Anatomy of a Disappearance Read Free

the allure of those who, like my father, seemed to live their lives in secret.
    I sat at the foot of the bed, placing the ball beside me. There was a pair of shoes in front of the armchair. One shoe lay on its side, revealing the pressed and molded cream leather of the interior. On the chiffonier there was a pearl necklace, a perfume bottle and a hairbrush. With my hand on the bathroom door handle, resting on the damp swimsuit, I looked with one eye through the narrow opening. I saw her naked body fogged by the shower curtain: the triangle of black hair blurred and moving like one of those blots that appear after looking directly into the sun. I made no sound and was certain she could not see me, but suddenly she said, “Who’s there?” I ran, not caring what noise I made now, as fast as I could out of the room, remembering my ball only when it was too late to return for it.

    As soon as Father rose from his nap, I told him.
    “My ball wandered inside one of the rooms and I didn’t feel it was right to get it.”
    “So?” he said, shaving. He usually shaved early evening, before dinner, and not in the mornings like most men.
    “I just don’t want anyone to think I was spying or anything.”
    “But I’ve always known you were a little spy,” he said, smiling through the mirror.
    He brought the blade to his neck and shaved off a strip of foam in one easy stroke.

    In the evening I found her standing in a black dress by our table in the dining hall, talking to Father, one hand on the backrest of the opposite chair, my chair. The pearls were encircling her neck. Her brushed hair fell heavily and knew exactly where, just above the jawbones, to curve back. And as I came close I caught the fragrance of her perfume.
    “Here is your little friend,” Father said in English when I was close enough to hear.
    She held out a hand. I shook it, unable to look her in the eye.
    “Speak, don’t be shy,” Father said into the awkward silence. “He attends English school,” he told her.
    Another chair was brought, another place set, and we dined together. She did not mention a word about that afternoon, but when Father went to answer a telephone call she smiled.
    “Earlier there was a mouse in my room. A very large mouse.”
    And, again, with that feathery clasp, she took hold of my chin.
    “Tomorrow come fetch your ball.”
    She sipped some water, dabbed the corners of her lips with the white napkin.
    “Your father tells me you are twelve. For some reason I thought you were older.”
    She was no longer speaking in Arabic now and so lacked the vulnerability I had first detected by the pool. And because it was Father who had chosen to speak in English when I approached the table, I saw him as the one behind this transformation.

CHAPTER 4
    The following morning I did not attend breakfast. I walked past the main hotel building, where the restaurant was, and on to the grassy paths that meandered around the rooms. The sea was quiet. I could just about catch the broken chatter and laughter of Europeans breakfasting in the dining hall. I pictured Father sitting there alone, reading the paper. I felt guilty. Then that turned immediately to jealousy, because the next picture my mind drew had Mona sitting opposite him.
    I sat against the prickly bark of a date palm. The shadow of its crown spread around me and moved in the wind. I had her room in view. Were she to leave or enter I would see her. I then began to cry with a pain new and confusing. One of the gardeners in blue overalls noticed. The wide rim of his canvas hat rose and fell as he ran over. I thought of gettingup and going, but the crying only became stronger. He bent over. “Malish, malish,” he said, patting my shoulder. He never asked the reason behind my tears. My mind has often returned to this act of kindness. I remember laughing with him, but not about what. I remember his weathered face, his heavy eyes, unshaven cheeks, yellowed teeth, the smell of moist earth,