The dust got in everywhere. Even though he tried to brush down the sofa cushions and keep the rug clean of rat droppings, it was just as dusty again the next morning. The dust crunched under his feet and for a few hours that would be the only sound, aside from distant gunfire.
* * *
—
Sami spent several days setting up a parabola, a satellite receiver and a generator, so he could use his laptop and phone. That autumn he read about a former systems administrator working for the American intelligence service, Edward Snowden, who had revealed the extent of the United States’ mass surveillance of its own citizens. Why all the fuss, he had thought at first. Of course the state spied on its citizens. How could it be otherwise? And then he understood. He had internalized surveillance. It had become part of being a citizen. That was the true extent of his government’s abuse of power: you monitored yourself even before the state did.
In November 2013, the first snow fell, recalling a different time. The flakes swaddled the wounds of the city like cotton, filling its tears and cracks. It snowed outside the room and the snow fell inside Sami. He was cut off from the world. The streets were empty. One morning he feared his hideout had been discovered when he spotted unknown tracks by the front steps. But then he realized it was just the rats smearing the sludgy ash of his own footsteps.
He might have been the last person in the world. Civilization had been destroyed and the radio stations shut down in a larger war happening outside the one he was in. The Earth had been invaded by aliens or an epidemic had killed large parts of humanity, like in the time of the plague. A volcano had erupted and covered the planet in ash. Except right here, in Homs, where the ash was already so thick humans had learnt to live in the murky air.
He moved through the ruins like someone shipwrecked. Even if he were the last person in the world, he would never know. He would live and die and, with him, humanity would perish, but the Earth would continue its journey around the sun for a little while longer, before it was sucked up by the masses that constituted the universe, leaving behind an everlasting black hole.
The snow kept falling and he needed to find new, warmer clothes. He groped his way in the dark, pulled out dresser drawers and opened wardrobes. He had found two jumpers and a pair of jeans. He was reluctant to enter houses, even though they were abandoned and their owners would hardly mind their clothes and food being put to good use. But it was as though the houses themselves were people, empty and broken by grief. Would they ever be able to return to a time when you could have tea with your neighbour and exchange gossip while the sweet voice of Fairuz filled the background?
Sami’s thoughts were interrupted by a familiar and ominous silence. The calm before the strike. He only just had time to throw himself to the floor before the missile struck the house next door. The roaring escalated and the tremors intensified. The walls shook, a heavy object thudded to the floor and then he heard a girl’s high-pitched voice from the other side of the room. He looked up in the dark. The girl’s monotonous voice made his blood curdle.
‘You’re a beautiful girl, you’re a beautiful girl…’
He lay still and listened until the battery in the doll died before daring to get to his feet and gather up his scattered items of clothing. He had to leave; there was no guarantee the next missile wouldn’t hit the house he was in – and yet, it was as though he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Sami moved towards the window he had first climbed in through, but with each step he felt as though something was trying to hold him back. As though the house wanted to hold on to him, yes, devour him.
A new silence fell. In his head, he could hear the doll’s voice ring out after him, hollow like a house without human life. That was when he decided to seek out Muhammed and Leyla after all, before the isolation drove him mad.
34
CHRISTMAS WAS APPROACHING and although Sami didn’t celebrate it, he missed the sense of festivity that used to spread through the city, especially in his old neighbourhood, al-Hamidiyah, where many Christian families lived. The streets would be transformed in December, with holly wreaths and tinsel garlands and luxury gifts in the shops.
Sami had celebrated Christmas with Sarah one year. They had dinner with her family and then went to the midnight mass, where they sat close on the wooden bench and held hands, hidden under her Bible.
Both the church bells and minarets had been silent for a long time now, the muezzin no longer calling out for prayer five times a day.
The muezzin was usually chosen for his talent in reciting prayers melodiously or at least – as in Sami’s old neighbourhood – loudly. The recitation was a special kind of art that touched everyone who heard it. Not least the salat, the dawn prayer just before sunrise, which many woke up to, or half slept through with the words finding their way into their dreams. But the muezzin in al-Hamidiyah had made people put pillows over their heads or turn up the radio. Finally, the priest in the neighbouring church had taken the matter into his own hands and walked over to the mosque to talk to the imam.
‘Church bells sound the same regardless of the day,’ the priest had said. ‘A human voice is another matter…’
He didn’t want to hurt the imam’s feelings, especially since they were colleagues in the matter of religion, but the imam didn’t seem to understand.
‘You know how people talk,’ the priest continued. ‘Religion is also a matter of aesthetics.’
The imam fully agreed. ‘Content and form can’t be distinguished from each other and when they interact at best, the message is…elevated.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the priest finally said, ‘but I have to tell you the truth: your muezzin is completely tone-deaf. You’d better change to someone with a better voice to keep your believers.’
Sami smiled at the memory and picked up his phone.
Hey Sarah. What do u want for Christmas?
It took some time before the small screen lit up.
Ask Santa for peace on earth. And chocolate.
His belly rumbled at the thought of food. Right now, between peace and chocolate, the choice would have been easy.
* * *
—
It was both the hunger and the thought of company that drove him out now, on to the dangerous road to Muhammed’s house. Muhammed had stayed in his old home and promised he was going to make Sami and Leyla a feast. A phenomenal recipe, he claimed.
The passageways Sami used through houses and cellars were constantly changing whenever new ruins blocked the road. Several of the fabric screens set up to obscure the view of snipers had blown down. In addition, the ground had frozen during the night and he had to take extra care when moving in open spaces.
He arrived at Muhammed’s house but barely recognized the building. The rose bushes had been cut down, probably for firewood, and black plastic now covered all the windows.