White Masks by Elias Khoury Page B

house filled with the din of the TV ...
    And now he stood there, looking away, as though he had forgotten, or as if he were afraid of meeting her gaze.
    Gradually, Fatimah forgot how that burning sensation felt. Even with Mahmud it had gone, and it never came back . . . and anyhow, by then she’d become burdened with Ali. Fadee was always gone, Mr. Mitri had become practically an invalid since falling out of bed and dislocating his hip, and Sitt Huda constantly went on about her cholesterol, as she grew fatter by the day.

    It was Fadee who had escorted them out of the neighborhood. He came in with Mahmud one day and told them they had to leave. He’d take them as far as the Museum Crossing, he said, and there they’d be able to make their way to West Beirut in a servees taxi. Fatimah was instantly overcome by the same feeling she had when Ali fell-a stabbing pain in her gut, and nausea. She was sure that Ali hadn’t actually fallen off the roof, but her lips were paralyzed and she cried soundlessly. Looking at him, you’d think that nothing had happened - it was as if Ali weren’t his son. A monster, that’s what Mahmud was: a monster who had killed Ali! That’s what she said to herself whenever she looked over towards Ali’s photograph sitting in its black frame on top of the TV.
    Anyhow, that day, the day they left, Fadee looked exactly the same as on that other fateful day: trembling from head to foot, his voice shaking as he told them they had to leave, while Mahmud stood by his side, blood gushing from the wounds on his face . . .
    Mahmud had told her he was going up to the roof to repair the TV antenna, and the boy had gone up with him. When Mahmud reappeared without him, she thought the boy was playing outside, but she felt uneasy nonetheless: she had worried about him ever since the day he’d come home, blood dripping from his head, telling her he’d fallen on the street and a nail had pierced his skull. And when she’d taken him to the clinic, the doctor had ridiculed her. “A nail, you say? No, that’s not possible . . . he does have some abrasions though.” That’s what the doctor had said.
    But the boy wasn’t the same anymore. She couldn’t pinpoint when exactly, but he had changed. His father had taken to hitting him over the head, and the shopkeeper for whom Ali worked got so exasperated he
called Mahmud in to tell him about the boy’s behavior. The shopkeeper told Mahmud that, one day, when he had asked the boy to make him a cup of coffee, Ali made a brew of salt and pepper instead of coffee and sugar. And then Ali started eating pepper all the time and he stopped going over to the shop to work. He also hit his brothers and sisters, as well as other children from the neighborhood.
    Sitt Huda told her she should take him to the doctor because the boy wasn’t normal. But Fatimah wouldn’t hear of it - it’s just because of the nail, she thought. Even though one day, Ali had grabbed little George and fondled him. Mahmud told her all boys went through this, and there was no need to make such a fuss about it. Fatimah tried everything: she prayed for him, she gave him a talking-to, she even dragged him with her whenever she went to market. She’d hold his hand like a small child, but he’d break free and run wild in the street, beating up the neighborhood kids and refusing to go to work ...
    She asked Mahmud where the boy was. He said Ali was still up there.
    â€œUp where?”
    â€œOn the roof.”
    â€œAnd what’s he doing there?”
    â€œPlaying.”
    â€œHow could you leave him up there? The boy is not well!”
    â€œHe wouldn’t come down with me, so I left him.”
    Â 
    Fatimah ran; the elevator was out of order, so she started up the stairs. And then she heard the screaming and the wailing. Stopping dead in her tracks, she didn’t know whether to continue on up or go back down.