Free Mothballs by Alia Mamadouh Page B

I killed him, who would straighten out my skull? If he died, who would I fight? If he went mad, who would quarrel with me?
    Alone, he followed me to learn that I had surpassed him.
    My father.
    I turned and turned, and six legs stood observing me, eyes bulging out of their sockets without meaning, without hope, without grace, neither mourning nor laughing, nor shouting.
    Under that sky my father took me to the gate of Hell; the future was a flaming ball exhaling hostility, its pores covered with blood, dirt, and fear. His voice soared, frightening enough to remove the hair dye from the neighbours’ heads.
    â€œYou whore! What are you doing on the roof at night? Making dates with the neighbourhood boys? Shitty Mahmoud? Suturi the pigeon boy? Cross-eyed Hashim? Speak!”
    Speak, Huda, don’t delay. Defile him, hunt him with your wickedness – you have no prey bigger than he.
    Between the stairs you used to threaten him. None of them knew him as you do. He was the first inspiration in your life. Open your eyes and look at him well. Hold his breath, and share with him nothing but plans for murder.
    For what was the celebration of the scuffle except to make your claws scratch more, your teeth bite more, your muscles attack more?
    Steal the food which was hidden for him, sweets and fruit. Damage his books and magazines, read them and scatter their thoughts on him first. Pour out on him this glory from your strong little heart. Go to your mother on your bended knee, open the gates for her and seat her as the queen of death and life; weep for her, for she is dying.
    I dried my face, fixed my hair with my hands and pulled it back, looked at my appearance and watched Mahmoud at the opening of the street. You were in the street again, and the children brought me back into their authority.
    â€œListen, I’m a boy as well. No, I’m not a boy, but I can be like a boy.”
    â€œBut I want you to keep on being a girl,” replied Mahmoud.
    You hated this admission of his, but loved it too. It was clear from the beginning – you were always this way. But I loved rebellion and the friendship of boys.
    I knew that if Mahmoud and I pooled our strength we could utterly convulse this neighbourhood of ours.
    â€œMy mother says you’re like the devil.”
    â€œListen, you give me a headache with everything your mother says.”
    I laughed, and he looked directly at me: “You’re prettier when you laugh.”
    I look at him, still laughing: “I don’t know anything about the devil, but listen. You’re with me, so that means you’re with the devil. Agreed?”

Chapter 7
    â€œIn the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, open the way.”
    â€œDear Abu Hashim, put the bag down there in the courtyard. God give you rest. Yes. here.”
    He raised his head a little but did not look round. He swung the large bag down from his back. My aunt stood at the window of our room. Adil and I were in the middle of the courtyard.
    â€œNow smoke a good cigarette. This is first-rate Abu Nuri tobacco.”
    â€œListen, as soon as I finish rolling them, I’ll send you a dozen that will do you all summer. You deserve it, Abu Hashim.”
    â€œGod bless you in this life and in the hereafter. All the shopowners say that Umm Jamil is a fine woman, a religious woman without fanaticism. If she prays over a wound, it heals. May God make more like you, Umm Jamil.”
    He said that and walked by the door to the courtyard. Uncle Munir stood behind the threshold.
    â€œWelcome, Uncle Munir.”
    He did not look or respond. He entered. Adil disappeared from his path for a few moments, my grandmother turned her back to him, and I stared at him. He knew his way. He went into my aunt’s room and stood in the middle of it: “Always at the window – don’t you get bored? Every day the same lampposts and the same view. I’m here in front of you now, and