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frail, wrinkled hands, snuggling myself close beside her.
    â€˜Your grandfather. I miss him.’
    â€˜I wish I’d met Sidi.’
    â€˜You would have loved him. And he would have loved you. I am sure of it. He loved children. And his garden. And me.’ She flashes me a toothless grin and then casts a shy gaze at the photo.
    â€˜He had the eyes of a jinn—’
    â€˜A
jinn
!’ The image is alarming.
    â€˜What do they teach you at school, those brainless donkeys? Did they not teach you that God made the jinn from fire, man from clay, and that the jinn worships God as man is supposed to? Just as there are wicked men, there are wicked jinn. And just as there are good men, there are good jinn. So he had the eyes of a good jinn, full of magic and dance. Among our friends he was called “the smiling one”. He was so mischievous.
    â€˜One day I caught him in our garden with your Khalo Saleem, God rest his soul. Saleem was young. I saw them through the kitchen window – I could see everything from that kitchen window, Hayaat. My village was perched high in the hills of Jerusalem and our house was at the top of the village. Through my kitchen window I saw your grandfather and Saleem crouching on the grass, their heads close together in some sort of conspiracy. Your grandfather’s voice was loud and excited. All of a sudden I heard Saleem scream. I ran outside. Your silly grandfather, God rest his soul, had been conducting an experiment with Saleem. Shall I tell you what it was? I am not a scientific woman but I will never forget that experiment till the day I die. We spoke of it so often afterwards.’
    â€˜Yes, tell me!’
    She rubs her hands together, clearly delighted with my enthusiasm.
    â€˜The two had dug a tiny hole in the ground. In it they put some water and covered it with an upside-down funnel. Then they threw some white powder that Saleem must have brought from school straight into the funnel. Bang! The mixture exploded and the funnel hit Saleem in the forehead leaving a bloody mark. They both dared to laugh hysterically! I chased Saleem all around the garden and when I caught him I gave him a big smack on the bum with all my might! The son of a donkey had given me a good fright! He could have been killed!’
    â€˜But it wasn’t his fault! Sidi was helping him.’
    â€˜Yes, I know,’ she says, her eyes twinkling. ‘So I chased him too and gave him a taste of a thrashing. But he could only laugh and declare that he was making a scientist out of Saleem!’
    â€˜Khalo Saleem
became
a scientist!’
    A shadow falls over her face. ‘He died . . .’ she whispers. ‘I miss Jerusalem, Hayaat.’ Her voice is now barely a whisper. ‘I try not to complain. I am in my daughter and son-in-law’s home and your father has also lost his land. So I keep it inside, like he does.’ She clenches her fist and raises it to her heart.
    â€˜The nostalgia suffocates me. I see my limestone house in the village. I see the radio your grandfather bought when we went to the souk in the Old City. We kept the radio in the kitchen. I see the arched windows overlooking the hills, each window like a stone frame. I can smell my jasmine and almond trees and remember the olive trees I harvested. Those memories stow themselves in my windpipe until I dare not conjure another or I will scarcely be able to breathe.’
    I hold her hand. I have no words to comfort her. I understand that feeling of suffocation. But it’s the loss of my beauty, not of my homeland, that causes the aching within me.
    â€˜I’m less than ten kilometres from Jerusalem but I’m not allowed to enter it. Never again will I see the place where I was born, nor the home I entered as a bride. My olive trees, Hayaat. Oh how I miss them! We had eleven, dotting the grounds around our house. You would have loved my home.’
    â€˜What did it look