Baba's bookstall spot was littered with rubble, burned bits of books, and pigeon droppings.
“It needs a good cleaning,” he commented.
“That's what the broom's for,” said Talib. He chased the large pieces of debris into the gutter, and then the dust.
When the area was clear, Baba squatted down beside the books. He left them in the boxes, the spines facing outward so that the titles were clearly visible.
Meanwhile, Talib hunted for bits of abandoned wood to make a new storeroom, new bookshelves. He found some scraps behind a crumbled wall. He found a piece of tin for a new door.
As Talib explored an abandoned building, a nail poked through the sole of his shoe and a cloud of dirt fell on his head. He stood looking around, away from the noise of the street. Not long ago, this had been a bustling shop. Now the place reminded him of the cave where the legendary boy, Rejab, had lived.
He felt something soft underfoot and touched a carpet gingerly with his fingertips. Baba could use a new carpet, even if it did need a lot of cleaning. Talib paused a moment longer, imagining an escape from his own life, coming to live in a place like this, like a character in a book.
When voices from the street roused him, Talib pried up one edge of the carpet and yanked on it, dragging the load.
“Look what I found, Baba!”
Together he and Baba spread the carpet flat. As Talib swept it, triangular designs began to appear, woven with yarn that had once been white.
Talib moved the boxes of books onto the carpet. He brought over a wooden crate for Baba's seat, announcing, “Now we have a real bookstall.”
Baba smiled. “You've done enough, Talib. Go on now.”
“You'll be all right alone?”
“I can handle the crowd,” joked Baba, gesturing toward the mostly empty sidewalk.
When Talib glanced back he saw a man in a red shirt leaning down to stare at Baba's books. With luck, perhaps he'd buy something.
He headed to where al-Nakash had once had his magazine stand. On getting closer, he shielded his eyes from the sun. The stand was there againâ with magazines piled high on the tables! Jabir stood nearby, his hands clasped behind his back.
Unlike his father, Jabir didn't bustle about, helping customers find a rare magazine. Instead he stood, his eyes slits, using his pocketknife to whittle a piece of wood.
He wasn't making anything, Talib decided. He was just using the knife.
. . .
Two weeks later, the crescent moon was sighted again, bringing an end to the month of Ramadan.
In the days before the war, Mama would have put away the cloth with the blue flowers and brought out the special oneâpomegranate-red embroidered with gold. The long fast over, the table would once have been laid for the feast of
Eid al-Fitr
: lamb skewered with green peppers and onions; fava beans and eggs cooked in oil; grilled chicken, stuffed tomatoes, rice pudding, sesame cookies, candied citrus peels. . . .
Now Mama served lentil soup and hot cardamom tea.
But most importantly, every year when Ramadan ended, Talib had felt his connection to Allah renewed. He'd experienced a sweet confusion, a hazy melting into Allah's holy presence.
Now his relationship to Allah felt as stale as a piece of day-old
samoon
.
Talib was happy only that al-Shatri, while cleaning, had come upon a bag of sweet dried figs.
“IT WAS I.”
Nouri and Talib squatted, taking turns at shooting marbles into a circle, competing to get closest to the bull's-eye center.
Nouri flicked a red
daa'bul
with his thumb, knocking Talib's green one.
“No!” Talib laughed, rocking back on his heels.
In his palm, Nouri clicked together three glass balls. Just then a breeze whirled the dust into a cone. The cone spun across the dirt lot, picking up bits of trash before crossing the
daa'bul
circle.
Without meaning to, without planning itâthe words rushed out of his mouth on their own. “I did it. It was I,” he said to his cousin. He stared at the cone of dirt moving toward Mutanabbi Street.
“I know,” said Talib. “I saw you shoot.”
“Not this. I mean I threw the rock. Through your window.”
Talib shaded his eyes, stared.
Nouri bit his lip and nodded. His lip tasted dusty. It was as if he'd shot a gigantic
daa'bul
and was waiting to see what it would hit.
Drawing back his arm, Talib raised his hand. The glass ball had struck home.
Nouri covered his face, preparing his body for the blow. He deserved whatever came. He waited. But there was nothing. He heard Talib stand up.
