Dreams of Water. Nada Jarrar Awar

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СКАЧАТЬ fine, mama. Go back to sleep now.’

      Her mother coughs into the night.

      ‘Don’t stay up too late then, dear.’

      Aneesa steps out on to the balcony. Beirut in early autumn: the nights are getting cooler though the air remains humid. She wraps her arms around her body and looks down on to the street where there is absolute quiet. She feels a sudden longing for permanence and certainty, for the hardiness she has seen in large oak trees in the West, unwavering and placid too. For a moment, as a breeze comes in from the sea, she wishes she could fly back with it to anywhere but here.

      Months after her return, she is still unused to the feeling of always being in familiar places, indoors and out, as if enveloped in something almost transparent that moves with her, a constant companion. These streets, she thinks when she wanders through them, are a part of me, how familiar are the smells that emanate from them, fragrant and sour, the sun that shines or does not on their pavements, and when the rain falls I, umbrella in hand, mince my way through the water, through the cold.

      The first letter arrived not long after Bassam’s car was found abandoned and empty in a car park not far from the airport. My mother saw the white envelope addressed to her on the doorstep when she opened the front door to put out the rubbish. She brought the envelope inside, and sat down heavily on her favourite kitchen chair before handing it to me. Open it, she said.

      I tore open the envelope with trembling hands, pulled the letter out and began to read.

      ‘My darling mother. I cannot imagine how difficult it has been for you and Aneesa these past few weeks and I am sorry for it.’

      I looked up at my mother and she nodded for me to continue.

      I have already begun negotiating with my captors for my release. It’s a long process, mama, so it might be a while before I see you and my darling sister again. I do not know which part of the country we’re in but please don’t worry about me. I am well and getting plenty of food. I have even made friends with one of the guards here and he has agreed to take this letter for me. I cannot say much more and don’t know when I’ll be able to write again. I love you both very much.

      I reached out and placed a hand on my mother’s shoulder. Bassam is alive, mama, I said.

      She took the letter from me and put it back into the envelope. Then she stood up and began to pace across the kitchen floor.

      He may have been alive when he wrote this but how do we know what’s happened to him since? my mother asked. The only way we’ll know that he’s still alive is if we see him again. And with that, she turned abruptly to the sink and began to wash the breakfast dishes.

      When we were children, I used to place my hand on my brother’s forehead as he slept and try to will him to dream of a stronger, hero-like self, of the man he would be, until he woke up and pushed my hand away. Aneesa, what are you doing here in the middle of the night? Let me sleep now.

      That moment in my mother’s kitchen, suddenly realizing that Bassam’s living and dying, both, were endless, our fears and hopes entangled between them, I shuddered.

      Another letter, I murmured to my mother’s back. Another letter?

      They drive south along the coast and then turn up into the hills east of Beirut. When they are halfway there, Aneesa stops the car and steps out to look at the view. The sun is shining, the sea is bright and blue, and the air is so much cleaner up here that she feels she is breathing freely for the first time since her return. She gets back into the car and realizes how much she has missed the mountains.

      When they arrive at their destination, Waddad and Aneesa stand at the terrace’s edge and look down to the valley, into the distance. There are pine trees and gorse bushes and a soft haze in the air. Behind them are mountains of grey rock and fine, violet-coloured earth.

      ‘Shall we go into the shrine now, mama?’

      ‘We’ll have to put these on.’

      Waddad opens her handbag and takes out two long white veils. Aneesa shakes out a mandeel, jerking it up suddenly so that it will not touch the floor. The delicate spun cotton flutters outwards. She places it on her head, throws its folds over one shoulder and takes a deep breath.

      ‘It smells so sweet.’ Aneesa smiles at her mother.

      Waddad reaches for her daughter’s hand and the two women make their way to the shrine. They take off their shoes, placing them neatly outside the door before stepping into the large, square-shaped room.

      Several people stand leaning against the iron balustrade around the shrine. Aneesa watches a woman who is kneeling, both her hands wrapped around the railing and her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

      ‘Let’s sit over there.’ Waddad motions towards quilted cushions placed over the large Persian carpet that covers the floor.

      They move to one corner of the room and sit down, their legs tucked beneath them. Waddad places her hands on her thighs, stares straight ahead and begins to mutter softly under her breath. She has a serious look on her face and the edges of the mandeel rest open against her large ears. Aneesa tries to suppress a smile and fails.

      Some moments later, a man tiptoes into the room in his socks. He must be taking a break from work, Aneesa thinks, because he is wearing navy trousers and a beige shirt that are dotted with dust and paint. He walks up to the shrine and pushes a folded banknote into the collection box hanging on the railing. He stands still for a moment and taps his roughened hand on the wooden box, while gazing at the shrine. Aneesa wonders what he is praying for and watches as he silently steals back out of the room. The kneeling woman is weeping quietly to herself. Aneesa stretches her legs out and coughs quietly. She feels her mother’s hand on her arm.

      ‘Shush, dear. I’m trying to concentrate,’ she whispers.

      ‘What on?’

      Waddad presses her lips together and shakes her head. Moments later, she stands up.

      ‘Come on, Aneesa,’ she says, ‘let’s go.’

      When they are back in the car, their heads bare and shoes on their feet, Aneesa and Waddad sit quietly for a moment.

      ‘I was praying for your brother’s soul,’ Waddad finally says.

      ‘What good does it do?’ Aneesa rolls down her window and lets in a cool breeze that touches their faces. She reaches a hand up to her hair, missing the feel of the veil around her head and on her shoulders.

      ‘What other choice do we have?’ Waddad asks.

      Salah, when I first returned and would come upon strangers talking on a bus or in the street, I could not tell whether they had just met or had known one another a lifetime. The gestures were always the same, the words delivered up close, voices loud, hands moving wildly, touching shoulders or arms or the tops of dark heads. I could not believe at first how distant I had become in my years in London, how cool compared to the heated passions that I found here. Then there was the open curiosity and warmth in people’s eyes; neighbours and acquaintances who looked closely at me until I thought I would burn under their gazes. Who are you now? they seemed to be saying to me. What do you make of us after all this time? And I sometimes wanted СКАЧАТЬ