LiBeirut
lent me a month ago. She leafed through the book with her right hand
as she lit up with her left. “So, what did you think?”
“Oh, I didn’t get around to reading it, maybe I’ll borrow it again
some other time.”
Without a change in expression or tone, she threw it at me, “Bring
it back when you’ve read it.”
“This day won’t end,” I said, attempting to change the subject as
I stuffed the book back in my bag, my embarrassed face wanting to
follow.
“Tell me about it, woke up at four. Not sure who, but one of the
neighbors decided it’d be good to play music that early. That bastard is
ruining Umm Kulthum for me . . .”
“Really? I’m glad I couldn’t hear it. Though I didn’t really sleep last
night.”
“Let’s do something tonight. How about it? We can sneak into Abu
Mazen’s vineyard. Yasser tells me he can see missiles with his binoculars
over there. ‘Like shooting stars’ he says.”
“He’s lying, there’s no fighting nearby, no way he’d see anything.
We would’ve heard it.”
“I guess so. We should go, though.”
“Sure . . .”
“Hey, did you know Khalil’s family moved away?”
“Brazil, I think.” We talked about it last month. “I don’t know
Spanish,” he complained to me. “They speak Portuguese,” I replied.
“Same difference,” he retorted. “You can learn.” “I know some French,
why can’t we go to France?” “I don’t think the one semester of French
you spent half of asleep will do you much good.” He tried to hide it,
but I saw his eyes well up.
Rania took a deep drag. “I wonder where we’ll go. If we’re moving,
we should instruct our parents to move together.”
Many families emigrated. Most are too poor, though; some are simply too stubborn. A few are delusional enough to believe no harm will
touch them. I wanted to leave. To my knowledge, Mom and Dad never
discussed plans to, and I’d say Mom would fall under the too stubborn
category. My suspicions regarding Aleppo still stood, however.
“Maybe, I don’t know,” I finally sighed.
“If Dad says no I’ll have a talk with Mama Noor and she’ll settle it.”
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