door. There
was dog shit along the wall. I climbed the stairs with their crumbling steps and
knocked at the door. My aunt’s daughter opened it. At first I didn’t recognize
her. Her hair was unkempt and scraggly, with many strands of gray. Her eyes were
dull and the skin of her face was brown. From the living room, I looked into the
south-facing room. I went in and said, Where’s the sewing machine you used to
have here? She said, Do you still remember?
Of course I did. It was wintertime, after lunch. My father sat
in the north-facing room with my aunt, looking out at the palace through the
veranda’s window. I went to him, wanting to sit on his lap, but he turned me
away. He said I wasn’t a little boy anymore. I turned back to the living
room and walked through it to my cousin’s room. She sat at the sewing
machine and I watched as she worked the machine with her foot. Look at this,
she said, the string broke at the first stitch. There’s a devil in this
machine. She bent over the machine after a glance in my direction. I turned
toward the window, ears burning. I could see her white face with red cheeks
even as I looked toward the closed window. It was only the glass that was
closed. Beyond it was the sky. Brilliant rays of sun shone through the glass
and lit up the mouth of the well in the garden below. Soon the servant boys
would come and I’d go down with them to pump the water. We would steal a few
flowers and shake the mango tree to no purpose, then run through the
bedrooms and the cellar. This time I would hide from them in a room that was
tucked away and only used during Ramadan, when the sheikhs recited there at
night. When we left that evening my aunt would say goodbye at the door and
turn on the light for the stairs. We would walk down the broad white steps
and over the colored paving stones, open the garden’s squeaky gate and go
out into the wide and noiseless street. I would pick jasmine from the walls
of the gardens. . . . My cousin’s friend said something. She was standing
just in front of the wardrobe’s mirror, putting on lipstick. I wasn’t
looking at her. She was tall with green eyes. She’d only said one thing to
me. When she came into the room she said, Hey. Then she turned to my cousin.
But my cousin was talking to me when she said, Look at this. The little
wardrobe was behind me. Each of its wooden panels was fixed with a bright
mirror. A small brass chime hung from the middle keyhole, so that whenever
the wardrobe was opened it made a pretty ringing sound. Inside the wardrobe
were closed drawers with my cousin’s things arranged in rows. I was happy
because the wardrobe was closed. Without taking my eyes from the window, I
could watch my cousin’s fingers lightly touching the machine’s handle,
making the wheel spin noisily. She bent down, following the fabric as it
moved beneath the needle. Her two braids fell over her chest. Her friend
said to her, Will you ever finish? We’re late. My cousin lifted her head and
our gazes met and then she looked at her friend and said, This is the last
part. I blinked and heard the ring of the small brass chime.
My sister came in and said, The city sewers are overflowing. Then an
old relative of my cousin came in, panting. He could hardly see from behind his
thick glasses. My cousin’s face darkened. The old man said, Give me a shilling
after I have some coffee. He took off his tarboosh and placed it beside him on
the sofa and drank his coffee and then just sat there. My cousin went into her
room and came back and asked if I had any change on me. I didn’t have any
change. They sent the cook to get two shillings for ten piastres. We sat and
waited for him to come back without speaking. Then my cousin gave the old man
his shilling and he got up and put his hat back on and said goodbye and left. My
cousin said, He’s a crafty old man. He only wheezes like that when he comes to
see us. My sister said that he lived with his married son and that
was dog shit along the wall. I climbed the stairs with their crumbling steps and
knocked at the door. My aunt’s daughter opened it. At first I didn’t recognize
her. Her hair was unkempt and scraggly, with many strands of gray. Her eyes were
dull and the skin of her face was brown. From the living room, I looked into the
south-facing room. I went in and said, Where’s the sewing machine you used to
have here? She said, Do you still remember?
Of course I did. It was wintertime, after lunch. My father sat
in the north-facing room with my aunt, looking out at the palace through the
veranda’s window. I went to him, wanting to sit on his lap, but he turned me
away. He said I wasn’t a little boy anymore. I turned back to the living
room and walked through it to my cousin’s room. She sat at the sewing
machine and I watched as she worked the machine with her foot. Look at this,
she said, the string broke at the first stitch. There’s a devil in this
machine. She bent over the machine after a glance in my direction. I turned
toward the window, ears burning. I could see her white face with red cheeks
even as I looked toward the closed window. It was only the glass that was
closed. Beyond it was the sky. Brilliant rays of sun shone through the glass
and lit up the mouth of the well in the garden below. Soon the servant boys
would come and I’d go down with them to pump the water. We would steal a few
flowers and shake the mango tree to no purpose, then run through the
bedrooms and the cellar. This time I would hide from them in a room that was
tucked away and only used during Ramadan, when the sheikhs recited there at
night. When we left that evening my aunt would say goodbye at the door and
turn on the light for the stairs. We would walk down the broad white steps
and over the colored paving stones, open the garden’s squeaky gate and go
out into the wide and noiseless street. I would pick jasmine from the walls
of the gardens. . . . My cousin’s friend said something. She was standing
just in front of the wardrobe’s mirror, putting on lipstick. I wasn’t
looking at her. She was tall with green eyes. She’d only said one thing to
me. When she came into the room she said, Hey. Then she turned to my cousin.
But my cousin was talking to me when she said, Look at this. The little
wardrobe was behind me. Each of its wooden panels was fixed with a bright
mirror. A small brass chime hung from the middle keyhole, so that whenever
the wardrobe was opened it made a pretty ringing sound. Inside the wardrobe
were closed drawers with my cousin’s things arranged in rows. I was happy
because the wardrobe was closed. Without taking my eyes from the window, I
could watch my cousin’s fingers lightly touching the machine’s handle,
making the wheel spin noisily. She bent down, following the fabric as it
moved beneath the needle. Her two braids fell over her chest. Her friend
said to her, Will you ever finish? We’re late. My cousin lifted her head and
our gazes met and then she looked at her friend and said, This is the last
part. I blinked and heard the ring of the small brass chime.
My sister came in and said, The city sewers are overflowing. Then an
old relative of my cousin came in, panting. He could hardly see from behind his
thick glasses. My cousin’s face darkened. The old man said, Give me a shilling
after I have some coffee. He took off his tarboosh and placed it beside him on
the sofa and drank his coffee and then just sat there. My cousin went into her
room and came back and asked if I had any change on me. I didn’t have any
change. They sent the cook to get two shillings for ten piastres. We sat and
waited for him to come back without speaking. Then my cousin gave the old man
his shilling and he got up and put his hat back on and said goodbye and left. My
cousin said, He’s a crafty old man. He only wheezes like that when he comes to
see us. My sister said that he lived with his married son and that
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