Peeking between his fingers, Nouri watched Talib kick all the
daa'bul
, one by one, across the dirt, still standing right next to him.
Then Talib lifted his foot and kicked him.
The blow landed in Nouri's ribs, and he couldn't help but scream out.
Talib shouted: “I knew it was you! I hate you! I don't ever want to see you again! Never! Never!”
Nouri scrambled up, holding his side. He backed away, his feet slipping over the scattered
daa'bul
. He held up his hands, protecting his face from Talib's blows.
Finally, Talib pushed him backward into the rubble. He fell hard onto something sharp, then lay still, listening to Talib's footsteps thudding away.
MEET ME AT DAWN
Breathing like a demon, Talib pounded his way through the bookstalls, by the
chai khana
and the bangle sellers and stacks of Winnie the Pooh cards. He ran through Friday shoppers, and around a corner displaying lumpy, tattered furniture. He almost tripped on a plastic flower. There was nothing to do but keep running.
At last, he slumped down against a ruined building. His body was exhausted, but his mind still burned. Nouri deserved more than a mere kick in the ribs, more than a few punches.
He had to be properly punished.
As his heartbeat slowed, Talib's thoughts turned to Jabir with his slitted eyes and rough face. Jabir had kept saying that he, Talib Jassim, should
do
something. As if he had something in mind.
Talib picked a hole in the knee of his pants. Should he approach Jabir? Jabir was so much older. Jabir might laugh at him, still just a child.
But it was worth a try. What a fool he'd been to play
daa'bul
with Nouri, to tell stories with him, to welcome him into his home. . . .
Talib made his way past the plastic flowers, around the old furniture, and through the Friday shoppers. He went by the
chai khana
and the bangle sellers and stacks of trading cards. He wove through the bookstalls, all without bumping into the Friday shoppers.
Finally, he arrived at the magazine stand where Jabir stood with a baseball cap pulled low, wearing sneakers with green laces.
Talib took up a magazine and pretended to study the black-and-white photographs of a group of rock 'n' rollers called The Rolling Stones.
Engrossed in a picture of a Rolling Stone slapping a whip onto the stage, Talib started when a shadow fell over the page. Not daring to look up, he let his gaze fall to Jabir's sneakers.
Jabir took a step away, the green laces undone, trailing in the dirt.
Gripping the magazine, Talib said quickly, “You say I should do something.” His voice sounded tinny, like the voice of a little kid.
Jabir's exhale of breath was smoky. “Don't tear my magazine.”
Talib set the magazine back on the stack. “I'm ready,” he stated.
“Ready?” Jabir's tone was mocking.
“Yes.”
Jabir scratched at his dark chin hairs. His words were like the flutter of the awning. “Meet me at dawn. Over there.”
Talib looked up to see Jabir looking toward a building with dirty white columns.
“Now, go on,” Jabir ordered. “Get out.”
Walking back along the street, Talib thought of how Jabir had taken him seriously. A person like Jabir understood when a kick and a few punches weren't enough.
At al-Shatri's, he took the stairs two at a time, bursting through the blue door at the top.
“What is it, Talib?” asked al-Shatri. “What's happened?”
Talib's voice filled the room: “Nouri was the one. He betrayed me! Because of him, I live
here
!” Talib kicked a box of paper. “He was the one who threw the rock.”
“
Nouri?
” Mama asked.
“Yes, Nouri. That
Shiite
Nouri.”
“Talib,” Baba said sternly. “Calm down.”
But he couldn't. He didn't want to. His hands itched with the desire to hit Nouri again and again.
. . .
That night, Talib lay with his heart in a knot. He had an appointment with Jabir at dawn. In the daylight all had seemed simple. But in the dark, he sensed the rustling of danger.
Should he go?
What would Allah think?
Talib buried his face deep in his pillow.
. . .
Before the muezzin's call, before the sky turned rosy, Talib snuck out. He tiptoed through the room where the printer snored loudly.
He plunged down the stairs, marched into the street.
Someone grabbed his collar. “What are you up to?”
