The Turtle of Oman (11 page)

Missing Something

A
ref's mother had been busy. All the books and magazines had been cleared off the living room table. The photographs of Aref and his parents were gone. The half-burned candles had disappeared. The tables had been polished. The house was starting to look like a hotel.

Aref turned on the television. There was a program about large white cranes flying thousands of miles to their winter nesting grounds. They were smart. Were they even smarter than the falcons or the turtles? How did they do it? He looked closely. Were they flying to that pond he and Sidi had walked around?

That night before he went to bed, Aref made up a song. “No no no, I won't go. No no no, I won't go go go.” He slapped his drum while he sang it. His drum was made of goatskin and he had gotten it as a present from Sidi when he turned four. It had a leather strap he used to wear over his shoulder.

Aref tried sticking the drum into his suitcase, but it took up too much room. He lay on his back on the rug stretching his legs way out to the sides, as if they were turtle flippers.

“You are really funny,” said his mother from the doorway.

“I am
not
.”

“We have a good life here, I understand why you love it so much.” She stooped down to kiss him on his forehead gently, turned, and pulled the door to his room, not closing it, leaving it just the way he liked, so he saw a thin crack of light coming through. He dove into his bed, pressing his face into the pillow that smelled like sun and air. His mother still dried sheets and pillowcases on the roof on a clothesline with pins, the old-fashioned way, and sometimes she asked him to go upstairs and bring them down when they were dry and he loved to hug and smell them filled with light.

Aref felt like he was missing something, but he wasn't sure what. Being a baby, maybe. He missed being a baby. He wished he were still lifted and held, words streaming around him. Babies didn't have to do much or explain anything. If they cried, everyone tried to make them happy. When you were big, you couldn't say you were missing this, though. It would make you seem as strange as a tropical fish with orange hair.

A Hundred Flavors

T
he next morning Aref's mom was bubbling water for mint tea when Sidi showed up. “Big news!” he announced. “I found one more tangerine in my pocket. Due to your new appetite for tangerines, I wanted to share it.”

Aref laughed.

Sidi sat down on the couch, peeled the tangerine and passed a few juicy sections to him.

“I was thinking about something,” Sidi said. “Would you like to spend the next two days at my house? Your mom still has things to do, and some final meetings at school, and I was thinking, maybe we could go on a boat ride. I could ask some friendly fisherman to take us?”

“Yes yes yes!”

“And then we will get a little tired of each other and you won't be so sad to leave.”

“Not true!”

Aref grabbed his backpack again, which he hadn't unpacked yet, kissed his mom (who already seemed to know the plan) good-bye, and jumped into the jeep's seat. “Hi again, Monsieur!” He fastened his seatbelt.

Sidi lived down in the older section of Muscat, in one of the thick little houses that had existed before electricity. Aref always thought it would be fun to take a hike from his own house to Sidi's, but he hadn't done that yet. Sidi's white house had only three rooms, but they were very large and the ceilings extremely high, so your voice echoed a little inside. The entryway of the house had a nice swooping curve of tiles over the door, like a blue wave. It was an old-fashioned house.

Sitti, Aref's grandma who died when he was a baby, had sewn the ruffled yellow curtains that still fluttered in the open windows. Sidi liked fans better than air conditioning because he said they let the inside and outside worlds feel closer together. Sidi and Aref stepped out of their sandals and shoes at the door and entered. Sidi liked only bare feet on his clean floor. A big wind blew the curtains high like flags. “Look!” said Sidi. “It's Sitti welcoming you!”

“Hi, Sitti,” said Aref.

Sidi started singing “The Happy Song,” the song he always sang when Aref or his parents visited his house. His notes echoed off the high ceiling. The words had some curly parts in them, where Sidi would trill. Once when Aref was younger, he had asked his dad to sing “The Happy Song” before he went to sleep at home, but his dad said, “I can't. Sidi makes it up differently every time. No one else knows it.”

On Sidi's dining table were two white plates piled high with fat purple grapes and cherries, Aref's favorites.

