Freeman's Family E-Book

John Freeman

• Herausgeber: Grove Press UK
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Freeman's: Family is the second literary anthology in the series reviewers are calling 'illuminating' (National Public Radio) and 'sure to become a classic in years to come' (San Francisco Chronicle). Following a debut issue on the theme arrival, Freeman circles a new topic that affects us all: family. Often family is a conduit into the past. In an essay called 'Crossroads,' Aminatta Forna muses on the legacy of slavery and her childhood in Sierra Leone as she settles her family in Washington, DC, where she is constantly accused of cutting in line whenever she stands next to her white husband. Families are hardly stable entities, so many writers discover. Award-winning novelist Claire Vaye Watkins delivers a stunning portrait of a woman in the throes of postpartum depression. Booker Prize winner Marlon James takes the focus off absent fathers to write about his mother, who calls to sing him happy birthday every year. Even in the darkest moments, humour abounds. In Claire Messud's home there are two four-legged tyrants; Sandra Cisneros writes about her extended family of past lovers; and Aleksandar Hemon tells the story of his uncle's desperate attempt to remain a communist despite decades in the Soviet gulag. With fiction, nonfiction and poetry from literary heavyweights and up-and-coming writers alike, Freeman's: Family collects the most amusing, heartbreaking and probing stories about family life emerging today.

Leseprobe

Freeman’s

Family

Previous Issues

Freeman’s: Arrival

Freeman’s

Family

Est. 2015

Edited by

John Freeman

Grove Press UK

First published in the United States of America in 2016 by Grove/Atlantic Inc.

First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Grove Press UK, an imprint of Grove/Atlantic Inc.

Copyright © John Freeman, 2016

“Ema” © 1981 by César Aira. Translation copyright © 2016 by Chris Andrews. “Ema” is excerpted from César Aira’s novel Ema, which will be published in English by New Directions in 2016.

“Little Jewel” © Éditions Gallimard. Translation © 2015 Penny Hueston. “Little Jewel” is excerpted from Patrick Modiano’s novel Little Jewel, which will be published in English by Yale University Press in 2016.

“The Selected Works of Abdullah (The Cossack)” is excerpted from H. M. Naqvi’s novel The Selected Works of Abdullah (The Cossack), which will be published by HarperCollins India in 2017.

The moral right of the authors contained herein to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright-holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

Grove Press, UK

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.groveatlantic.com

ISBN 978 1 61185 540 1

Ebook ISBN 978 1 61185 961 4

Printed in Great Britain

Published in collaboration with the MFA in Creative Writing at The New School

Contents

Introduction

John Freeman

Seven Shorts

Sunjeev Sahota

Angela Flournoy

Adania Shibli

Colin Robinson

Heather O’Neill

Édouard Louis

Nadifa Mohamed

Crossroads

Aminatta Forna

Lost Letter #1: From Phillis Wheatley, of Boston, to Arbour Tanner, of Newport

Lost Letter #2: From Obour Tanner, Newport, to Phillis Wheatley, Boston

Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

A Family Name

Garnette Cadogan

Little Jewel

Patrick Modiano

Nola

Amanda Rea

Ode to My Sister

Amaryllis Ode

Victuals Dream Ode

Sharon Olds

A Tomb for Uncle Julius

Aleksandar Hemon

Tunnel

Mo Yan

One Day I Will Write About My Mother

Marlon James

Tell Me How It Ends (An Essay in Forty Questions)

Valeria Luiselli

The Selected Works of Abdullah (The Cossack)

H. M. Naqvi

Letter to a Warrior

Athena Farrokhzad

When Living Is a Protest

Ruddy Roye

Ema

César Aira

10-Item Edinburgh Post-partum Depression Scale

Claire Vaye Watkins

Wild

Tracy K. Smith

If There Was No Moon

Joanna Kavenna

You Better Not Put Me in a Poem

Sandra Cisneros

Going to the Dogs

Claire Messud

Rich Children

Alexander Chee

Inside Voices

David Kirby

This Old Self

Helen Garner

Contributor Notes

About the Editor

Introduction

JOHN FREEMAN

I come from a family of story collectors, rather than storytellers. My parents were social workers and they listened for a living. They heard private stories, hard-won stories. The kind that people polish and protect because it is all they have left. Say the words “talking therapy” and jokes quickly follow; but this was no laughing matter. This was early AIDS patients dying in terror. This was mothers losing children to foster care. This was men going to jail for life for minor marijuana possession. This was children left behind, lonely and angry.

