Dreams of Water

Dreams of Water
Nada Awar Jarrar

Set during the 1980s civil war in Lebanon, ‘Dreams of Water’ is complusively readable, deceptively simple and overwhelmingly moving.'If you could tell me just one thing about yourself, what would it be?'She begins, 'I would say that I once lost a brother.'As a young man disappears, his family is left wondering, hoping, fearing for what may have become of him. It is only through his loss that they begin to truly understand the deep bond of love that ties their family together.Aneesa, his sister, feels the loss of her brother intensely and, unable to live in the vacuum left by his disappearance, she leaves her home and all she holds dear. She moves to London seeking a new life, new friends, and a release from her sorrow. There she meets an older man, another exile who reminds her of home. Brought together by their shared feeling for their homeland, they form an unlikely friendship. Yet, Aneesa finds she cannot mourn without knowing the truth about her brother's death, she cannot get on with her life without some certainty.Meanwhile, back home, Aneesa's mother is grieving for her son. Unable to cope with his loss, she resorts to her community's traditional beliefs and imagines he has been reincarnated. Aneesa reluctantly returns home, determined to uncover the truth behind her brother's disappearance, and rekindle the sense of belonging that she left behind.‘Dreams of Water’ is a moving story of love, loss and family. Set against a backdrop of upheaval and violence, it reminds us of the importance of hope, of love, and of the strength of family.

NADA AWAR JARRAR

Dreams of Water

Dedication (#ulink_7d9c5220-34e5-5370-881c-47464834e424)

For Aida and Aref andfor Amou Ahmad

Table of Contents

Cover (#ulink_ff21c8b6-fef5-592b-9153-80514407ec0a)

Title Page (#ulink_69e8b3ff-18dc-538e-9d94-52b95113d1f9)

Dedication (#ulink_56da1809-72b6-5531-8763-ddd5586a79c7)

Prologue (#ulink_8b4ac2d5-d193-5fab-9b09-41a0036e17e6)

Part One (#ulink_25ac0293-4228-526f-9ad4-634e2fe762b6)

Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Praise (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#ulink_98c2992c-e8aa-5c47-8672-53b2d4a73bbc)

Standing in the back garden of her parents’ mountain home, Aneesa, at four, hears the angels, a chorus of sweet voices that tell her to dance for them. She twirls around beds of roses, down a dirt road and into the breeze, humming to herself. When Waddad calls to her, Aneesa stops beneath the shade of a pine tree and takes a deep breath before running indoors.

‘Time for lunch,’ her mother says. ‘Let’s wash your hands before you sit down.’

Aneesa stands up on the stool in front of the sink and puts her hands under the tap. Waddad pulls her sleeves up, turns the water on and lathers soap on to her own hands before grabbing Aneesa’s and kneading them with cool suds.

‘When I call my children in to eat, they wash their hands on their own,’ Aneesa says, looking up at Waddad.

‘Haven’t I told you not to put your dolls in water? You’ll ruin them.’

‘They are my children, mama, not my dolls.’

Waddad wipes Aneesa’s hands dry and gently pushes her towards her seat.

‘Always talking about children that are not there.’ Waddad sounds cross as Aneesa sits down to eat.

Later that day, Waddad takes Aneesa by the hand and they walk down to the village. The sun is strong and wisps of Aneesa’s long dark hair stick to her forehead.

‘Where are we going, mama?’

‘We’re going to talk to the sheikh,’ Waddad replies in a firm tone.

They arrive at a house in a side street just before the main souq and go carefully down some stone steps on its side. The door of a basement room is open. An old man sits on the floor, his back propped up by large pillows against the wall behind him, his legs crossed neatly in front of him. He is dressed entirely in dark blue and has a grey-black beard that lies rigid on his chest like a small, coarse broom. He looks intently at Waddad as she speaks. When he opens his mouth to speak, the beard moves up and down with his words.

‘The child has spoken of a past life,’ he says.

Waddad pushes her hands down on Aneesa’s shoulders, the scent of fear emanating from her skin.

‘But what am I to do? Her father does not believe in these things and he will be furious if he hears her talking about it again.’

The old man shakes his head so that the white headdress slips forward over his forehead. Then he passes a hand over the length of his face. When he removes it, the stiff beard looks narrower and less impressive.

‘She may never speak of it again,’ he says.

He shrugs his shoulders and leans forward until his face is very close to Aneesa’s. She looks into his bright blue eyes and sniffs at the scent of olive-oil soap coming from his skin. When Aneesa reaches out to touch the beard, she hears her mother gasp and call out her name. She puts her hand down. The sheikh smiles and moves back to rest against the pillows once again.

Father is helping Bassam with his homework. The two of them are sitting at the dining table with books and paper and pencils before them. Aneesa can feel anxiety in the air but is not sure if it is hers or theirs.

‘Aneesa,’ her father calls out. ‘Get me a cup of coffee, will you?’

Aneesa looks up at her father and begins to say something but he stops her.

‘Go on, habibti,’ he says. ‘Not too much sugar now.’

Aneesa glances quickly at Bassam and feels her heart sink. He is leaning an elbow on the table and holding his head up with his hand. He looks bored and clearly uninterested in his work. Father will be so angry with him, she thinks. Where has Mother gone?

In the kitchen, Aneesa brings water to the boil in the pot and adds half a teaspoon of sugar, then she puts in the finely ground coffee and stirs gently, taking the pot off the burner just as the mixture begins to come to the boil and then putting it back on again until the coffee is thick and frothy at the edges. She hears her father’s raised voice from the dining room.

‘Bassam, you’re not concentrating. I asked you a question and I want you to think about the answer before you say anything.’

Bassam murmurs something in reply but she cannot tell what he is saying. Aneesa pours the coffee into a cup.