“I live here.” Talib pointed in the direction of al-Shatri's apartment. He peeked behind him to see an Iraqi soldier.
The soldier released him, saying, “You shouldn't be out this early.”
“My mother needs some tea from Rashid Street.”
“At this hour?”
“She's sick.”
“Go on, then.” The soldier gestured with his rifle.
Talib ran toward Rashid, finding a crumbled wall to hide behind. He crouched until the air pinkened and the soldier had disappeared. Then he doubled back.
He spotted Jabir leaning against the column, wearing plaid pants and a white T-shirt.
Jabir lifted his hand briefly, then pushed aside a broken metal gate. He gestured toward the inside.
Gradually, Talib's eyes grew used to the darkness. He made out great blackened rolls and the darting of rats. Rusted mesh and chunks of concrete poked through the thin soles of his shoes.
When they reached a stone slab, Jabir sat down and reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.
Talib took his place on the stone, keeping his distance.
Jabir tapped one end of the cigarette against his thumbnail, then lit it. “So what is it you want?”
“My cousin Nouri . . .”
Jabir held up a hand, exhaling smoke through both nostrils. “I don't care about details. What do you want to
do?
”
Talib took a big breath. “I want to get back at my cousin.”
“Really?”
In the gloom, Talib sensed Jabir examining him. He swallowed hard. “Really.”
A truck passed by, and the building shook. Talib glanced up at the trembling ceiling.
Jabir rapped the stone slab with his knuckles. “Then it's simple. I can teach you. Throw it and
whamo!
”
“But that might
kill
someone,” Talib protested. He glanced at the light coming from the front of the building. How long would it take to get away?
“But I thought you wanted to get back at him.”
Talib shook his head. He imagined hurling a gasoline bomb at Nouri's house. It might go through a window as the rock had. Or it might sail over the wall to land in the courtyard with the dry fountain. Into A'mma Maysoon's house of Friday feasts. Blasting her glass room of orange trees and pigeons. “I'm not sure . . .”
“Hey! Who's in here?” called a rough voice.
The silhouettes of two Iraqi soldiers appeared, their rifles aimed into the darkness.
For once, Talib was glad to see soldiers.
“We're just talking,” Jabir replied.
“This place is off-limits.”
“Get out!” said the other soldier, gesturing with his rifle.
Talib stood first, followed by Jabir, who lazily stretched as he stood up. They retraced their steps through the building, the soldiers following.
Outside, Talib blinked in the sunlight.
“Same time tomorrow,” Jabir said so quietly that Talib wasn't sure he'd heard. “Over there,” he flicked his index finger toward what had once been a spice shop.
Talib gave a tiny nod.
Yet hurrying back to al-Shatri's, he vowed never to meet Jabir again. He could never create a bomb, much less throw it at his family. What had he been thinking?
Upon entering the apartment, Talib couldn't help but notice the way al-Shatri saved bottles. A line of dusty empties was lined up along the wall beside the bags of round white onions.
HEAVIER
There was no way that Nouri could walk normally with the large bruise on his side. Talib's kick had been bad enough. But then he'd fallen down hard on the spout of a metal teapot when Talib had pushed him.
“Why are you walking like that, Nouri?” Mama asked.
“I fell off a wall. Jalal and I were playing war.”
Mama rolled her eyes. “I don't know what kind of fun that is with real war all around us.”
Nouri shrugged.
“Let me take a look. Maybe I can put something on the wound.”
But with both hands Nouri pulled his shirt down tight. He didn't want Mama to see. Besides, he felt like he deserved the pain of the bruise.
But his confession hadn't released the weight of his burden. The heaviness of what he'd done had only grown worse.
SPICES
The next morning, Talib went to the abandoned spice shop after all. He reasoned that if he didn't go, he wouldn't be able to face Jabir. And here on Mutanabbi Street, he couldn't avoid him.
He didn't go on time, however. He arrived after the muezzin had called twice.
Stepping into the murky darkness where sacks of cardamom and black pepper lay broken open, he sneezed.
“Jabir?” he called in a whisper, and then louder: “Jabir!”
No one answered. A rain of dust fell from the ceiling.