Part 27 (2/2)

One whose mother refused Madame, but he wouldn't have anyone else, so he didn't marry for two years.

One who had an old wife already and just wanted children.

Oh, the tedium! Like dust, it climbed the walls, sat in the hall, in the locked door we kept waiting for Baba to open. Waiting, we lost our sense of connection. We did ch.o.r.es to pa.s.s the time. To keep up appearances, we washed Baba's pants and hung them on the balcony to dry, as if he still needed them.

Small people, small battles.

Madame said, ”I told you it would be warmer today,” and in her voice was satisfaction. ”You want me to put your sweater inside for you, Bea?”

”No, I can do it.”

It was the time I usually met with Imad.

Madame looked at the kitchen clock. ”No lesson today?”

”No.”

”Good, stay here with us. I'll take you to the National Library.”

Madame told all of us to dress, even Nisrine. With all that had happened, we could not leave her behind in the house. There was a flurry not to be the last one ready. We got down the children's good shoes from their boxes in the closet, and looked for gifts to give the librarian. Madame searched for the perfume I once gave her.

”You said the librarian was a woman, Bea?”

There were six of us ready at the door, which was the number Madame's family had been before they gained me, and we were all in our outdoor skirts and outdoor jeans, even Nisrine. For this event, she had taken off her pajamas. We crowded into the elevator, talking and giggling, and pushed the b.u.t.tons over and over. We hadn't gone on an outing like this before, it was an adventure.

On the way down, we talked about car bombs. Madame said, ”Who'll start Baba's car for us?”

Abudi was a big boy, almost ten. He volunteered.

Madame wouldn't let him. ”You're too short,” she told him. ”You have to be taller than the dashboard.”

We walked out of the elevator, joking about short Abudi, so Abudi hit Dounia in the chest. He ran back inside and wouldn't come out until Madame went to go get him. While we waited, the rest of us jumped over small puddles the sun made on melted snow. It had gathered under the bushes and beneath the swing set. Dounia jumped in a puddle and splashed Nisrine.

”Dounia!”

The sun shone yellow like summer. She slipped off her coat.

Madame came back with Abudi, and we returned to who was driving.

Not Lema, she wasn't old enough.

Not Madame, Baba never taught her.

Not Nisrine, not me- ”Why not?” Madame asked. ”You drive in America, don't you, Bea?”

For a moment, I thought about car bombs. Then, I thought of the library.

”OK.” I held out my hand for the keys.

We approached the car cautiously. At the curb, Madame told the children to stay back. She wanted me to start the engine alone, in case there really was a bomb inside, she didn't want multiple casualties. ”One's enough!” she joked, toes over the curb, brightly.

I didn't think it was very funny.

I walked over to the car. While I unlocked the door, the children shouted encouragements.

”Don't worry, Bea, Americans are bombproof!”

”Don't worry, Bea. Matt mat. You can join your tutor, he's already dead, haha!”

I sat down and put the key in. ”Here I go,” I said.

At the last minute, Dounia wriggled away from Nisrine, who had been holding her, and ran toward me as I started the ignition-”Dounia!” But it didn't matter, because then Dounia and I were still alive, and the car was running. I drove down the block with the children trailing behind me, joking, no longer worried about bombs.

We began our outing. I was driving, with Madame and Abudi in the front seat, and Dounia and Lema and Nisrine in the back where the sun came down strong, so Lema complained about her complexion. She hid under Dounia's skirt to stop the sun. We rolled down all the windows and hung our arms out. Dounia sang songs in Arabic while the rest of us clapped along.

And, as I gripped the wheel, my fingers tense with excitement, I noticed a similar feeling in Nisrine. She looked around at a city she had seen only from above: the dirty sidewalks, the glittery pavement, the wavy head-sized top of a garden bush. I watched her roll down her window and reach out to those now life-size objects, trying to brush the sides of them as we pa.s.sed. This city was teeming with life and color: purse yellow of the chamomile flowers, deep red of the store awnings, blue of a religious woman's coat. She thrust her head out, opened her arms wide, pushed back her veil to greet it.

”h.e.l.lo, beautiful!” she called. Across the sky, white clouds moved like wings.

In Arabic, the word for freedom is hurriya. I remember first learning this word as a beginning student, and memorizing it by its nearness to the English word ”hurray.”

The joy it brought me.

I had also never seen our city like this. Watching Nisrine, I gained new eyes. We pa.s.sed by lemon trees, a pale fountain. I had never sat in the front seat of a car here; as we drove, the wind lifted our hair to the beat of Dounia's singing. We made our way down the street, hands out the window, and were not stopped by any policemen.

Nisrine said, ”I want always to feel this,” about the wind.

The National Library was gray and foreboding in the sun. Lema, who had never been, took one look and said, ”Bea, are you sure this is where you want to go?”

We traipsed in quietly. At the door, Madame told us to wait while she went up to the desk. She put the perfume we had brought in the front pocket of her purse, ready to give, then started slowly forward.

The rest of us held our breath. When Dounia coughed, Lema put her hand over her mouth. We watched Madame approach the librarian, whose head was bent over a book.

”Excuse me,” Madame said.

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