Kamel and Siham and their children in New Zealand, Jammuli and Sonson and Tamara and the little one whose name I cannot pronounce; Batoul and her husband in America, and their children Yazan and Zeina; the children of my late brother Dawood: Liqaa and Saad in Syria, Samer in Dubai, Youssef, Sabah and Ruwaida in Canada; and bless my sister Ghazala in Jordan and her children and grandchildren in Sweden, London and I don’t know where; and Tawoos Um Haydar and her sons Haydar and Mohaymen and the rest; and our neighbours on the right, and those on the left as far as the third house, and Saleh the gardener. And Mary, don’t let the postman Hassoun keep me or the people of the neighbourhood waiting. And please remember all those whose names I forgot to mention, but whom you know one by one. Amen.’
The massager froze, and the old woman yelled at the silver-framed icon, ‘But why, Holy Virgin? Was it beyond your powers to keep the electricity running for five more minutes until I finished the massage?’ She searched her memory for the saint in charge of electricity but couldn’t remember. She was careful not to disturb the Virgin Mary by knocking on her door for every little thing, so she tried to go directly to the specialist saint for each request. When the children were still at home, they used to make fun of Mama Rahma’s way of providing ‘employment’ for the idle saints, keeping them busy so that they wouldn’t get bored while sitting on the clouds with their halos around their heads.
Her children would laugh while going over the eclectic group of saints and holy persons that they referred to as the ‘Cabinet of President Rahma’: Saint Anthony was in charge of finding lost things, Saint Rita was the patron saint of emergencies, Bernadette Soubirous specialised in healing the sick, Mar Joseph encouraged the lilies in the garden to grow, and Saint Theresa was the guide to little ways that led to big things. When Rahma started treatment with a physiotherapist, who happened to be Coptic, she expanded her cabinet to include Saint Cyril, the patron of students during exams, Mar Girgis, who fought evil spirits, Saint Apollonia, who healed toothache and would do for bad joints, and Peter, the patron saint of fishermen and bringer of riches. Rahma remembered Saint Christopher, the patron of travellers, and let a tear escape. ‘Why do you scatter our family all over your wide world, dear God?’ She was missing her emigrant children and unable to forgive the destiny that led her to end up alone in this big house, as if she was living beyond her years with no purpose. If fate had had mercy on her, it would have taken her soul at the same moment that her husband Youssef had exhaled his last breath. How right she was to have made it a habit to tell him on any occasion, ‘God willing, my hour will come before yours, mister.’ She didn’t know then how the wide wooden bed that for fifty-seven years had held both of them would suddenly feel too big for her. During her angry moments, she resented him for leaving her behind, resented the Virgin and the saints who were slow to grant her death wish, and cursed the children who’d flown away without her. She shed the habitual tear, ever and always available, then blew her nose in a small napkin and got up to go to the kitchen.
This morning, Rahma had barely finished wiping away that tear when, minutes after the start of the power cut, the green phone hibernating next to the bed started ringing. Batoul’s voice travelled to her all the way from Detroit and brought her incredible news. Was her daughter joking in a moment of good humour or was she lying to her in an attempt to help her cope with her perpetual heartache? Rahma, with the small shrine in her bedroom corner, never doubted that the Virgin Mary would answer her prayers, but for the answer to be so close, practically standing behind the door, this had never happened before. So when Batoul said that her
The massager froze, and the old woman yelled at the silver-framed icon, ‘But why, Holy Virgin? Was it beyond your powers to keep the electricity running for five more minutes until I finished the massage?’ She searched her memory for the saint in charge of electricity but couldn’t remember. She was careful not to disturb the Virgin Mary by knocking on her door for every little thing, so she tried to go directly to the specialist saint for each request. When the children were still at home, they used to make fun of Mama Rahma’s way of providing ‘employment’ for the idle saints, keeping them busy so that they wouldn’t get bored while sitting on the clouds with their halos around their heads.
Her children would laugh while going over the eclectic group of saints and holy persons that they referred to as the ‘Cabinet of President Rahma’: Saint Anthony was in charge of finding lost things, Saint Rita was the patron saint of emergencies, Bernadette Soubirous specialised in healing the sick, Mar Joseph encouraged the lilies in the garden to grow, and Saint Theresa was the guide to little ways that led to big things. When Rahma started treatment with a physiotherapist, who happened to be Coptic, she expanded her cabinet to include Saint Cyril, the patron of students during exams, Mar Girgis, who fought evil spirits, Saint Apollonia, who healed toothache and would do for bad joints, and Peter, the patron saint of fishermen and bringer of riches. Rahma remembered Saint Christopher, the patron of travellers, and let a tear escape. ‘Why do you scatter our family all over your wide world, dear God?’ She was missing her emigrant children and unable to forgive the destiny that led her to end up alone in this big house, as if she was living beyond her years with no purpose. If fate had had mercy on her, it would have taken her soul at the same moment that her husband Youssef had exhaled his last breath. How right she was to have made it a habit to tell him on any occasion, ‘God willing, my hour will come before yours, mister.’ She didn’t know then how the wide wooden bed that for fifty-seven years had held both of them would suddenly feel too big for her. During her angry moments, she resented him for leaving her behind, resented the Virgin and the saints who were slow to grant her death wish, and cursed the children who’d flown away without her. She shed the habitual tear, ever and always available, then blew her nose in a small napkin and got up to go to the kitchen.
This morning, Rahma had barely finished wiping away that tear when, minutes after the start of the power cut, the green phone hibernating next to the bed started ringing. Batoul’s voice travelled to her all the way from Detroit and brought her incredible news. Was her daughter joking in a moment of good humour or was she lying to her in an attempt to help her cope with her perpetual heartache? Rahma, with the small shrine in her bedroom corner, never doubted that the Virgin Mary would answer her prayers, but for the answer to be so close, practically standing behind the door, this had never happened before. So when Batoul said that her
Similar Books
