Sami was responsible for the crystal chandelier in the living room. It was a balancing act that took at least a full hour to complete, standing atop a rickety ladder. Every crystal had to be polished individually. His older brother Ali was too heavy for the ladder, his younger brother Malik too short and Hiba had her hands full with other things.
‘What’s this? Ew…disgusting.’
Sami turned to see his sister holding up a flimsy piece of cloth and making a face.
‘Hey, they are not disgusting. They are perfectly clean.’
‘Could we please not use Sami’s underwear to dust the shelves? Or any other underwear.’
‘Why? You don’t use them any longer,’ Samira said. ‘What should we do with them, throw them in the bin?’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘Do you know how much water a cotton bush needs? Do you know what it would cost to buy cleaning towels every week? Do you want me and your father to grow old and poor?’
‘Mum.’
‘Would you and your brothers prefer if I use them in the quilt and sell it at the market?’
‘OK, OK.’
But before Hiba had time to dip the boxers in water, Malik snatched them from her hand and put them on his head.
‘Guess who I am? An evil jinn who has come to eat you…’
Sami’s little brother walked with his arms out, like a sleepwalking ghost, and before Sami had time to stop him – Hey, careful! – Malik had bumped into the ladder, which swayed dangerously but stayed put.
Around one, they turned the power back on. Sometimes, Sami turned the chandelier on too quickly, to check if he’d missed any spots, and was rewarded with a shock from the damp switch.
‘See, I told you.’
Samira smiled triumphantly, one hand on her hip and the other on the scrubbing brush.
‘Seriously,’ Hiba said. ‘If you’re a spirit and you can live wherever you want, wouldn’t there be better places than drains and electrical outlets?’
* * *
—
At night, Sami was afflicted with another kind of electricity, which had him waking up in the mornings with stains on his sheets. It was as though something took over his body at night, as though it were possessed. His older brother laughed when Sami, mortified, asked if a jinn might be behind it.
‘My brother, you are growing up, that’s all.’
* * *
—
Yes, he grew taller and older, and one day he was offered his first job. He and Muhammed frequented a restaurant where they ate shish tawook, grilled chicken. The big windows had a view of the mosque and a small square with palm trees and water features. Sami’s father was good friends with the owner, Abu Karim, who would sometimes stop by their house for a cup of coffee in the evenings.
Abu Karim always came in a suit, unless it was the weekend, when he wore a long and expensive-looking djellaba under the jacket. He always brought sweets or fruit with him, and praised their well-kept home. Sami didn’t know how his father met Abu Karim, other than that they were colleagues in a state-owned factory in their youth. Nabil had been responsible for clocking in the workers and had covered for Abu Karim when he was late in the mornings.
‘Who would have thought that one day that sleepy boy would become the owner of his own restaurant?’ Nabil joked.
‘But that’s precisely why,’ Abu Karim said. ‘I don’t have to get up early any more – my employees do.’
Samira had tried to get Nabil to think about his health but he couldn’t resist Abu Karim’s baklava from the best bakery in town, baked with thin dough and fresh butter and lovely layers of crushed pistachio and auburn-coloured honey and – Nabil stretched for another one.
‘Take one more, my friend.’
‘Well, if you insist…’
On one occasion they were discussing the restaurant’s finances. Abu Karim told Nabil he had all his papers in order, well, near enough anyway, but that the authorities still weren’t satisfied.
‘Maybe I could help?’ Sami said.
Nabil laughed at his impudence, but let Abu Karim ask him some questions to test his knowledge. At first, his father was flipping through a magazine and stroking his silver moustache, but by and by he started listening attentively, leaning forward in his leather armchair.
‘Where did you learn that?’ Nabil said.
‘School,’ Sami replied.
It was almost true, but he had also had a peek at the books of Ali’s computer shop, which had just opened in the city centre. Overnight, it seemed, his older brother had grown into a mature adult who wore a shirt and tie and talked with Dad about business. Sami felt like it was his turn to step up.
‘Would you like to help me out after school one day a week or so?’ Abu Karim asked.
His father leaned his elbows on the worn knees of his trousers and Sami thought he would say no, that his son was only sixteen and needed to focus on his schoolwork. Instead, he shrugged and smiled at him.
‘So long as your grades don’t suffer.’
The next day, Sami went straight to the restaurant. Downstairs, a magical world of steam, clatter and loud voices opened up. A number of men were moving between hobs and counters. They roasted and fried meat, rinsed lettuce and sliced tomatoes, sifted egg whites through their fingers to save the yolk for mayonnaise. Abu Karim put an arm around Sami’s shoulders and gave him a tour.
When they reached the office, the sounds became muted but the smell of food lingered. The room was sparsely decorated: a huge desk in dark wood, an espresso machine in the corner, and a TV screen showing pictures from the surveillance cameras in the kitchen. Sami thought something was missing, and then realized there was no portrait of the leader on the wall.
The clutter was all hidden under the surface. In the desk drawers, that is. From the top drawer, Abu Karim pulled out a thick wad of receipts from the lunch service. He just had to put the numbers in the columns, here and here. Questions?
When Abu Karim left him alone, Sami realized this was serious. His shirt clung to him and his mouth went dry, then he picked up the topmost receipt and read it. There was a knock on the door and a stranger put his head round.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Accounting,’ Sami said.
The stranger laughed and disappeared. He picked the receipts up one at a time and wrote down what dishes and drinks the customers had bought in one column, the price in the other. As he worked through the pile, he discovered that some receipts were invalid – usually due to the wrong dishes having been entered – so he put them into a separate pile.