possibility for me, Noor? Or am I too damaged?
I will try and get some sleep now my darling. I know you are nearby and ready to come to me and I welcome you.
Goodbye, my beloved sister,
A x
I switched off the lamp and lay the pillow flat. Mama stirred and I kissed her lightly on the cheek. I did not look forward to the nightmare that awaited me. But I knew that just before I woke, when the smoke had taken over every pore in my lungs and I could not stand it any longer, I would see Noor, floating up, up, up above me and smiling in her serene way. And then I would be comforted. I did not fear the fire that engulfed my dreams every night. How could I, when it was the only way that I could be with her?