I knew these details only through inference as a child. I had ears and they caught and assembled things heard from several rooms away. To know more would have been a violation. My mother would even cover her patient notes if I stood behind her while she was working. She often sat at our dining room table, late at night, transcribing her counseling notes from a legal pad onto hospital forms so her clients could be reimbursed by their HMOs. She was creating a record of a life. My mother never wanted to be a writer, but at nights she became a narrative abacus.

Growing up in the vibration of such stories was a strange thing. To know that stories conveyed and possessed such power, the ability to save your life, when my own life did not need saving, was like being prepared for an earthquake that happened everywhere but here. It created a kind of free-floating dread and a sense of intense good fortune. My brothers and I developed highly tuned Geiger counters. We tapped the ground and picked at fault lines. All of us sought out stories. All of us practiced for the future. And when the earthquake came, as it must, in all families—either through biology, or bad decisions, or simply bad luck—we took the tools my parents had demonstrated as being of such great value, and we went to work.

When people die—if they are known—their bodies are transformed into stories. He used to, she was like, he helped me, he was a, that one time she visited, remember? In this way a family’s stories are as important as its DNA. In remembering the dead, they say where a family is from, and by marking time they give us consolation against loss. From the sacred to the profane, family stories convey love and they ask for it. In this sense, stories are as important to family life as water and food and shelter. A family without stories is no longer a family.

From the beginning of time, family has been one of the richest threads within literature. Whether it is The Odyssey, a poem about a father’s trip home; or Hamlet, a play about a son’s battle with his father; or Beloved, a novel regarding a mother’s terrible act of protection for her daughter, great works often entangle us in the moral and emotional dilemmas of families. Through families, we have seen the history of nations refracted, as in Naguib Mahfouz’s Cairo Trilogy, and in families it’s been possible to watch a people fight over and preserve their past, as in Louise Erdrich’s Love Medicine. Even to be born without a family—like the orphan narrators of Dickens—becomes a drama. These books are written out of a loss that cannot be repaired but insists on being mapped.

Even as social convention attempts in much of the world to view difference as a threat, or through some kind of hierarchy, difference in family life enriches literature. The kinds of families people come from vary intensely. Some have two parents, some have none; some are biologically related, others become related by choice. Some have long histories; some peer into a past and find a shallow well—be it stopped by enslavement, holocaust, or simply a lack of data. What all these shapes of family life share is not so much the so-called family unit, but rather the need to narrativize experience—to mythologize it, to think on it, to show it back to itself in the form of a story. And in this sense, we are always just at the beginning of our world’s culture of family stories.

This issue of Freeman’s is an attempt to give space to the variety of family stories out there, for in that breadth one can glimpse how the world presses down—with urgency—on family matters. During the summer that 80,000 children turned up in the United States, fleeing difficult circumstances, Valeria Luiselli goes on a road trip to the Southwest with her husband and two children as their own green card paperwork hangs in suspension. The juxtaposition of such fates compels her to volunteer as a translator in New York City for a legal aid concern, helping some of these children answer a questionnaire that tries, in big ways and small, to categorize their stories.

There is a search at the heart of many of these pieces. Sometimes it is to make sense of the past. Aleksandar Hemon remembers his Uncle Julius, a committed communist who spent great portions of his life in the Soviet gulag, losing his job and his family in the years he spent away, but for some reason never forsaking his beliefs. Meanwhile, Aminatta Forna meditates on the profound differences between how a family of mixed race is perceived in Britain and how it is perceived in America; and how the past, which informs that social construction, bears down on her own family in both places.

Very often, there is a missing person at the heart of this search. Joanna Kavenna’s short story conjures a woman grown wild from the disappearance of her father. In his essay, Garnette Cadogan explains why he has three names, and what his father has to do with the shell game he plays among them. In an excerpt from Patrick Modiano’s novel Little Jewel, a woman recalls babysitting for a couple who seem to have little concern for the whereabouts of their young daughter, a situation into which she thrusts herself for reasons at the heart of her own experience. We pass on our concerns, from family to family, whether we know it or not, Tracy K. Smith observes in her poem.

In some cases, the past is not knowable, creating a vacuum in which stories develop. Sunjeev Sahota comes from a family in which birth years are vague, and even lineage too; while the poet Honorée Fanonne Jeffers looks into the lunar eclipse of antebellum America, giving voice to a woman who writes to the early African-American poet Phillis Wheatley. Writing a letter to an unborn daughter, the ­Swedish-Iranian poet Athena Farrokhzad explains the world into which her own child comes, and why she has no official past to give her.

