Mothballs by Alia Mamadouh

gave her the finest grains and the freshest vegetables, the whitest sugar, the purest rice, and shelled lentils. They put all her groceries in clean bags and sent them after her. She did not have to pay the price of all she bought, nor did they put her name on their list.
    She paid on the first of every month. She was never late, and never haggled or procrastinated. She hated debt:
    â€œGod does not want any of us in debt to another. Debt shortens your life and blinds your eye.” At her breast I mixed her good with my evil.
    I gave voice to all my sorrows and dreams, and never feared any punishment from her.
    I might disguise myself in other clothes, but to her my bones did not lie; my soul could not deceive, and my head would not bow.
    â€œDear Huda, she just kisses you, and has never once told us ‘I love you.’ ”
    â€œNo one knows my Huda as I do. God keep you and keep evil far away from you. Now come iron my clothes – tomorrow I’m going to the General Retirement Directorate.”
    Idid not know what this end of the month would bring. But my grandmother, my father’s sister, and my father knew very well. My grandmother dressed up in her best clothes and combed her hair carefully. We brought her a large basin of hot water and the wide wooden comb that she pulled through her fine, flowing locks.
    â€œEvery day a hair falls out of my head. That’s all because of sorrow.” She switched her eyeglasses with the old black round frames for her gold-rimmed ones. We knew all these rituals from previous days. Everything was familiar; the new cloak came out of the bundle and was ironed, along with the only silk dress, with its design of graceful trees. It was ironed last. The high-heeled slippers were taken out of their box hidden in the bottom of the closet. That night my grandmother was transformed into a princess. Everyone was waiting for her blessings, her gifts and money. The General Retirement Directorate in the crowded Baghdad neighbourhood of Bab al Mu’azzam was waiting for her.
    When we set out for school in the morning, we knew that the retirement pension had been distributed. There was a chicken in golden gravy and red rice, fried aubergine, and plates of radishes, cucumbers, mint and lettuce placed all over the serving platter. There was a tall pitcher of fresh laban. The delicious smell of the cooking made me raise my voice. In school I told Firdous, “We have chicken and red rice at our house. You love it – come and eat with us.”
    We did not have one time for dinner and another for lunch. We ate when we were hungry. We knew that money was scarce. Our father gave a share, and our grandmother had to provide the rest. With this and that, we had curdled cream for breakfast every day. We had eggs once a week. My father’s sister arranged all the vegetables on the platter, saying, “These vegetables purify the blood. Look at your face, how sallow it is.”
    We wanted more blood, whether pure or foul. It was not important, knowing that my mother’s blood was infected.
    I was not afraid of my grandmother’s stories about her. Despite her absences and coughing, to me she still seemed young and strong, and alittle older than my father’s sister.
    Whenever I asked my grandmother how old my mother was, she laughed and answered, “By God, I don’t know. When she married your father she was in her twenties. She came from Aleppo with her brothers and her mother. Her father died when she was a girl. Her brother Shafiq was a doctor at the clinic in Karbala. He was quiet and gentle. Your grandmother did not let him enjoy life. She was strong, and had a sour disposition, God rest her soul. She always said, ‘My son is a doctor and I must marry him off to a woman with money.’ God rest his soul, he listened to her and worried that she’d get upset with him. Shafiq died a sudden death, before he turned forty.” “And my Uncle