The White Zone Page 4

Talib had noticed the dark brown splatters on Baba’s pant legs. He gripped the edges of his chair, feeling as though another distant rumble was passing through the earth.

  Mama passed a basket filled with large round sheets of bread.

  Watching her ladle soup into the bowls, he hardly cared that she’d made his favorite dish—pacha, soup made of lamb’s head. The fragrant smell did nothing to lift his spirits. “What’s left of the mosque?” he asked Baba.

  “Part of the dome crumbled. The minaret fell too. But most is intact.”

  When Baba handed him the basket of bread, Talib tore off a big piece. He held it for comfort, the warmth entering him. “What about the writing? What about the verses from the Koran?” he asked.

  “The writing wasn’t damaged.”

  “Praise be to Allah,” said Talib and Mama in unison.

  As Talib put a bit of bread in his mouth, he had a tiny doubt, a wondering so small it merely tickled: whose God was Allah? Whose side was he on? On the side of the Sunnis—the side of his relatives?

  A Sunni, like his mother, had bombed Buratha. A Sunni like half of him.

  Talib wondered if the Sunni martyr had gone straight to Paradise, as Allah promised. But that implied that Allah was happy that the mosque had been attacked. How could this be? Was Allah the God of only the Sunnis?

  If so, where did that leave his Shiite cousins? Where did it leave Baba?

  Talib swallowed the bite of bread. The tickle was expanding into a mass of questions.

  If Allah loved the Sunnis, then why did he allow Sunni mosques to be destroyed? Why did he let Shiite martyrs kill Sunnis?

  Was Allah on neither side? Did Allah just stand back and watch the destruction?

  Talib didn’t understand.

  “I stopped to help clean up some of the rubble,” Baba said. “Just for a short time. I’ll go again tomorrow.”

  “Can I help too?” asked Talib.

  Baba shook his head. “That’s not work for a boy your age.”

  “I’m strong enough!” Talib protested.

  Baba shook his head again. “It’s not physical strength I’m talking about. There are things you’re too young to see.”

  Talib dipped his bread in the soup. Baba was wrong. He could handle it. So far he’d kept the secret of being kicked out of school, and of the Abdullah family’s departure.

  Mama turned on the radio and the announcer’s voice filled the kitchen: “A mob of gunmen went on a rampage through a Sunni district, pulling people from their cars and homes and killing them. It seems this violence was to avenge the bombing of the Buratha Mosque on Friday. . . .”

  Mama sighed. “We’re lucky such things aren’t happening here.”

  “Fatima,” Baba glanced at Talib, then lowered his voice, “I’m afraid it is.” He looked toward the kitchen window and dropped his voice still more. “The other day when I was walking home from the bus stop, I saw a group of Shiites at the door of the Abdullah home. My brother Murtadha was the one knocking on the door.”

  “The Abdullah family has left town,” Talib said. “Gone to Anbar.”

  Mama sucked in her breath.

  “A rock was thrown through their window.”

  Mama cried out, while Baba stared into his bowl of soup.

  “And I can’t go to school anymore,” Talib added.

  “Why not?” Mama asked in a small voice.

  “Sunnis aren’t allowed anymore.”

  Baba pounded the table with his fist, but lightly, so that Mama’s dishes didn’t rattle too much. “I’ll go talk to them.”

  “It won’t do any good. It’s a security issue, my teacher said.”

  Mama laid a hand on Baba’s arm. “Should we move to Anbar?” she asked.

  “We can’t. I need to be close to Mutanabbi Street,” Baba replied. “Otherwise, I have no work.”

  Talib studied his fingertips through the hem of the white lace tablecloth. Things were changing too fast.

  Even life under a dictator had been better than this.

  Talib lifted his soup bowl and drank from it, choking down small pieces of lamb. If his cousins caught him thinking like that about Saddam Hussein, they’d call him a Sunni traitor.

  If only things could be normal again. He felt an urge to run outside and summon his cousins for a game of war. He wanted to shout and jump with them, as if only the playing mattered. But nothing felt like just a game anymore.

  ONE, TWO, THREE!