Nations loom into view here as überfamilies, demanding loyalty but sometimes not returning it with love. In Palestine, the novelist Adania Shibli gets a voice mail from the Israeli Defense Forces on a borrowed cell phone informing her that the house to which the phone belongs is about to be bombed; only she doesn’t know whose phone it is. In Mo Yan’s feverish short story, a father attempts to outsmart the enforcer of China’s one-child policy by digging a tunnel under the family house. In Italy, a vacationing David Kirby cringes with recognition at fellow Americans the way one does at family members behaving badly: “American tourists, American tourists!” he cries. “Hold it down, will you?”

Sometimes, in family life, you have to laugh to keep from crying. Amanda Rea writes of a woman who came to live with her family, not telling her own family she had annexed another. Alexander Chee recalls the time he catered for a wealthy New York clan that treated a statue better than its own matriarch. Entering the burying years of middle age, Claire Messud and her husband cling to a pair of mangy, cantankerous, half-blind and deaf dogs who rule their house. In a humorous essay, Colin Robinson describes how he and his younger brother have become notable among the local barbershop patrons for the way they approach the idiosyncratic style of a stylist they call Edward Scissorhands.

To write about family is to love it, and several writers here have written portraits of fathers, mothers, aunts, even—in the case of Sandra Cisneros’s poem—the extended family of one’s lovers. These are the people who made me, their stories tell us. Marlon James rejects the urge to once again write about his father, and pays tribute to his detective mother, the woman who kept his house going and whose opinion he holds dear today. Angela Flournoy thinks back on the period when her grandfather came to live with her family, leaving behind a mysterious object. Nadifa Mohamed tells the Odyssean tale of her uncle, who wore sharp suits, worked in Saudi Arabia and Yemen, and lived hard until the day he died.

How we depict family, Ruddy Roye reminds us in his photo essay, says a lot about what we feel matters, and who matters, what is officially of value in society. Heather O’Neill recalls her gangster father, and all the wisdom he dispensed before age and infirmity made him feel unnecessary. Similarly, in her ­diaries, Helen Garner describes her days and hours in the grandmothering years, when the freedom to be overlooked is at once exhilarating and full of sting.

Even when left behind, family still retains the power to wound. In odes to her mother and sister and father, Sharon Olds recalls this power, and lays waste to the assumption that it is denatured with time. Sometimes, when under threat, the only thing to do is to escape, which Édouard Louis did as a young boy, in the wake of an incident he describes in these pages with intensity and horror.

In starting a new family, the possibility of this moment—to begin again—can be overwhelming. The narrator of Claire Vaye Watkins’s short story reels under this pressure, as does the overweight bachelor at the heart of H. M. Naqvi’s tale, who, entering his seventieth year, diabetic and disheveled, is given a ward to keep safe. There is a grace moment, before that responsibility kicks in, and César Aira captures it in a brief and lovely passage from his upcoming novel, Ema, as a husband and wife chat in the falling dark, after a large meal.

Now, when my family gets together, for meals and for holidays, my brothers and I invariably wind up telling stories. My mother has been dead six years and my father is now remarried with a new family of his own. He has never been a good storyteller, but he generates stories faster than Joe Gould. What about the time a sprinkler closed around his finger and he ran into the house with it on, afraid his finger would be cut off? How about when he took up ballet at age seventy and performed in The Nutcracker? What about the time he stepped in front of our neighbor’s car as he was doing a burnout on the street, then yanked him through the window and threatened to pull his eyeballs out if he ever did that again?

My father listens to these stories with laughter and bewilderment that he gave birth to three NSA-like recording devices. It is a reaction, no doubt, that many family members have had upon learning that they have a writer in their midst. To have their deeds and words remembered, imprinted on paper, perhaps, and shared with anyone who reads. It has always been thought of as a kind of betrayal, this telling of stories. Perhaps it is, but I have always thought the opposite, and the pieces here only confirm that feeling. That to write is to narrate experience, to describe how it feels, to tell how it was lived, to say who was there; in other words, it is to treat the reader like an extended member of one’s family, the one—as humans—to which we all belong.

Seven Shorts

My family doesn’t know a lot of stuff that, to be honest, they should. Hardly anyone knows their real date of birth. Mum’s passport says April 1960, but following a bit of sleuthing she’s adamant it’s far more likely to be July 1961. Officially, Dad was born in 1954.

‘That’s definite,’ my uncle says, half-rising towards my bookshelves, as if the spines enacted their own magnetism. ‘Nine years after me. Exactly 10 years after the troubles.’

‘But that would make it 1957,’ I reply. ‘And it’d mean your seventieth bash last month was a bit premature.’ I turn to my grandmother. ‘You, Biji?’

‘1928.’

‘Sure?’

‘Give or take five years.’

‘It must be July,’ Mum says. ‘I’m much more of a Cancer.’

