Saleh Razzouk

(with Scott Minar)

My father told me to keep calm until he got back, then he went off with Um Habib*. Afterward, no one was left in the house but me and little Evet, who was playing with some iron rods. In fact, she was weaving in her imagination a fake wool dress. But I wasn’t trusted enough to judge the length of that woolen robe she made, so far, using her rods.

This was father’s way after he split up with mother for some unknown reason. He used to take me to her house, the Jewish woman, Um Habib. After a cup of Turkish coffee, in the shade of a tree that was about to die, he went out with her.

Um Habib, for the curious, helps the widows or singles arrange marriages: she is a matchmaker. But in her spare time, she makes dresses too. 

From my spot on the sofa, I was able to see the machine. To be precise, we might say its heavy torso, at the far end of the living room, near the corridor.

After several visits I still hadn’t met Abou Habib*, the expected husband of the woman, nor her eldest son, Habib. Neither was ever there. I couldn’t find a trace of either of them in this silent, mystical world. They were hung photos on a wall over the sewing machine. 

Evet continued to play with her boll of wool yarn and her thin rods, but that didn’t stop her from asking, Are you comfortable there? 

She meant the place where I sat, the outdoor sofa, my favorite one near the pond in the middle of the yard, where I followed with clenched eyes a plastic duck swimming in water. It was like me, alone and alien, swimming in water covered with leaves from an old, dying tree. Yet that pondwater reminds us of a heartbreaking burial as it reflects our diving passions on its rough surface. 

I replied: I’m all right.

We exchanged a reluctant stare—one long, constant and deep look.  She smiled, and I realized she was holding back, on the tip of her tongue, a few silent words.

I asked: Do you know when father is coming back? 

Before she replied, we heard wails pouring out of the neighbors’ house, mixed with angry, unclear voices.

Evet let go the spider of wool she was stumbling with, the boll of the wool and the two metal arms, the weaving rods, as she reached a ladder leading up to the roof.

Evet was a little dark, or you could call it pale, like the shadowy world she lived in. But her underpants were made of silk, printed with recurring pictures of nut shells. Even now, I recall Evet with a strong nut cracker we needed to reach the soft part, the tasty fruit.

I climbed the ladder after her immediately, only to stop on the last step. Then, as she had done, I glanced of the neighboring house’s yard to see what the fuss was about….

*Um Habib and Abou Habib are titles given to a woman and a man having an eldest son called Habib. 

2008 – from a collection named , appending to previous events. 

Edited by: Scott Minar

(Ohio university, Lancaster)