Nekropolis (18 page)

I roll my eyes.

“Like that,” she says. “Just like that. Akhmim doesn’t do that, he isn’t sarcastic. I’m trying my hardest to tell you what he’s like and you just roll your eyes.”

Her voice is loud. I glance back into Zehra’s house, afraid that Hariba’s mother will hear. She’s looking over her shoulder at us. I smile and look back at Hariba. “Your mother is listening,” I say quietly.

“I don’t care,” Hariba says, but quietly.

We sit and don’t say anything. I have better questions in my head: Is he smart? Is he ever angry? Does he feel the same things we do? How is he different from us? But I can’t ask them now.

“I’m tired,” Hariba says, petulant. “I want to go in.”

I come to see her, and she gets mad at me. You’d think she’d at least have the decency to recognize I didn’t have to come see her.

* * *

The
harni
is waiting at the same spot. He doesn’t say anything as I come closer. I’m nervous. He doesn’t look any different than a person, except that he’s handsome, like a foreigner who has had his genes enhanced. I want to speak to him, but I’m afraid to. I could just keep walking.

“She’s getting better,” I say.

“Did you tell her I asked about her?” he says. “Did she send a message?”

“No,” I say, and walk past him.

I can feel him looking at me, through my veil, like his eyes are heat on the back of my head.

* * *

The next day I don’t go to see Hariba, because my husband wants me to look at a flat in Debbaghin, but to get to the train I have to walk past where the
harni
waits. He’s not there.

Is he still in the death house where he and Hariba were living? What’s he doing, is he sick?
Harni
probably don’t even get sick. If I was going to make a creature, I’d make them so they didn’t get sick.

I am glad he’s not there. Or maybe not, I don’t know.

If I left the Nekropolis, then I could just lose track of Hariba and her
harni
. Things would take their course. When my cousin moved out of the Nekropolis, I stopped seeing much of her. Not because either of us meant to, but she had to work and her son was in a crèche in the day and we tried to get together a couple of times for tea. It would be like that. Alem isn’t really pleased with this flat, but if I got a job, we could get a better one. I could work in a tea shop or something.

The flat is on the fourth floor, up under the roof where it’s hot. The air cooler is on, but it doesn’t do much good. There’s a way up onto the roof, a trap door, but when I ask if we could sleep on the roof, where it would be cool at night, the landlord says he doesn’t want it unlocked, because thieves could get in.

“We would be on the roof, we’d hear a thief,” I say.

“You don’t want to sleep on the roof here,” he says. “Anyway, what if you forgot to lock it and you were gone? Anyone could come in my building.”

For some reason I think of the
harni
waiting on the roof.

It isn’t a very nice flat, it doesn’t have very much space. I thank the man and wonder why Alem wanted me to see it. Sometimes Alem just needs me to agree with him so he feels better about something he’s decided. He’s been complaining about how hard it is to work and then look for places to live and about how he’s seen so many places he can’t tell a good place from a bad one. I like it that he does that. At first it made me nervous, I think because of my father-my father never wanted my mother to have a single thought. And I wanted a husband who would be a real husband. I’m not so old-fashioned as most women in the Nekropolis, but that’s just the way I am. Alem isn’t weak and once I realized what he wanted, I found I really liked it. If he ever made a decision, for instance, if he decided that we should take this flat, I would do what he wanted.

I walk back to the train so disappointed. I want to live here so bad. Every flat has water and cool air. The markets are not just carts and stalls but shops on the corners, bigger than Addi’s shop at home, with dates and oranges in bins out front. Cool air comes out the doors.

The buildings are tall. On the first floor of one there’s a sign in a window that says FOR RENT and two men are sitting in front with a paint can. Their clothes are paint-spattered. I stop and tug my veil closer around my face.

One of the men looks at me and says, “Miss? Are you here to see the flat?”

“No, sir,” I say.

The other one shrugs. “I don’t think she’s coming,” he says.

“I’m looking for a flat,” I say boldly. “My husband just sent me to look at one he had seen,” I add, so they won’t think I’m too forward.

“Where?” the first man asks.

“Around the corner,” I say.