Aref started singing too. “I have a grape in one hand and a cherry in the other.” Walking around the rooms, he let his voice lilt and quaver on the notes the way Sidi did when he sang in Arabic. He loved Sidi's soft blue blanket folded neatly on the bed, the antique kerosene lantern on the living-room side table, the little golden knob on the table's single drawer, the red wooden stool in the kitchen. “Why is your house always so happy?” Aref asked, knowing what Sidi would say.

“Because you're in it,” said Sidi. “Don't you know that by now? What makes a house smile is—people. When they come in and out. When people talk and laugh together, the house is having a good dream.”

Aref was quiet. He knew Sidi's philosophies so well. But hearing them again made him feel comfortable. So he asked, trying not to whine, “Will your house feel sad when we leave? Will our house feel even worse?”

Sidi shrugged. “The houses may cry—a little sorrow of peeling paint, a jagged crack in a corner—but they will wait for you to get back, the same way I will. Oh! I got you a present.”

He handed Aref two postcards, one of the long white Ras al Hadd turtle beach and the other of camels striding across dunes, like the ones they had just seen from the Night of a Thousand Stars camp. “You can pin these to the wall of your new room, to help you remember everything,” he said. “Make your new house happy.”

“Why can't you come with us?”

“I don't fly. I am the falcon without wings and I must stay here to protect everything in the nest, remember? I have to guard the frankincense trees and the date palms. We have a special relationship. Anyway, Monsieur would cry.”

Aref shook his head. His grandfather was stubborn and silly.

“There's one more present for you hiding in my bucket,” said Sidi. “It's a better present.”

“And where is the bucket?”

Sidi lowered himself into a chair, shrugging. “You have to find it.”

Aref did one cartwheel on the deep red carpet. The thick rug felt good on his bare feet and hands.

He dashed into the bedroom and glanced around—bed, chair, small dresser with stones lined on a silver tray in the center—the bucket wasn't there.

It wasn't on the pale green tiled kitchen counter or sitting in the wide white sink.

It wasn't hanging in the hall from the coat hooks.

“Where is it, Sidi?” he asked.

“Just keep looking!”

They had done this all of Aref's life. Sometimes Sidi hid new socks under a pillow. He hid a book about seaweed or Moray eels or a ticket to a movie. Sidi had even made treasure hunts with things as little as cherry tomatoes, now very popular, though Sidi said they hadn't existed at all when he was growing up.

And there, in the bathroom, under the shower spigot, right over the drain, in the center of the new turquoise tiles that Sidi was so proud of . . . was the silver bucket.

Inside it was a brand-new elegant blue hat with stitched golden threads in an angular mountain pattern and a lush blue neck tassel. “For me?” Aref stared at them. He had never had his own dress-up tassel before.

The tassel was exactly like the one Sidi wore around his neck for special occasions. Sometimes he would even dip it into cologne. His dad had one too. Aref pulled his over his head.

Aref put the hat on and stared into the bathroom mirror. “It fits!”

He ran back to the living room. “Look! These are really nice, Sidi. Thank you!”

“Aref,” said Sidi. “When you come back to Muscat, you will be a different boy. If the hat doesn't fit anymore, I will get you a bigger one then.”

“I will not be a different boy,” said Aref. “I will only be a slightly taller boy.”

“Right, you're right! I'm sorry! You'll be the same boy with some added new flavors. Didn't we talk about a boat ride? Let's have a snack, then go down to the docks and look for my friend Ziad or any fisherman with a friendly face.”

Sidi went to the refrigerator and pulled out his big blue bowl of homemade yogurt. He made it fresh every few days. He spooned a glop into a bowl, drizzled honey on it, and sprinkled a handful of almonds over the top.

“I believe they have a hundred flavors of yogurt in the United States,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Lemon with pistachios. Banana with peanut. Apricot with walnuts.”

“Cinnamon with mustard.”

“No!”

Aref took a bite of his delicious yogurt. “Sidi, what if I don't make any friends in the United States?”

