The next morning, his cousins called again, this time with sad news. Grandpa Faris had passed away during the night. Not from a rocket or a bullet in the back of the head, but peacefully, in his sleep, of age or sorrow.
25
SAMI’S BLOCK WAS now right in the line of fire. He had tried to ignore the obvious but the black fire clouds kept coming closer. In a short time he had learnt to sleep despite the anxiety. It fired his dreams instead; he would wake up with a jolt and hit the wall.
On a warm spring night, Muhammed called and said Sami couldn’t wait any longer. Sami reluctantly packed a bag and went, by the light of his phone, to his friend’s house a few streets over. He hesitated at first, when he thought of the bodies they had carried there before burial. But it wasn’t like Sami had many other places to choose from.
Muhammed’s mother and three siblings had all gone now, to the al-Waer neighbourhood on the other side of the river. Their old house had now been transformed into a teenage lair with empty bags of crisps on the tables and pillows on the floor.
‘I thought you’d cleaned the place,’ Sami said.
‘It’s not my fault,’ Muhammed said apologetically. ‘I told Anwar to pick up his things.’
‘The bookkeeper boy!’ A large figure got up off the sofa and it took Sami a second to recognize him. As a chef he had always been impeccably dressed, rolled-up shirtsleeves, starched apron, but now Anwar looked like he had gone with whatever was at the top of the laundry hamper. His trousers were too short and his pale gut peeked out from under his shirt. But he still wore a black bandana, as a reminder of the smooth kitchen master he had once been.
‘Anwar, I can’t believe it’s you.’
‘And I, for one, didn’t believe you would ever grow up.’
Sami embraced him and kissed his cheeks.
‘How is Abu Karim? And the restaurant?’
‘We had to close,’ Anwar replied. ‘Abu Karim said it was the rent but everyone knows it was because we handed out food to the protestors.’
Sami shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘You can take the other sofa,’ Muhammed said and picked a few pillows up off the floor. ‘If it drags on, we’ll carry the beds down to the basement.’
Although Sami had known Muhammed since they were young, he had only been to his best friend’s house a few times. In the beginning he had asked more often but Muhammed would say they had guests that day, or that his mother was cleaning, and another time would be better to visit. Sami assumed he was ashamed of the crowded space but he didn’t mind. On the contrary, he felt at home immediately.
They had lived on one floor with a small kitchen, a living room and a bedroom for Muhammed’s mum and one of the children. The basement consisted of another room, which Muhammed shared with two of his little siblings – the room lacked windows and had dark damp roses on the ceiling.
Muhammed’s mum rented the apartment and basement from an elderly woman who lived on the top floors in the same building, who only asked for a low rent in exchange for helping her clean, shop, and care for the front yard. Sami had met the old woman once and remembered her friendly smile, a visible golden tooth, her wrists rattling with shiny bracelets. The old woman had left now but Muhammed occasionally went up to her apartment and cleaned, in case she came back. He watered the rose bushes until they had to save on water, and they saw the dark red petals fall to the ground.
A few days after Sami moved in, a pressure wave broke the windows. They taped black bin bags over where the glass had been. But that first night, Sami lay awake in the gentle darkness, watching the stars come out. If he listened carefully, he could almost hear the plough being pulled through space, the star-glazed wood cutting through the heavens. When he fell asleep he did it safe in the knowledge that he still had a home. But the next morning, his home lay in ruins.
Muhammed held up his laptop. A grainy mobile phone video was playing.
‘There, see?’ Muhammed said.
‘Recognize that house?’ Anwar said.
Sami sat up and frowned. Projectiles whistled over the rooftops and then plumes of smoke started rising. He watched the clip again, the dot speeding across the sky and the explosion that followed. Muhammed took off his glasses and polished them. The crack was still there. Anwar put a big, sweaty hand on his shoulder.
‘Lucky you came here when you did.’
Sami couldn’t help it; it bubbled up from some unknown cranny, like that time in the bank manager’s office. He started laughing. Muhammed and Anwar exchanged a glance but he couldn’t stop. It rose up from deep inside him, a convulsive sound that took over his body.
‘You need to eat. I’ll cook something,’ Anwar said. ‘Wait, where are you going?’
Sami had already got off the sofa and was tying his shoes.
‘Let him go,’ Muhammed said quietly.
* * *
—
Outside, the air was dry with dust and the smell of smoke. It was just a house. The main thing was that he and his family were alive. That was the most important thing, right? Yes, it was. Being alive was the most important thing. Just a house. He said it out loud, even though there was no one else around.
At first Sami had a hard time identifying his house among the others. The missiles had hit the façade on the street side. It was like looking into a dolls’ house. The rooms were exposed, except on the top floor, which had folded flat like a cardboard box.
Sami had to climb over debris to get in. Twice he got stuck and had to wrench his foot free. The staircase was intact apart from a large hole halfway up. The unharmed and unbroken was as strange as the demolished. It was as though two photographs had blended together, underscoring the contrasts between before and after: on the one hand, bricks and debris littered the kitchen floor, the backs of the chairs were broken and the table snapped in two. On the other hand, the fridge was untouched, though without power. On the one hand, dust and shattered glass covered the floral bedspread and the black Singer sewing machine lay on the floor with a broken needle. On the other hand, the gramophone had come through virtually unscathed.
For every step he took, it felt as though someone else took a step behind him, another Sami. The one who had moved through these rooms before and was unaware that his childhood home lay in ruins. He had an urge to clean up and set things right in case his parents came back. He picked up things that lay in his path: the silver sugar bowl, the remote that had slid out of its plastic cover.
When he reached his parents’ bedroom, his arms were full of objects that had lost their former significance. How was he to judge what was worth saving, which memories were significant to them? He let all of it fall to the floor and stopped moving.