Read Online Where the Streets Had a Name by Randa Abdel-Fattah - Free Book Online Page B

incredulous. ‘Are you joking?’ he splutters. ‘Why?’
    â€˜I won’t be long. I promise.’
    We approach the entrance to the mosque and are greeted by an old man who’s sucking on a cigarette like a baby on a dummy. He looks us up and down, a goofy grin on his face.
    â€˜Give alms for the martyred ones!’ he cries, shaking a tin of money in his crusty old hand. His red gums are laid bare for us to see as he laughs boisterously. It’s obvious that he’s not right in the head.
    â€˜Give alms for those who fight the Israelis!’ he cries, shaking his tin.
    I ignore him, averting my eyes from his as I scurry past. I take off my shoes and place them neatly in a shoe rack. Samy walks tentatively into the mosque, kisses his cross and mutters, ‘God forgive me.’ He then throws his shoes off and looks down at his feet. ‘A hole!’ he declares and then holds one foot up close towards his face. ‘My feet stink! Amto Christina will kill me if she knew I’d entered a mosque, of all places, with smelly socks and a hole!’
    I grab a scarf from a clothing rack and throw it over my hair.
    We walk in and I caution Samy to stop whistling. We pick a corner of the mosque, careful to avoid eye contact with a group of men sitting in a circle.
    I kneel down on the carpet and raise my palms in front of my face and make
dua
.
Please keep her with us
.
Please keep her alive
.
Please help us at the checkpoints
.
    â€˜Amto Christina wouldn’t be impressed if she knew I was here,’ Samy mutters. ‘Wait for a moment. I need to go to the bathroom . . . I’ll be back.’ He suddenly bolts out the door.
    Several moments later a girl in a green hijab crouches down beside me. I turn to face her, curious as to why she’s chosen to sit beside me when she has the entire mosque. Grinning at me, his teeth practically luminous under the lights in the mosque, is Samy, draped in a green hijab. He bats his eyelashes at me and forces back a hysterical laugh.
    â€˜Are you mad?’ I exclaim.
    â€˜No,’ he whispers. ‘I just want to see if anybody notices.’
    â€˜You’re the ugliest girl I’ve ever seen. Praise God for making you a boy. I never realised how big your nostrils were until now. And your eyebrows – there’s only one.’
    â€˜Was it always like that?’
    â€˜It’s warmed the top of your nose ever since I can remember. Come on, let’s leave. I’m finished.’
    I grab his arm and lead him out, away from the curious eyes of the men, who, judging from the steady hum of conversation coming from the direction of their circle, seem to be enjoying a gossip session rather than a religious lecture.
    As we step out of the mosque I notice a small boy who looks our age talking to the old man. Upon seeing us, the old man whispers something into the boy’s ear and the boy runs after us, cutting off our path. A plastic bag filled with packets of tissues dangles from his arm. His hair is dishevelled and dusty, the heels of his feet cracked, and his clothes are ragged and too big for him.
    â€˜Tissues?’ he asks. ‘May God give you a long life.’
    â€˜Go away,’ Samy says, although he says it without much energy. It’s a standard response to street hagglers and the boy doesn’t even flinch. ‘Do we look like tourists? Leave us alone; we’ve got important business.’
    The boy’s eyes light up. ‘My uncle thought you looked suspicious.’
    â€˜That crazy man is your uncle?’ Samy says.
    â€˜Yeah. So what business do you have?’ He licks his lips in anticipation of Samy’s response.
    â€˜We’re on a private mission,’ Samy replies importantly.
    â€˜Tell me,’ the boy pleads. Then he looks at me. I’m twirling the end of my plait in my finger, thinking about how dirty his skin is.
    â€˜Where are you from?’ I ask. We