Santa Claus in Baghdad and Other Stories about Teens in the Arab World

3. The Hand of Fatima: A story from Lebanon: Which comes first—loyalty to others or faith in your own dreams?

3 the Hand of Fatima A STORY FROM LEBANON Aneesi paused outside the dining room. She had spent the long, hot summer morning helping Sitt Zeina prepare a lavish lunch, had waited on the guests without a single slip, and had just finished clearing the dessert dishes. She was tired and hungry, and her plastic sandals chafed from so much running back and forth. All she wanted right now was to sit down in the kitchen and enjoy the leftovers. But something had caught her attention. Holding the silver serving plates still half full of pastries, she lingered in the hallway to listen. Sitt Zeina was telling her husband, in no uncertain terms, “We must have that garden wall repaired, Yusuf. You know, where the old fig tree is pushing it over. You’ve put it off long enough, and costs are going up every day. Besides, there’s a lot more we should do with the garden.” Before Dr. Jubeili could answer, one of the guests broke in with a laugh. “What are you thinking of, Zeina? Big ideas for the Jubeili estate?” “Oh, nothing too extravagant,” she answered. “Just terraces for my roses, with good walls of well-fitted stones. There aren’t many SANTA CLAUS IN BAGHDAD AND OTHER STORIES 52 fine old villas like ours left close to Beirut—what with those dreadful apartment buildings springing up everywhere. We must make the most of this one.” Aneesi could hear Dr. Jubeili sigh. “Zeina, have you any idea what workers are getting paid these days? Stonemasons can charge whatever they want. Lebanese ones, that is. Syrian workers are cheaper—but just try to find one who knows how to do good stonework.” A charge of excitement ran through Aneesi. I know one, she thought—my father! A few days earlier, a letter had arrived from her older brother Hussein, who was at home in Syria. Papa needed more work, Hussein wrote. He had to borrow continually, just to feed the six people who depended on him. Hussein was thinking of quitting school so he could get a job. No, he mustn’t! Aneesi was dismayed at the thought. After all, she had left school at twelve so that Hussein, being a boy and smart, could go on with his education. For two years she’d been sending home every bit of her earnings—and now Hussein was saying that her money and Papa’s miserable pay still weren’t enough. But there must be another solution. Maybe, Hussein wrote, their father could find work in Lebanon, where a few weeks’ pay would feed a family for months in a Syrian village. What were the chances of Papa finding something in the town where Aneesi was living? Aneesi had delayed her answer to Hussein, afraid that her father didn’t stand much chance of finding work in Lebanon. Many Syrian laborers, most of them young, strong men, came to Lebanon for manual day-by-day jobs. Competition was keen, and Papa was not as hardy as he had been. But he had something in his favor, at least: his skill as a stonemason. THE HAND OF FATIMA 53 And now, out of the blue, the Jubeilis were talking about hiring somebody to do stonework. What luck! For a moment Aneesi recalled Sitt Zeina speaking to her— more than once, in fact—about not listening to the family’s private conversations. It was an improper, low kind of behavior to “eavesdrop ,” as Sitt Zeina had put it. Aneesi had bristled inwardly at being admonished, but at least it was better than being thought of as too dull to care what people were saying, like a pet dog. Besides, Aneesi found it hard to resist listening. With no family or friends of her own, what else could she do but share, in a second-hand way, the Jubeilis’ family life? So now she’d eavesdropped again—but maybe this time Sitt Zeina would be glad of it. Although almost too excited to eat, Aneesi soon felt hunger pangs again and settled down to a plate of leftovers. She was chewing the last piece of broiled chicken when Sitt Zeina came into the kitchen to prepare coffee. Swallowing quickly, Aneesi spoke up with uncustomary boldness. “Sitt Zeina, I couldn’t help hearing something —I didn’t mean to, but I was just leaving the dining room—” “Yes? What is...