‘Give or takefiveyears? So you might be 83 or, equally, 92?’

‘I was married at 13. I had other things to worry about.’

‘Sure you were 13?’

‘Don’t be clever,’ Biji says, pointing her walking-cane at me.

I figure this elastic relationship with time isn’t surprising, given a surrounding culture that uses the same word (‘kal’) to mean both yesterday and tomorrow, and another (‘bharson’) to mean all three of: the day after tomorrow; the day before yesterday; and, my favourite: a very long time ago.

The conversation drifts to other things our family hasn’t always known. I point out that until the age of six I was under the impression that I had five siblings. We lived in a ‘joint-family’ set-up, typical in the villages of Punjab (less so the estates of Derby), with grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins all under one roof. There’d never been a distinction made between who was whose brother or sister and it wasn’t until the lead up to my first trip to India, where I was to be accompanied by only one of those siblings, that I began to realise that my immediate family, and my idea of it, was a lot smaller than I’d thought.

‘You think that’s bad?’ Biji says. ‘My mother-in-law didn’t even know who her husband was until after her first child was born.’

My grandmother explained that in those days . . .

(‘Which days would that be?’

‘I said don’t be clever.’)

. . . in those days, women like Preetam Kaur, my great-­grandmother, had to keep their faces screened from all men inside the house and out. The only time she could pull back the deep hood of her chunni in the presence of a man was on the evenings her husband fancied her company. But, even then, on a farmstead in those pre-electricity nights, it’d be far too dark for her to see anything beyond the general outline of my great-grandfather’s face. In other families, the woman would gain a surreptitious glance during the day, perhaps under the pretext of a sneeze, and see who she had ended up with. The problem for Preetam Kaur was that her husband had three brothers, and all four siblings had married within a few days of each other. So there were now four new brides in the house, none of whom was sure which of the brothers was her husband.

‘But, Biji, surely—at night . . . they’dknow.’

‘What difference would it have made to them to know?’ Mum says (bitterly? I wonder). ‘They didn’t marry a man; they were chained to a family.’

‘An idea of a family,’ my uncle says, not looking back from my bookshelves.

‘What difference would it have made to you to know that you had not five but just one sibling? Would it have made your childhood better or worse?’

‘He already said knowing made things smaller,’my uncle reminds us.

‘Anyway,’ Biji goes on . . .

Every evening, after chasing the bats out from under the veranda, Preetam Kaur and her three sisters-in-law would gather a few feet from the window in a room at the rear of the courtyard, waiting to be summoned to collect the dishes, staring through the wooden slats at the four men eating, all bearded, all turbaned.

Maybe him on the left? His gold chain looks familiar.

Do you think I could put a candle in my room next time?

Don’t, pehnji—Mother-in-law won’t tolerate it.

The one with the collar up looks strong.

Oh, what does it matter? Let’s not find out. Let it just be us while it can.

‘And they didn’t find out until they had kids?’ I ask.

‘So the story goes. Until they saw who held which child.’

I don’t know how much of the story is true, but reckon that, like all stories, it probably contains truth enough. The farmstead remains in our family and the former women’s room now stores giant blue barrels of grain. I don’t have cause to enter it very often, but whenever I do I’ll think of the four new brides made to hide their faces from the world, peering through the slatted window to the men enjoying the courtyard. Except these days the wooden slats are no more, replaced—what else?—by iron bars.

—Sunjeev Sahota

What we found looked like leather wrapped in plastic. Nearly the same color as my skin, about the size of a coaster. Square. It was under a pile of neckties in the bottom of my granddaddy’s dresser drawer.

My granddaddy learned he had emphysema—a surprise to no one considering his pack-a-day habit—and was gone a month later. Died to preserve his idea of dignity, I thought. He did not want incapaci­tation, dreaded immobility, could not bear the thought of being a burden on his family, so he willed himself gone. But before he was gone there was a hospital bed to set up, a room to break down. And after he was gone there was a minor mystery to solve.

Granddaddy had called my mother seven years prior to say he thought his girlfriend in Oakland was slowly poisoning him, that he’d lost a lot of weight, so my mother invited him to live with us. Our first house. With a grandparent living with us I felt we had more in common with our immigrant neighbors: three generations under one roof. Granddaddy would sit in the garage and say hello to whoever walked by. Who knows how long it took the people on our block to accept that he was our blood. He had a big, bridge-heavy nose, jowly cheeks, wavy black hair and light blue eyes. Not much phenotypically in common with the rest of us, except for my mother’s dimpled chin. He was paler than Mr. Reyes, our neighbor from Puebla who brought us tamales on Christmas. He sat with his thin legs crossed at their delicate knees—knees that bent deliberately when he walked, like Pinocchio’s—an unfiltered cigarette dangling from his lips. He used to tell me that none of his people back in Louisiana had ever been slaves. That if I had slave blood it was from my father’s side, or maybe my mother’s mother’s people in Oklahoma, not from him. It sounded like a lie, but an important one to him, so I kept quiet.

