as his cheerfulness could be. All of a sudden, the walls of our flat didn’t seem so white and bright anymore. And I began to notice little stains and flaws on the wooden floor where we scuffed it pulling chairs in and out from the dinner table. The shiny oval keyhole plate in the living-room door had ugly scratches I had never registered before, and if the autumn sunlight fell at the wrong angle, I could see how dirty our windows were. I went traipsing around our neighbourhood breaking branches off trees and crawling through waist-high wet grass in the hope that my torn, sodden clothes would grab Father’s attention.
I missed his stories, how he’d sit on my bed in the evenings and spin yarns, his eyes shining. It was a tradition and a ritual, this story time. Something that created a bond between us. The stories allowed this invisible bond to grow, and I had assumed that it was so strong no one would be able to break it. The worlds Father created in these stories were realms only the two of us could enter, through secret doors to which we alone had the keys. If he came to my room with a new story to tell, he’d hop from one foot to the other, rub his hands furtively and exude such an air of childish excitement that I knew he could hardly wait. Then we’d shut the door so that Mother wouldn’t disturb us, dim the light, and dive into new worlds. The closed door was a signal to Mother to keep well away. She’d know that we were busy pursuing the adventures of the characters and creatures Father brought to life. I wanted my old father back, the one full of laughter, enthusiasm, and joie de vivre. My proud father, my patient father. Not the one who barely noticed me, no matter how hard I tried. Not the one who took my little sister in his arms and rocked her, but gave the impression that it was unbearably painful to look at her.
I missed Yasmin too. I missed her sticking her curly head round the door and coming in. Without knocking, naturally, because our flat was her second home. She too had sensed the change in Father, and she stopped coming up to us so often after that. His strange behaviour had unsettled her as well.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked me, after he’d once again passed her on the stairs without a word. All I could do was shrug.
The night after the slideshow, I lay in bed and heard my parents having a row, arguing the way parents do when they don’t want children to hear—behind closed doors, in intense, hushed voices. I pressed one ear against my pillow and pulled the duvet over the other, but it didn’t help much. I tried to focus instead on the blobs that seemed to float weightlessly in the lava lamp on my bedside table. They merged, separated, nudged against the glass, and formed new shapes all over again. But my parents’ voices still slid under the bedroom door like toxic smoke. They were in the kitchen, and I could not block out their voices.
“But you promised,” said Mother.
“I know.”
“Do you realise what would have happened if they’d found it?”
Silence.
“Do you realise that we wouldn’t be here today?”
Silence.
“We could be dead, Brahim. Tossed in a grave or thrown into the sea like the others.”
Still no response.
“Why did you keep it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No. That was ten years ago.”
“Ten years in which we’ve created a life for ourselves. A life together.”
Silence.
“We came here so that our children might have a better chance. You were putting that at risk.”
“We didn’t have any kids then.”
“But surely you expected us to have kids eventually.”
“It’s only a photo,” my father yelled, in a voice that carried all the way to my room.
“It’s more than that,” my mother spat back. “I want you to throw it away. Even if it’s ten years too late.”
“Rana,” he said, “that photo is of no interest to anyone in this place.”
“I don’t care what you say.” Mother was furious. “Get rid of it once and for all!”
“That photo means something to me,” he said.
“I know,” she retorted angrily, “I know all too well what that photo means to you. That’s why I want you to get rid of it! You’re here now, with us. That should mean everything to you.” She was sobbing now. Then I heard footsteps in the corridor. She walked past my room into their bedroom and shut the door.
I held my breath under the bedclothes. My teeth were clenched so tight that my jaw hurt. My ears were still pricked, but now all was quiet. Slowly, I pushed back the duvet, slid out of bed, and carefully opened the door. To my left, there was still light from the kitchen. Father was still in there. There was no sound from my parents’ room. I hitched up my pyjama bottoms so that I wouldn’t trip on the hems and tiptoed down the corridor to the living room.
I wasn’t really thinking about what I did. The projector was still there on the table, in the dark. The slide was still in the slot. I withdrew it carefully. All I could make out in this light were vague shadows. I turned around and scurried silently back to my room.
Seconds later, I heard Father heave a sigh and leave the kitchen. He went into the living room; I held my breath. Then I heard a rustling and pictured him searching through the slides spread out on the table. The rustling didn’t last long, though, because next thing he was coming towards my room. I closed my eyes, heard him open the door, and sensed him watching me from the doorway.
“Samir?” he whispered.
I didn’t react. My heart was in my throat. I had the slide clasped in one hand, and the hand shoved under my pillow. Father entered the room slowly; I could hear his breath as he leaned over. Then it went dark behind my eyelids. He had switched off my bedside light. With heavy steps, he made his way back to the door.
“Goodnight, Samir,” he said, as if I was still awake.
That’s when I knew that he knew.
-
7
He never mentioned the subject, never took me to task. Not the next day, nor in the weeks that followed. It was as if it had never happened, that moment when he caught me but never said a word. As a result, I started to feel like we had a special bond again, a secret. But his mood changed very little. And the longer this strange behaviour continued, the more Mother suffered, despite her best efforts to hide it. If she caught me watching her while she was hanging up the washing, she’d try to whistle a cheerful tune. She never normally did that. One time I came into the kitchen when Father had just left the house.
“Are you crying?” I asked.
“No,” she said and smiled. “I’m chopping onions, see?”
“Hakim says the trick is to hold your breath while you’re chopping them. Then they won’t make you cry.”
“OK, but I can’t hold my breath for ever, Samir.”
It
