Talib glanced up to see Mama's face partly lit by the lamp and partly shadowed by the darkness of the kitchen. He slipped a piece of paper in the page of his book. Without school, he wasn't sure it mattered if he read or not.
“Yes,” agreed Baba. “Rocks thrown through windows is one thing. Next time it could be a bomb.”
“What shall we do? What will become of us?” Mama pushed back her head scarf, running her fingers through her long curls.
“Oh, Fatima.” Baba sighed. He pushed his glass of tea across the table. “Here,
you
drink this.”
Mama shook her head.
“Maybe we could move in with your relatives,” said Baba.
“That's too far from Mutanabbi Street,” Mama said, echoing Baba's earlier words. “Besides,” Mama looked at the floor, “as a Shiite, you might not be welcome.”
Talib set aside his book. As half Shiite,
he
wouldn't be welcome either.
. . .
Because of the storm, there was no fresh food. And since mice had found a way into Mama's emergency stash of lentils, all meals consisted of dry bread and dates.
The muezzin's recorded call came through the cry of the storm, punctuating the days with the five sessions of prayer. Because the sand had blasted the jasmine off Mama's bush, she had no more flowers for her mat. But she still heeded the prayer call with Talib. Even Baba, who didn't usually pray, joined them as they faced Mecca.
Praying, Talib's mind wandered. For as long as he could remember, Talib had measured his days by the muezzin's call. No matter what came in between the times of prayer, he'd sunk effortlessly into the vast oneness.
So why had his merciful Allah let the rock fly through the window? And why
his
window when he joined Allah five times a day without fail?
He prayed that Allah would drain the well of bitterness from his heart. But questions buzzed like summer flies around his head.
. . .
They couldn't stay in their home, but where could they go? On the third day, shut inside their little apartment, Talib had an idea. He and Baba were sitting at the table, mending books. Placing a piece of tape across a torn page, Talib asked, “What about al-Shatri's printing shop? He has an extra room.”
Baba looked at Talib, then back at the spine of a volume of poetry. He nodded slowly. “Mutanabbi Street is a neutral area. Shiites and Sunnis get along there. As soon as this sandstorm is over, you and I will go to al-Shatri and ask.”
. . .
Sometime in the night the roar finally quieted. By morning, Talib looked out to see a bloodred sky.
“Keep the door locked, Mama,” advised Talib as he and Baba prepared to leave.
“And you two get to the bus stop quickly,” Mama responded.
“Look!” said Talib, pointing to a large black X painted on their door. He touched the glossy spray paint, the X gritty with red sand. Had someone come during the sandstorm? Or had someone painted this on the night the rock was thrown? Had the X been marking their houseâand themâall these days?
Yellow leaves had been knocked off the trees. Trash littered the streets and sand was piled up against the walls. But it felt good to be out in the sunshine at last.
When the bus arrived, the brakes screeched so loudly that Talib plugged his ears.
Passing the mosque, Talib peeked in spite of himself. He saw the broken white onion dome. The once magnificent minaret had been reduced to a stub.
At Rashid Street they got off and Talib walked by Baba's side as he turned onto Mutanabbi. They passed the plywood that covered Baba's shelves of books, but Baba didn't stop.
Talib led the way between the tea maker and the seller of silver bracelets. Thick cold lurked in the dark stairway to al-Shatri's.
At the top of the stairs, Talib rapped with the knocker. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for his friend's footsteps.
Al-Shatri opened the door, his unruly gray hair tucked under a wool cap. “Why, Talib! And Nazar,” he nodded to Baba, “what brings you here?”
Baba stood a little taller, then cleared his throat. “We have a request to make of you.” He fingered the fringe on his red scarf.
“A request!” said al-Shatri, opening the door wider. “Before I hear your request, let's drink tea together.” The printer brought three stools close to the kerosene stove. “That was a nasty sandstorm, no?”
Talib scooted his stool closer. The tiny flame of the stove looked warm.
Soon they each held a glass of hot tea.
When the glasses were empty and fresh tea poured, Talib told al-Shatri about the rock and its warning.
Al-Shatri arched his gray eyebrows.
