Part 3 (2/2)

”Adel loves the foreigners,” said Adel's friend.

”Do you love the foreigners, Adel?”

”No, I don't gov the foreigners.”

”Yes he does. Say love.”

”Gov.”

”I'm going to hit you every time you speak like a foreigner. Maybe then you'll learn.”

Adel said, ”I don't love them.”

”Very good. You see? He doesn't love them.”

But he spoke like them.

”Do you know who my father is?”

Adel's father was of this place. Adel was, too. But, he spoke like them.

Adel lasted two months. He had dimples of confidence, and a voice that made others listen. He was not so tall, but he walked tall, and with precision.

In his youth, he had liked to look out over the desert, and imagine what lay beyond it. Then, the border happened.

His voice became gruff and quick. His smile embarra.s.sed him. Even the refugees distrusted him.

So, he called his parents.

”What, Adel,” his mother asked, ”they don't like you?”

”They love me. They think I'm a refugee.”

”What's the matter, Adel?”

(And here, I begin to see where poetry, the real Qais, comes in.) His mother was far away, the whole desert lay between them. He looked for a connection.

”Mama, are you looking through the window? Look at the sky. You have the sky in your view?”

”Adel, if you're unhappy, you can tell me.”

Through the phone, Adel made kissing sounds.

”Did they make it?” he asked. ”I'll try again. Kiss kiss. Did they arrive?”

His mother said, ”You want me to talk to your father?”

”I'll try again. Did you hear them? Kiss kiss. For your right cheek. Kiss kiss, for your left. Here's for your forehead, Mama, did you hear it?” A whole country divided them, but the same sky was above them.

His mother said, ”I'll talk to your father.”

Adel said, ”If you heard it, then it arrived.”

After two months Adel's father, who had connections with the government, paid 28,000 lire and Adel was transferred to the Central Police Station to serve out his time. Here, there were no tin barracks that shone and baked in summer. There were no runs, except for cigarettes and errands. A policeman during the day, Adel came home the first night to his parents' house, and doubly loved his mother's cooking.

”Taqburni hayati,” his mother said, which was a local saying. A mother said it when she especially loved her son. ”Taqburni hayati,” she said again, and kissed him on both cheeks. It meant, I love you so much, you are my lifeline. I love you so much, I hope you will be the one to bury me, when I am gone.

AT THE STATION, Adel paced the roof the way he must have paced the halls of his own home, as if everyone liked him. He looked down over dusty streets and a little garden. Just as police were guardians over the peace of this city, so he was guardian of these streets and this garden.

Beside the garden was our balcony and behind it were our windows. If Adel looked down from his post, he would see Dounia playing in the kitchen. He might watch to see she didn't fall onto the hot stove, or hit her head. He would see me with my book at the table and behind me, Nisrine, chopping our parsley. The green of the parsley came away on her fingers, like spring.

From the way he smiled at us through the window, I thought his job must please him. Everything below was his to guard, and that guarding had a special meaning. As if all this were his because he looked down on it from the rooftop. As if we, too, were his to watch over, to protect and keep.

LEARNING.

AT MADAME'S we were always cleaning, because there was always dust. The dust blew in from the deserts and the salt mines to cover the streets. In the winter it got cold, but the cold didn't seem to settle the dust. In the spring there were hot, dark winds that beat the trees along the broad main streets and blew the dust up. The hot winds could make you sick and superst.i.tious. They blew in enough sand to settle on the city and last until next spring. The sand coated your shoes. If you went without socks, it got between your toes and coated your ankles. It was the reason there were indoor shoes and outdoor shoes, and indoor sweats and outdoor jeans, and the outdoor shoes and the outdoor jeans stayed at the door so they didn't track in dust.

Madame handed me a porous rock. ”Go wash your feet.” And I sat with the children on the balcony running the hose, the porous rock in one hand and the soap in the other to wash our feet, but the dust wouldn't come off. We washed and washed. Nisrine came out and took the rock from us and rubbed our feet, but even she couldn't get it off.

So Madame discarded my flip-flops. They were low cla.s.s, anyway. They encouraged dust. It would be better if I didn't take the bus, because the bus was full of dust. It would be better if I didn't leave the house, except when necessary, because outside was so full of dust.

IN FEBRUARY, there were rallies. This country had occupied its neighbor for some time. Now, citizens of our neighboring country were protesting; they wanted independence, their own democracy.

In response, the government held its own rallies, in support of the president. We knew they would happen because we received text messages on our mobile phones: CONCERNED CITIZEN.

SHOW YOUR SUPPORT FOR YOUR COUNTRY IN A RALLY.

10 AM, MARTYRS' SQUARE.

ALL SCHOOLS AND GOVERNMENT OFFICES CLOSED UNTIL AFTERNOON.

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