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Chapters (19)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Leila Aboulela
  3. Leila Aboulela
  4. Copyright
  5. Summer Maze
  6. Something Old, Something New
  7. Farida’s Eyes
  8. Souvenirs
  9. The Ostrich
  10. Majed
  11. The Boy from the Kebab Shop
  12. Expecting to Give
  13. The Aromatherapist’s Husband
  14. Coloured Lights
  15. The Museum
  16. The Circle Line
  17. Pages of Fruit
  18. Acknowledgements
  19. Back Cover

It was his voice that made her ask. Are you all right, you’re not well? She put her hand on his cheek, on his forehead. So that was how soft she was, so that was how she smelt, that was her secret. He said, without thinking, it’s been rough for me, these past days. Please, feel sorry for me.

I do, she whispered, I do.

Farida’s Eyes

It started with the writing on the blackboard becoming hazy and crumbly, eventually just a tangle of white threads. The questions in the history test should have been clear and familiar but Farida couldn’t read them. And if she couldn’t read them, how could she answer them? She would get a zero. She had never got a zero before.

Farida learned like she breathed, without ceremony, without effort. Information entered her mind with ease and she picked up skills with grace and gratitude. Her homework was completed on time, her exercise books were spotless and she never ever forgot a textbook at home. As a result, her teachers were satisfied, her mother was pleased and though her father never voiced his approval, he grudgingly paid the school fees on time.

Farida blinked and, just before her eyes closed, some of the words on the blackboard momentarily came into focus. What had looked like ‘cement’ became ‘crescent’; what had looked like ‘umbrella’ became ‘utensils.’ She craned her neck forward and narrowed her eyes. They started to water, which blurred her vision even more. Now ‘utensils’ deteriorated to ‘elcmiebs’ and the rest of the words were just one block after the other of padded, twisted chalk. Even the question numbers, predictably placed at the beginning of each line and the question marks at the end, merged with the rest of the words. There was only the steady forward slope of the cursive; ‘y’ and ‘g’ were indistinguishable, while capital ‘M’ and capital ‘T’ stood out clearly. Within the words, the vowels gummed together, ‘c’ could very well be ‘e’, and ‘n’, ‘r’, and ‘m’ blurred into the same wriggle. Dots sprinkled high pointed to the obvious but that was not much help. Her classmates were busy writing while Sister Carlotta walked between the rows of desks, ruler in hand, making sure that no girls were whispering or holding their textbooks open on their laps.