“That would be impossible. Friends are everywhere. Aren't you friends with the people from other countries in your school?”

“For sure! But this is different. I will be the new one now. I won't know the same things they know. What if no one likes me? What if they make fun of my hat?”

Sidi patted his shoulder. “Then you can let them try it on.”

Sidi Nets a Sea Stone

A
ref and Sidi clattered over to the beach again in Monsieur. It was a shorter drive than from Aref's house. Some snorkelers were standing on the sidewalk near a beach hotel with fins and goggles in hand, looking out to sea. The sun was dancing on the water. Sidi drove past the hotels toward the fishing docks, pulled up and parked under a palm tree. “Let's hope for the best,” he said.

They walked toward the water's edge and the bustle and clank of fishing boats. Nets were spread across the sand. A fisherman was stitching a torn net with a wide wooden needle and some string. Buckets and fish coolers were scattered around everywhere. The air smelled like fish.

Sidi waved at a fisherman. “There's Moussa,” he said. “I buy fish from him sometimes. Let's give him a try. I don't see my old friend Ziad anywhere.” Moussa, carrying nets and poles with one arm, waved back with the other hand.

“Hello, my uncle!” said Moussa. “I haven't seen you for a long time, where have you been?”

“Brother, I have been in the desert with a falcon and this boy here, my grandson, Aref. We have a big question for you. Could we possibly ride in your boat with you for an hour? You're going out, yes? Would it be too much trouble for you to bring us back in?”

Sidi glanced at Aref. “I don't want to get stuck out there for ten hours or something.”

“I do,” said Aref.

Moussa looked as if he was debating this.

“I know most fishermen don't like to come back to shore so quickly,” Sidi said. “But Aref is going to the United States very soon. I promised to take him out in a boat before he left. But I don't have a boat. I will make you a whole bowl of yogurt in trade for this favor. Or some
kousa mashi
or
makloubi
or whatever you like.”

Moussa laughed. “You don't have to make me anything. It might be a little trouble to bring you back, but not too much. I've already been out and come in to shore once this morning. I'd love to have your company.”

The sea wind blew a little harder. They were standing close together on the sand. Aref dug the toe of his shoe in. Moussa pointed at his boat tied to the dock, red with a sunburst of yellow painted at the stern. A single word was written in Arabic.
Mabsoot
—happy. They were going out on the
Happy
boat. Aref felt his hair flap up on his head like a wing.

Moussa walked over to the dock and out to the boat with them following. You could look down into the water here at the shallow edge and see some darting minnows or anchovies or sardines playing around together. Moussa loaded his equipment into the boat and adjusted some faded pillows on the crossbar seats. “We're all set!” he said. “Hop in!”

Sidi couldn't hop, but Aref hopped, then offered his hand to Sidi. Moussa helped Sidi too. The boat felt a little tippy until they all got balanced. Sidi and Aref were sitting side by side, Moussa across from them. Moussa pulled an orange life preserver from a box under the seat and handed it to Aref. It smelled musty and fishy.

“Sorry, this stinks. Do I really have to wear it?” Aref's eyes asked the question of Sidi, who answered out loud.

“Yes!” The jacket was a little big, but Aref pulled the straps tighter and snapped it on.

“Thank you for coming along, my uncle,” said Moussa to Sidi. “It is my pleasure to host you both.”

“And it is our pleasure to come,” said Sidi.

A boat! Aref looked around him. He smiled at the fishermen in the next boat, who called out greetings when they saw him. A family strolled by on the beach, a red cooler dangling from the father's arm. A boy about Aref's age ran ahead of them. He stared out toward the water. Aref felt proud to be sitting in the boat.

Moussa undid the line tying his boat to the dock. He pulled the cord on the motor and the engine coughed and spluttered and roared into life.
Vroooom!
Mabsoot
was moving. Aref held on to the side next to him with one hand and Sidi gripped the seat with both his hands.

“Son, have you ever been to India?” Moussa pointed out across the Gulf of Oman in the direction of India.

“I have not, can we go there today?” said Aref.

