A Girl Made of Dust

‘Because it's too cold.’

She'd put them there to have something pretty to look at, and now I wondered how she would feel when they died.

Naji and I ate enough lunch to stop being hungry, then pushed the food round our plates. Something was bitter, although Papi didn't seem to notice: he just ate at a steady pace with plenty of salt.

Mami was pleading with him to open the shop the next day. ‘School's starting soon and we need money. I haven't much left.’

The lines in Papi's face deepened.

‘You haven't opened for a week now. Must I go up there again?’

He continued eating, staring at his plate as he chewed.

The rice shook on Mami's fork. A few grains fell off. Maybe Naji had been right and it was being poor that was making Mami unhappy.

Papi spoke quietly. ‘I'll open the shop. But not tomorrow.’

‘When, then? The day after it'll be the same thing.’ No one was eating now. ‘You'll go back to that chair and not get up.’ She put a hand to her forehead. ‘You'll sit in that chair and—’

Papi's fork clattered onto his plate. ‘What do you want me to do, my love? Go out there and chit-chat with whoever walks in – about nothing? About nothing!’

‘You don't have to talk to them. No one's asking you to have a conversation.’

‘No, just to behave like nothing ever happened. Like this country's not hell! Can't you understand, Aida?’

‘No – no! I don't understand how you think we're going to live. Time is passing, the children are growing up, and still …’ Her hand slid down to cover her eyes.

‘Still nothing changes. But am I going to let you all starve? Is that what you think?’ Roughly, he pushed away his plate. ‘I'll do it, didn't I say so? Just not tomorrow.’

‘How are the children going to learn with no books, and how are they to go to school with no clothes or bags or pens?’ She was breathing hard. ‘Why can't you …?’

Papi smiled bitterly. ‘Have you lost patience with me, ya Aida, you, with your bottomless well of patience? You might have to be patient for ever. Do you understand? For ever.’

Mami's lips disappeared into her mouth and she got up.

‘Don't bother her,’ Naji said to me after lunch, but it was hard not to watch. She must have cleaned every tile in the kitchen: every white one, every blue one, and the ugly spaces where there were no tiles any longer. She had to know every wall and surface and crack in the house, I thought, as I hopped around on one foot. She must know the tassels at the edges of the living-room carpet, which was really an island you couldn't step off barefoot or you'd fall into the cold sea of tiles; she must know the swirls in the peach-coloured lampshade, which looked like a shell and which she said came from Manila but was really from a shop on the high road, only no one wanted to tell her; and she must know that the metal coat hook on the wall was bent from the weight of Papi's heavy winter coat.

I lay on the bedroom floor reading while she swept the veranda. The scratch of the thick straw came through the window, a strong steady brushing except when she stopped to rest. I'd nearly finished the book when the singing started. It wasn't often that she sang, only occasionally when she was alone and thought no one could hear.

I lay there listening to her. The brushing slowed to the speed of her song and blended into it. In the high parts, her voice was clear and wavered, but when she sang low, it came out rough and grainy as sand. It was a beautiful voice, and she was like a princess going round and round sweeping – round and round until one day something wonderful would happen, and then she'd sing all the time.

I sat against Mami that evening and watched her sew holes shut. In his chair on the other side of the room, Papi was staring at one spot, the muscles in his neck tightened into ropes. His head hung low, while his fingers pulled the large green worry beads along, as if they were an endless abacus.

Pulling the sewing basket onto my lap, I busied myself with the different-coloured spools, loose pins, saved patches, zips and worn measuring-tape. I emptied the babyfood jar full of buttons into the lid. There were large flat gold ones, shiny red ones, little carved white ones, warm leather ones – dozens of different colours and sizes.

‘Where did they come from?’ I picked up a blue button that shone silver when it was tipped in the light.

Mami cut a thread with her teeth. ‘That one was Naji's, a costume he wore in his first school play.’ She smiled. ‘He didn't want to go.’

Naji glanced up from the floor where he sat with his books spread out round him, then something on the television caught his attention.

‘And this one?’ I picked up a carved white one that felt like bone.

She twirled a thread tight on the spool. ‘It's from a dress I wore before we were married, when I was’ – she stopped for a moment – ‘when I was young.’

I saw Papi twitch as though a mosquito had landed on his cheek, but his eyes didn't move from the carpet.

‘Do you remember all the buttons?’

She nodded. ‘Most of them. Look, this one's yours.’ She pushed a small red one out of the pile. ‘One of your first outfits when you were little.’

‘Are the big ones Papi's?’

‘Some of them.’

‘Which ones?’

She started straightening the spools in the basket. ‘Never mind now.’ The wooden reels tapped softly against each other and the pins wedged into them gleamed secretly among the coloured rolls.

I yawned. ‘Why do you keep them when the clothes are gone?’

‘I never throw anything away without taking a button off it first. They're memories – each one is like a photo.’

I settled into Mami again, her breast soft and warm against my head, the scent of her a touch vinegary, and sifted her memories through my fingers. They fell with small, hard ticks and clacks onto the lid. I watched them sleepily: their shine, their holes, their dips and textures. I imagined her head filled with coloured buttons, and suddenly she was walking round and round inside each one, sweeping and crying. Very occasionally she would sing, and her pockets were full of dead yellow petunias.

When I opened my eyes again the room felt different. Naji wasn't there and neither was Mami's warm shoulder. She was on the other side of the room, squatting next to Papi's chair. The television was turned low.

‘How can I carry on this way, Nabeel?’

‘None of us wants to. Ask anyone,’ he replied.

‘But darling, time is passing and it won't come again. Won't you just try, ha?’ Slowly, she slid a hand onto his arm. ‘Please.’

Something seemed to swell in him, rose into his mouth and was swallowed down again.

Mami knelt now, her bare feet disappearing beneath her skirt. ‘Please, Nabeel.’

The knuckles of Papi's hand turned into white pebbles. His fist banged the armrest.

Mami pushed herself up. ‘Don't try, then. Just sit here and do nothing!’ Her underskirt rustled against her legs. ‘You might as well be dead!’ She swished past, and as she went, I saw she was crying.

Chapter Three (#u31eccefd-714e-5836-9b3a-560971efc537)

Amal was the first to arrive. She was a long-limbed girl in an orange coat who had just started at school. No one knew where she'd come from or why. We only knew that she couldn't talk. At school she had to write everything down.

‘Go and speak to her,’ Teta insisted, giving me a push, but I wouldn't. I'd only invited her to be polite. She wasn't my friend. She wasn't anybody's friend. At school she always sat alone. Not even the teachers knew how to treat her; some were sugary-nice, others ignored her.

Amal put her present on the table and, still wearing her coat, went to sit near the window. Dark hair hung to her shoulders, and her fringe needed trimming. But then, everything about her was a little too long: her legs and neck, her arms and fingers. When she turned to look at me, though, I decided it was her eyes I liked least. They were eyes that made me feel guilty.