When Sami had turned eleven, he was allowed to sit in the driver’s seat and start the engine. The first few times, he just started the car and touched the buttons and switches, and at one point Nabil mentioned how clean the windscreen always was. When he was twelve, he tried the different gears. When he was thirteen, he slowly drove forward and reversed inside the garage. When he was fourteen, he rolled out into the driveway, continued down the street, turned and drove back. And now, at fifteen, he was a confident driver.
* * *
—
When Ali finally bought a car of his own, Sami took his place at the steering wheel of their dad’s Volvo. As soon as the Kassandra theme music came on, Sami got up and went into the hallway. Rumour spread among his friends and they all asked for a ride. They rarely had anywhere to go so they drove into the city centre, talked to some girls who worked at an ice cream café and drove back.
One day after returning the car to the garage, Sami noticed a scratch all along the back. After dialling the wrong number a couple of times out of panic, he heard Muhammed’s drowsy voice.
‘What shade of grey?’ Muhammed said, as though he were waiting in his teenage room with a palette of greys, poised and ready to swoop in and buff up unexpected scratches on people’s fathers’ cars.
‘How should I know? Do you have more than one?’
‘No.’
‘Khalas, then why are you asking?’
Within the hour, Muhammed knocked on the garage door. He let out a low whistle, shoved his hands in his pockets and studied the scratch. In that pose, he looked thin and lanky like a weathervane, aside from his mop of curls. He hunched down, licked his finger and pulled it over the scuffed paint.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Prepping. The water has a healing effect.’ Muhammed stood up straight, pushing his glasses up his freckled nose. ‘It’ll cost you,’ he said.
‘I’ll let you drive it,’ Sami replied. ‘And as a bonus, I’ll buy you Pepsi.’
‘I prefer Coca-Cola,’ Muhammed said.
‘Deal.’
They shook on it and Muhammed opened the jar of paint. He was the one who usually found them a way out of trouble. The one thing Muhammed didn’t like was being stressed, so Sami kept a few steps back, listening for footsteps at the garage door. Only when Muhammed had finished and wiped away a couple of paint splashes from his glasses was Sami allowed to examine the result.
Sami slept fitfully that night. In his dreams, grey, viscous raindrops started falling. The sky rumbled with thunder and the ground shook. Sami opened his eyes and realized it was his dad, shaking him.
‘My son, what have you done?’
‘I was sleeping.’
‘You know what I mean. Yesterday I had an accident with the car. I drove too close to our neighbour’s mailbox and scratched the back. But now the scratch is gone!’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Are you sure? Maybe I’m just getting old and forgetful…’
That settled it. His dad still didn’t suspect that Sami borrowed his car, and so he continued to use it. To keep his promise to his friend, Muhammed was given the chance to drive, but he frowned and said the city traffic stressed him out. Instead he sat in the passenger seat and picked the music, usually American rock or metal.
At the time, in 2002, they didn’t know that metal would be banned a few years later. Maybe it had always been illegal, prohibited by some lurking legislative paragraph, but if so, the law had never been enforced before. It wasn’t only listening to or owning the music that was forbidden, just looking as though you liked rock was suspicious. A guy in their school was arrested for having an earring, unwashed hair down to his shoulders and a tattered denim vest.
Was it that the lyrics were considered subversive and likely to instigate civil unrest? Who knew.
The concerts might have been the problem. Gathering in groups was only allowed under certain circumstances, such as during the annual manifestation in support of President Bashar al-Assad, who had taken over at the turn of the millennium after his father died. People got signed attendance sheets to prove they had participated, and were given pictures of the father of the nation. Many praised the new president, not least Sami’s dad.
‘Things are going to change for the better now,’ Nabil said.
‘I thought you were happy with things the way they were,’ Sami said.
‘Yes, but now they are going to be even better.’
* * *
—
Sami’s teenage years were about walking a fine line between different sets of expectations. Because he did well in tests in school, he was expected to raise his hand and choose the advanced courses. He won the calligraphy competition in their district, writing excerpts from the Quran and other poetic verses in different, ornate styles. Afterwards, all the teachers recognized him in the hallways, said hello and told him he should sign up for future calligraphy competitions.
Instead, he joined a boxing club. He punched mitts and sandbags for a couple of months, until his coach suggested he start competing. That made him quit boxing, too.
When Muhammed asked if he wanted to split a bottle of wine, he usually said yes. Before going home, he chewed a couple of coffee beans.
‘What’s that?’ Samira said when she kissed his cheek at the door.
‘Just a new kind of gum.’
‘Is that right?’
Sami engaged in other everyday protests too. For the most part, it was enough that he knew about them. The challenge lay in exuding enough confidence and compliance to get away with overstepping certain boundaries. In creating a pocket of freedom in the unfreedom. Like keeping a rock album under your mattress. Like borrowing your dad’s car without asking.
6
HE LONGED TO be older, but the growing itself was an unpleasant process. His body shot up, his voice made involuntary backflips and he slept like a hibernating animal. In the mornings, he borrowed Hiba’s concealer to cover the worst spots on his face. At least until his father caught him in the act.
‘Are you putting on makeup, my son?’
Makeup was on the long list of products that were not suitable for men. So was moisturizer, and electric razors.
‘Real men use straight razors,’ Nabil said.
‘You’ve seen too many cowboy movies, Dad.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing. Can I borrow yours?’
Samira exploited Sami’s new height in her weekly cleaning. They began every Sunday morning by turning off the power. Then the furniture was carried outside and the rooms doused with water. Walls, ceilings and floors, everything was washed and scrubbed. Afterwards the water was poured away down the floor drain, but only once it had cooled down, so as not to awaken the evil spirits. Hiba teased their mother for believing in jinn, but at the same time it did seem stupid to risk it. Especially since it was said the spirits could take any shape they wanted: trees, animals or humans. How would you be able to tell where they might be?