  By the light of the half moon, Nouri spotted the figures of Jalal and Anwar. They were waiting for him by the abandoned candy store, as planned.

  Ever since the bombing of Buratha, Nouri’s heart had burned like a hot coal. He had never felt so on fire as now, as he thought about what he was about to do.

  The bombing of Buratha brought him closer to the bombing that had killed A’mmo Hakim. It made him feel closer to A’mmo himself. Had he been reaching for his favorite fruit—shiny tangerines—when the bicycle loaded with explosives went off? Had he died instantly, or had he suffered? Had A’mmo been carried on a stretcher like those Nouri had seen on television?

  Carefully, he’d selected the rock—big enough to do the job, but not too big to throw. He’d written the note and wrapped it around the rock. The paper was damp from his sweaty hands.

  When he reached his cousins, Jalal was whispering to Anwar, “Just think of it like throwing a stone at a pigeon. It’s no different.”

  “But what if we get caught?” Anwar whispered back at him.

  “We won’t,” Nouri said, without bothering to lower his voice. Maybe these two were too young after all. Maybe he shouldn’t have invited them along.

  He led his cousins through the shadows, avoiding the glare of the moonlight. Once they were startled by a cat jumping down from a wall, scattering loose stones.

  At last they arrived at Talib’s low wall. Anwar made a foothold with his clasped hands and Nouri stepped up.

  Jalal danced back and forth.

  “Stop that!” Nouri ordered, his voice a hiss.

  No light was on in the house. Nouri found Talib’s bedroom window glittering in the moonlight.

  Anwar groaned and shifted his hands.

  One, Two, Three! Nouri chanted to himself. Then he hurled the rock.

  It traveled in slow motion, the white paper catching the moonlight. The rock traveled in a slight arc—traveling in memory of A’mmo Hakim—before smashing into its target.

  At the sound of the shattering, Anwar released his grip and Nouri fell to the ground.

  THE FIRST WARNING

  CRASH!

  The noise split the night. As Talib sat up, he heard a tinkling sound. When he touched his blanket, his hand met cold shards of glass. His heart pounded like a basketball.

  He heard the sound of running footsteps.

  Mama, then Baba, ran to the doorway. Baba flipped the light switch out of habit, but there was no electricity at night anymore.

  “Don’t move, Talib!” Mama shouted. “There’s glass everywhere!”

  Cold air drifted through the hole, along with a flood of moonlight. Talib stared into the white-lit room until he spotted the rock.

  “Don’t step on the glass,” warned Baba. “I’ll put on shoes and sweep it up.”

  Waiting, Talib looked closer at the rock. He noticed that it had a piece of paper wrapped around it. He jerked back the covers, and in spite of Mama’s wails and the glass cutting his feet, marched over to the rock. He reached for it, removed the sheet of paper, and, by moonlight, read,

  [This is the first warning].

  Baba returned in his shoes, and the three of them stood in the white light of the moon, reading and rereading the words.

  Mama began to cry softly. Baba said a bad word.

  Talib threw the note down. He meant to cast it far away. But instead, the paper just lazily floated to his feet.

  Baba swept the room, chasing the glass into a corner, muttering more bad words.

  Mama led Talib to
the bathroom, the only room without windows.

  She lit an oil lamp and as the flame sputtered, she tweezed the glass from Talib’s feet.

  While she bandaged his cuts, Talib, guts twisting, tried to remember what his cousins’ handwriting looked like.

  . . .

  A fierce sandstorm blew in from the desert and for days, everyone stayed locked inside. The sky grew as brown as a glass of tea. Sand seeped into the cracks, covering everything with grit. The wind howled like a battle cry.

  Sand blasted through Talib’s broken window even though Baba covered it with a piece of cardboard and taped it tight. Talib started sleeping on the floor of his parents’ room.

  He felt as though the sand was hitting his heart, chafing it.

  . . .

  In their isolation, Talib read Baba’s book about the boy climbing a mountain. The boy was seeking treasure. Reading by the light of the kerosene lamp, Talib took turns imagining himself at the dark mouth of a mountain cave and looking hopelessly out at the relentless blast of sand. The entire desert was hurtling itself against their windows.

