Cinnamon (4 page)

‘Only a real man can catch me!' Aliyah began to shout. This was enough to set the boys off. They chased her, hurling threats as she leapt away, aided by her slender frame and her familiarity with the alleyways' twists and turns. She was heading for home, to get to safety before they could catch her. She didn't notice when one of the boys was dragged off the street by his mother, who scolded him and grabbed him by the hand to pull him inside. As the darkness grew stronger, the two remaining boys started to get scared. Black cats with fluorescent eyes scaled the walls as the light faded into total darkness. In the narrow alleyways, the wind whistled a ghostly tune. Yet the boys did not turn back because, every now and then, Aliyah glanced back at them and gestured at their backsides. She was burning with rage for having been deprived of the foreign chocolate, a taste she had never known in all her life.

The clatter of tin roofs and the noise of miauling cats grew louder, and a light rain began to fall. Aliyah had reached the top of the alleyway leading to the room where she lived with her family. She relaxed her pace and waited, but it was only a few moments before her enemies appeared, coming to a halt before her. Aliyah panted like a puppy, resting her hands on her hips as she stared straight at the two boys in defiance. The boys prowled in circles around her, having decided that variety would be their tactic in torturing her. Meanwhile, Aliyah's thoughts were on one thing alone: to pounce on one of the boys' backs and cling on, then bite him on the neck. She had seen cats do it and had once tried it out successfully on the boys, who had begun to fear her after that.

Aliyah slipped from under one of the boys' legs and jumped on his back. She ripped his shirt and plunged her teeth into his neck, until he started to scream. The second boy pulled her hair, but she clung to the other's back, her body becoming an extension of his as he shrieked. This brought the neighbours outside. The sight of the little girl suspended from the boy's neck was a sight for them all. Aliyah closed her eyes, tensed her limbs and wrapped her thighs around his waist. Were it not for the screams of the gathering crowd – the boy's mother in particular, who screeched as she lashed out at the girl – then Aliyah would have clung on longer. Despite what was happening around her, she kept her eyes closed. Suddenly she jumped back; it was clear now that things had gone too far when the grown-ups had interfered, but by the time Aliyah had retreated the news had already overtaken her and found its way to her home. She was swept along by the crowd – the boys' families and the neighbours – who knocked on the door to the little room, causing the tin roof-sheets to shake over the heads of her family.

 

With a shiver, Aliyah woke up. Looking out towards the horizon, there was nothing but clouds defying the sun to rise from beneath them. In the other direction, not far from the wall which she rested her back against, the window was still closed. Aliyah contemplated the photograph a long while, before putting it back in her bag with a sigh. She shut the bag once more, her teeth beginning to chatter with the cold again. Aliyah picked herself up, grabbed hold of her bag and carried on her way.

That streak of light – it dropped down from the mirror towards the stone floor, covering it with tiny images of light. Each image emitted a slanted beam and every beam transformed into a different face, crowding around Hanan's bed. Hanan searched among the faces for Aliyah, attempting to recover her scent, now faded from the room. What had Aliyah been like? Could she recollect that first glimmer in her eyes? Had she any memory of the girl other than her petrified glances just now?

Was it a long time ago, when her heart had pounded for the violence she saw in the girl's eyes?

 

It had been a red autumn day when Aliyah entered the one-story building in Muhajireen, precisely seven years ago. Hanan al-Hashimi was sitting on a wine-coloured sofa embroidered with gold, in a style like damascene brocade. Her lips trembled as she struggled to listen to the swarthy man holding Aliyah by the hand. The man spoke to Hanan in a coarse, yet deferential, voice about the arrangement they had made on the phone a few days ago.

‘I don't want Aliyah going out alone, ma'am,' he stammered, turning his face away. Hanan looked at him, her eyes drifting and dulling slightly, before she opened them startlingly wide, staring at the little girl.

‘The hijab,' the father said, pointing at Aliyah's head.

As she looked at the girl, Hanan realised that her head was wrapped in a faded yellow rag, fastened near the top of her ear with a flower hairpin.

‘I don't want her taking her headscarf off outside your house.'

Mistress Hanan signalled her agreement before exiting the spacious room, where the walls were adorned with works of stained glass and mother-of-pearl inlay. She would recall his instructions in the years to come and find them very strange, for neither he nor any other member of Aliyah's family ever showed their faces again. It would seem even more peculiar to her that Aliyah never mentioned them. Even when Hanan tried to ask her about her mother – a situation which arose repeatedly in their many years together – the little girl would respond with a shake of the head, or by simply lowering her gaze.

That red autumn afternoon, as the father stood issuing instructions on his daughter's hijab, Hanan exited the sitting room abruptly, leaving them alone together. Aliyah was waiting for him to vanish, to discover what sort of a future fate had chosen for her. All the while she was goaded by the image of her mother crying. She would have preferred anything at that moment – anything at all – to being in the company of that man, who made a periodic appearance at the house to take the money that was meant to feed her and her siblings, who had killed her sister and would kill her too one day, for sure.

Aliyah had no idea that this mistress, who spoke with clear disdain, would prohibit her even from going out alone and would determine the course of her life as the fancy took her. The mistress left Aliyah's father and went to her husband's room. ‘The maid is here with her feral father,' she told him, taking a large sum of money from the metal safe tucked away in the deepest corner of the room. Hanan had felt a deep sense of confusion as she examined the child's face, which was framed with sandy yellow. Within a week that dark little face would have turned a flushed crimson. It would take some training, she realised, before the girl could manage the responsibilities of the new villa where she was about to move with her husband.

