But the sun streams ferociously into the room, and she is a grown woman, she reminds herself. The house ticks with the unexploded arguments of this afternoon.
“Goddamn it.”
She kicks the covers, suddenly hungry again. The kitchen is empty save for the scent of baking chicken, a cutting board of chopped vegetables. Abruptly, Alia envies Priya her daily tasks, the constant motion of dusting and folding laundry. Priya rarely sits still for more than a few minutes; she certainly doesn’t mope in bed past noon.
Alia filches a chopped carrot, feeling once more like a child. A memory floats to her, unasked, of her mother’s kitchen in Nablus: sunlight streaming through the windows, tangling in the coriander and mint plants on the windowsill. The image hurts, and she shakes her head to clear it.
Alia rustles around in the cupboards. She craves, irritatingly, something. A precise, elusive wanting. This has been happening to her since her first pregnancy. Her mother told her to expect curious cravings: pickles with dried dates or yogurt milk and cinnamon. But what happened instead was haunting, daylong cravings for something unknown. Alia would hunt in the supermarket for hours, trying to locate the source of her longing, until, magically, like a remembered word, it would appear and she’d want to weep from gratitude—watermelon with cheese! Falafel mashed and topped with hot sauce!
Alia places a teabag into a mug, then leaves it unused on the counter. She gnaws on a wedge of bread, scoops apricot jam with her fingertip and licks it. No, no. She peers into the refrigerator, debating whether to eat leftover lentil soup, when she is struck by inspiration. Figs. She wants figs and cheese, the sheep’s-milk cheese with rosemary.
In the refrigerator, she finds a wedge of the cheese wrapped in wax paper but no figs. Apples, grapes, cantaloupe . . . but no. It must be figs. This is how her mind is at times, something she could never explain to easygoing Atef—the stubbornness like a lock, once bolted, impossible to move.
Outside, the short walk to her car fills her mouth with humid air. It is only April, but the sun is already overpowering, stark in the clear sky. Atef bought the second car several years ago, a blue thing with a powerful engine. Even now, after so long, Alia thrills at the engine revving, the humming life she orchestrates with a flick of her wrist.
Sometimes she thinks of Ajit, Widad’s old chauffeur, who returned to his country in the early seventies. Alia had become fascinated by India for a while, watching reports on the fighting, the men rushing the streets, dropping like dolls when gunshots rang out. There was a wild-eyed man who’d speak, his robes falling to his elbows when he lifted his arms. Alia would try to imagine Ajit there, among the crowds or throwing flaming bottles, but it was impossible; for her, he existed solely in the front seat of the sedan.
She’d felt sadness at Ajit’s departure, but also relief. He’d always seemed like an ally of hers, the one who would watch her in the rearview mirror. He was the one who’d seen her lapse, the only person in this country who knew she was capable of fleeing.
The supermarket is flanked by a row of restaurants and shops, directly facing benches and the marina. Atef hates when she shops at the supermarket. He says fruits from the marketplace taste fresher, but Alia prefers the efficiency, the rush of air conditioning that hits her now as she strides through the sliding doors. No one calls out to her here as they do in the marketplace, no one asks if she wants mangoes or spices as she walks the aisles. The employees, Pakistani, Filipino, work quietly, not even glancing her way as they stack cans and arrange the fruit. She can come and go unnoticed.
She finds the figs easily, packaged in plastic boxes next to a pyramid of oranges. Over the speakers a Fairuz song is playing, the one about love and summer. Alia sings along to it under her breath as she walks to the cashier. Her mood has lifted, and she curves her fingers against the box in anticipation.
Ya Mama, her mother used to say, everything in its place. There is a time for anger, a time for sorrow. You have to learn to distinguish. A lesson Alia never learned. Emotions swirl within her like the complex dish of maqlouba the aunts used to make in Nablus, the raisins impossible to pick from the rice.
Halfway across the parking lot, Alia changes her mind about going home and walks instead toward the sea. The marina is mostly empty, a couple of people sitting on the benches, a man walking along the railing. Alia chooses a bench fringed by palm trees. The water roils in front of her, several boats bobbing in the distance. Over the years, such things have become acceptable, little freedoms that would’ve been impossible a decade ago. An Arab woman alone, sitting on a bench and unwrapping a parcel of figs.
Years ago, when she’d flung her body into the sea as Ajit watched, Alia had felt outrageous, the most defiant woman in the world. The sheer audacity of the act had subdued her for months. But such an act would be laughable to these new girls, the ones in skintight leggings, girls like Souad and Budur who smoked cigarettes during harbor parties with foreigners—she has heard whispers about these parties, whiskey and dancing on yachts—let boys touch their bodies in the dark. In the face of such girls, a woman swimming at night is a small, trifling thing.
Alia bites into the flesh of a fig and shuts her eyes. Even without the cheese, the taste is perfect, her favorite fruit. She eats contentedly, the sun hot on her face. For the first time since she saw the crumbs fall from her daughter’s mouth yesterday, she feels calm.
In the distance, a girl walks on the sand toward the marina. She is dressed simply in a black dress falling below her knees, the neckline low, revealing the tops of her shoulders. She walks past the other benches and sits on Alia’s. The girl—not a child, Alia now sees, but probably Riham’s age, though small and thin—hooks one leg over the other and glances over at Alia. They exchange the quick, shy smile of strangers.
Though the calm feels broken, Alia is curious. She glances at the girl, the sharp edges of her cheeks and jaw. Thin earrings dangle from her earlobes. The girl looks decent, but there is something feral about her. An unwashed odor rises from her.
The girl speaks first. “Morocco or Beirut?”
“Pardon?” Alia is startled by her voice, gruff and low.
“The figs.”
“Oh.” Alia lifts the basket. “Casablanca,” she says.
“They’re even sweeter than the Lebanese ones. May I?”
Alia is surprised at her forthrightness, the girl’s hand extended. Four or five bracelets circle her wrist. Alia holds the basket out, and the girl takes several, peels them. For moments, there is silence.
“I’m Telar.” Then, as if just remembering: “Thank you.”
“Alia.” Though the girl is significantly younger, though it would be appropriate for her to refer to herself as Tante Alia or Khalto Alia, something about the girl makes that seem unnecessary.