“Jamal’s flat? Up under the roof?” He shakes his head. “Jamal’s a crook. Come look at my flat, I’ve just painted it.”

It’s on the second floor, and smells strongly of paint. It’s clean and white. The rooms are not very large, but there are two bedrooms, one very small, but enough for Tariam. The windows look down on the street and it’s deliciously cool. It has shutters, which I love, they’re so old-fashioned.

“How much?” I ask. It’s the same as the other flat, the one Alem wanted me to look at. “We’ll take it,” I say.

“Your husband allows you to speak for him?” the man says.

“He’ll talk to you, but I’m sure he’ll say yes,” I say. What if it’s rented today? I dig in my purse and find my bankcard. “Here’s our bankcard,” I say. “I can give you a deposit.”

He takes the card thoughtfully. “All right,” he says. He puts the amount in, and presses his thumb against the pad. “It’s yours. When do you want to move in?”

“I have to talk to my husband,” I say. Such a big decision, made so fast. I look around the cool rooms and they seem even smaller. What have I done?

But I smile and thank him. I hope Alem isn’t angry.

I take the train home.

The
harni
is back in his spot, which irritates me. I wish he would disappear. I have to put a stop to this. He doesn’t see me, he’s watching the dust, leaning against the wall like any man with no job. I try to think of something to say, some way to tell him to leave me alone.

“What do you want from me?” I say.

He glances up and sees me and straightens up off the wall. “Did you see her today?” he asks.

He’s so single-minded about her that I’m invisible. Which I should admire, it should be romantic but it isn’t, it’s annoying and short-sighted.

“No,” I say. “And I didn’t want to see you. What do you want, why do you wait here?”

“I want you to take a message to her,” he says.

“Go away,” I say. “Leave her alone. Leave
me
alone.”

“Just one thing,” he says. “Ask her for me.”

“Why would I take her a message?” I ask.

“Ask her, what does she want me to do? That’s all, just ask her that.”

“I won’t ask her anything,” I say. “You should go away.”

He nods, not at all angry. “I should,” he says, “but I can’t.” He’s not like a real man at all, he has no pride, to stand there in the street and be told off like a woman.

“You’re not good for her,” I say. “You’re not human.”

“I told her that,” he says.

“I am not going to talk to you,” I say.

I haven’t told Alem about the
harni
because if I did he would tell the police and they would arrest him. I’d like it if he were arrested, but I don’t want to be the one who causes it. If he keeps hanging around, somebody will say something to somebody, I’m sure.

I could tell Alem about the
harni
after he’s arrested, but then I’d have to explain why I didn’t tell him before. I would like to tell someone about the
harni
. I’d like to ask someone about
harni
. I don’t know how Hariba stood it.

Not Alem, though. He doesn’t talk about things. He tells me about his day and every little thought that passes through his head, but he doesn’t really talk about things. My mother always said, “Men don’t have to know every little thing.”

I’m afraid of what he will say about the flat.

Alem comes home in his blue coveralls, so Tariam can see him from far down the street. She runs into the street without a veil, in the short dress she wears in the house so her legs are bare, shouting, “Papa! Papa!”

But Alem just laughs and scoops her up and kisses her curly head. “Princess!” he says.

She grins at me, knowing she has gotten away with something. He spoils her so bad. It makes me mad because he spoils her and then it’s up to me to try to correct her. “Tariam!” I say. “Look at you running naked in the street! Come in here!” I hate that, making me the bad one. But I know I’m too critical of him.

“Alem,” I say, my face very grave, “I have to tell you something.

“What?” He carries Tariam in, her long brown legs hanging down. She’s getting too big to carry, my baby.

“I saw the flat and I didn’t like it.”

He holds his face still, so I don’t know if I was supposed to like it or not. Is he angry?

“I found another one,” I said. “It’s very nice, very clean and cool.

“Where?” he asks.

“Closer to the train,” I say.

“Okay,” he says. “When do you want to go see it?”

“Tonight?” I say. “I mean, they were painting it when I saw it, that’s how long it’s been available, and it’s really very nice. I was afraid it would be gone, so…so I put a deposit on it,” I finish in a small voice. I’m hoping he will hear how nervous I am and not be mad at me.

