Part 12 (2/2)

”Bye-bye, this is Bea's phone, you love me-”

”-bye, Bea!”

”Bye-bye!”

She hung up.

I took the phone.

On the roof he raised one arm to the sky.

Inside, we heard Madame waking. We ran to the kitchen. From the window, we could see him waving.

Arabic is a phonetic language; in this way it's economical. Each word only gets the letters it most needs. My name had two sounds, the b and the e, and so in Arabic I got two letters, not three, and in colloquial speech my name wasn't a name, but a preposition: ”Bea” can mean on or around or in.

Nisrine was also a foreigner, but her name was more common than mine, and it had three sounds, so she still got at least three letters like the Arabs did, whether she wrote her name in Arabic, English, or Indonesian. In Arabic, you could write Nisrine's name two ways, because there were two letters that made the sound ”sri.” With a soft s, these letters were also the root for commerce and purchase. With a deep s, Nisrine's letters formed the root for virtue, and to overcome.

Some days, I felt like my name, a lowly connector. I felt our names were the difference between Nisrine and me: She was a noun and a verb in Arabic. Her name acted and moved and had money, while mine just got stuck in between.

But there is a lightness to love, even when it's not your own. There is camaraderie in waving. She took my hand. Adel stood on one side, we stood on the other, waving and waving.

Nisrine had once told me about a word that meant maid, and heroine, and moveable house. It was not from her language, it was from her mother's, who came from a different island. But in Nisrine's town, the concept was the same.

”When I was young, when a family wanted to move, the town all got together, picked up the house from its old spot, and set it down in its new one. That was what we called moving. We took our houses with us.”

Nisrine's last house had been moveable. It had been built by her brothers, and migrated to her husband's family after she was married. A moveable house was like a maid's, or a heroine's, heart. It had to be flexible, but strong; to make a place for itself anywhere, no matter the surroundings; for those who counted on it, to always be a home.

”Did you like living in it?”

”Of course, Bea. It was my house.” The one she had lost when a tree fell, before the birth of her child.

She smiled. ”Moveable houses are beautiful, but they are hard, and old-fas.h.i.+oned. A storm comes, you have to get twenty people to sit in it, so it doesn't fall over. There wasn't gla.s.s in our windows, only wood shutters; at night, the bugs blew in. When I go home, I'm going to build a cement house, with cement foundations. That way, my child will know permanence.”

Permanence: cement that doesn't give when a village lifts it.

I had grown up in a cement-foundation house that didn't move; I'd lived in that same house, on those same cement foundations my whole life, and the truth was, I found myself trying to get away from them. I had come here to feel different, because at home, I hadn't felt enough.

Still, I was glad to know Nisrine's house's story. It gave familiar words, new definitions.

A moveable house was one that went with you, that a community came together and lifted.

Community-that which doesn't just force you to stay, but helps you to move forward.

Home-what you take when you go.

I looked at Nisrine, thankful to her for giving me these new meanings to think about.

Foreigners in this city, Nisrine and I each had our dreams; she her house, I my text. I was glad to know about Nisrine's dreams; I was glad not to dream alone.

Out on the rooftop, Adel was still waving. Nisrine sighed, smiled, waved back.

”He's from Allah, Bea. He knew I was all alone here, I had no one.” Though, she had me beside her, my arm in her arm, waving. ”My G.o.d, Allah, sent him down to me.”

THAT EVENING, I read over the story of Qais and Leila, searching for good characters.

Nisrine saw me. ”What are you doing, Bea?”

It was a silly thing. ”Nothing, studying.”

But, she watched my finger, how it stopped over certain people-Leila's mother, her sisters.

Nisrine asked, ”Have you heard of the shepherd?”

I had heard of the shepherd. He met Qais after he was exiled to the desert, and helped him find water.

”He did more than that,” Nisrine said. ”He cared for Qais and became his friend. Some say he's the one who kept Qais's poems, and later made them famous.”

”Really?”

”Yes, you should look into it.”

A keeper of poems. It wasn't like being Leila. Still.

”Maybe I will.”

UNREST.

IN THE NIGHT, there were gunshots. In Madame's apartment, we all jumped. Baba rushed to the window to look, but he couldn't see anything. He ran out and opened the door, which led to a hall without windows. The neighbors were also at their doors. We all stood at our doors in the apartment hallway, talking about the gunshots, and whether this meant there were antigovernment protests. There were rumors of a takeover.

Madame herded us all onto the sofa in the living room and boiled water for tea. On the radio there wasn't talk of the gunshots. There was a special on the life and times of a famous poet.

Baba said, ”I'm going to look around.”

”Outside?” Madame asked. ”Stay with us, Ha.s.san. It's dark outside. You can't even see.”

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