Chapter 5. Living Stones #2
Nuhad and Rania leaned against the stone wall of the building as they waited for their fish. The heat warmed the stone and their backs, and an aromatic concerto circled out of the stall’s kitchen: sumac, lemon, coriander, onions. It was heaven.
“Sometimes I’m so happy,” Rania said suddenly. Nuhad looked over, and her cheeks were flushed, as if she hadn’t meant to say it. Nuhad grabbed her hand and smiled, not saying anything in return. She squeezed and let go.
“Two catches of the day!” The man’s bellow rang out with the ding of the countertop bell. He smiled at them as they grabbed the order, his front silver tooth glinting in the waning sun. “Sahtain!”
“A’a albak,” Rania responded for them both.
Nuhad was already beyond her, sandals smacking against the pavement as she crossed the street to get to the small ledge that sat between the road and the sand.
The paper plates were hot against her fingertips.
She placed them on top of the small stone wall and hoisted herself up beside them.
Small grains of sand flew across her legs as she swished her hands against one another.
Rania followed, grunting as she swung her legs around to face the sea with her friend.
“Bon appétit,” Nuhad said, turning the plate so that a fish faced each of them. She kissed her fingertips together like she’d seen a chef do once on television.
“Ah, we’re French now?” Rania giggled and tore off a piece of fish. With steam still rising from the meat, she popped it in her mouth. “Hot!”
“A’an jad?” Nuhad laughed. “Of course it’s still hot!”
“Worth it, though.” Rania sucked on her fingers before picking up another piece.
Nuhad followed suit, chewing with her mouth partly open to cool the fish down, the flavor of freshly grilled fish dancing across her tongue.
Lemon flirted with coriander that met with the salty sea air, and at once Nuhad understood Rania’s instant happiness from earlier.
Straying her gaze to the edge of the beach, Nuhad watched a British soldier rolling up the hems of his beige pants. He straightened and walked barefoot into the damp sand, where a wave was quickly retreating, leaving only foam behind. Tall boots hung in his hands.
“The only thing that would make this moment better,” Nuhad started, then swallowed and went on, “is if the soldiers would leave. Don’t they want to return home at some point?”
Rania followed her friend’s eyes to the young man, now ankle-deep in the sea. “Yeah,” she said quietly.
Despite the soft glow of the sunset, the sky slowly deepened with a desperation; darkness shrouded them. Slowly, as if from a filter, salt softly fell over the city. It did not land on the girls but instead accumulated on the ground in small, mournful piles.
A sudden heaviness weighs over this memory.
“How’s the family you took in?” Nuhad asked, clearing her throat. She tore off another piece of fish, holding it up to examine it for small bones.
Rania shook her head, as if ridding herself of a thought. “They’re fine, I guess.” She shrugged. “They’re nice, but kind of quiet.”
“Where are they from again?” Nuhad only knew the basics: Rania’s family agreed to take in a Jewish family that had survived the Holocaust. They were one of many.
“Austria. It’s really awful what they did there to them,” Rania said. “The woman helps my mom around the house, which is nice. Even though there are more people to clean up after, I feel like I have fewer chores.”
“I would love to have fewer chores.”
“And she has a baby, too. So she works a lot. But he doesn’t really cry.”
“That’s kind of strange for a baby, right?”
Rania shrugged again. “My mom said when you’ve experienced that kind of trauma, it makes sense for a baby not to cry.”
“Mm.”
Nuhad looked out to the soldier again. Normally, they were in pairs, but he was alone.
From here, Nuhad could see no grooves or lines in his face; he appeared young.
She would miss her home if she had traveled so far for so long.
The darkness spread over the sky, encroaching at the edges and with a sad sort of malice.
Nuhad finished her piece of fish in silence.
“Come on,” she said, rubbing her hands on her pants. She shook her head just as Rania had done so earlier. “Let’s go to my place. Maybe my dad bought some sodas.”
She wiggled her eyebrows and Rania smiled.
“Yes!”
Their sandals clapped against the street as they hopped down from the stone wall. Twilight and moonlight reunited over the company of people strolling and chatting, smoking, and sitting at tables playing tawla or eating bizir.
Nuhad’s home was a short walk from the port, and in just a few minutes, they’d hardly had to walk uphill before they were opening the empty storefront and picking their way around the nets and buckets of bait.
