Yasmine by Eli Amir Page A

the boys, and you’re crying?” But his eyes were mournful too. So unlike his usual self, as if he’d lost all his vitality.
    The carpet on the floor absorbed the feeble light. Mother had bought it in the market from an Iranian immigrant who was leaving the country. Two bus drivers refused to take her with the carpet, but the third one gave in when she shoved it in through the back door. Then she carried it a whole kilometre across the unpaved land between the last bus stop in Old Katamon and the housing estate. She came in, sweaty and proud, as if she’d recaptured the glory of the red Persian carpet in our home in Baghdad. Father had made a face.
    I got into the shower, washed the dust off, shampooed my hair repeatedly to cleanse it from the sweat and dirt that stiffened it. The mirror showed me eyes that looked extinguished and a skinny face covered with black stubble. I threw my dirty underwear into the laundry basket, scraped thewater into the drain and wiped the concrete with a cloth. I opened the window to let out the steam and the smell of mildew: this mouldy housing estate does not get much sunlight. Then I went back to sit beside Father.
    “Tell me, son, where were you? What happened? Is it true the Egyptians ran away?”
    “No, in some places they fought like the devil. We took heavy casualties too…”
    “So what do you think, will Nasser make peace?”
    “That lot make peace?” Mother put in, “God damn them. They don’t know how to lose or how to compromise. Their honour! God save us from their famous honour.”
    “But if Nasser compromises they’ll kill him,” Father argued.
    “What then? ‘The old won’t become new and an enemy won’t become a friend.’ That’s the way it is,” she replied. “It was Arabs in Baghdad and it’s Arabs here. Where can we run away to now?”
    “Um Kabi,” Father said soothingly, “we’ve beaten them and their fathers and grandfathers to hell – why should we run away?” He turned to me. “What did Kabi say to you? Will he go back to London?”
    I nodded.
    “Of course he will,” Mother said. “What can he do here? They ate his heart out, he was right to leave.” She was chopping parsley at top speed. I watched her like a child watching a magician. She scattered a pinch of it on the meatballs and a lot on the salad and the hot green-pepper relish.
    “Give us a little glass, we’ll drink a toast,” Father said.
    “You see what he’s like! You’re forbidden to drink,” she scolded him.
    “You know anybody who was killed by a little shot of arrack?”
    He went to the cupboard and took out the bottle. To please her, he said the prayer of thanks for having lived to the present and for God’s will. “To you, son, to you and Kabi and Moshi and Efraim. To peace,” he said and sipped the drink slowly, relishing the liquor. “The wars are finished, woman!” he said in a loud voice, then pronounced the blessing for bread, tore off a piece of pitta, wrapped it around some parsley, spring onion and pepper relish, just the way I liked it, and handed it to me. Only then did he lean back in his seat at the head of the table. The colour was returning to his face.
    “Don’t eat the meat,” Mother commanded. “I cooked chicken breast for you.” He looked at me and raised his hands, as if to say, “You see what she’s doing to me?”
    Mother ignored his silent protest. “You should recite the HaGomel for coming home safely, son. When Kabi and Moshi return we’ll celebrate all of you coming home safely, and your Father’s recovery, may God open the gate for us,” she concluded in the words of the prayer.
    When I got up to leave she hugged me again. “Sit down, Nuri. Where are you off to already? You just got here. Let me get a sniff of you!”
    “Another time, Mother. I have to be at work tomorrow and I haven’t any clothes here.”
    “Already back to work? What’s so urgent?”
    “ Al-wazir , the Minister, has sent for me.”
    “Aha,”