Page 66 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #5

Resting Grounds
Jabir stops in the middle of the cobbled streets in Granada’s city centre and takes a thoughtful look up at Alhambra floating in the distance. Andalucía is where the sun goes to recuperate during the winters, much like Jabir’s family did each year in North Africa.
Jabir buys the necklace and smiles. “I think dad bought one like this for mum,” he says, draping it around my neck with warm, sweaty fingers.
The sun settles itself over the terrain where the an- cient battle grounds rest and the gardens encircling the palace bask. As we stand, its light moves closer to us, illuminating the shiny faux-marble streets, electric cars and designer shop glass fronts clustered next to the historical sections of the city. I try to follow Jabir’s gaze but am blinded by hot white sunlight.
When we reach the top, we learn that tickets to the palace are sold out, and the only ones left are for entry to the grounds surrounding it. I buy them to distract myself from Jabir’s face – his disappointment has caused half of it to cave in. Angry, he strides towards the gates, stops; turns, takes my hand, and leads me through the gates.
We decide to walk up the steep hill to the entrance of the palace instead of taking the tourist bus that looks as if it’s been squashed inwards at both ends. As we climb, we pass an elderly, deeply tanned man standing under a tree next to a rickety wooden table. We almost miss him, but he sees us and waves with one hand, while raising a sterling silver necklace into the air with the other.
One evening after work, a little while after the funeral, Jabir had come home to our flat and dropped his suit- case in the middle of the living room. He had loosened his tie while fishing around in a kitchen drawer and found a couple of screws. He got down on his knees and manhandled the glass top of the coffee table which has always wobbled. He fixed it without using a screwdriver.
“How much?” Jabir asks him in broken Arabic.
He asked me if I was hungry. I nodded to the pot steaming on the stove. He gave me a tired smile and said, “Thank you.”
“Where from?” the old man replies in English.
“Tunis,” Jabir says.
He pulled up his suit-jacket sleeves to clean the dishes that had been lurking in the sink for two days. He scrubbed until the scouring noise dulled.
The old man’s smile could eradicate world hunger. “Sha”, he says.
He removed his tie and served up the food. He put my plate on the pretty serving tray his mum had given him after she moved out of the family home. We watched the Channel 4 news with subtitles, even as we sat in companionable silence.
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Clarissa angus