Darkness blanketed the store, but it was a warm comfort.
The creaky staircase announced their presence as they made their way inside of the living room.
A circle of dying saffron was stamped onto the wall; the dying sun was hardly lit from the sky over sea. In the growing darkness, Nuhad’s mother, Victoria, had lit a few candles and a warmth filled the space. Her home was the single spot of light.
“Hi, ya habaybi,” she said quietly. Candlelight glow illuminated her cheeks in rose. “How was the fish?”
“Delicious as always.” The sofa bowed beneath Nuhad’s weight as she flopped onto it, her presence a permanent fixture of every part of the home.
“I’m going to make some tea. Bidkom shay?”
Both girls said yes, and soon the house smelled like warm tea, sugar, and cinnamon sticks. Nuhad could feel her eyes slowly closing. In the comfort of her home, it was easy to feel at peace.
A man’s voice pierces through the image and shatters the candlelight glow. Immediately, reality sets in as the floor materializes beneath Marina’s feet once more and she looks up to the still painting on the wall.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Marina stumbles backward, one foot tripping over the other, but the realtor catches her by the elbow and steadies her.
“Whoa, there.”
She finally catches his eye as they stand face-to-face. He sticks out his hand, a big smile cutting through cheeks where a baby blond beard is growing.
“My name is David. How are you doing today?”
Paralysis strikes Marina at the sight of his outstretched hand—she doesn’t even know what just happened to her, let alone how to answer his question.
How am I doing? she thinks, a surprising seething seeping from her thoughts.
In a single day, she has landed in her ancestral lands, occupied for over fifty years; she has met her grandmother’s childhood best friend, set foot in the home that should have been her family’s, and been warned away from the very place she now stands in.
And the house—or the painting—has spoken to her. Through it, she felt her grandmother. It’s as if something wants her to come farther inside, feel her memories, feel her. Marina can sense her own soul reattaching to her body as she shakes his hand. Reality returns slowly.
“Hi.” She drops it. “Uh—”
“Beautiful view, by the way. I can see why you fell head over heels for it.” He nods to the window and winks. “So, what are you looking for today?”
“Excuse me? Hello?” A thin voice travels from the entrance. Rania’s voice.
“Yes, hello! In here!” The real estate agent turns and gives Marina a short “Excuse me.”
“Can you show me around the outside, please?” Rania’s voice filters through the lungs of the house. Marina sends a silent thanks to Rania for buying her a few more minutes alone.
Her heart beats loudly in her ears as she looks around, panicked, with sudden clarity. She’s here to—what? Find memories? Lock the house from the inside and refuse to give it back?
Damn it, she thinks. How can one be expected to forcefully shove all of the mementos and memories and found history into a few minutes of borrowed time? Anger floods her in a crushing red wave: she shouldn’t have to squeeze in a few moments alone. This was her grandmother’s house.
A harsh, staccato knocking comes from beneath her feet. Marina jumps away, but all of the tiles begin to make the same noise, as if dozens of people are knocking against the floor below her feet.
All at once, it ceases—
come closer
—and a small, thin path of water comes up from beneath the floor and settles against the tile.
Marina stares. The water materialized before her eyes.
Her breathing comes quickly now and her mind wants so desperately to hold on to her logic—haunted houses aren’t real—but she has just seen the inside of a memory and watched water form from nothing.
Every part of her is begging to turn around and leave, and in her mind still echo the warnings from Rania and Hassan, but an incessant curiosity pulls at her, a part that wants to understand.
It could be a burst pipe, Marina rationalizes, and she crouches and touches the water gingerly with the tip of her pinky finger and jerks it back immediately. It’s real. Tiny droplets spray as she flicks her hand from side to side.
Marina sits back on her heels, her teeth involuntarily chattering against one another despite the welcoming warmth from the house.
If haunted houses are real—if—then Nuhad’s own childhood home has intentionally shown her a memory from her grandmother.
Now, it wants her to follow the watery path.
A hypnotic sense of calm comes over her.
Crawling on all fours, Marina follows the trail with one finger down the hallway, terrified to touch it again and feel its realness.
She stops in the middle of the house’s pink throat as a voice of reason, somewhere in the back of her mind, demands that she stop and turn around. What are you doing? What are you doing?