Habibi (27 page)

It wasn’t the beginning or end of any story, but the middle of—what felt rich.

There was a door in the heart that had no lock on it.

Sitti wanted to show Omer her vineyard. She wanted him to tell her why her grapevines had dried up. Angels knew everything. She wanted to show him the treasures in her treasure box—the folded velvets and broken watches and golden buttons. She wanted him to travel with her to the Sea of Galilee.

“Why him?” Poppy asked. “Why don’t you want to go alone with me?”

“Because he can speak Hebrew and you can’t. And we may need it.”

It was so rare for Sitti to leave the village. She wouldn’t go to the Turkish baths in Nablus. She’d even decided to postpone her trip to Mecca again.

But she’d been having a craving for the little crispy fish that were caught and served at Galilee.

“No elevators,” she said, shaking her finger at Poppy.

Rafik asked how she felt about boats.

“No boats!”

When they got to Galilee and found the old pink restaurant surrounded by a colorful clutter of buildings, they chose a green metal table near the water. Liyana’s mother spoke to a waiter in Arabic even before they sat down, ordering water without ice for herself and hot tea for everyone else. Rank ripped open a packet of crackers he had in his pocket and tossed them to three brown ducks who paddled up. He leaned over to feel the water.

“Yikes! It’s cold. Sitti!” he said. “Let’s go swimming!”

Liyana and Poppy pulled up an extra table so they would have enough room. The seaside breeze felt firm and cool. Sitti held her open hands toward the small waves as if she could push them back. She mumbled something. Poppy conveyed, “She’s blessing—the energy. But she is also saying, Rafik, stay away from me!”

Reading the menu, Poppy said, “What do you know?” and shook his head. “The tourist industry has found this place! Too bad. It used to be so quiet and tucked away. Now the meals have biblical names.”

They all ordered the same thing:
Disciple’s Special
. A holy, purified meal. A picture on the menu showed crispy fish, moons of lemon, mounds of rice.

They drank their hot tea before the food came,
toasting the sea. Sitti gathered the empty teacups in front of her so she could read the grounds.

She waggled her finger at Rafik and yakked excitedly. Poppy sighed, “She says you need to study harder.”

Liyana said, “I could have told you that without a teacup.” Rafik lightly kicked her shin.

Next Sitti gazed into Omer’s eyes, then his cup. She spoke in a deeper voice. Poppy translated, “You will need to be brave. There are hard days coming. There are hard words waiting in people’s mouths to be spoken. There are walls. You can’t break them. Just find doors in them. See?” Sitti’s white scarf lifted in the breeze. “You already have. Here we are, together.”

Omer said, “All that in my tea leaves? They’re very talkative!” He smiled at Sitti.

Liyana’s mother put her arm around Poppy and pulled his chair closer to hers. The sun was glistening on her head like a spotlight.

Sitti tapped the rim of Liyana’s cup, tipping it back and forth.

“I think she’s cheating!” Rafik said. “She’s moving your leaves around so they say something better! Have you ever noticed how my cup is always bossy and your cup always holds a compliment?” He threw a hand to his forehead and Omer laughed.

Sure enough, Sitti said the leaves in the bottom of Liyana’s cup promised her a beautiful future. “Revolting,” muttered Rank.

“Walk and talk,” Poppy translated. “Walk and talk.” He tipped his head and winked.

“She knows your specialties, anyway,” Omer whispered.

Sitti touched her first two fingers to Liyana’s forehead, and crooned. Poppy said, “She says you have a powerful world in there. Be strong. Keep letting it out.”

Liyana looked down at her own hands folded on the table and said, very softly, “I’ll try.”

Their full plates were arriving. Sitti took a ravenous nibble before everyone else was served. She kissed her fingers. Another waiter collected the cups. Poppy sliced. He sliced and sliced. Was it tough? He took a tentative bite, beckoned to the first waiter, and pointed sadly at his fish. “I’m sorry,” he said, his face crinkling good-naturedly, “but it’s not
quite
—delicious.”

Naomi Shihab Nye
is an award-winning writer and editor whose work has appeared widely. Her books of poems includes
Fuel, Red Suitcase,
and
Words Under the Words
. She edited the ALA Notable international poetry collection,
This Same Sky,
and
The Tree Is Older Than You Are: Poems and Paintings from Mexico,
as well as
The Space Between Our Footsteps: Poems and Painting from the MIddle East
. She also edited the award-winning collection I Feel a Little Jumpy Around You: Paired Poems by Men and Women with poet Paul B. Janezcko.

A recent Guggenheim fellow, Naomi Lives in San Antonio, Texas, with her husband, Michael, and their son, Madison.