Scheherazade, Sami wrote in black ink on Sarah’s arm.
‘Does that mean you’ll cut off my head if I don’t keep telling you stories?’
He kissed her wrists and held her close under the cover.
‘No, tell me more.’
‘So, Nizar’s second marriage was to an Iraqi woman called Balqis.’ Sarah lowered her voice. ‘She was the love of his life.’
During the civil war in Lebanon, however, she was killed in a bomb attack at the Iraqi embassy in Beirut. Nizar never fully recovered from Balqis’ death. He wrote a poem to express his grief and anger, a furious accusation hurled at the entire Arab world, which the poet felt was to blame for her death.
‘Will you write a poem if something happens to me?’ Sami asked.
‘Don’t be silly. The civil war is long gone. We’ll have a peaceful life with lots of kissing and reading and…’
‘Let’s put the book away.’
* * *
—
When Sami heard Sarah talking, he realized poetry didn’t have to have anything to do with words. It was a way of viewing the world, a way of creating patterns and meaning. Of making visible what was hidden. In this way, it was what he felt for Sarah: as if the world had more colours and sharper contours, and the air was clearer to breathe.
9
THE SNOW WAS melting on the streets and showed traces of the New Year’s celebrations. The first holiday from university had passed and Sami lingered in the kitchen, waiting for his siblings to leave.
‘By the way,’ Sami said when he was alone with Samira, ‘I’m bringing a friend here tomorrow.’
‘Oh lovely. Who is it? Someone I know?’
‘Oh, just a friend. I study with her sometimes.’
‘I understand,’ Samira said and dried her hands on a towel.
‘It’s not like that. Don’t make a big deal of it,’ he said and grabbed his backpack.
‘Of course not. No big deal. Tell your friend she is very welcome.’
* * *
—
The next day, Sami and Sarah walked home together, sometimes crossing each other’s steps to get the other one to trip. As they approached al-Hamidiyah, he pointed out Nassim’s store and told her about the bird he and his sister had tried to save on the roof terrace.
‘Watch out for the bowls,’ Sami said as they walked up the stairs. ‘Mum likes to feed the cats.’
He hadn’t been nervous before, but when he opened the door he understood that it wouldn’t be as relaxed as he hoped. Samira must have heard their voices from the open window and was already waiting in the hall. Because they were at home, she had taken off her hijab and braided her hair. She had also put on the gold earrings, bracelet and necklace Nabil had given her as wedding gifts – not that she thought her son would notice the subtle gesture.
Samira embraced Sarah and kissed her three times, as if they were good friends who hadn’t seen each other for a long time. Behind his mum stood his sister.
‘Hiba. I didn’t think you would be home today.’
‘Well, surprise.’ His sister turned to Sarah with a broad smile. ‘So nice to finally meet you. My brother has talked so warmly about his good friend.’
Sami gave his sister a look but she pretended not to notice.
‘Thank you. He’s talked a lot about you as well.’
‘Only good things, I hope. What dialect is that? You’re not from Homs, are you?’
‘No, I’m from Damascus,’ Sarah admitted.
‘The city or the countryside?’ Samira asked.
And with that, the hearing had begun.
‘What’s your surname? Do you come from a big family? What do your parents do? Any sisters and brothers?’
The women led Sarah into the living room and left Sami in the hallway, and he felt bad that he hadn’t warned her.
‘You do plan to finish university, don’t you? Education is so important for any young woman of today…’
One hour later, Samira held out the plate with cookies and Sarah said she had had enough, which made Sami’s mum insist a second and then a third time, until she finally gave in. Samira looked pleased and said that maybe the young friends wanted to spend some time alone.
* * *
—
‘That was terrible,’ Sami sighed when they got into his room and closed the door. ‘Sorry you had to go through that. How do you feel?’
‘They were very kind and caring,’ Sarah said.
‘A bit too caring, no? If it’s not the regime spying and prying, it’s our own family.’
‘Really, that was nothing. Wait till you meet my mum and dad.’
She sat down on his bed and looked around his room.
‘Want to watch a movie?’ he asked.
They got themselves comfortable on the bed and Sarah chose a movie on his computer. But they only got as far as the opening credits when there was a light knock on the door, and there was Malik.
‘What are you watching? Please can I watch too?’
And before Sami had time to answer, his little brother had squeezed himself in between them. His mum had surely sent him – the sticky lollipop in his mouth was a bribe.
* * *
—
University meant the beginning of something new, and not only thanks to Sarah. Sami realized that computers, like poetry, were also a way of organizing the world. Together with his friend Rasheed, Sami decided to start his own business. The idea was simple: they would set up their own ADSL network in Homs. Granted, the government had a monopoly on the internet, but they were going to start small enough not to draw any attention.
Rasheed was Syrian but had grown up in Germany and moved back to Homs a few years earlier. To do business, he said. He dressed in a pale linen suit and made sure they had a modern office with green plants, an ice machine and air-conditioning. They complemented each other. Where Sami preferred solving the technical challenges, Rasheed was the extrovert who talked to customers and made business contacts. He had a round friendly face and a good way with people. It worked well most of the time, but Rasheed, who had wanted to escape German bureaucracy, hadn’t yet grasped the hidden bureaucracy of his home country.
‘Why do we have to pay those two people at the electrical state office?’ Rasheed asked once again. ‘My mum has good enough contacts.’