which I fixed up to look brand-new, attaching a rearview mirror, a two-tone bell, and an old mudguard that had been lying around the shack. Ghizlane was overjoyed, she kissed my brotherâs hands every time she ran into him.
Khalil the shoeshine found a job too, with a friend of Emir Zaidâs, at a printing press in the city. It was cushy work; he didnât have to deal with café waiters, loutish racketeers, or police batons. He was entitled to leave the workshop at prayer times and, best of all, he could eat with the staff. In his wildest dreams he could never have imagined that. Three hearty meals a day! And he was the greedy type. He not only ate his share, but pounced on the leftovers on his fellow workersâ trays too. Heâd mop their plates clean with bread rolls and drain all the glasses of Coca-Cola to the last drop. As for Nabil and me, we gave up bike repairs for good and became Abu Zoubeirâs messengers. We were glad to serve the master; many of the others envied us our closeness to him. We did all the cleaning at the garage and Nabil made the tea.
All the families of garage regulars were given a basket of food every day, but Yemma still found grounds to complain about how rarely we visited. One day I brought her a sheep, as the holiday was approaching. She burst into tears, not from joy at the sight of the struggling ram with its big horns, but from emotion at my presence. Seeing me all clean and handsome in my white robe, my beard cut Afghan-style, she took me for Hamid. She was angry with herself for this and sobbed some more. And she cried more than ever when my brother arrived halfway through the afternoon. Yemma spoke less and less and cried over nothing. Old people weep easily because theyâre more conscious of time passing. They become emotional over the smallest thing.
Now that Iâm up here, unraveling my past like a ball of wool, full of knots, I think she must have foreseen the fatal outcome of our adventure. Yet she had no idea of the mess weâd gotten ourselves into. Maybe it was that sixth sense Mi-Lalla used to talk about. In any case, that day she shut herself up in the kitchen to make the tea and stayed there longer than usual. She didnât want to cause us any pain. Hamid and I promised to come and slaughter the sheep ourselves and she smiled. It was so good to see her smile. Said was happy to see us, since he could bore us witless with his rants on politics. Iraq, Afghanistan, Chechnya, Rwanda: you name it, he was onto it. With a sprinkling ofearthquakes, deadly epidemics, and tsunamis for good measure. I refused to meet Hamidâs eye so as not to burst out laughing. Father was constantly sneezing, snorting his cheap snuff. He offered me some for the first time, a sign that he now saw me as an adult. I accepted, even though I didnât like it. And we sneezed together. Like brothers. Seeing my nose smeared with powder and my bloodshot eyes, Hamid erupted into booming laughter, like in the old days. It had been an age since Iâd heard him laugh. So I laughed too. And then we all laughed. It was laughter from the belly and the heart, the laughter of people whoâd been starved of laughter; the reason for it scarcely mattered, it felt unbelievably good. And it went on and intensified until it turned into nervous laughter. Yemma started crying again. In fact, we couldnât tell anymore if they were tears of joy or sadness; she was laughing and crying at the same time. And then we all were. We cried and laughed until we could cry and laugh no more. It was good laughter, family laughter. My father was squawking like a bird and I thought he was going to choke. Said was beaming and kept punching the cushion. He said we should all get together more often to have a laugh, even if the international situation wasnât favorable. And Hamid was off again, laughing his legendary laugh.
That was the last time I saw my parents.
It was a very busy period.
Khalil the shoeshine found a job too, with a friend of Emir Zaidâs, at a printing press in the city. It was cushy work; he didnât have to deal with café waiters, loutish racketeers, or police batons. He was entitled to leave the workshop at prayer times and, best of all, he could eat with the staff. In his wildest dreams he could never have imagined that. Three hearty meals a day! And he was the greedy type. He not only ate his share, but pounced on the leftovers on his fellow workersâ trays too. Heâd mop their plates clean with bread rolls and drain all the glasses of Coca-Cola to the last drop. As for Nabil and me, we gave up bike repairs for good and became Abu Zoubeirâs messengers. We were glad to serve the master; many of the others envied us our closeness to him. We did all the cleaning at the garage and Nabil made the tea.
All the families of garage regulars were given a basket of food every day, but Yemma still found grounds to complain about how rarely we visited. One day I brought her a sheep, as the holiday was approaching. She burst into tears, not from joy at the sight of the struggling ram with its big horns, but from emotion at my presence. Seeing me all clean and handsome in my white robe, my beard cut Afghan-style, she took me for Hamid. She was angry with herself for this and sobbed some more. And she cried more than ever when my brother arrived halfway through the afternoon. Yemma spoke less and less and cried over nothing. Old people weep easily because theyâre more conscious of time passing. They become emotional over the smallest thing.
Now that Iâm up here, unraveling my past like a ball of wool, full of knots, I think she must have foreseen the fatal outcome of our adventure. Yet she had no idea of the mess weâd gotten ourselves into. Maybe it was that sixth sense Mi-Lalla used to talk about. In any case, that day she shut herself up in the kitchen to make the tea and stayed there longer than usual. She didnât want to cause us any pain. Hamid and I promised to come and slaughter the sheep ourselves and she smiled. It was so good to see her smile. Said was happy to see us, since he could bore us witless with his rants on politics. Iraq, Afghanistan, Chechnya, Rwanda: you name it, he was onto it. With a sprinkling ofearthquakes, deadly epidemics, and tsunamis for good measure. I refused to meet Hamidâs eye so as not to burst out laughing. Father was constantly sneezing, snorting his cheap snuff. He offered me some for the first time, a sign that he now saw me as an adult. I accepted, even though I didnât like it. And we sneezed together. Like brothers. Seeing my nose smeared with powder and my bloodshot eyes, Hamid erupted into booming laughter, like in the old days. It had been an age since Iâd heard him laugh. So I laughed too. And then we all laughed. It was laughter from the belly and the heart, the laughter of people whoâd been starved of laughter; the reason for it scarcely mattered, it felt unbelievably good. And it went on and intensified until it turned into nervous laughter. Yemma started crying again. In fact, we couldnât tell anymore if they were tears of joy or sadness; she was laughing and crying at the same time. And then we all were. We cried and laughed until we could cry and laugh no more. It was good laughter, family laughter. My father was squawking like a bird and I thought he was going to choke. Said was beaming and kept punching the cushion. He said we should all get together more often to have a laugh, even if the international situation wasnât favorable. And Hamid was off again, laughing his legendary laugh.
That was the last time I saw my parents.
It was a very busy period.
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