Moussa laughed. “It is much too far for today, but someday, yes, surely you must travel there, up and down, north and south, as the countryside is so much larger than our own people imagine. It is huge, and every part of it different. Well, I have not been everywhere, but India—a most amazing place! Streets are packed with people wearing bright colors, you hear ringing and clanging of bells as you scurry between curry shops, cows sleeping next to streetlights, tea stalls with elephants standing by—little bicycle taxis zoom wildly between everyone, as if stitching the traffic, on three wheels, passengers must grip on very tightly. Your eyes will pop out.”

A larger green boat zoomed past them, causing waves, which made them grip on tightly too. “Sidi and I are going to go there someday,” said Aref, even though he wasn't sure he wanted his eyes to pop out.

“Maybe in a bigger boat,” said Sidi. “I like your boat, Moussa. It is rocking us like a baby's cradle.”

“The ride will get smoother in a minute,” Moussa said. But another boat passed them and the waves grew larger the minute he said that and crashed against the side of
Mabsoot
, splashing their faces. “Can you swim?” Moussa asked Sidi. “Shall I get you a life preserver too?”

“That is always a good idea,” said Sidi. Moussa tugged another faded life jacket out from under the seat. Sidi stuck his arms in and clipped the belts in front. “Now we are all safe,” Moussa said.

“What about you?” Aref asked. “You are not wearing a life jacket.”

“I am a dolphin in disguise,” said Moussa. “I swim like a dolphin and could ride a dolphin if I needed to. Have you seen any dolphins lately?”

“No,” said Aref. “But we saw a LOT of turtles yesterday.”

“Turtles! Kings of the sea! I could also ride a large turtle. They live even longer than we do sometimes. I bow to them! Have you ever gone deep-sea diving to see live coral beds under the water?”

“I think I have to be older to do that,” said Aref. “But my dad and I went snorkeling once.”

“Ah yes,” said Moussa. “The great underwater mystery tour. When you get older, you can also ride a banana boat. Have you seen this one? It looks like—guess what? I haven't done it though. I prefer my boat to look like a real boat. Some people now have powerboat joyrides, wakeboarding, paddleboards, ringo rides, waterskiing . . .”

Now his real boat was rocking hard in the wake of a larger yellow boat motoring fast toward the marina. “Slow down, slow down!” said Sidi. He looked a little strange. The spray was drenching them.

“I would like to do everything!” said Aref, enjoying the shower, hanging on tightly. Salty drops dripped down his cheek and he licked them. Three sailboats were headed north, far out on the water. Aref liked the way they looked with their big white sails unfurled. Someday he was going to own a sailboat. He had decided that—right this minute.

“Then you are like our brother Sinbad the Sailor who had so many great voyages on the sea. Do you think he came from Sur or Sohar? Some people say he grew up in Iraq, but I think he was from Oman, don't you think so?
Walla, Ammi
, are you scared of the water?” Moussa asked Sidi, who had been very quiet, his head tipped to one side.

“How could I be scared?” Sidi asked. “I lived next to the sea all my life. Scared would not be the word. But my stomach feels a little . . . frisky.”

Moussa reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrapped peppermint. “Try this, uncle, it will make you feel better. And please don't look down at the waves, look up at the sky.”

Sidi unwrapped the mint and popped it into his mouth. He tilted his head back and began staring at the sky very hard. “Thank you.”

The sky, dotted with cloud puffs in long layering lines, stretching from Oman to India and countries beyond . . . the sky, a round dome, a big bowl, a feathery crown.

They had motored out beyond the hotels. Very tiny people were sitting on tiny bright towels around the swimming pools. They could see a fire pit burning at the Chedi Hotel, palm trees leaning and blowing and the white buildings of the city, pressed up against the dusky brown mountains. Everything looked peaceful and quiet, like a painting or a dream.

Moussa sang a few songs to them, old Arabic fishing songs, with curly notes and repeated refrains—songs about waiting and watching and being out in the water under the giant sky.