“You heard, I'm sure,” said Baba, “about what the Shiite militias did in that neighborhood.”
Al-Shatri nodded. “It'll just bring more retaliation.”
Baba twisted his glass between his big hands. “My wife and I worry that such violence could come to Karada as well.”
“That could be true,” said al-Shatri. He lifted his tea to his lips, his hand shaking slightly.
Talib couldn't stand the suspense. Baba was taking too long to ask! “Can we come live with you?” he burst out. “In your little room?” He gestured toward the closed doorway. “I can help you with the printing. With no school, I'll have time.”
Al-Shatri looked at Talib, at Baba, at the closed door, then back at Talib. He wrinkled his forehead and smiled. “Yes, why of course. Anything for friends in need.”
DRIED LENTILS
Wrapped in their wool head scarves, Mama and A'mma Hiba sat on the patio, picking the rocks out of a bowl of dried lentils.
Nouri sat behind the wheel of A'mmo Hakim's black car. He'd opened the window a crack so the glass wouldn't fog up with his breath. Earlier, he'd dusted off the red grime of the sandstorm. Soon he'd get a rag and clean out the sand that had gotten inside.
“Nazar's family is leaving,” said Mama, pinching something out of the lentils with her long red fingernail.
Slowly, Nouri rolled the window all the way down. He held himself motionless, listening, the vinyl seat smooth at his back.
“Maybe they'll go to Syria. Lots of people do.”
“My husband's relatives went there.”
“But Syria is a long way. . . .”
The lentils clattered gently in the pot. A tiny stone bounced across the courtyard.
Nouri gripped the steering wheel tighter. Was Talib's family really leaving? He'd just wanted to scare his cousin, make him uncomfortable. He hadn't really thought he'd drive them away.
If Baba knew that his brother's family was going away because of
him
, what might Baba do?
Nouri shuddered.
“We should say good-bye,” said A'mma Hiba.
“But others will see us doing so. We might be in danger,” Mama whispered.
“What about the friendship between the boys?” A'mma's voice rose into the cold afternoon.
Mama sighed.
With his fingertip, Nouri drew two stick figures on the dusty dashboard. One had Talib's curls, the other had his own straight hair. He drew the figures close together. What had he done?
A SMALL WAVE
Dusty sunshine washed over Talib as he opened the door. The cold air smelled of gunpowder, vehicle exhaust, and Mama's bush of jasmine flowers. The fronds of the blue-green palms were stiff against the sky.
An engine idled while a taxi driver leaned against the fender, smoking cigarette after cigarette, his arms crossed.
Mama had packed up the bedding, clothes, a few dishes, and Talib's schoolbooks. She'd boxed up Baba's rare books, and the photographs of Talib's grandparents. Into her purse, she tucked the pearl necklace and cuff links that she and Baba had worn at their wedding.
As Talib carried bundles to the taxi, anger pounded through him. The home he'd always lived in was being torn apart. So much had to be left behind: Mama's pretty tea glasses that he'd closed his fingers around so many times, his bed with the horse carved into the headboard, the chessboard and its heavy marble pieces.
When Talib picked up his gun made from the whittled branch, Baba said, “You can't take that.”
“Let him have it, Nazar,” said Mama. “He's losing so much.”
Talib saw Mama's friend, Batool, watching from the window. He saw old al-Marzooq with his bushy white hair. He turned around to see Malik al-Korashi who lived above them. These people had been neighbors for years, but none came out to say good-bye. None even waved.
Furthermore, there was no sign of Baba's relatives. The night before, Baba had gone to A'mma Maysoon's house. When he'd returned, he'd kicked the door closed.
“What happened?” Mama had asked.
“I gave them formal notice that we were leaving.”
“And?”
“They said it was better that way.”
“Better?” Mama's voice was high. “Better to be cast out into the
city
?”
“I think they meant they couldn't protect you and Talib if trouble comes.”
Now the taxi was full. Baba closed the big padlock on the front door with the black X across it.
“We'll come back someday, won't we?” Talib asked Baba.
Baba stared at him for a moment, then patted his shoulder. “Of course we will.”