He had sent his bedroom furniture down from Oakland with my cousin Leon, who seemed to be in permanent possession of a U-Haul truck. Judging from the piles of clothes and the extra mattress in the cab, Leon and his girlfriend were living in that truck. But that was none of our nor Granddaddy’s business.

In high school I sold vacuum cleaners at Sears and sneaked sweets to Granddaddy for extra money. Jelly doughnuts were his favorite. Sometimes he’d slide me a few dollars, sometimes he’d cut me a check for a few hundred. He never offered the money while asking me to go on a run for him. Usually it showed up in his shirt-front pocket days later. I still felt the two were connected, and I was aware that giving a diabetic a box of Krispy Kremes was akin to giving a drunk a fifth of cognac. I saved the money for college.

He fell down. This was a week or so after we learned about the emphysema. I was upstairs, doing whatever a nineteen-year-old does in the morning, when I heard a pile of books crash to the floor. The only piles of books were in my room. It had to be him. I ran. His body, all 120 pounds of him, was crumpled in a corner between the bathroom and his bed. I screamed for my sister and we got him to the couch. He made jokes in our arms, complained about my morning breath, advised us to never get old.

What we found looked like a camel-colored pocket square wrapped in cellophane and pressed into a tile by the decades. I imagined him buying such a square to complement his favorite tan suit and gold-accented suspenders, but never finding an occasion special enough to warrant pulling it out of its plastic.

After his fall, my mother came home and did forensics. She tried to figure out what, outside of general old age and feebleness, had gone wrong. Granddaddy’s bed was too tall, she decided. It had to go. She took him to a doctor’s appointment and tasked my sister and me with breaking it down before they returned. We set upon the frame with hammers, an aluminum bat and our weak biceps. The wood was brittle from decades of absorbing cigarette smoke. Black-brown splinters flew in my face. We worked in silence, sweating in the dry heat of August. I cried. Granddaddy’s room had been a Southern Californian suburban replica of his room in Oakland, a reminder of his independent life. All of us had made formal visits to his room over the previous seven years, asked to sit with him at the foot of his bed while he watched TV, left without protest when it seemed he wanted to be alone. With his own bed gone and a mechanical one from the hospital in its place, the room more closely resembled its true purpose: a comfortable place for him to pass on.

He passed on when I was at my new job at Ikea. I was putting together a coffee table when my manager pulled me aside. It had seemed easiest and quickest to break Granddaddy’s bed into pieces, but now that I knew a thing or two about how furniture was made, I realized we could have disassembled it.

After the funeral and the repast, my sister and I sorted his clothes for relatives to claim. We found the squarethere under his neckties. Plastic, inorganic, unreadable, square. Was it candy? Clothing? Some ancient hair product melted and hardened over? My mother held the square close to her face, ran her thumb along its flat front. She laughed.

“It’s processed cheese,” she said. “For sandwiches. Look at this flap where you’re supposed to peel it open.”

It could have been cousin Leon’s, ferreted away and forgotten during that six-hour drive south with Granddaddy’s furniture. That would mean the slice of cheese was exactly as old as Granddaddy’s time with us, a marker of his final years. Or Granddaddy could have hid the cheese over a decade prior, maybe two decades, even. We would have needed carbon-14 dating to find out. I like to think it was the latter, that the story of how a slice of indestructible cheese product ended up in a dresser drawer began when its owner was much younger, and his world was much bigger. Either way, Granddaddy took that secret, along with many others, to his grave.

—Angela Flournoy

To be clear, I don’t like mobile phones at all. But when my family and I arrived in Ramallah, a friend gave me one in case of emergencies. Even so, when it starts to ring, suddenly, at 8:29 on this morning in mid-July, I let it go until my partner picks it up. He goes quiet and holds the phone out to me, pressing it to my left ear. It’s a recorded message, delivered in a booming voice speaking in formal Arabic. I catch only a few words: “. . . You have been duly warned. The Israeli Defense Forces . . .” Then the message ends and the line goes dead. I freeze.

This is the kind of call made by the Israeli Army when it is about to bombard a residential building. The moment someone answers the call, they relinquish their right to accuse the army of war crimes, as they have been “duly warned.” The strike can take place within a half hour of the call.