His face had a sunbaked toughness—Aref liked his face. Moussa threw his white net into the waves on the side of the boat by Sidi. It sank down into the water pulled by its metal weights. Sidi gripped the top edge of it where it hooked onto the boat. “I am in charge of the net,” he said, in a frail-sounding voice.

“Would you like to hold a fishing pole?” Moussa asked Aref.

“
Walla—
for sure, yes!” Aref said, thinking, who wouldn't?

Moussa placed the pole squarely in his hands. “If you feel a tug, you do this,” he demonstrated the knob on the spinny reel and showed him how to turn it very quickly, which Aref already knew. The reel made a clean whizzing sound, which he also liked.

“What do you want to catch?” Moussa asked. “Bluefish? Shad? I attached a lure that they both like. . . .”

Aref just grinned at him and shrugged. He knew some fish were bigger than he was. “I think any fish would be good,” he said.

They all rocked back and forth together. The wind circled their heads, spreading out across the tops of all the waves. Aref wished one of his friends from school would pass by on another boat and they could slap hands from boat to boat.

Right then, Aref felt a tug. He stood, tried to turn the knob, jerked the pole backwards and lost his balance, slipping to his knees. He let go of the pole, but Moussa grabbed it in time. A shiny silver fish flapped into the air, then opened its mouth and dropped back down into the waves.

“
Mabruk!
Congratulations!” Sidi said.

“Lost it!” said Moussa. “He was quick! Here, try again!”

Aref stood up and shook himself off. He wasn't even sure he wanted to catch a fish because then the fish would be DEAD. Fish looked better flashing in the sunlight for a moment, then slipping back into the waves.

The sun got hotter and hotter. The motor was humming softly and the boat was circling and floating in place. “I think it's a good spot,” Moussa said.

What did a fish think when it saw a fish hook with a pretty feathery lure on it?

Yummy, yummy, yummy?

Boom! Another tug. Aref pulled. He tried to turn the reel with his right hand, but the tug against him was very strong.

Sidi grabbed Aref's waist so he could stay balanced. Aref cranked the reel slowly and then—the fish flew up above the water and—splashed down.

“Keep going,” said Moussa. “Slowly, slowly . . .”

Aref turned the spool as steadily as he could. As the glistening silvery fish rose again, its head poking out of the water, Moussa added his strength to the reel and said, “Aref, you have a big guy here! This is something!”

The shining, spectacular fish flopped into the boat, its eye staring straight up at Aref, who wanted to pat it the same way he patted Mish-Mish. Its mouth was opening and closing in a perfect
O
.

“Is it dead yet?” asked Aref.

Moussa said, “No.”

“Can we let it go?”

“Why?”

“I want it to escape. I want it to have a longer life. Please!”

Moussa looked at Sidi and Sidi shrugged.

“I would make fish soup,” said Sidi. “One or the other.”

“We will do what you say, Aref,” said Moussa, raising his eyebrows. “I'm sure the fish will thank you. Myself, I would keep it. But, it is your fish. You want to throw it back yourself?”

“Yes!” Aref was a little afraid to pick up the huge fish since touching it made it wriggle hard. And it was very heavy when he gripped it. “Tell the turtles hi from me!” he said as he held up the fish one moment, then dropped it cleanly into the water where it slid home, disappearing instantly.

Aref shivered, imagining its relief. “Sidi!” he called loudly, though Sidi was right next to him. “This is fun!”

“Do you have another peppermint?” Sidi asked Moussa. “Are we ready to head back to solid ground?”

 

Once you have been out on a boat looking back at where you live, everything seems changed. The blue water, the sea stretching, everything altered. Now the sea is a real place that can hold you. You will always know you might be elsewhere instead of on solid earth. You're not tied to the ground.

Aref had once floated with his dad on a friend's sailboat and they came home that night feeling lighter and airy inside. Would flying feel this way too? Looking down on earth from high in the sky—would everything change even more, once you landed? Would standing on a shore in Michigan, or drifting out in a boat on any great lake let you feel connected to all the floating people of the world?