Free A Time of Miracles by Anne-Laure Bondoux

a lot of things, and I think that her sense of hearing is as good as Zemzem’s.
    “Do you know what Zemzem means in Arabic?” she asks me. “It means ‘murmur of water.’ ”
    “Really?”
    “And do you know what your name means, Koumaïl?”
    “No.”
    “It means ‘universal.’ ”
    I don’t want to confess that Koumaïl is not my real name. That I’m really a French boy lost in the Caucasus.
    Nour and Gloria finally come back up to the attic with corn pancakes, rice, and even meatballs with onions. We divide the feast into four equal parts, seated on the floor around the samovar.
    Everything is fine up until the day when Fatima and I hear shouts in the Matachine, then a loud noise coming from the street. Fatima becomes pale.
    “I can hear the growl of hatred and anger,” she whispers. “Something is happening!”
    The next second Nour and Gloria pop through the trapdoor, out of breath and with somber eyes.
    “The rebels!” Nour says.
    “We can’t stay here!” Gloria adds.
    I feel a great emptiness in my chest, as if it’s been punctured, and right then Fatima kneels in front of me.
    “Allah has decided,” she tells me. “Promise me to grow up a lot when you’re in France, Koumaïl. Come, stand up!”
    In spite of the terrible, heavy weight that is suddenly crushing me, I obey. Fatima draws me toward her and puts a hand over my head.
    “Look how high you come up, Koumaïl. Right to my shoulder!” she says.
    I step back to get a better view of the centimeters that separate us.
    “If you want to marry me, you’ll have to come up to hereat least!” she goes on, her hand suspended in the air above her own head. The challenge is immense!
    “How will I ever reach that height?” I moan.
    “You will, Koumaïl. If you take good care of yourself.”
    I look at Gloria, who gathers our blankets, the radio, the kitchen utensils, the catalog, and stuffs them in the gear. Nour is already set to leave; she’s waiting for Fatima near the trapdoor.
    “Hurry up!” she begs. “The uprising will reach us soon!”
    I throw myself at Fatima. She hugs me quickly and then it is all over. We run down the ladder. Downstairs the man who opens the beer bottles is about to lower the iron gate over the bar door.
    “Go quickly! It’s dangerous!” he shouts.
    We are thrown into the street, in the middle of a crowd of fugitives, and the iron gate falls shut behind us. Fatima is dragged away by her mother. As I cling to Gloria, I understand that I am losing Fatima. Just like I lost Emil, Baksa, Rebeka, and the others the night the militia chased us from the Complex. Fear does that. It makes people run in every direction, it sows disorder, and after that you are completely lost.
    “Fatima, open your eyes! Look at me!” I shout after her. “You don’t even know what I look like! You won’t be able to remember me!”
    For an instant Fatima fights the crowd that invades the street. She turns back.
    Her eyelids resolutely closed, she shouts, “I don’t know your face, silly, but I know your heart and the sound of your violin. That I’ll never forget!”

chapter twenty-one
    IN life nothing goes the way you want. That’s the pure and simple truth.
    You’re separated from the ones you want to love forever.
    You want peace, but there are only rebellions.
    You want to catch a boat, but you have to climb into a truck.
    A truck that stinks of adulterated gasoline, sweat, and wet dogs. A truck that gets stuck in the mud, that tilts over the ruts of mountain roads. A truck that carries other refugees and their overflowing gear.
    And what’s worse is that no one can understand anything. If God existed, or Allah, he would have a hard time explaining our miseries, right?
    Lost in thought, I tell Gloria that I’m fed up with the hazards of life. I’m going to be eleven soon, and all I’ve known are hurried getaways, rushed goodbyes, and anguish. If it keeps up like this, I tell her, I’m going to jump out of the truck