The Jewish Neighbor
A short story by A.M.
Khalifa
© 2014
www.amkhalifa.com
Umayma Yaghshi took out a one dollar bill from her purse and
held it against the light. This was the one thing left in her possession
reminding her she was once a free woman.
She
read the Arabic inscription handwritten on the dollar like she had done many
times before. George Washington stared at her intently. A frilly scarf tied
around his neck. Soft tufts of sugar-white hair hardly matching his youthful
face. And intense eyes. They betrayed a melancholy
that once upon a time she had confused for indifference, even arrogance. For
many years she had studied his face as part of a daily ritual until he too had
grown inside of her, just like the man who had given her this one dollar bill
and dedicated the inscription to her.
Carefully,
she folded it and tucked it back in her purse. Umayma had to take her
three-year-old stepdaughter Layal to her preschool and they were running late.
She frantically stuffed Layal’s water cup and snacks
in her lunch box. Her stepdaughter looked up with no particular expression as
Umayma buttoned her tiny coat and wrapped an expensive, checkered scarf snug
around her neck. They dashed out of the door with Layal strapped to the
stroller.
The
walk to the Highgate Montessori Preschool was usually
pleasant. But this was an arctic November day in London. Maybe I should have
covered Layal’s head with a thicker hat. Umayma
had experienced before her husband Kamal’s wrath when
Layal caught a cold a few weeks after they got married. He accused her of being
the classic, negligent stepmother. The skin on her face still tingles whenever
she recalls the moment the back of his hand struck her jawbone, pushing her to
the ground. She could never forget the mad look in his eyes. Like a silent
threat he could unleash more bottomless rage if she ever crossed him again.
She
had married Kamal exactly a year ago, even before
meeting him. He had escaped Syria in the eighties for his political activism
against the ruling regime, and built a successful life in Britain, his adopted
homeland. Umayma never figured out what he did for a living. He told her he
worked with money, but that she would find it too complicated to understand the
exact dynamics of his job. Whatever it was, he must have been quite good at it
given his abundant wealth and lifestyle.
When Kamal’s first wife had succumbed to breast cancer, he
reached out to his family in Damascus to shop for a new bride. As a devout
Muslim, he was seeking permissible companionship. But he also wanted a young
and energetic woman who could look after Layal. She was his youngest child and
had come unplanned when Kamal had turned fifty. His
two older sons, twins, had left home to attend college in St. Andrews and
Oxford.
Kamal’s older sisters had interviewed many women on his
behalf before finally picking Umayma. There were no men left alive in her
family who would bargain shrewdly for her and ask for a high dowry. She came
from a modest background and lived in Baramkeh , one
of the poorest neighborhoods of Damascus and a favorite spot for shelling by
the army and rebels alike. Desperate to escape the bloody civil war ravaging
Syria, there was little to ponder when Kamal made his
blunt offer for Umayma to come to Britain to care for his daughter first, and
be a wife to him second.
Umayma
had been an English teacher in a private school in the upscale neighborhood of Mazeh . In Syria, only impoverished girls aspire to be
teachers, a profession regarded with little respect and equated with
babysitting or domestic help. But it was a career choice that had paid off. Her
command of the language was a major point to her advantage as far as Kamal was concerned. She wasn’t exactly one of those
airbrushed Levantine goddesses who once-upon-a-time before the war ruled the
city. Hers was a more organic beauty with soft features, almond shaped and
colored eyes, a modestly plump figure with
A short story by A.M.
Khalifa
© 2014
www.amkhalifa.com
Umayma Yaghshi took out a one dollar bill from her purse and
held it against the light. This was the one thing left in her possession
reminding her she was once a free woman.
She
read the Arabic inscription handwritten on the dollar like she had done many
times before. George Washington stared at her intently. A frilly scarf tied
around his neck. Soft tufts of sugar-white hair hardly matching his youthful
face. And intense eyes. They betrayed a melancholy
that once upon a time she had confused for indifference, even arrogance. For
many years she had studied his face as part of a daily ritual until he too had
grown inside of her, just like the man who had given her this one dollar bill
and dedicated the inscription to her.
Carefully,
she folded it and tucked it back in her purse. Umayma had to take her
three-year-old stepdaughter Layal to her preschool and they were running late.
She frantically stuffed Layal’s water cup and snacks
in her lunch box. Her stepdaughter looked up with no particular expression as
Umayma buttoned her tiny coat and wrapped an expensive, checkered scarf snug
around her neck. They dashed out of the door with Layal strapped to the
stroller.
The
walk to the Highgate Montessori Preschool was usually
pleasant. But this was an arctic November day in London. Maybe I should have
covered Layal’s head with a thicker hat. Umayma
had experienced before her husband Kamal’s wrath when
Layal caught a cold a few weeks after they got married. He accused her of being
the classic, negligent stepmother. The skin on her face still tingles whenever
she recalls the moment the back of his hand struck her jawbone, pushing her to
the ground. She could never forget the mad look in his eyes. Like a silent
threat he could unleash more bottomless rage if she ever crossed him again.
She
had married Kamal exactly a year ago, even before
meeting him. He had escaped Syria in the eighties for his political activism
against the ruling regime, and built a successful life in Britain, his adopted
homeland. Umayma never figured out what he did for a living. He told her he
worked with money, but that she would find it too complicated to understand the
exact dynamics of his job. Whatever it was, he must have been quite good at it
given his abundant wealth and lifestyle.
When Kamal’s first wife had succumbed to breast cancer, he
reached out to his family in Damascus to shop for a new bride. As a devout
Muslim, he was seeking permissible companionship. But he also wanted a young
and energetic woman who could look after Layal. She was his youngest child and
had come unplanned when Kamal had turned fifty. His
two older sons, twins, had left home to attend college in St. Andrews and
Oxford.
Kamal’s older sisters had interviewed many women on his
behalf before finally picking Umayma. There were no men left alive in her
family who would bargain shrewdly for her and ask for a high dowry. She came
from a modest background and lived in Baramkeh , one
of the poorest neighborhoods of Damascus and a favorite spot for shelling by
the army and rebels alike. Desperate to escape the bloody civil war ravaging
Syria, there was little to ponder when Kamal made his
blunt offer for Umayma to come to Britain to care for his daughter first, and
be a wife to him second.
Umayma
had been an English teacher in a private school in the upscale neighborhood of Mazeh . In Syria, only impoverished girls aspire to be
teachers, a profession regarded with little respect and equated with
babysitting or domestic help. But it was a career choice that had paid off. Her
command of the language was a major point to her advantage as far as Kamal was concerned. She wasn’t exactly one of those
airbrushed Levantine goddesses who once-upon-a-time before the war ruled the
city. Hers was a more organic beauty with soft features, almond shaped and
colored eyes, a modestly plump figure with
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