the key in the ignition when Naji, predisposed to diarrhoea, produced something of such vast and gaseous proportions that it woke him up into a state of bawling indignation. Sabri had looked at his watch.
‘I’ll do it upstairs, it’s easier,’ Lana said, opening the car door, leaning backwards to get out, making her way to the porch, jogging the bundle of baby and blanket with one arm as she searched in her back pocket for the door key with the other.
They had been a while. Seven minutes. Sabri had waited. The moon had been full that night, an orange disk strung between the buildings at the end of the road shining like a Ramadan fanoos . Sabri had seen the bedroom light go on. He had heard Naji’s wails from the window and had been able to make out the murmur of Lana’s comforting. The crying continued as the light went off and Naji had only stopped as they entered the stairwell. Sabri had seen them come back out on to the porch.
He must have turned the key in the ignition when they reached the gate. He was not sure. It was a guess. He did not know what had happened. He could not remember. Something white and definitive had blasted reality from him and then they were gone. The psychiatrist who visited Sabri in hospital afterwards said that it was surprising he remembered so much. But it was all untrustworthy. If asked what his last memories were before the explosion he would have said that they were of being with Lana and Naji on the staircase (he could clearly see them walking down the stairs: Naji in a beige blanket with a satin rabbit in a bow tie on the corner, his hair tufty with patches of baldness at the back where its softness had been rubbed off by sleep, a face blotchy from tears, his eyes trying to focus on the thick blue ceramic tiles outside the neighbour’s door. There was Lana too, her blow-dried hair stuck behind her ears, lipstick remaining only on the edges of her lips, her hand on Naji’s back). But for all its clarity, it was a scam, that memory. A fabrication. He could not have seen them on the stairs. He had never been on the stairs with them. He had been in the car.
To hell with memory. It was like feeling around in basket of apples only to be confronted by a snake.
Chapter 13
The fighter had pulled Iman backwards just before the strike and she had landed in a slump on her bottom, like a girl in a mood. Then he had pulled her forwards and lifted her up on to her knees, off the ground and away from the crowd that had surged into where the strike had been. Once he had her on her feet, he led her, his forearm around her waist, to the entrance of a derelict building where they could be out of sight. She realised dimly that they were in the entrance to the old Andalus Hotel, the one with the roof terrace, but was not sure what the hell the building was doing there. He was wearing the same green jacket that he had worn that morning and the gun was still across his back, but he had gained a new intensity, a focus that seemed to be her. All pleasantness had gone. There was anger in the way he grabbed her arm and dragged her there, and the way he looked at her was filled with unblinking contempt. It was a reflex, and she hated herself minutes after experiencing it, but she had found herself smiling at him in an attempt to dispel his derision. Her smile angered him more. He hated her.
‘Who told you to follow him?’ he asked. ‘Who was it? Where did they find you?’
Her heart was still pounding up in her eyes, in her fingertips and the palms of her hands. There was dust and gravel in her mouth and grazed into her hands and knees. The gentlemanly courtesy of that morning had gone. She had smiled at him like a fool, asking him to forgive her. Look, her smile tried to say, I’m only a girl, but he had refused that absolutely. He hated her like an equal.
‘You have to tell me who it was.’ It was an attempt at a shout but his voice faltered. ‘Who contacted you?’ He had a sickly look about
‘I’ll do it upstairs, it’s easier,’ Lana said, opening the car door, leaning backwards to get out, making her way to the porch, jogging the bundle of baby and blanket with one arm as she searched in her back pocket for the door key with the other.
They had been a while. Seven minutes. Sabri had waited. The moon had been full that night, an orange disk strung between the buildings at the end of the road shining like a Ramadan fanoos . Sabri had seen the bedroom light go on. He had heard Naji’s wails from the window and had been able to make out the murmur of Lana’s comforting. The crying continued as the light went off and Naji had only stopped as they entered the stairwell. Sabri had seen them come back out on to the porch.
He must have turned the key in the ignition when they reached the gate. He was not sure. It was a guess. He did not know what had happened. He could not remember. Something white and definitive had blasted reality from him and then they were gone. The psychiatrist who visited Sabri in hospital afterwards said that it was surprising he remembered so much. But it was all untrustworthy. If asked what his last memories were before the explosion he would have said that they were of being with Lana and Naji on the staircase (he could clearly see them walking down the stairs: Naji in a beige blanket with a satin rabbit in a bow tie on the corner, his hair tufty with patches of baldness at the back where its softness had been rubbed off by sleep, a face blotchy from tears, his eyes trying to focus on the thick blue ceramic tiles outside the neighbour’s door. There was Lana too, her blow-dried hair stuck behind her ears, lipstick remaining only on the edges of her lips, her hand on Naji’s back). But for all its clarity, it was a scam, that memory. A fabrication. He could not have seen them on the stairs. He had never been on the stairs with them. He had been in the car.
To hell with memory. It was like feeling around in basket of apples only to be confronted by a snake.
Chapter 13
The fighter had pulled Iman backwards just before the strike and she had landed in a slump on her bottom, like a girl in a mood. Then he had pulled her forwards and lifted her up on to her knees, off the ground and away from the crowd that had surged into where the strike had been. Once he had her on her feet, he led her, his forearm around her waist, to the entrance of a derelict building where they could be out of sight. She realised dimly that they were in the entrance to the old Andalus Hotel, the one with the roof terrace, but was not sure what the hell the building was doing there. He was wearing the same green jacket that he had worn that morning and the gun was still across his back, but he had gained a new intensity, a focus that seemed to be her. All pleasantness had gone. There was anger in the way he grabbed her arm and dragged her there, and the way he looked at her was filled with unblinking contempt. It was a reflex, and she hated herself minutes after experiencing it, but she had found herself smiling at him in an attempt to dispel his derision. Her smile angered him more. He hated her.
‘Who told you to follow him?’ he asked. ‘Who was it? Where did they find you?’
Her heart was still pounding up in her eyes, in her fingertips and the palms of her hands. There was dust and gravel in her mouth and grazed into her hands and knees. The gentlemanly courtesy of that morning had gone. She had smiled at him like a fool, asking him to forgive her. Look, her smile tried to say, I’m only a girl, but he had refused that absolutely. He hated her like an equal.
‘You have to tell me who it was.’ It was an attempt at a shout but his voice faltered. ‘Who contacted you?’ He had a sickly look about
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