Habibi: List 2

Poppy told the realtor soberly that he was sorry, but he couldn’t bear to look out his window at that depressing sign.

“We do not embrace such archaic customs, and furthermore, does she look ready to be married? She is fourteen years old.”

“Liyana, you must be patient. Cultural differences aren’t learned or understood immediately. Most importantly, you must abide by the guidelines where you are living. This is common sense. It will protect you. You know that phrase you always hated—When in Rome, do as the Romans do? You must remember, you are not in the United States.”

From the immaculate bare kitchen of their new flat, Rafik and Liyana could hear squawking rising from the backyard.

They went downstairs and stepped outside to find a pen of plump black chickens pecking heartily in straw.

Liyana mused. “Shouldn’t we wait at least a week? Let’s establish ourselves as law-abiding lodgers first.”

Liyana mused. “Shouldn’t we wait at least a week? Let’s establish ourselves as law-abiding lodgers first.”

A few days before, Poppy had actually thumbed through a Bible looking for a quote he liked from the Psalms: “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its cunning. May my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.”

A few days before, Poppy had actually thumbed through a Bible looking for a quote he liked from the Psalms: “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its cunning. May my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.”

It made Liyana mad when he read it to her. Was there an underlying meaning? Was he saying she wasn’t acting happy enough to be here?

Every morning at breakfast, when Poppy greeted Rafik and Liyana with his characteristic, “Good morning! And how are you today?” she felt like answering in a gloomier way. I’m fair. I’m floundering. I’m lonesome.

German pilgrims, Italians humming hymns, and Japanese travelers wearing small purple caps converged on the same narrow pathways.

At the Wailing Wall, Jews in yarmulkes were tucking tiny notes and prayers into cracks between stones.

The Abbouds trudged around the outside of the Old City while Poppy gave them a lesson in the gates—Damascus Gate, Herod's Gate, Jaffa Gate, the New Gate, the Lion's Gate (also known as St. Stephen's Gate), and—their favorite—the Dung Gate.

The table filled up with olives, purple marinated turnips, plates of baba ghanouj and hummus, and hot flat breads, even before the real lunch came.

Two strong rays of light entered the subterranean restaurant through high-up windows along the street.

“Are the classes like a three-channel television set? What will I do when they’re on the other channels? Will they think I’m a dunce for speaking only English?” Liyana asked Poppy.

Liyana said, “Distraction? If I were wearing a giant cosmic cone on my head, would I have room to talk?”

“The old customs have to be changed somehow, you know? Little by little. I told her I thought it was a stupid custom while we were still sitting here—but she was relentless. So—as easily as she appeared in our house, I disappeared. She'll get over it.”

Sitti stroked her face saying, “Ya Habibi, Habibti,” cackling like a giddy munchkin.

Sitti stroked her face saying, “Ya Habibi, Habibti,” cackling like a giddy munchkin.

Sitti waved her arm at the expansive view across the valleys and hills.

They passed a few lone houses sitting off by themselves under gnarled trees.

Then Sitti filled the jug slowly from a pipe jutting out of a ledge.

Sitti said she could read their fortunes in the tea leaves in the sugary bottoms of their cups. The tea leaves had their own alphabets and conveyed messages once the tea was gone.

A German archaeologist was coming over for dinner.

Rafik, starving as usual, flitted around their rooms saying, “I wish she’d hurry up. I wish I wish I wish.”

If they told, no telling what would happen—already the countryside teemed with jeeps and foreigners and curious expeditions.

He could carry buckets or sift through shards.

“Just today,” the archaeologist said, “we uncovered a rich cache of pottery chips painted blue.”

Even though the Mediterranean loomed far out of sight, beyond hills, neighborhoods and coastal towns, Liyana imagined she could feel sea breezes brushing her face.

She said, “I think friendships are—irrevocable. Once you’re friends you can’t turn back.”

The chickens stepped out, at first tentatively, then wildly, as if they’d been loosed from prison.

The happy hens scrabbled in the dirt for bugs and worms.

Rafik interrupted her reverie by screaming, “It's leaving! One of the hens has flown away!”

Rafik and Liyana left the others, unlatched the gate, and went running after the vagrant.

Walking back toward home past the refugee camp, Liyana stared over the clutter of wires, posts, and sawhorses that made up its jagged boundary, and there, among clotheslines and ramshackle dwellings, she spotted one tall redheaded boy with their chicken cradled in his arms.

She felt so relieved to see the wayward chicken again that she put her hand out enthusiastically to shake the boy’s free hand.

“I would listen to things people say when they think no outsider is listening. When they make decisions that will affect other people. I would be their conscience, tugging at them quietly. And there would have been peace in Jerusalem long ago.”

“Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick.”