  Mama set down a glass of tea for Baba. Wiping her hands on her apron, she joined him at the kitchen table. She rested her chin in her hands and said, “We can’t keep living in this neighborhood, Nazar. Talib can’t even go to school anymore.”

  Talib glanced up to see Mama’s face partly lit by the lamp and partly shadowed by the darkness of the kitchen. He slipped a piece of paper in the page of his book. Without school, he wasn’t sure it mattered if he read or not.

  “Yes,” agreed Baba. “Rocks thrown through windows is one thing. Next time it could be a bomb.”

  “What shall we do? What will become of us?” Mama pushed back her head scarf, running her fingers through her long curls.

  “Oh, Fatima.” Baba sighed. He pushed his glass of tea across the table. “Here, you drink this.”

  Mama shook her head.

  “Maybe we could move in with your relatives,” said Baba.

  “That’s too far from Mutanabbi Street,” Mama said, echoing Baba’s earlier words. “Besides,” Mama looked at the floor, “as a Shiite, you might not be welcome.”

  Talib set aside his book. As half Shiite, he wouldn’t be welcome either.

  . . .

  Because of the storm, there was no fresh food. And since mice had found a way into Mama’s emergency stash of lentils, all meals consisted of dry bread and dates.

  The muezzin’s recorded call came through the cry of the storm, punctuating the days with the five sessions of prayer. Because the sand had blasted the jasmine off Mama’s bush, she had no more flowers for her mat. But she still heeded the prayer call with Talib. Even Baba, who didn’t usually pray, joined them as they faced Mecca.

  Praying, Talib’s mind wandered. For as long as he could remember, Talib had measured his days by the muezzin’s call. No matter what came in between the times of prayer, he’d sunk effortlessly into the vast oneness.

  So why had his merciful Allah let the rock fly through the window? And why his window when he joined Allah five times a day without fail?

  He prayed that Allah would drain the well of bitterness from his heart. But questions buzzed like summer flies around his head.

  . . .

  They couldn’t stay in their home, but where could they go? On the third day, shut inside their little apartment, Talib had an idea. He and Baba were sitting at the table, mending books. Placing a piece of tape across a torn page, Talib asked, “What about al-Shatri’s printing shop? He has an extra room.”

  Baba looked at Talib, then back at the spine of a volume of poetry. He nodded slowly. “Mutanabbi Street is a neutral area. Shiites and Sunnis get along there. As soon as this sandstorm is over, you and I will go to al-Shatri and ask.”

  . . .

  Sometime in the night the roar finally quieted. By morning, Talib looked out to see a bloodred sky.

  “Keep the door locked, Mama,” advised Talib as he and Baba prepared to leave.

  “And you two get to the bus stop quickly,” Mama responded.

  “Look!” said Talib, pointing to a large black X painted on their door. He touched the glossy spray paint, the X gritty with red sand. Had someone come during the sandstorm? Or had someone painted this on the night the rock was thrown? Had the X been marking their house—and them—all these days?

  Yellow leaves had been knocked off the trees. Trash littered the streets and sand was piled up against the walls. But it felt good to be out in the sunshine at last.

  When the bus arrived, the brakes screeched so loudly that Talib plugged his ears.

  Passing the mosque, Talib peeked in spite of himself. He saw the broken white onion dome. The once magnificent minaret had been reduced to a stub.

  At Rashid Street they got off and Talib walked by Baba’s side as he turned onto Mutanabbi. They passed the plywood that covered Baba’s shelves of books, but Baba didn’t stop.

  Talib led the way between the tea maker and the seller of silver bracelets. Thick cold lurked in the dark stairway to al-Shatri’s.

  At the top of the stairs, Talib rapped with the knocker. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for his friend’s footsteps.

  Al-Shatri opened the door, his unruly gray hair tucked under a wool cap. “Why, Talib! And Nazar,” he nodded to Baba, “what brings you here?”

  Baba stood a little taller, then cleared his throat. “We have a request to make of you.” He fingered the fringe on his red scarf.

  “A request!” said al-Shatri, opening the door wider. “Before I hear your request, let’s drink tea together.” The printer brought three stools close to the kerosene stove. “That was a nasty sandstorm, no?”

