I Think of You: Stories Read Free

They are specially made and on the eve of the feast they are laid out readyto be worn in the morning. The big Eid lasts four days. Weeks before it, Grandfather buys a sheep and it is tethered to the iron railings on the balcony. Going to my grandfather’s house becomes extra special: there is the sheep to ride and play with. But then, on the eve of the Eid, they tell me to say good-bye to the sheep. They tell me he is going back to his mother. He has enjoyed playing with me, but now it is time for him to go home. I go to sleep in a huge bed with springs and a feather quilt and when I wake up he has gone. I miss him. But I agree: a sheep should be with his mother. And I am consoled by the new clothes and by the fireworks they buy me. Catherine wheels make brilliant arcs of light, torpedoes go off with a deafening blast, Snaps catch fire in your hand when you scrape one against the wall (only the wall of the back staircase, nowhere else), and sparklers throw off a breathtaking profusion of stars and moons.
    Another main event in life is the yearly migration to Alexandria. In July the whole family packs beachwear and bundles into cars and we set off on the long desert road to the Mediterranean. In Alexandria there is a two-story wooden house standing in an acre of sandy ground with palm trees. This is the “chalet.” It is where I live during July and August. It is a short walk to the beach and we stroll it in our swimwear. On the beach they set up brilliant parasols and deck chairs and rugs. My aunts teach me to swim. My father and uncle throw me to each other in the water, occasionally dousing me in the surf. On the days when my grandfather comes up from Cairo he teaches me to play backgammon on
    an intricate inlaid board. He teaches me the classic maneuvers and the set moves. And he gives me silver money when I beat him.
    To everything there is an order and a pattern.
    Parental decree forbids servants and relatives to tell frightening stories or threaten abduction by the ghoul or the bogey or the man with the skinned leg. So I grow up in ignorance of the more menacing figures of folklore. I know Cinderella well, and am repeatedly ecstatic as the glass slipper is fitted to her dainty foot; I have unbounded confidence in Clever Hassan, who always comes out on top; and I know that the real story of Little Red Riding Hood ends with her and her grandmother emerging triumphantly from the wolf’s belly. The wolf is so overcome by this miracle that he is transformed into a domestic pet and they all live together happily ever after.
    Divine Order. Evil is a passing naughtiness; mighty forces work for the good and all stories end happily.
    I endlessly make up tales surrounding the pictures in the books I cannot yet read. I pore over a bookful of Rodin sculptures and my parents are delighted with the sunny little fables I produce. My life is woven into my tales and my tales become part of my life: aunts and uncles are characters in a storybook and Hansel and Gretel join me under the desk in my grandfather’s shop. I invent characters who become my friends and perform a play with them to an assembled familyaudience. “The child has such a lively imagination,” they say, and surround me with admiration and love.
    My parents’ books become increasingly fascinating. I pick up even the ones with sparse illustrations and ask questions: “Who is this?”
    “A man called Vathek.”
    “Where does he live?”
    “He’s not real. He was invented by a man called Beckford.”
    “Where does he live?”
    “He lived in the last century, in England.”
    My father’s books are still out of bounds.
    Then there comes a break. My mother is absent and I live in the Spoiling House. After many weeks I go on a long journey across the sea alone with my father. We land in a cold dark wet windy place with a lot of people and a lot of trains. We sit in a café drinking hot milk. Then my mother’s face emerges out of the rain. She is wearing a light