II

I am Mr. N.

Son of a distraught doctor and of Thurayya, cruel and unfeeling as a rock. Brother of Sa’id, the shining one. And master of Mary … the true virgin. On this day, at 10:25, writing my story, my second birth is taking place. My pencil spins around in a game of truth or dare. It comes to a halt, pointing at me. My turn. So I’ve decided not to swallow all those pills that Miss Zahra brings me. I’ll hold them in my mouth and then secretly spit them out. In their place, I’ll blacken a number of white pages.

Thurayya—and I’ll keep calling her Thurayya, even if she’s the one who gave me birth—kept me at a distance from the time I was born. The spot on my back remained closed and clandestine; it didn’t respond no matter how often loving hands tried to trick it later on. And the truth is, I never once called her Mother, because I was no son to her and she no mother to me. Nevertheless, her name is present on my ID card because she is my biological mother. What it all boils down to is that she squeezed me out of her body like a turd, only to pinch her nose and turn away.

Meanwhile, Thurayya fed skinny Sa’id from her own hand, making up funny games to get him to eat more, urging and cajoling him to drink his juice. When he was finished, she would look at me, annoyed, as though only then and unwillingly did she remember I was there. She would spoon out a bit more food beside whatever Sa’id hadn’t eaten and drop the plate in front of me. “Eat,” she’d say as she left the room, and it didn’t matter to her one bit whether I did or didn’t, what I ate or how much, even though she knew quite well that I suffered from a poor appetite and would sometimes refuse to eat for days. It was Mary who got me fed. I would go to the kitchen, carrying my plate, and Mary would sit me down at the table, taking a seat close by. She would begin talking to me, saying anything at all to extract the lump that was caught in my throat and prevented my food from going down. She’d pour me a cup of water and invite me to drink a little, placing her hand on my back, right on that spot that might loosen what was tied up and locked away inside me. I would forget, and I would eat, listening to her stories about the friends she’d seen at mass, about the presents her family in the village had sent her because her little N liked them, and all the strange tales she’d heard as a child about the jinn and the ifrit. Mary would pull me toward her, and I’d feel myself pressed against her heart, sitting still on my chair. She’d raise the spoon to my mouth, and I’d give in. Everything turned into airy cotton candy and melted away, leaving sticky traces on my lips. I’d eat absentmindedly and become full before even tasting my food. I would feel heat stealing into my limbs like someone sitting beside a blazing hearth after being cold for so long, when warm drowsiness gradually thaws their body. Mary would pick me up when she saw my eyelids droop and my head start to lean. She’d hold me against her and gently rock me in a rhythm that sent me into a deep, undisturbed slumber. And if I did wake after a while, I would find myself in my own bed as the orange of the sunset slipped through the blinds.