Talib took a last look at the two-story tan building with the blue trim, the narrow gate.
Walking to the taxi, Mama kept her eyes on the ground.
The taxi driver threw the remains of his cigarette into the gutter and everyone climbed in.
As the taxi drove down the familiar streets, Talib pressed his face to the window glass.
Questions filled his head like the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire: was he passing though Karada for the last time? Would he see the peddler again with his load of persimmons? Would he ever again take the path through the vacant lot littered with broken glass and bullet casings, his shortcut to school?
They drove past another door with an X painted on it. Like the one on his own door. It was the home of Zaid al-Najeeb, the Sunni auto mechanic.
Just then, by the side of the road, Talib saw Nouri. His cousin lifted his hand in a small wave.
Talib turned his face away.
. . .
“Welcome, my family,” al-Shatri said in greeting. He shook the broom he was holding. “I just finished sweeping your new home.” He opened the door to the empty room.
With five large footsteps, Talib crossed to the window overlooking Mutanabbi Street. Mama made beds on the floor while Baba stacked the dishes in neat piles. Talib laid his wooden gun next to his books. The room was so cold that with each exhale, a puff of steam bloomed from his lips. Who knew how long this would be home?
SWEET WHITE BERRIES
Nouri ran after the taxi until it rounded the corner, a small cloud of dust trailing behind. Maybe Talib and his family were taking the taxi to the transit station where buses left for Syria.
Would Baba learn why?
As Nouri walked home past a wall of graffiti, uninvited memories flowed through him. He recalled the days of eating
dolma
and Turkish delight with Talib. In summer, when the
nabog
tree was loaded with berries, he'd climbed the ladder to the roof with Talib. Perched precariously, they had feasted on the creamy white sweetness of the
nabog
fruit.
Would he ever do that with anyone again?
Just a few months ago A'mma Fatima had given Talib a birthday party, inviting many relatives, including Jalal and Anwar. She'd gotten a cake from the bakery, his name written in blue frosting. With the candles glowing, they'd all sung
Sana Helwa Ya Jameal
, Happy Birthday, Handsome!
It had not been that long ago. But now they'd never gather like that again.
JABIR
“As times grow hard, this place is turning into a flea market,” Baba complained as he led the way down Mutanabbi Street. “Just look at the Winnie-the-Pooh stickers, those postcards of the London Bridge, those cheap pencils! Aren't books enough?”
Talib smiled, secretly liking those things.
Baba continued on to the bookstall, threading his way in and out of the crowd of people, commenting as he went: “And look at my friend Suheil. Now that his rare books are gone, he's having to peddle packs of chewing gum.”
Besides the items that Baba complained about, Iraqis were selling prized collections of antique books, lamps, jewelry, and even furniture. As Talib and his father walked between the stalls with everything laid out on the streetâlooking a little shabbyâhe kicked at stones, skittering them down the street.
When his family went home again, would all their things be just as they'd left them? Was someone right now selling their household goods on a street somewhere?
Talib peeked into the famous old Shabandar Café where shadows spun around and around as the ceiling fans turned. Shadows passed over the black-andwhite photographs on the brick walls. One showed Iraq's first king as a young man, while others boasted ancient buildings constructed during the Ottoman Empire. At a nearby table, a group of men in worn jackets sipped tiny glasses of sweet tea and debated the war.
Baba unlocked the storage shed and together they laid the books on the red carpet. After Baba was settled on a small stool, Talib wandered over to alNakash's stall to flip through the magazines.
“So you've become a resident, Talib,” al-Nakash remarked.
“Just until the war is over. Then I'll go home.”
“So you think the Sunnis and Shiites will be able to live together peacefully again one day?”
At first, Talib didn't answer. That was the big, hard question. Would his cousins every really accept him again? Could he forgive them? Would he ever feel safe in Karada again?
Then he had a new thought. He lifted his head. “But of course, A'mmo. Baba and Mama live together every day.”
Al-Nakash chuckled and moved on to help a customer.
Sensing someone at his elbow, Talib looked to see al-Nakash's son, Jabir.