Kate laughed, almost choking on a mouthful of honey cake. ‘That’s priceless. I asked my class if anyone could tell me what “benign” means and one girl said, “Please, Miss, we will be nine next year, once we’ve finished being eight.” They could be a handful too, though, couldn’t they? I told one of my pupils to stop messing around while my back was turned, without turning around while I was writing on the whiteboard. It was just a hunch, you know that sixth sense you have – I had no idea what he was up to really – and he said, “Oh, Miss, how do you always know what I’m doing?” He truly believed it when I told him that teachers have superpowers and can see everything that goes on, and from that day on he behaved himself.’
Reminiscing with Kate makes me miss my old job. I’ve toyed with the idea of trying to go back to teaching somehow, but I know I’m not strong enough yet to take on that level of responsibility again. The thought of not being able to wash my hands as often as I need to fills me with an anxiety that I know is unreasonable, but the fear cripples me, making me unable to face going for an interview, let alone handle a class. And, besides, Grace needs me right now. It’s spending time with her that soothes my frayed nerves. I love being a mother to her, more than anything else I’ve ever done in my life. Plus, I need to finish making the quilt. Sewing the Tree of Life blocks helps me feel more at peace than I have done in a long time, so I think I’m making a little progress.
Visiting the library and walking back through the Habous is getting a bit easier for me too nowadays. Admittedly, I tend to stick to my familiar routes – there’ve been no more crazy marathon hikes across the city to the corniche – but I’m starting to feel more relaxed on my daily walks with Grace, which do us both good. The Parc Murdoch is our favourite place. Its peaceful green spaces in the midst of the city’s chaos never fail to calm and soothe the jangle of my thoughts as I sit on the bench I’ve come to think of as ours, tucked between two tall Aleppo pines that shelter us in their ink-dark shade. Grace loves to watch the bulbuls flit from branch to branch above us, and the liquid notes of their songs seem to help cool the air. It’s a secluded corner of the gardens, where we’re rarely disturbed by the tourists and the local workers who visit the park. Occasionally, the man who sweeps the paths with a palm frond comes by, but he simply nods and leaves us be, intent on his task.
I’ve begun venturing a little further into the Habous, too, encouraged to do so by Monsieur Habib, who knows where the best shops are for anything I might need. I was delighted to find an antique crewel-work shawl the other day. The shopkeeper was surprised when I wanted to buy it, rather than one of the newer ones hanging from the ceiling of his shop. It’s frayed at the edges and slightly moth-eaten in places, but I was immediately drawn to its stylised pattern of leaves and flowers. And when he told me it’s a Berber Tree of Life design （warming to his task when he realised my interest was serious and I wasn’t to be dissuaded by the poor condition of this particular shawl）， I knew I’d found the fabric for my quilt’s sashing strips and border.
In the same shop, as I was waiting for him to wrap my purchase, I came across an amethyst geode like the one Nina had that Josie had been so taken with. It was just as she’d described. The egg-shaped outer crust was a rough, nondescript shell, but it encased a cluster of crystals whose astonishing purple depths sparkled in the dim light at the back of the shop. I picked it up, strangely unsettled by a thought that dawned on me as I held it. Nina had told Josie that life in the medina was like the geode – plain on the outside but with hidden treasures within. It made me realise that my life in the nouvelle ville is the opposite: all the glitz and sparkle of my expat life is on the outside, for show. A beautiful home, a luxurious lifestyle, a perfect-looking marriage. But hidden behind it is a hard, dead core. That realisation made my heart feel as heavy as the lump of rock I held in my hand. I replaced it quickly on the shelf, shaking my head as the shopkeeper tried to persuade me to buy it too. Although the curio was beautiful in its way, it represented a painful emptiness to me and I didn’t need that constant reminder in my home. One woman’s treasure is another’s burden, I guess.
How I wish I had a bit more of Josie’s irrepressible optimism and Nina’s gentle innocence. I’m sure I used to view the world differently, but I seem to have lost both of those traits somewhere along the line.
After buying the antique shawl, I retraced my steps to Monsieur Habib’s shop to show him my purchase, knowing that he, too, would see the beauty in its threadbare folds. I think I needed the reassurance of his calm, thoughtful presence too, knowing that life wouldn’t seem quite so empty once I’d spent a few more minutes sipping tea from a worn glass and hearing the latest news from the shelter.