know him at all.’
‘It looked like . . .’ Rashid left his observation hanging. Now wasn’t the time to second-guess Iman. If she said she didn’t know him, she didn’t know him. There was no point in pushing it. ‘What are they for?’ Rashid asked gesturing at the flowers. It was about as close to the question of What the hell were you doing walking around like a mad woman in this part of town after being out all night? as he could get away with.
‘Demonstration.’ Iman put the flowers on the table and cupped her hands in front of her as though not quite sure what the purpose of them was. Her palms were greenish and crinkled from holding the stems.
‘He wants you to put it on your head,’ Rashid said, nodding at the napkin that the café owner was still holding.
Loose, her hair was too big for the napkin so the owner returned with an elastic band apologising that it was a little dirty. He waited for Iman to use it and once he was able to assure her that every wisp was hidden from sight, he tapped Rashid on the shoulder: You owe me one, brother .
‘Here.’ Iman held out the flowers to the café owner. ‘For you.’
‘Oh no, miss. I can’t. They take so much water.’
‘Please take them.’ She pushed them towards him. ‘I can’t have them. Please .’
The owner looked at them suspiciously before spreading them out on the counter.
The fighters murmured and straightened up as a small eager-looking man entered. The room fell still again as he sat down on the table next to Rashid and Iman. With not a small degree of theatre, the café owner poured him a glass of water from a great height.
Rashid tried to swat a fly with the menu as it sat rubbing its forelegs together in drips of water that had come off the flowers, but it nipped up to the wall before flying to the back of Rashid’s head.
‘What were you doing in this area?’ Rashid asked.
‘Attending a wake,’ Iman replied, watching the man who had taken the table next to them. He was sinewy and bearded and was staring at his table as though an invisible chess game was being played out on it.
Iman appeared to have forgotten that Rashid was there. She was lost somewhere behind her face. The fighters’ interest in her had gone, except for their leader who had moved his chair to an angle so that he could see her more clearly. His nose was like Rashid’s; it went straight from the hairline to the tip, Greek like the Mesopotamian priests of Ur. He had the same body type as well; his long limbs hung off the back the chair.
The fighters were also watching the bearded man on the table next to them. He had spent some time flipping the menu back and forth before demanding plain tea. Did the owner understand? Just plain tea: no sugar, no mint.
‘Do you know him too?’ Rashid asked as the bearded man looked towards Iman.
‘His daughter’s in my school. He’s from the Seif El Din family.’ She was studying the man’s shoes; they were slip-ons and he was shuffling them around slowly on the linoleum tiles. ‘This woman in the Committee, Manar, is related to him – I heard he lost two brothers in three months.’ She was barely audible. The leader of the fighters was still staring at her and did not look away when she turned towards him. Iman confronted him with a glare. Drop it, Rashid thought. Stop it, Iman. Enough.
‘Where were you last night?’ Rashid asked sharply. She was his sister. He could ask.
‘Women’s Committee.’
‘All night?’
‘All night.’
‘He looks religious,’ Rashid observed, looking back at their bearded neighbour, Seif El Din.
‘Who isn’t?’
‘Err, well, I’m not; those guys aren’t; you aren’t; Khalil isn’t; Mama isn’t; Baba isn’t; Sabri isn’t. Stop being like this, Iman. What’s happened to you?’ He put his hand down on the table so that he could reach across and try to connect with her but she wanted none of it. She pulled her arms away behind the table.
He wanted to tell Iman
‘It looked like . . .’ Rashid left his observation hanging. Now wasn’t the time to second-guess Iman. If she said she didn’t know him, she didn’t know him. There was no point in pushing it. ‘What are they for?’ Rashid asked gesturing at the flowers. It was about as close to the question of What the hell were you doing walking around like a mad woman in this part of town after being out all night? as he could get away with.
‘Demonstration.’ Iman put the flowers on the table and cupped her hands in front of her as though not quite sure what the purpose of them was. Her palms were greenish and crinkled from holding the stems.
‘He wants you to put it on your head,’ Rashid said, nodding at the napkin that the café owner was still holding.
Loose, her hair was too big for the napkin so the owner returned with an elastic band apologising that it was a little dirty. He waited for Iman to use it and once he was able to assure her that every wisp was hidden from sight, he tapped Rashid on the shoulder: You owe me one, brother .
‘Here.’ Iman held out the flowers to the café owner. ‘For you.’
‘Oh no, miss. I can’t. They take so much water.’
‘Please take them.’ She pushed them towards him. ‘I can’t have them. Please .’
The owner looked at them suspiciously before spreading them out on the counter.
The fighters murmured and straightened up as a small eager-looking man entered. The room fell still again as he sat down on the table next to Rashid and Iman. With not a small degree of theatre, the café owner poured him a glass of water from a great height.
Rashid tried to swat a fly with the menu as it sat rubbing its forelegs together in drips of water that had come off the flowers, but it nipped up to the wall before flying to the back of Rashid’s head.
‘What were you doing in this area?’ Rashid asked.
‘Attending a wake,’ Iman replied, watching the man who had taken the table next to them. He was sinewy and bearded and was staring at his table as though an invisible chess game was being played out on it.
Iman appeared to have forgotten that Rashid was there. She was lost somewhere behind her face. The fighters’ interest in her had gone, except for their leader who had moved his chair to an angle so that he could see her more clearly. His nose was like Rashid’s; it went straight from the hairline to the tip, Greek like the Mesopotamian priests of Ur. He had the same body type as well; his long limbs hung off the back the chair.
The fighters were also watching the bearded man on the table next to them. He had spent some time flipping the menu back and forth before demanding plain tea. Did the owner understand? Just plain tea: no sugar, no mint.
‘Do you know him too?’ Rashid asked as the bearded man looked towards Iman.
‘His daughter’s in my school. He’s from the Seif El Din family.’ She was studying the man’s shoes; they were slip-ons and he was shuffling them around slowly on the linoleum tiles. ‘This woman in the Committee, Manar, is related to him – I heard he lost two brothers in three months.’ She was barely audible. The leader of the fighters was still staring at her and did not look away when she turned towards him. Iman confronted him with a glare. Drop it, Rashid thought. Stop it, Iman. Enough.
‘Where were you last night?’ Rashid asked sharply. She was his sister. He could ask.
‘Women’s Committee.’
‘All night?’
‘All night.’
‘He looks religious,’ Rashid observed, looking back at their bearded neighbour, Seif El Din.
‘Who isn’t?’
‘Err, well, I’m not; those guys aren’t; you aren’t; Khalil isn’t; Mama isn’t; Baba isn’t; Sabri isn’t. Stop being like this, Iman. What’s happened to you?’ He put his hand down on the table so that he could reach across and try to connect with her but she wanted none of it. She pulled her arms away behind the table.
He wanted to tell Iman
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