I Sweep the Sun Off Rooftops Read Free Page A

much less walking, in her platform shoes.
    I didn’t know how to reply to Tante Samia when she kept saying how happy she was that she would be able totake the news to Amina. To change the subject I lied and told her I was thinking of writing a biography of my mother. What did she think of the idea?
    “You’re a dutiful daughter. I’ll do what I can to help. I’ve got lots of memories, cuttings, photos.”
    I felt ashamed of myself for doubting her sanity, or thinking she might be mixing my mother up with my daughter, who was also called Amina.
    “We can tell her you’re going to write a book about her too,” she added.
    Again I decided she must have lost her mind, and felt suddenly annoyed and tired. I wished I could escape from them without causing offense, and began complaining of my aches and pains.
    “We’ll give you a massage,” she exclaimed tenderly, “and make you some mutton broth to help you sleep.”
    I felt sorry for them, but I was secretly amused at the thought of their old hands massaging me. As we walked along I told her that I felt much better, and that it must have been all the standing about. I remembered what a mess I had left the flat in as I unlocked the door, but reassured myself with the thought that Samia’s mind was confused and her sight poor, and I didn’t know Nazik.
    “Please have a seat.” I indicated the sofa, picking my nightdress off it. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
    But they didn’t respond.
    They both stood looking around the sitting room, then Tante Samia hurried over to the dining table and felt its surface. “Don’t worry, my dear. The table’s better!”
    Then she seized hold of the tablecloth and said, “Look! Amina’s tablecloth! What a loyal daughter you are!”
    I excused myself for a moment and went into my room. What if I lay on the bed and went to sleep or read a book? I knew I was deluding myself, but I wanted to be alone and soak up all the memories of the day, which had been a culmination of such a large slice of the past.
    I heard Tante Samia asking Nazik to draw the curtains. She could no longer distinguish between night and day. I regretted letting them come with me, but then wavered again as I remembered all Tante Samia had done for my mother. Bracing myself, I got up. “What would you like to drink?” I asked them.
    Tante Samia lit a cigarette. “Don’t go to any trouble, dear,” she said. “Something cold. Lemonade will do fine.”
    When she noticed that I was still waiting for an answer from Nazik, who was searching busily through her bag, she gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Don’t worry Nazik will have the same as me.”
    They both downed their lemonade in one gulp and Nazik immediately rose to her feet and picked up the glasses. I begged her not to bother, but she insisted. “Thetable must be empty. Who knows, something might get broken.”
    Tante Samia leaned close and spoke in a low voice. “You should wash your hands. We must be pure in the spirits presence. Forgive me for asking, but you don’t have a period or anything like that, do you?”
    From her bag Nazik produced a square wooden board and a fine china coffee cup without a handle. The letters of the alphabet and the words
yes
and
no
were inscribed on the board, and in the middle of it was a circle; I had seen classmates of mine with exactly the same thing, made out of paper.
    “Wood? Not paper?” I heard myself say.
    “Paper?” repeated Tante Samia. “Do you think people have time to make a new one each day?”
    I decided I would leave them to it and fetch my book. My attitude toward calling up spirits hadn’t changed. At school I had marveled at its popularity, as I was busy with the living people around me. The dead were an illusion. In those years none of my relations had died, nobody I loved, not even anyone I knew. I remembered my incredulity when a boy who had been chasing me for months finally had an excuse to talk to me, and chose instead to join the