He frowns a little. He doesn’t like that I put a deposit on it without him seeing it, but the truth is, he hates looking for a flat. It took him months to even start looking, and then he would only look once in a while. So part of him is relieved I’ve found something and he doesn’t have to look anymore, and part of him is worried he won’t like it, and part of him-I know this-wishes we didn’t have to go through the bother of moving at all.

“What about dinner?” he asks.

“My mother and I made couscous,” I say. “It’s ready.”

It’s early, but we sit down to eat. Tariam crawls into Alem’s lap and he feeds her. “I’m not hungry,” she says, but when he offers her couscous with zucchini and carrot, she eats it. Then I change her into street clothes, just a simple blue dress and a scarf for her hair-she has a wild head full of hair, curly like Alem’s, and it stands out like a halo away from her face, so she’s glad to get it tied back.

“Where are we going?” she asks. “Where are we going?”

“To look at a flat,” Alem says.

“Are we going on the train?”

“We are,” he assures her solemnly, and she skips, holding his hand.

“Hurry up!” she says. “Hurry up! I want to ride on the train!”

It’s cool underground, but Tariam fidgets on the train and wants to hang on the pole. Alem gets up and stands with his feet wide so his legs are on either side of her while she clasps the metal pole in the middle of the aisle and sways back and forth. The lights flicker and they disappear and reappear and I’m happy to see them there. It’s going to work out, I think.

And it does. We find the man who has the apartment. Alem likes the apartment. The landlord likes Alem. We can move in three weeks.

Tariam goes from room to room, singing a popular song I always hear playing on the street, “Silly boy, silly boy, you want to be my lover?”

* * *

“I saw him,” I tell Hariba. It just pops out. I think about saying it and I know I shouldn’t and
pop,
I say it. I won’t have much time to see Hariba anymore, not with moving and all, and I’m relieved about that. I hate coming to see her, I hate passing the
harni
.

“You saw him?” she says. She doesn’t ask who.

“I was going to catch the train. Alem and I are renting an apartment in the Debbaghin,” I say.

“Where did you see him?”

“At the end of my street,” I say. “He was waiting for me.”

“Did he have a message for me?” she asks, her hollow face hungry and alive. We’re sitting outside the door to her aunt’s house.

I try to think of a lie, but my mind is blank. “He said to ask you what you want him to do.” It occurs to me that I could lie, tell him she said to go away.

“I need to see him,” she says.

“For what?” I say, exasperated.

“To figure out what we’re going to do,” she says. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know, he’s always waiting at the end of my street.”

“You’ve seen him before?”

“Yes,” I say. “And I shouldn’t have told you.”

She covers her mouth with her hands. “O Holy One,” she finally breathes between her fingers. “I was afraid he was gone.”

“You’re just going to get in trouble.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand. Tell him, no, wait, you said he’s at the end of your street? The end of our street? When? When you’re coming here?”

“You can’t go meet him,” I say, aghast.

“I have to.”

“I’ll tell your mother. I’ll tell Zehra. They won’t let you out of the house.”

“Don’t,” she whispers. “Please, Ayesha, don’t.”

“You can’t go meet him on the street, you’ll get arrested. You’ll get him arrested.”

“They’ll kill him,” she whispers. “Won’t they? They’ll put him down.”

Which maybe they should do.

“They want to arrest you; look what they did to Nabil. You have to get better and then decide what you’re going to do.” We’ve all been talking about what she is going to do and we all think she’s going to have to run away. She can’t stay here.

“I have to see him again,” she says. “At least one more time. You’ve got to help me see him one more time.”

“Then you promise you’ll decide what you’re going to do?”

She nods. “I will. What do you think I should do?”

“Go abroad,” I say.

She nods. “Okay, I’ll plan it out. I’ll decide where to go and I’ll go away.”

“Start a new life,” I prompt.

She nods.

“So your family won’t be in danger anymore.”

That’s hard for her. I can see it hit her. But she nods slowly. “Okay. Maybe he could meet me in a tea shop? Do you think?”

An unmarried woman meeting a man in a tea shop is going to attract stares. “Don’t be stupid,” I say.