Just yesterday I heard about a young man receiving a warning call like this, informing him that the building where he lived in the north of Gaza would be bombed. The young man was at work in the south at the time. He tried to call his family but could not reach them. He left work and rushed home, but found the building destroyed. Some of his family members were wounded; others had been killed.

I don’t know whether this incident really took place. One hears a lot of stories these days, some too awful to believe. But here it is, at 8:29 a.m., pouncing on me like my destiny.

I’m not sure who this phone belongs to exactly, or who the Israeli Army thinks it belongs to. I wonder if my friend might be part of some political group. I doubt it. I make a quick mental survey of the neighbors, trying to guess which of them might be “wanted.” The only people I’ve encountered since we arrived two weeks ago in Ramallah are annoying children aged four to eleven; two middle-aged women and an elderly one; and a man in his late fifties. None of this puts my fears to rest. Their profiles do not differ much from those of the victims of recent air strikes. And then I realize, with dread, that I’ve become a replica of an Israeli Army officer, pondering which of these Palestinians might represent a “security threat.”

My partner is still standing in front of me, and behind him our eight-year-old daughter has now appeared. Our son, three months old, is sleeping in the next room. My partner, who has limited Arabic, asks me what the call was about. I look at him, then at our curious daughter. I try to find something to say, but I am overcome by a feeling of helplessness.

I look at the number again. I could press a button and call the “Israeli Defence Forces” back. Or I could send a text message. I could at least voice my objection to this planned attack. But when I try to think of what I could say or write, I feel numb, knowing that the words that will pour out of me will be useless. This realization, that words cannot hold and that they are wholly feeble when I need them the most, is crushing. The Israeli Army can now call my mobile phone to inform me of its intention to bomb my house, but my tongue is struck dumb.

After telling our daughter to get ready I go to the room where our three-month-old is sleeping. We have less than a half hour to leave the house. I walk into the darkness of the room and stare at the wall. I begin to notice a strange, intensely black cube high up on the wall. I don’t understand what that cube is doing there. I am sure that the wall is white; it’s not possible that a part of it has suddenly turned black. I scan the room for other dark cubes that might have crept into it while I was outside. Finally my eyes fall on a dot of green light at the end of the computer adapter, in front of which a pile of books stands. The light emanating from that tiny dot has cast the shadow of the books on the opposite wall, creating that black cube.

That tiny green dot of light, as faint as it seems, barely visible, was able to throw me into another abyss of fear. Perhaps my terror following that phone call is also exaggerated. Before my daughter and I leave the house as we do every day—she to her summer camp, and I to the university to my students—I look at my partner and our three-month-old child. Will this be the last time I see them?

We go down the stairs, without meeting any of the neighbors or their children, so I stall in the hope of picking up some noises from behind their closed doors. I hesitate for a moment, wondering whether I should ring one of their doorbells to ask if they received a similar call. But I keep walking behind my daughter until we leave the building. Then I look at the fifth floor and at the sky, trying to detect any sound or movement of drones or fighter jets. So far, nothing. We continue down the road to catch a cab from the main street.

As we reach it, the morning bustle of the main street embraces me. I calm down slightly, thinking it might have been a mistaken call, or one intended as a general warning to everyone, and not specifically to me and my family. But once we get inside the cab, fear overtakes me again. I ask the driver to turn the radio on.

For the next half hour, there will only be news about bombings of buildings in Gaza, with none in Ramallah.

—Adania Shibli

Translated from the Arabic by Wiam El-Tamami

Salon Habana, the barbershop in Chelsea, New York City, where my brother and I get our hair cut, is a hole-in-the-wall sort of place. Run by Dominicans, it has a big window facing onto Seventh Avenue and an array of ceiling-mounted neon tubes which reflect starkly from wallpaper that might originally have been cream-­colored but more likely has just yellowed with age. The shop accommodates six black plastic upholstered barber’s chairs along one wall, and a couple of benches for waiting customers against the other. In a back corner, bright pink and fitted slightly askew, are the establishment’s only washbasin and, opposite that, a small enclosed booth where an elderly lady sits. Her job is to collect the tokens that the haircutters give to their customers so that track can be kept of their earnings. At $11.50 per haircut it seems unlikely that these add up to very much, even on a busy day. But we live in a world where the accounting of small sums has become more fastidious than that of large ones, and the financial system at the Habana is evidently quite rigorous.

The same people, five men and one woman, cut hair at the salon every day. They offer a wide variety of tonsorial techniques and chair-side mien. The third chair back is tended by a tall, elderly gentleman whose dignified bearing and immaculately laundered nylon smock give him a demeanor more typical of a consultant surgeon than a barber. This impression is reinforced by the extraordinary dexterity with which he wields his scissors. His cutting style, consisting of rapid snips applied evenly and with breathtaking speed across the customer’s head, has led my brother and me to christen him “Edward Scissorhands.”

