Free That Smell and Notes From Prison by Sonallah Ibrahim

of the trees. Still, the tram was very fast and we would lift our faces
into the afternoon breeze and my father held his tarboosh to make sure it didn’t
fly off. Then the street ended and the tram turned, swaying a little, into the
wide open Midan, slowing its speed and finally stopping in front of the mosque.
I would gaze into that big garden, which kept sloping away until it finally
disappeared from the view of the tram riders. And through the great stone arches
of the mosque wall I would see the red and blue robes of children playing in the
garden and keep my eyes on them as the tram slipped back into motion, circling
the mosque. Then the mosque and its garden would disappear all at once and my
father put his hand on my bare knee while the tram turned sharply past narrow
al-Khalig Street and I wished that our tram was the Khalig Street tram so that
we could ride between the narrow walls with my father’s hand stretched out
nearly touching the houses. We would get off at Faggala and my father would take
me with his right hand as we crossed the street. We set off down an alley
bordered by a high white wall with tree branches swaying over it and the street
would grow dark, though the sun was still in the sky, and I understood why when
I looked up and saw thick clouds of smoke coming together and then quickly
coming apart and my father would say it was the smoke of trains coming from Bab
al-Hadid. Then the street ended and the house appeared. My father sat on the
bawwab’s bench while I went up the long staircase, passing by the doors with
their smells of cooking oil. Afterward, my father and I left along the same
alley, walking next to the white wall, and I would spot the big bells behind it.
The street was hidden in shadows and empty except for us and at the far end a
patch of light turned into a tobacconist’s shop. We stopped at the entrance,
blocked by a big high display case. I pressed my face against the cloudy glass
and stared at the boxes of sweets and chocolates. I saw my father’s hand dip
into his pants pocket. He took out some coins and cast them on top of the glass
counter, right at the level of my head, and then we would leave the shop and
cross the street to the tram stop. I was cold and pressed myself against my
father and he spread out the collar of his jacket to cover his chest and we
stood alone on the station platform. The tram came and we got on the covered
back car and huddled in the corner with my father’s warm hand on my bare knee
and the tram would begin the journey back, passing by Khalig Street, then
turning abruptly to the right, the houses on our left disappearing and a dark
wide open space rolling out in front of us. I was afraid that I would fall in
and held onto my father tightly. Then my eyes got used to the dark and I made
out the big Midan with the large form of the mosque in the middle and the tram
would circle the mosque, passing a shuttered cinema that we went to in the
summer with my mother, and then drive down tree-lined Zaher Street while I
leaned my head against the wooden guardrail behind me and enjoyed the rushing
speed, watching my father close his eyes against the strong wind in our
faces.
    I took the tram to the church and turned into the neighboring street
that was crowded and full of noise. The street ended, I turned to the right. The
house I remembered was very high with wide wooden balconies. My mother jumped
from one of those balconies, landing on the one below. I looked from house to
house. They were all low and only one of them had wooden balconies. That must be
the one, I thought. I walked slowly toward it. The balconies were small and the
lobby was cramped. The lobby I remembered was spacious. I went through the lobby
and slowly climbed the stairs, coming to the top sooner than I expected. There
was a small room there and I knocked on the door. Come in, I heard a female
voice say. I pushed open the door and stood in the entrance. There were three
women draped in