  Talib scooted his stool closer. The tiny flame of the stove looked warm.

  Soon they each held a glass of hot tea.

  When the glasses were empty and fresh tea poured, Talib told al-Shatri about the rock and its warning.

  Al-Shatri arched his gray eyebrows.

  “You heard, I’m sure,” said Baba, “about what the Shiite militias did in that neighborhood.”

  Al-Shatri nodded. “It’ll just bring more retaliation.”

  Baba twisted his glass between his big hands. “My wife and I worry that such violence could come to Karada as well.”

  “That could be true,” said al-Shatri. He lifted his tea to his lips, his hand shaking slightly.

  Talib couldn’t stand the suspense. Baba was taking too long to ask! “Can we come live with you?” he burst out. “In your little room?” He gestured toward the closed doorway. “I can help you with the printing. With no school, I’ll have time.”

  Al-Shatri looked at Talib, at Baba, at the closed door, then back at Talib. He wrinkled his forehead and smiled. “Yes, why of course. Anything for friends in need.”

  DRIED LENTILS

  Wrapped in their wool head scarves, Mama and A’mma Hiba sat on the patio, picking the rocks out of a bowl of dried lentils.

  Nouri sat behind the wheel of A’mmo Hakim’s black car. He’d opened the window a crack so the glass wouldn’t fog up with his breath. Earlier, he’d dusted off the red grime of the sandstorm. Soon he’d get a rag and clean out the sand that had gotten inside.

  “Nazar’s family is leaving,” said Mama, pinching something out of the lentils with her long red fingernail.

  Slowly, Nouri rolled the window all the way down. He held himself motionless, listening, the vinyl seat smooth at his back.

  “Maybe they’ll go to Syria. Lots of people do.”

  “My husband’s relatives went there.”

  “But Syria is a long way. . . .”

  The lentils clattered gently in the pot. A tiny stone bounced across the courtyard.

  Nouri gripped the steering wheel tighter. Was Talib’s family really leaving? He’d just wanted to scare his cousin, make him uncomfortable. He hadn’t really thought he’d drive them away.

  If Baba knew that his brother’s family was going away be
cause of him, what might Baba do?

  Nouri shuddered.

  “We should say good-bye,” said A’mma Hiba.

  “But others will see us doing so. We might be in danger,” Mama whispered.

  “What about the friendship between the boys?” A’mma’s voice rose into the cold afternoon.

  Mama sighed.

  With his fingertip, Nouri drew two stick figures on the dusty dashboard. One had Talib’s curls, the other had his own straight hair. He drew the figures close together. What had he done?

  A SMALL WAVE

  Dusty sunshine washed over Talib as he opened the door. The cold air smelled of gunpowder, vehicle exhaust, and Mama’s bush of jasmine flowers. The fronds of the blue-green palms were stiff against the sky.

  An engine idled while a taxi driver leaned against the fender, smoking cigarette after cigarette, his arms crossed.

  Mama had packed up the bedding, clothes, a few dishes, and Talib’s schoolbooks. She’d boxed up Baba’s rare books, and the photographs of Talib’s grandparents. Into her purse, she tucked the pearl necklace and cuff links that she and Baba had worn at their wedding.

  As Talib carried bundles to the taxi, anger pounded through him. The home he’d always lived in was being torn apart. So much had to be left behind: Mama’s pretty tea glasses that he’d closed his fingers around so many times, his bed with the horse carved into the headboard, the chessboard and its heavy marble pieces.

  When Talib picked up his gun made from the whittled branch, Baba said, “You can’t take that.”

  “Let him have it, Nazar,” said Mama. “He’s losing so much.”

  Talib saw Mama’s friend, Batool, watching from the window. He saw old al-Marzooq with his bushy white hair. He turned around to see Malik al-Korashi who lived above them. These people had been neighbors for years, but none came out to say good-bye. None even waved.

  Furthermore, there was no sign of Baba’s relatives. The night before, Baba had gone to A’mma Maysoon’s house. When he’d returned, he’d kicked the door closed.

  “What happened?” Mama had asked.

  “I gave them formal notice that we were leaving.”