Chapter 3

The smells of home greeted me as I opened the heavy wooden door: skeletal wood left untended in the blazing sun for over a century, long vanished livestock, and dust most of all. Our small space in the loft of Gazbar's storage barn wasn't even partitioned off. Though the smell of the barn left something to be desired, the smells clinging to me were worse. The combination of manure, foul water, and endless sweat billowed invisibly around me.

Dalia was sitting at our table. It was made from a few pieces of wood we'd managed to scrounge at the dump and some damaged clay bricks holding them up. Her eyes were exhausted yet, there was something else. A big satisfied smile ripped across her face when she saw me. Then the smile morphed into a grimace and her nose wrinkled like a prune drying up before my eyes.

"Nadim! Nadim? You smell like tannery run off in the mid-day sun!" And then by force of will, her nose smoothed and her smile bloomed again. "Well, whatever it is, never mind it. Just for a moment. Look!" She unwrapped the cloth to reveal two hard looking, but nearly whole, bread rolls. "Lady Hamil said if we work quickly and don't complain, we can sometimes have what the caravan guests leave behind."

My jaw went slack and my chest tingled. My humiliation momentarily forgotten, I said "Dalia... Is this my imagination? They're ours?"

She nodded. What a feast!

It was the best bread we'd eaten since I could remember. This was day old. Not the six months old stones we normally bought when we were lucky enough to have a coin. Between bites, I told her all about King's new project of demolishing the bath house and the royal generosity shown by the rotten fig.

"Oh, Nadim." She put her hand on mine. Then a long pause. "Without the bathhouse where will people go?" She glanced at the small water jug.

Each time my sister talked about hardship I smelled a jolt of the rotting hides at the tannery. I saw the image of my father's face, eight years ago. His skin was hot, his breath, ragged. It had started near the tanneries where he worked. Was it the runoff?

I shook off the memory: "I guess there is the other bathhouse in the rich quarter on the other side of the city. Not that our kind is welcome around there. At least people can still get water from the fountain. But, yeah, it's going to be a lot harder for us and everyone on the east side."

"Don't worry," she smiled, her hand gave mine a gentle squeeze. "I can wash your clothes after work in the private laundry area at the inn. They have soap there. Real soap. Tomorrow will be better; you'll see. But for now," her voice softened. "Let's just enjoy this."

As I looked into Dalia's eyes, I felt the memory come back. My father's lips cracked as I tried to spoon water into them. He spoke his last words: "It's up to you now, Nadim. She looks so much like your mother. Take good care of your sister." My mother had died giving birth to Dalia. I had always shielded her from this knowledge and done my best, just as Father asked me to. Our residence in this loft was proof. Old Man Gazbar was a merchant. Just generous enough to allow us to stay here as long as we kept the rats at bay. It was a roof, but a precarious one. It had kept us covered so far, but its unmaintained rafters literally might collapse like Yusuf's stall if the wrong weather hit.