A powerfully aromatic, woody smell hit my nose.
“That’s the essential oils in the resin,” he said. Then he put his own nose close to the fresh incision and inhaled the smell.
“What are we going to do with the wood?”
“We are not going to do anything. I am. And I might show it to you when it’s finished.”
“You might?”
“I might.”
Then he straightened up, stroked my head, walked past me, and disappeared.
He spent the following weekend in the old wooden shed. I also spotted Hakim going in there at various stages, reemerging later and beating sawdust off his clothes. Yasmin and I, bundled in our winter jackets, sat on the steps of our building keeping a keen eye on the shed and watching the white clouds of vapour drifting from our mouths.
On my birthday, lots of neighbours came to my party. There were eight candles on the cake and everyone sang “Sana Helwa ya Gameel,” the Arabic version of “Happy Birthday.” I blew all the candles out in one go and everyone clapped. I got fabulous presents too. Khalil, the young man who had helped Father mount the satellite dish the day we moved in, gave me a diabolo. I’d often watched him on our street, spinning the double-cupped top on a string attached to two sticks. He could do amazing tricks with it, almost like at the circus. From Hakim I got a wooden sled he made himself, a really beautiful one with curved handles. It had a great smell of workshop and wax.
“Don’t worry, the snow will come,” he said. “The longer it keeps you waiting, the more you’ll enjoy it.”
Yasmin went as far as to give me a kiss on the cheek, which I brushed off rather sheepishly. All day long, my parents made obvious efforts not to let the strange atmosphere of recent weeks spoil my party. But there was an awkwardness to their attempts to play the perfect team; they kept bumping into each other, practically knocking each other down as they waited on the guests and put food on the table. And anyone who took a closer look couldn’t fail to see how they tried to avoid each other, passed each other with their heads down, only spoke to guests separately, and never looked each other in the eye.
That evening, Yasmin and I tried out the diabolo. There wasn’t a soul on the street outside our building. The cold made it hard to hold the sticks, but we were too captivated to go in for our gloves. Over and over, we spun the rubber top into the air and caught it with the string, competing with each other to see who could throw it highest, who could keep it spinning longest.
Soon the November evening fog descended, shrouding everything in grey until even the streetlights gave off no more than a dim glow. It crept over the nearby green and through the alleyways of our neighbourhood. Entire buildings vanished, their lit-up windows like ghostly eyes in the gloom. Eventually Hakim stuck his head out the window of their flat and called Yasmin in. It was late. She turned to me, her cheeks rosy, her eyes gleaming from the cold.
“I hope you had a nice birthday,” she said, handing me the sticks.
I nodded. Yasmin turned and disappeared into the fog; the only sound was her footsteps, then the front door closing. I stood there for a moment. Nothing but silence around me, and a strange sense of impenetrable loneliness. I looked up and saw the light from our living-room window. I didn’t really want to go back up.
On my bedside table I found a little present wrapped in dark blue paper with a gold ribbon. It caught my eye the minute I entered the room. It was beside the lava lamp, which was on. I could hear Mother clattering in the kitchen as she washed the dishes. The TV was on in the living room. I’d seen the colours flickering on the hall floor when I came in, and judging by the theme tune, Father was watching the news on Al Jadeed. I’d taken off my jacket and shoes in the hall and put the diabolo in the corner.
I hadn’t really felt like going into the living room. I was afraid Father would go back to ignoring me now that the guests were gone—or worse, stare at me as if I was about to go up in smoke and he had to imprint every detail of me in his memory. So I just sneaked into my room, where I found the present. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. When I tore off the paper, I held a little wooden box in my hand. The pale wood was streaked with darker shades of brown that ran down the sides of the box like veins or rivulets. I turned it in every direction and inspected it from all angles. The wood was finely polished, my fingers felt no unevenness. It wasn’t big, but the smell of cedar was so powerful that I almost jumped back to catch my breath. I could picture Father in the shed, making this box for me. Sawing the board, hollowing and sanding the wood until he had the shape he wanted. Polishing it as he thought of me holding and feeling his work. Tears welled up but I held them back. I flipped open the lid of the box. There was nothing inside except a hollow about three fingers wide, roughly the length of my little finger, and not particularly deep. Mother had a similar box, lined on the inside, for her earrings. But I didn’t have any earrings, and right now I couldn’t think of anything else to keep in this box.
“Do you like it?” Father was watching me from the doorway. He had a dark blue jumper on with a high polo-neck. It looked cosy and warm. I was dying to run to him and bury my head in his woolly tummy, but I didn’t dare.
“I wasn’t sure …” he said.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to put in it.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
I nodded in silent agreement.
“May I come in?”
Still looking at the box, I nodded again. Father came into my room and looked around. His eyes took in my desk, the withered cyclamen sitting on it, and the little shelf that held my books and toys. He was studying the room as if seeing it for first time. I looked at him uncertainly. I didn’t know what he wanted from me. The last few weeks had left their mark, and I no longer knew how to read him. So I just sat there and clung to the little box.
“When I was a little older than you,” he said suddenly, pointing at my hands, “I had one of those too.” He stroked his beard.
“Really? What did you put in your box?”
“Well, I used to write stories back then,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets.
“What kind of stories?”
“Ones I made up.”
“About what?”
“Anything and everything. They weren’t particularly good, which is why I didn’t show them to anyone.”
“And you kept them in your box?”
“Yes. It was a bit bigger than yours, though.” He smiled and looked at me. “It’s always good to have somewhere to keep your secrets.”
Now he was standing very close to me, so close I could inhale his smell. How I’d have loved to lean my head against him, but I didn’t budge. “Will you tell me a story again some time?”
He seemed to hesitate. Then he said, “Yes, of course.”
“One about Abu Youssef?” I looked at him out of the corner of
