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City of Sparrows(3)
Author: Eva Nour

   The jumper was yellow and black with two penguins on the front. Sami wore it every day, until he went to a classmate’s birthday party and someone called him an egg yolk. That made the jumper lose some of its charm, but the penguins still captivated him. His dream was to one day travel to a permanently cold place with snow and ice – his older brother talked about exotic places like Svalbard and Antarctica. He imagined the cold did something to the people there, that it created a silent mutual understanding. They dressed in thick jackets and blew smoke rings and had a common enemy, namely the biting winds. He figured there would exist a deep bond between humans and animals there. So long as you respected each other’s habits and didn’t act unpredictably, you could live side by side. Penguins would waddle about, polar bears would hunt seals, seals would dive into their holes in the ice in search of fish. And he for his part would live in an igloo, staring himself blind at the white landscape.

   ‘Hey, egg yolk, what are you staring at?’

   The girl next door pulled his jumper. She pulled so hard the sleeve ripped. Samira offered to fix it but Sami said there was no point. The fabric had faded after many years of use anyway. By this time his mother was wearing a headscarf every day, careful to push in any stray wisps of chestnut hair. Like Sami with his yellow jumper, she never explained why she stopped wearing it the way she had before. She only said it felt more comfortable.

 

* * *

 

   —

   His mother seemed to feel guilty about the white duck and gave Sami a calligraphy set. The sharpened edge of the wooden pen was dipped in black ink and scratched across the paper. He slowly moved from right to left, letter by letter. His siblings each received a sign with their name on to put on the door of their room.

   First, he wrote his brother’s name, Ali, who was the oldest and tallest of the three. Sami looked up to him. When he walked, his tanned arms were in constant motion, as though he were restless or on his way somewhere important. Ali didn’t like being told what to do. He was sociable, well-liked and always surrounded by friends, who didn’t even seem to notice he had a stutter. He did well in school but it was not his first priority. That was why he got into so many arguments with their father. Nabil believed people should apply themselves and work hard, and, for some mysterious reason, that precluded spending a lot of time with friends.

   Sami wrote Hiba’s name in smaller script on his own sign because they shared a room. They played and fought almost all the time. He didn’t think of her as different but was aware something separated them. He could tell from the way their father gave Hiba, but not his sons, little presents, like jewellery and sweets. When Sami pointed that out, Nabil asked if he was a girl. It was the same thing when Hiba was allowed an extra hour of computer games.

   ‘Are you a girl? No, well, there you go then.’

   The computer had been a compromise in the family. Their father had also agreed to have a TV, so long as they put the remote in a plastic case to protect it from dust. For Nabil, the radio would have been enough. He listened with his chair turned to face the set, claiming he could hear better when he saw where the sound was coming from. Their father worked at the train station and had little time for newfangled things. The railroad was a remnant of another era. Most people drove between cities; tourists and the odd commuter were the only ones who chose the train. Sometimes Sami went with his father to work. A white-haired man with a watch chain in his waistcoat would cycle up to the rails and turn the tracks when a train was approaching. Automated switches and the internet, what were those things? Nothing but a fad.

   In the end, their father let them talk him into buying a computer. He had grown up in less affluent circumstances and wanted his children to have what he hadn’t. Samira sided with the children and was used to having her way. Her strong will had come in useful when she and Nabil had first met and fallen in love. Her family were better off and considered more cultured, and required a good deal of convincing before they approved the marriage.

   Not long after the wedding – perhaps not long enough – Ali was born. A couple of years later, Hiba arrived. His parents had grown blasé with two children before Sami, their relatives would say, and that was why there were no baby pictures of him. In his first photograph, he was six and dressed in the black-and-yellow penguin jumper.

   ‘That’s because our parents found you in the street,’ Hiba said at the dinner table once.

   Sami ran into his room and pulled his quilt cover over his head, pretending he was hiding underneath all the rivers and deserts and hills his country contained. He knew Hiba was lying but he couldn’t be completely sure. Maybe something about him was different, maybe he didn’t belong? A corner of the cover was lifted and Hiba’s cat-like eyes squinted down at him.

   ‘I was just kidding, you’re my brother.’ She pointed to three white dots next to the thumb on his left hand. ‘Look, this is where I bit you when you were little.’

   Sami followed his sister back into the kitchen so as not to miss dessert. When they gathered around the table, their father said they needed him to write one more sign. Samira stroked Nabil’s back, and he returned her smile and gently put a hand on her belly.

   ‘Is it true?’ Hiba gasped. ‘Are we getting a little brother?’

   Sami muttered silently, looked down and scratched his spoon against the plate.

 

 

3


   A COOL BREEZE wafted around his ankles when Sami put his feet down on the floor. He checked that the envelope was in the outer pocket of his new backpack, a gift from when he turned twelve last month, and felt a thrill of anticipation in the pit of his stomach. He even beat Hiba into the shower and didn’t have to worry about the hot water.

   No one seemed to notice that Sami wasn’t touching his breakfast. Samira was busy pitting black olives, asking Hiba about her chemistry homework and reminding Ali to pick up the chocolate cake on his way home from school. It was 1999 and that evening they were celebrating Malik’s first birthday. Malik, who was at that moment smearing hummus all over the kitchen table while screaming for attention, his cheeks a deep red. Sami felt he resembled a pet more than a new sibling.

   Sami crept into the hallway and noticed that his grandpa Faris was already standing in front of the oval gold-framed mirror next to the mahogany chest of drawers. Half of him was in shadow; a ray of sunlight across his face lit up one cheek, his strong nose, a thick moustache that hid his top lip and his wavy raven hair, similar to Nabil’s, which made him look like one of the Roman statues at the national museum. He spent at least fifteen minutes in front of the mirror every morning in the quest for a perfect side-parting.

   ‘Would you like a couple of drops?’

   Sami’s friends used hair gel but he preferred hair oil. It was fragrance-free and smooth to the touch and had an aura of elegance, which probably sprang more from Grandpa Faris than the oil itself. He was wearing pressed suit trousers, a snow-white shirt and patent leather shoes. His cane was made of walnut and specially ordered from Aleppo. Walking with Grandpa Faris was like being out with a celebrity. He said hello to his neighbours, asked about sick relatives, girlfriends and newborn babies, smiled at clever anecdotes, dispensed advice to people who found themselves in a pickle and listened whenever anyone needed to vent.

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