and gave him such a fierce glare that he gripped his uncle’s leg in fear. Yet my counteraction did not satisfy Basim, loyal deputy to the gang’s chief, and he decided to do what had to be done. I didn’t quite catch the precise sequence of events at that point, but then suddenly I heard a scream and a malignant chuckle. I automatically looked around for Basim, but he was nowhere to be seen. Luckily our house was not far from Azzinar. When it dawned upon me what had happened, I ran home with all my might, especially when I caught a glimpse of Arrasan’s skirts approaching at the top of the street and the cries of her grandson filled the neighbourhood. It was clear that a hurricane was about to be unleashed. My brother had pushed the child into the rubbish dump under the rock, which caused him some physical, and even greater psychological, discomfort. Azzinar’s children had nothing but their sharp tongues to wag and their bare feet to dance on the main square of the neighbourhood in glee when someone fell for a trick or into a trap.
As usual, my mother was diligently weaving wool on her machine when she saw me burst in with an expression of horror stamped on my face while I desperately fumbled with the lock before Arrasan could reach the door. My paralysing nervousness prevented me from successfully operating the lock, so I resorted to shutting myself in the toilet, while my mother was left standing in front of Arrasan trying to understand what had brought her fury down upon our house. Arrasan spoke but one sentence: ‘Where is he?’ My mother attempted to prevent Arrasan from searching for him under the mattresses and behind the kitchen door, and from breaking down the toilet door because she mistook me for him, hiding inside. I emitted a horrified scream to the effect of ‘Aren’t you ashamed, opening the door of the toilet while I’m in here doing my …’ I don’t know how my mother managed to assuage Arrasan’s rage, and to persuade her to sit down a minute for a cup of coffee. Arrasan didn’t stop threatening, ‘I’ll roast him alive when I find him; I’ll chop him up into little bits and feed him to the hyenas; I’ll mop the rubbish heap with him; I’ll make him eat the dirt in front of the whole neighbourhood; I’ll…’ And my mother continued to calm her, and turn her thoughts to other matters such as how her daughters were doing and how their marriages were turning out, and how many children did they have, and whom did Arrasan choose as appropriate suitors for her granddaughters, and who was totally inappropriate, until finally I heard my mother’s voice assuring us that all was clear, the woman had left and we could come out of our hiding places.
Our encounter with Arrasan landed us in one fine mess, and as a result we had to remain indoors for several days, following the situation in the neighbourhood closely through the walls of the courtyard.
Translated by Nancy Hawker
N UHA S AMARA
The Tables Outlived Amin
I would never have known had I not opened Amin’s ‘old chest’ and found it crammed full of weapons …
‘A dreamer and idealist’. That’s how Amin would introduce me to his friends. He said it when I first met him at the magazine where I worked as a film critic. He was dressed in dirty clothes that day and had long hair. I heard he had just been released from jail, having been locked up on political charges, and was looking for somewhere to live. He looked wretched and I felt moved to shelter him. I suggested the idea to him.
‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘I’ll gratefully take you up on that until I arrange somewhere for myself.’
‘A dreamer and idealist’. He was right. He moved in with the old chest that very same day. ‘It contains my day to day things,’ he said timidly. ‘Idealist’ turned out to be a fitting description. I didn’t doubt him for a moment, in spite of the pamphlets that entered the house with his friends. Even when he confessed to having
As usual, my mother was diligently weaving wool on her machine when she saw me burst in with an expression of horror stamped on my face while I desperately fumbled with the lock before Arrasan could reach the door. My paralysing nervousness prevented me from successfully operating the lock, so I resorted to shutting myself in the toilet, while my mother was left standing in front of Arrasan trying to understand what had brought her fury down upon our house. Arrasan spoke but one sentence: ‘Where is he?’ My mother attempted to prevent Arrasan from searching for him under the mattresses and behind the kitchen door, and from breaking down the toilet door because she mistook me for him, hiding inside. I emitted a horrified scream to the effect of ‘Aren’t you ashamed, opening the door of the toilet while I’m in here doing my …’ I don’t know how my mother managed to assuage Arrasan’s rage, and to persuade her to sit down a minute for a cup of coffee. Arrasan didn’t stop threatening, ‘I’ll roast him alive when I find him; I’ll chop him up into little bits and feed him to the hyenas; I’ll mop the rubbish heap with him; I’ll make him eat the dirt in front of the whole neighbourhood; I’ll…’ And my mother continued to calm her, and turn her thoughts to other matters such as how her daughters were doing and how their marriages were turning out, and how many children did they have, and whom did Arrasan choose as appropriate suitors for her granddaughters, and who was totally inappropriate, until finally I heard my mother’s voice assuring us that all was clear, the woman had left and we could come out of our hiding places.
Our encounter with Arrasan landed us in one fine mess, and as a result we had to remain indoors for several days, following the situation in the neighbourhood closely through the walls of the courtyard.
Translated by Nancy Hawker
N UHA S AMARA
The Tables Outlived Amin
I would never have known had I not opened Amin’s ‘old chest’ and found it crammed full of weapons …
‘A dreamer and idealist’. That’s how Amin would introduce me to his friends. He said it when I first met him at the magazine where I worked as a film critic. He was dressed in dirty clothes that day and had long hair. I heard he had just been released from jail, having been locked up on political charges, and was looking for somewhere to live. He looked wretched and I felt moved to shelter him. I suggested the idea to him.
‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘I’ll gratefully take you up on that until I arrange somewhere for myself.’
‘A dreamer and idealist’. He was right. He moved in with the old chest that very same day. ‘It contains my day to day things,’ he said timidly. ‘Idealist’ turned out to be a fitting description. I didn’t doubt him for a moment, in spite of the pamphlets that entered the house with his friends. Even when he confessed to having
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