Naphtalene. Alia Mamdouh

      The clouds are over your head and the trials of life are always ahead of you. Just look at your father. It seems to you that he is driving a truck. Your mother is sitting in the back, monopolizing the silence and illness. The rest of the herd are playing inside the detention camp, growling a little, then falling silent.

      Your grandmother knew how to withdraw from company and free herself from all chores, as if she were created only for worship. She was content with this distinction, showering us with prayers after every meal to protect us from the wiles of Satan.

      She was well aware of devils. She used to recite to you and your aunt the verse of the Throne so that your aunt’s hell would become more bearable and you would steer clear of any evil temptation.

      “May God show you the right path and bring you closer to Munir!” she cried to your aunt, and the strength of her faith inspired you.

      When Munir thrust his fingers around your aunt’s upper arm, the mark remained for days, indelible, like that of a slap. He used to show up without notice and leave without excusing himself. When he was silent we knew there was trouble. He chattered about things which could not be understood. He was short and stocky, always wearing a suit and a new tie. His shoes gleamed, and so did his bald head.

      He mocked and ridiculed. He laughed and winked. He jumped like a field locust and scurried like the cockroaches in the cesspool. He moved the way the movie heroes did, pinched me on the cheek when he came in, and slapped my behind when he left. He filled the plates with cigarette butts. He drank a great deal of water and tea.

      Yet there was something of an evil spirit about him. You could never tell by his face whether he was serious or joking. He spat on the ground and coughed violently. Your mother vanished out of his way. He always asked about your brother; Adil was afraid of him. I always provoked him, and my grandmother watched everything.

      To us he looked big and scary. You learned his age, approximately, when Aunt Najia told your grandmother, “No, dear, he’s too old for her. He might be forty, and Farida only came of age a few years ago.”

      Your grandmother lit two cigarettes and they smoked. This aunt’s voice fluctuated between masculinity and femininity. She was full-figured and fortyish, and wore gold-framed eyeglasses; her teeth were yellow, big, and jutted forward. She left her hair in two narrow black braids, streaked with white.

      She always wore the patterned silk robe with the low neckline. Underneath it was a pink, beige, or orange slip with the bosom worked in lace and threaded with silver or gold. She would tie a wide headband of shiny black fabric over her wide, high forehead. As soon as she entered a strong scent emanated from her—the scent of a woman in labor. We gazed at her as if she were a fashionable lady, at the expanse of her wide, freckled chest, exposed to us, and the crevice between her ample breasts that were pushed up by her brassiere. When we looked further down, we would be dazzled by her large shining brooch with its colored stones, and stunned by the big turquoise stone. After taking off her veil she would wipe away her sweat with a handkerchief of soft material whose edges were embroidered in brilliant colors. She would then bury the handkerchief in her bosom. She would have a long coughing fit and spit out a thick clot of phlegm. Your aunt would take from her the silk cloak embroidered with gold thread from the neck to the waist.

      In summer the courtyard was washed. The cushions with their patterned covers were arrayed on the straw mats. The brazier gleamed, the coal turned to bright embers, and the teapot and kettle were new. The little cups with their gold-lined saucers and silver spoons were set out in the middle of the round platter, brought out of the old wooden chest. The courtyard was roofed with broad panes of glass seamed with black and gray iron, specked with bird droppings. When it rained, the raindrops reminded you of the devils that went around in your head, and when the sun shone our spirits were revived.

      Rooms lined the courtyard. Your parents’ room was at the end of the corridor, and your aunt’s and grandmother’s room was at the entrance. It was your room, too—yours and Adil’s.

      This open courtyard was where you used to receive guests. In winter, the holes in the corners were stuffed with rags dipped in paraffin. We spread out old rugs and worn-out carpets, and big pillows with worn linen covers in the four corners.

      The rusty gray heaters were my mother’s job. She took them into the kitchen and there began to clean and polish. She replaced the old wicks. She greased the hard knobs and returned everything clean and polished. She put one in each room, then brewed tea on the big brazier, she grilled onions and warmed the stale bread. On cold winter nights we smelled the orange peels as they burned—she used to spread them on the coals to banish the bad smell of the paraffin.

      The