Hanan felt quite bewildered, her fingers trembling as she registered her husband's disinterest and retreated from his room. Frustrated, she stamped her feet hard against the floor. She knew it, he really was just like a crocodile; she had known it in every minute spent in his vicinity. His only human feature in which she found no animal resemblance was his voice; it was more the soft, shy voice of a child, barely even audible.

Hanan told her husband about the maid and waited for his reply, for the sound of his voice to calm her as it usually did. But he remained silent, his form settling into its usual repulsiveness. Hanan left and went to the sitting room, where she handed the father an envelope. The father stood up eagerly and began counting the money; Aliyah watched his expression as the mistress waited for him to leave. Moistening his finger with the tip of his tongue, he took a deep breath then started again, turning the notes over in his hands.

An elderly servant entered the room carrying two glasses of juice. The servant peered at the man curiously, disgusted by his black nails. He looked at the child, then at his mistress, who understood his expression and was reminded of how long it would take to arrange her new life with this girl in her service. Meanwhile, the girl was captivated by the works of art on the wall. She contemplated the paintings and the artefacts in the strange house, most of which were more than half a century old.

Aliyah's father finished counting his money and shook the mistress's hand respectfully, bowing slightly. He inclined further to kiss his daughter, who shuddered and backed away from him. It was the first time he had ever kissed her; the first and the last. The mistress granted him permission to visit his daughter on occasion and would allow the rest of her family to come too, not knowing that he wouldn't be returning to the family home, that he was to vanish completely. Nor did she know that Aliyah's mother had no idea where the father had taken their daughter, or why he had suddenly vanished.

Aliyah felt lost between the elderly servant and the mistress as she watched her father, until, like lightening, he was gone. Touching her forehead at the spot where her father had kissed her – that one, orphan kiss – it felt as though a star shone through her fingers. Aliyah was happy. The kiss brought a fleeting glimmer to her eyes, which caught the mistress's attention as she approached.

 

Tossed amongst the mirror's projections, the memory came back to Hanan of that first glow she had noticed in Aliyah's eyes, at a moment in which she was still the mistress examining her new maid.

 

The yellow cloth wrapping Aliyah's head was the second thing to attract her. Hanan approached, trying to work out what it was exactly that her servant had placed over her hair. The faded red lines looked like traces of blood, but as she got closer, she saw that they were the remnants of old threads. Hanan smelt a penetrating scent: the mother's laundry. She stood there and stroked her fingers across the little girl's head. She bent down, then squatted as she peered into the girl's dark eyes. Intent on discovering where she was and what was expected of her, she stared straight back; her heart pounded, but her gaze was undisturbed by the slightest blink. The mistress explored the little girl's features; they were too finely sculpted, too beautiful for a servant. Hanan brimmed with happiness at the discovery. Most maids had a generic expression, somewhere between doltish sadness and patient sorrow. Their cheeks, thought Hanan, were not pronounced like Aliyah's; most were red and puffy, like the cooks' faces, or pale and sagging, like the housemaids'. Aliyah's face was like that of a black panther; were it not for the fear and sadness that sometimes appeared in the girl's expression then Hanan al-Hashimi would have been afraid as she circled the little girl, examining her from head to toe.

Hanan reached out a hand towards Aliyah's head and pulled off the cloth. She did not unfasten the flower clip, which scratched the girl's cheek. Her coarse hair was revealed, pulled back in a short, tight plait, so small it was barely noticeable. Where the flower clip had been there was now a brilliant red line, from which sprung a drop of crimson blood. Aliyah stayed glued to the spot in silence. She realised it was her duty to please the mistress, who had paid her family a lot of money. It was really very simple; all she had to do was obey.

Aliyah thought of nothing else but to fulfil her mistress's wishes. That way, her mother would no longer have to work in other people's houses and her brothers and sisters would get to buy nice clothes, she thought. She was only there for them. With that in mind, everything was easy. She didn't raise her hand to try to see the hot liquid, even though she could feel its sting on her cheek. There wasn't the slightest crease of emotion in her expression. Aliyah blinked slightly when the mistress leant towards her to wipe away the blood with her embroidered handkerchief.

‘I didn't mean to,' said the mistress hoarsely as she dabbed Aliyah's face, cleansing the shallow wound, which had left a clear mark on her cheek.

‘I really didn't mean to.' Hanan was addressing herself, reproachfully. She waited for a response, but the little girl didn't make a sound; she simply grabbed hold of her head-covering and attempted to put it back in its place.

‘It won't do you any harm to take it off inside the house.'

Aliyah peered at the mistress in bewilderment. She wasn't used to baring her head to strangers – she could burn in hell for such a thing. Even the mistress wore a hijab; hers was delicately embroidered. She made no response, instead simply lowering her hand, the hijab too, and nodding her agreement. The mistress pulled away the cloth and threw it aside. As she grabbed hold of her hand, she was momentarily taken aback by the warmth of the little girl's palm.

‘Come, I'll show you to your room. We'll be staying here a few more days then you'll get a much nicer one,' she said, thinking of the colourful room in the villa which she had prepared for guests. Hanan could barely believe her own actions: how could she be giving away the guestroom just like that? When had she made that decision? And how had the heat of the little girl's palm transferred like that to her own body? It must just be pity, she thought. After all, the girl was no more than a maid!

 

Hanan began to recall that first glimmer in the little girl's eyes and how she had grabbed hold of her hand. All that was left to her now, she thought, was the nightmare – the streak of light. If there wasn't a knock at the door soon, if her brown-skinned maid didn't enter, then she might live the rest of her days in a vacant state.