The chair at the very back of the shop is worked by a corpulent gay man with a close-cropped head and a worried face. Roughly taped on the wall next to him are large autographed photographs of Paris Hilton. It’s not clear how they came to be there but it seems unlikely that they were signed by the star during a haircut at the Habana. The same might be said for the photograph of the newscaster Kaity Tong, also autographed, that is stuck in the corner of the mirror facing the next chair. However, here the provenance is known: Ms. Tong is a denizen of the area and can occasionally be seen eating a late lunch in the Italian restaurant two doors away. Her husband comes in to get his hair cut and gave the picture to Akram, the barber for whom, more by chance than judgment, I have become a regular customer over recent years.

Akram’s own hairstyle, an untidy Beatles mop worn with a Zapata mustache, is not much of an advertisement for his trade. But I enjoy his relaxed, genial manner and he now knows, better than anyone else at any rate, how I like my hair cut. “Good and choppy,” he says, riffling the top of my head with a vigorous carelessness. Akram, of Uzbek origin, doesn’t speak much English so the haircut takes place largely in silence. That’s another reason why I prefer him to the other barbers, who evidently regard chair-side chat, however banal, as an essential part of the service. About two-thirds of the way through the session, Akram will reach for a pair of scissors that have large, square gaps along the length of their blades, producing the uneven cut I like. “My secret weapon,” he’ll declaim, brandishing them ostentatiously in front of my face. “Ah, the killer punch,” I say, nodding at the scissors, but with care because they are only inches from my nose. “Yes professor,” he beams into the mirror, “tequila punch.”

The system employed at the Habana means that, unless you make it clear you want a particular hairdresser, you will be taken from the bench by whoever has finished with his or her customer when your turn comes. It’s not easy to express a preference for a particular chair in front of the other cutters, especially for an easily embarrassed Englishman like myself, and I remember the awkwardness that accompanied my original decision to pick Akram. My brother, still more diffident than I, has never felt able to negotiate this hurdle and consequently, despite a lengthy patronage of the Habana, does not have a regular barber. This would not be a problem except for the fact that, after an unfortunate visit some years ago when the technique of a thousand tiny cuts rendered him pretty much hairless, he never wants to return to the chair of Edward Scissorhands. To avoid this he has developed a strategy where he will stroll with the studied insouciance of the flaneur up and down the sidewalk outside the Habana until he sees Scissorhands seat a new customer. He then nips smartly into the line on the benches, confident that when his turn comes it will be with one of the other hairdressers. I’ve seen my brother patrolling the window of the Habana in this manner for up to fifteen minutes at a time and, though I’ve never had the heart to tell him, I’m pretty certain that everyone in the salon, including Edward S., knows exactly what he’s up to.

One Thursday morning I was comfortably ensconced in Akram’s chair, my eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of the electric clippers around my ears. This is a part of the haircut which, for men of my age with silver sideburns, is apparently known in the trade as the “whiteoff.” I was drifting away to the salsa music on the Latin radio station that plays continuously in the salon when my reverie was interrupted by a loud voice directly behind me.

“I couldn’t get no bananas today so I brought you some grapes.”

The woman’s voice had a rough edge, like sandpaper on brick, and carried a strong Bronx accent.

“Hi Marianne, how’s it with you?” The weary resignation of the guy working the chair next to Akram’s was undisguised.

I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror. Standing behind me, proffering a small bunch of white grapes in a piece of tissue, was an elderly lady, wiry and erect, wearing a headscarf and sunglasses.

“The price of bananas is ridiculous,” she complained, “but I think these grapes are OK, maybe they need a wash. Try one; they’re fresh . . . aren’t they?” The way her voice trailed off suggested the fruit might be anything but fresh.

The big guy took the grapes and laid them carefully on the narrow ledge under the mirror, next to his scissors and combs.

“OK. OK. Here’s your cigarette Marianne. See you tomorrow.” There was an unmistakable testiness in his voice as he opened the packet, withdrew a single smoke, and passed it to her.

“Thank you dear.” Marianne put the cigarette behind her ear, rather jauntily for a woman of her age I thought, and began to walk out of the shop.

“Have a good one guys,” she called, waving at the other hairdressers from the door in the manner of a movie star acknowledging her fans before departing the red carpet. As soon as she had left, the guy next to us turned to Akram, looking even more unhappy than usual.

“Marianne is really beginning to piss me off,” he snarled venomously.

