Loom: A Novel

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145 Salma isn’t su r e what they are doing in the house of this stranger. There’s the hint of a smell she doesn’t like. Yet it doesn’t look that bad, she thinks, taking a look around, except for the dust on the bookshelves. Not many books on those shelves. In fact there’s very little to get in the way of a good cleaning: a red couch in the middle where Emilie and Marie are now sitting, a dead plant in one of the corners, a couple of chairs by the fireplace, one occupied by Mr. Finch, or whatever his name is, who is now wiping his hands clean on a paper towel after eating some of Emilie’s kafta, and the other chair by none other than herself. It makes her feel slightly extravagant, sitting across from him, feeling deliciously comfortable by the fire after their infernal walk through the blizzard. She wouldn’t mind a little nap. Never before has Salma felt as fearful for her life as during that walk from their house. Not even during the war. She doesn’t know what happens when you stay out too long in the cold. She has heard several stories: how your ears fall off like dead leaves. How the body freezes first, before the heart has fully stopped. As a child, when she would make herself stop moving, she still felt the sun on her skin, her blood running in her veins. Freezing to death is an awful way to die. Parts snapping, plummeting to the frozen ground. She finds the stillness terrible, despite the wind that lifts and carries and wails. There’s a fury and wrath about it she doesn’t like. In the sun, things seem more innocuous and benevolent, furies impermanent. It must have been this fear of freezing in the middle of their yard that made her walk faster than she ever had. In no time, she had caught up with her daughter, and the two of them trudging and breathing side by 146 side instantly calmed her. They found George and Josephine in front of their neighbor’s house. They were standing there without moving. It was she who broke the stillness. With a hand on her husband’s shoulder she nudged him forward. “Go on,” she said, and he brushed the snow off his face and walked over to the door. This is a time of thawing, she thinks, sinking deeper into the chair. And this Mr. Finch, sitting across from her. She doesn’t know what to say to him, except to thank him every once in a while for his hospitality. She has the distinct impression she bores him. It is the oddest thing, Emilie leaving food and getting statues in return. Salma stiffens a little at the thought that it is with her food that Emilie has been making a show of generosity. Salma doesn’t understand. What in the devil possessed her mother-in-law to take the first step and make contact with this man who, with never so much as a greeting or a smile in all the years he has lived here, has expressed any interest in reaching out like a normal neighbor? Earlier she felt snubbed when Emilie made that remark about her excesses. Acknowledged, but snubbed. Emilie looked so self-satisfied as if she, Salma, were an old hat. As if no one fussed about germs anymore. What was that French word they used in Lebanon to describe a person who didn’t keep up with the newest trends, who was stale and old-fashioned ? Démodée. She, Salma, was démodée for striving to be a good housekeeper . The train has long left the station and she’s been sitting on the bench all this time, scrubbing away at the stains. There’s definitely a smell here she can’t identify. She stops short of sniffing the air, for this Mr. Finch is looking straight at her. Oh, but look at Marie bending over to kiss her grandmother. What a lovely sight. She sighs contentedly (this fire is filling her with happiness ). She feels part of a real family, for once. And there are Josephine and George standing by the couch, talking. What are they saying? She perks her ears but can’t make it out. It’s all right. She doesn’t feel left out this once, doesn’t fear that someone is...