the first time? Was she crying because she expected to see her son, but saw me? Or just because someone had knocked at the door and brought joy and a little news to a house that a man had not entered for months?
‘You’re safe. Come in, my son, come in.’ She spoke as she finally made it through the door and wiped her tears. Before I spoke she repeated, ‘Come in. Come in,’ in a loud voice like a signal to your mother, who came running when she heard the words. I only saw the back of her robe as she walked in front of me and then disappeared behind a door quickly closed.
I loved that house with its trellised vines climbing the walls of the small garden and hanging over it so that the rich red grapes dangled in the middle of the courtyard. The jasmine tree that spread and peered from the outside wall, like an inquisitive woman fed up with the confines of her house who goes to see what’s happening outside and seduces passers-by to pick her flowers or gather those fallen to the ground. The reassuring smell of food and a vague warmth that made a person reluctant to leave.
Amma Zahra went before me into a room overlooking the courtyard, repeating all the while, ‘Sit down, my son. Sit down.’ She took the box of sweets and put it on the round copper tray on a wooden table.
As soon as I sat down on the woollen cushion on the floor, you appeared in the corner of the room, as tiny as a doll. You crawled quickly over to the white box and tried to pull it to the ground to open. Before I could intervene, Amma Zahra took the box away and put it in another spot, saying, ‘Thank you, my dear. You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble, Khaled, my son. Seeing your face is enough for us.’
Then she told you off as you headed towards the domed wooden rack on top of the stove, where your tiny white clothes were hanging to dry. You gestured towards me, your small hands held out, asking for my help. Right then, as I stretched out my single arm in an effort to lift you, I felt the horror of what had happened to me. With my one uncertain hand I was unable to pick you up, put you in my lap and dandle you without you slipping away.
Wasn’t it amazing that my first meeting with you should also be my first test and my first difficulty? That I should be defeated by you in the hardest test I had faced since becoming a one-armed man – no more than ten days before?
Amma Zahra came back with a tray of coffee and a plate of tammina . ‘Tell me Khaled, my son, I beg you, how’s Taher?’ She said this before she sat down. There was a taste of tears in her question. The question whose answer was feared stuck in her throat. I reassured her, telling her I was under his command and that he was at the border. His health was good, but he couldn’t visit for the time being due to the situation and his many responsibilities.
I didn’t tell her that the battles were intensifying every day, that the enemy had decided to surround the mountains and burn the forests so that their planes could observe our movements. That they had arrested Mostafa Ben Boulaïd together with a group of commanders and fighters, thirty of whom had been sentenced to death. That I had come for treatment with a group of wounded and crippled men, two of whom had died before they arrived.
My appearance told her more than a woman of her age could bear, so I changed the course of the conversation. I gave her the money Si Taher had sent with me, and asked her, as he had requested, to buy you a present. I promised that I would come back soon to register you in the name he had chosen for you. Amma Zahra repeated it with difficulty, somewhat surprised, but without passing comment. For her, what Si Taher said had a sacred quality.
As if you had suddenly noticed that the conversation concerned you, with childish spontaneity you took hold of my trouser leg and pulled. Helping you on to my lap, I couldn’t stop myself hugging you with my one arm. I drew you to me, as if embracing
‘You’re safe. Come in, my son, come in.’ She spoke as she finally made it through the door and wiped her tears. Before I spoke she repeated, ‘Come in. Come in,’ in a loud voice like a signal to your mother, who came running when she heard the words. I only saw the back of her robe as she walked in front of me and then disappeared behind a door quickly closed.
I loved that house with its trellised vines climbing the walls of the small garden and hanging over it so that the rich red grapes dangled in the middle of the courtyard. The jasmine tree that spread and peered from the outside wall, like an inquisitive woman fed up with the confines of her house who goes to see what’s happening outside and seduces passers-by to pick her flowers or gather those fallen to the ground. The reassuring smell of food and a vague warmth that made a person reluctant to leave.
Amma Zahra went before me into a room overlooking the courtyard, repeating all the while, ‘Sit down, my son. Sit down.’ She took the box of sweets and put it on the round copper tray on a wooden table.
As soon as I sat down on the woollen cushion on the floor, you appeared in the corner of the room, as tiny as a doll. You crawled quickly over to the white box and tried to pull it to the ground to open. Before I could intervene, Amma Zahra took the box away and put it in another spot, saying, ‘Thank you, my dear. You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble, Khaled, my son. Seeing your face is enough for us.’
Then she told you off as you headed towards the domed wooden rack on top of the stove, where your tiny white clothes were hanging to dry. You gestured towards me, your small hands held out, asking for my help. Right then, as I stretched out my single arm in an effort to lift you, I felt the horror of what had happened to me. With my one uncertain hand I was unable to pick you up, put you in my lap and dandle you without you slipping away.
Wasn’t it amazing that my first meeting with you should also be my first test and my first difficulty? That I should be defeated by you in the hardest test I had faced since becoming a one-armed man – no more than ten days before?
Amma Zahra came back with a tray of coffee and a plate of tammina . ‘Tell me Khaled, my son, I beg you, how’s Taher?’ She said this before she sat down. There was a taste of tears in her question. The question whose answer was feared stuck in her throat. I reassured her, telling her I was under his command and that he was at the border. His health was good, but he couldn’t visit for the time being due to the situation and his many responsibilities.
I didn’t tell her that the battles were intensifying every day, that the enemy had decided to surround the mountains and burn the forests so that their planes could observe our movements. That they had arrested Mostafa Ben Boulaïd together with a group of commanders and fighters, thirty of whom had been sentenced to death. That I had come for treatment with a group of wounded and crippled men, two of whom had died before they arrived.
My appearance told her more than a woman of her age could bear, so I changed the course of the conversation. I gave her the money Si Taher had sent with me, and asked her, as he had requested, to buy you a present. I promised that I would come back soon to register you in the name he had chosen for you. Amma Zahra repeated it with difficulty, somewhat surprised, but without passing comment. For her, what Si Taher said had a sacred quality.
As if you had suddenly noticed that the conversation concerned you, with childish spontaneity you took hold of my trouser leg and pulled. Helping you on to my lap, I couldn’t stop myself hugging you with my one arm. I drew you to me, as if embracing
Similar Books