“What is your problem, my friend?” Akram’s query was solicitous.

“She comes in here every day and for a piece of stinking fruit I have to give her a cigarette. That’s a pack and a half of cigarettes a month . . . nearly two cartons a year.” His forehead furrowed with the effort of the mental calculation. “It’s killing me.”

In the mirror I could see Akram cast a sympathetic look in the direction of his neighbor. He had stopped cutting my hair and, along with the rest of the shop, was waiting to see what would happen next.

“She’s not just getting the cigarettes from me you know. She’s working the whole street. The guy next door in the shoe store gives, and the woman in the launderette too. She can’t be smoking all these cigarettes. She must be hoarding them.” He was in full flow now, his voice rising to a plaintive wail.

“And what’s this crap about bananas being too expensive? I mean, how expensive can a banana be? She must have lots of money. She has her own apartment on Twenty-Fourth Street. Even if it’s rent controlled that can’t be cheap. And look at these grapes.” He picked them up and dangled them disdainfully in Akram’s direction, letting the tissue paper flutter to the hair-strewn floor. “Filthy, rotten, they must have come out of the garbage. Well they can go back there.” This latter was announced with triumphal bitterness as the grapes dropped into the trash can.

Akram went over to his fellow barber and placed a hand, still holding the comb with which he had been tending my hair, on his shoulder.

“If she is getting to you, my friend, why you no do something about it?”

“Yeah, like what?” The question was indignant and forlorn in equal parts.

“Just tell her you no want any more of her stinking fruit and you no want to give her any more cigarette. Then she no come in again. That’s it.” Akram shrugged, his arms apart in a gesture designed to show how simple it all was.

“You’re right Akram, that’s what I’m going to do.” This was said with such a lack of conviction that an unending future of unwashed grapes and other sundry fruit seemed inevitable. The big guy placed an unlit cigarette in his mouth and headed for the door, evidently planning to cool down outside with a smoke of his own.

Akram turned back to me, lost in thought. His hands plied idly through my still damp locks as he tried to collect himself. He reached for the jar that contained his scissors and pulled out the pair with the serrated blades. “And now for the secret weapon,” he announced.

I returned home, still marveling at the rich oddness of life on Seventh Avenue, with its old-fruit-for-cigarettes trade. My back was prickly from the hair that had fallen into my shirt and so I leaned over the bath and showered my head and shoulders. Toweling off in front of the mirror I noticed small but prominent wings sticking out from each side of the back of my neck. I looked like Elizabeth Montgomery in an early episode of Bewitched. Akram had evidently been so distracted by the Marianne business that he had failed to finish my haircut. I tried to pat the wings flat but they just sprang back. There was no choice but to return to the shop.

Akram greeted me with evident concern. “You right professor. That’s not natural.” He referred here to the style of the cut around the back of the neck, which in a sophisticated salon like the Habana, comes as a choice between square, round, and, my preference, natural.

“Two minutes,” he said, pointing with his scissors at the new customer in his chair. I took a seat on the bench and picked up a copy of the DailyNews. It wasn’t long before he was carefully snipping off the offending protuberances. As he held up the hand mirror to show me the restoration work he nodded towards the window. I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure walking quickly past, peering sideways into the shop.

“Looks like your brother’s coming in,” he said, tousling my hair. “You want gel on this?”

—Colin Robinson

My mother sent me on an airplane to live with my dad in Montreal when I was seven years old. I only had to my name a wool coat and a little burgundy suitcase that contained some clothes and a few favorite storybooks I had packed. I hadn’t seen my dad in years and couldn’t picture what he looked like. When I stepped out of the arrival gate, a stocky man dressed in a sheepskin hat and a black pea coat grabbed me in his arms, and crushed me like crazy and wept.

My dad was a big weeper. That’s because he was otherwise so preposterously masculine that he never had to worry about how it would make him look. My dad had left school in grade three. As a child he had worked with older hardened criminals, climbing into windows and the like for them. Now he worked as a janitor, but he was self-conscious about it. When he enrolled me in school, he told one of the teachers that he was a spy, and could say no more.

He was good at being a homemaker though. He was good at cooking and sewing and remembering what days I had to pack my gym clothes. He would draw on my paper lunch bags to show how much he loved me. He would draw a little gangster with a top hat on, holding a gun.

My job was just to keep him company and listen to his old stories about robbing stores and counterfeiting bus tickets and girls falling head over heels for him. I loved his hardscrabble tales set during the Depression. My father as a child became a sort of fictional character to me like Peter Pan, or Oliver Twist or Little Orphan Annie. He was from the time when terrible and wonderful things could still happen to children.