I ruminate on what happened in the camps. I knit, in a feverish, mechanical movement that does not stop, that might take my mind off questions that drive me mad. I’ve come from Beirut with a heavy heart. Why did I come?
But Maryam is happy. She says that the new school is bigger and more beautiful. She enjoys her life with Sadiq and his family, keeping the girls company and spoiling the little boy. Sometimes she practices mothering them, and sometimes she asserts herself as their leader. As for the pool I was surprised to find in the garden of the house, that is what makes her happiest. She always loved swimming, and she swims every day. She eats with an appetite, and grows, not exempt from the law of the springs in the knees. I think, so be it; Maryam is happy, so be it.
35
Sumana
How did my friendship with Sumana begin? And why did I befriend her, while I remained distant from Evelyn? Was it because Evelyn often used the word “Madam,” which embarrassed me? Or was it because she spoke English well and fluently, while I stumbled over my words, aware of my broken English? She reminded me of an Asian doctor who worked in Gaza Hospital, whom Amin invited to dinner one night with the other foreign doctors. That night also I spoke in the briefest possible terms. What would I say to these doctors? I confined myself to a welcoming smile, to “Welcome to our home,” and to “You honor us.”
I understood from Sumana that Evelyn had a bachelor’s degree in science, that she had graduated from the university in her country, and that she wanted to make it clear that she was the children’s governess who taught them English, and not a servant. She maintained her position, correct and distant. Was I annoyed, without being aware of it, that her full responsibility for the children stood as a barrier between me and my grandchildren? Was I jealous of her, or is it that some spirits are in harmony while others clash, for reasons no one knows?
My relationship with Sumana was different. We communicated in shattered English on both sides, flavored at times with a few sentences in Arabic, fortified by gestures when necessary. I repeated, “There’s no call for this ‘Madam,’” so she began to call me “Mama.” She would ask me to teach her a new way to cook, and I would do it, or she would squat beside me to see how I was shaping the shoulder of a wool sweater I was making. When Randa was out of the house on her morning visits to her friends, Sumana seemed more able to communicate with me. She would make me coffee without my asking, and sometimes I would sit with her in the kitchen while she prepared the food.
I was sitting with her in the kitchen when she went to her room and returned with a large envelope. She opened it and brought out a pile of pictures, and began to show them to me.
A colored picture of two boys of ten: “Arawinda and Saminda, at twelve.”
“Twins?”
“Twins, but Saminda is a little taller than his brother. Look, Mama ….”
They looked alike, two thin, dark boys, each with a lock of smooth black hair covering his forehead. They were wearing identical shirts and shorts. I looked closely at the picture; one of them was a little taller than the other and thinner, and he had his arm around his brother’s shoulders. They were laughing in the picture.
“As beautiful as the moon, may God keep them for you!”
A single picture of a girl of five or six: “The smallest, Amanti.”
The girl was not smiling, perhaps apprehensive about the idea of the picture. She was staring with wide, anxious eyes, her hair tied with a white ribbon; she was wearing a beautiful white dress.
“As if she’s a princess!”
Sumana laughed happily. “A mother doesn’t love one child more than another, but sometimes I feel as if I love Amanti more. I miss her more.”
I said, “Because she’s the youngest.”
She said, “I wanted a girl, and I had to wait. The twins came first, and then a third boy, and at last Amanti. I haven’t seen her for a year and nine months.”
Then another picture, of a very handsome boy. She said, “This is the third boy. My mother gasped when she saw him, he was so beautiful. We decided to name him Padman; in Hindi, it means ‘lotus flower.’”
Then a picture of Sumana carrying her daughter when she was an infant. She muttered, as if apologizing, “This is an old picture.”
She looked like a young girl in it, and she was very thin. It was as if it had been taken twenty years earlier.
“This is a picture of the whole family: my mother and father, and this young man is my husband, and the children.”
I wanted to affirm the closeness. “This is Arawinda and that one is Sawaminda and ….”
She laughed. “Saminda.”
She began to repeat the names slowly, as if she wanted to carve them on my head so I would not make a mistake in them: “Arawinda. Saminda. Padman. Amanti.”
I repeated after her: “Arawinda. Saminda. Padman. Aminta.”
“Aa-maan-tii.”
I got up to the stove and filled the coffee pot with water. Sumana caught up to me, and said in confusion, “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I should have realized that you wanted a cup of coffee. I’ll make it for you.”
“I want to make it.”
The coffee boiled, and I poured two cups. I offered her one and she murmured “Thank you,” but I noticed that she did not drink it. She said, “My husband goes out with other women, and that hurts me a lot. I say it’s not right. He denies it, and says, ‘Don’t believe your mother.’ But he takes care of the children and is very affectionate with them. He spends what I send him on them. My mother says that he also spends on his girlfriends. I don’t know who to believe.”
“What does your husband do?”
“He repairs bicycles. In our area we use bicycles a lot. But he is suggesting that he buy a motorcycle, so he can do another job too and make a lot of money, taking fish to market, or vegetables.”
“There’s a sea in your country, isn’t there?”
“Our village is on the sea. Our house is a few steps from it.”
When I went back to my room I decided to write down the names of Sumana’s four children so I wouldn’t make another mistake in them. I forgot the name of the third boy; I wrote “Lotus.” When Maryam came back from school I told her, “Ask Sumana about the names of her children, and when she tells you the name of the third boy, remember it well. Don’t say that I asked you to ask her.” Maryam laughed, and asked me, “Have you decided to give Sadiq’s next son a Sri Lankan name?” She was joking, but I was not comfortable with the comment.
Later I asked Sumana about the sea in their country. She understood some of what I said, but she didn’t understand all of it. I wanted to hear from her about the scent of the sea there, and about the flowers. She said, “Fa-low-erz?” not understanding. I said, “Are there flowers in your country, like these?” I took her to the large vase where there was a bouquet of artificial roses. She said the names, and I did not recognize any of them. But she did not forget the question, because weeks later she brought me a Sri Lankan magazine and showed me pictures of flowers. She said, “This one is found in our village; this one, no.” Then on another page: “This one and that one too grow near the sea, and these birds.”