As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (42)
Those were the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m not studying.”
I spent the rest of that afternoon trying not to look over at the boy with the greenest eyes, who was busy on his laptop. He was alone and there was a large plate with four servings of knafeh on the table. I did a double take, amazed that someone would be able to eat all of that and not fall into a sugar coma.
I tried commanding my brain not to look, but my traitorous eyes refused to listen and I caught snapshots of him in the milliseconds my gaze would stray toward him. He looked my age. Maybe a year older. Cute. I wanted to push back the hair falling over his eyes so he could see his laptop screen better.
On the seventh glance, he suddenly raised his head and looked directly at me, our eyes locking for the second time. My cheeks burned and, in that moment, a lifetime was born. There was a delicate look in his eyes, a curious interest in the way his lips curved upward, and I—
I wake up with a jolt, gulping in air. My hair is plastered to my neck with sweat, and my eyelids feel heavy with leftover tears. I shiver when I get out of bed, the cool morning air freezing my bones.
Was that a dream or a memory? I shake my head, unable to find the energy to make out the truth. I don’t have the time. I get dressed and don’t eat the stale bread Layla passes me but stuff it in my bag along with the five hundred dollars.
When I get to the hospital, Am’s in the same clothes as yesterday, his back hunched as he sits beside his sleeping daughter. The main atrium still nurses the wounded from yesterday’s sniper attack. The stench of festering lesions and rusted blood reeks but I don’t gag. Not anymore.
“Am,” I say shortly, avoiding looking at Samar.
He turns. There are shadows under his eyes and he’s in need of a shave. He looks as if he’s aged ten years, and I ignore the guilt burning behind my eyes.
“How is she?” I croak.
He fixes me with a hard look. “Better. She can’t move her neck yet, but she’s going home today. Not enough beds here.”
“I… I see. She has to hold on for a bit until we can remove the sutures.”
“I know. Did you bring everything?”
I look around but I don’t spot Dr. Ziad or Kenan, so I take out the wad of bills and quickly pass it to him. His gaze creases with concentration as he counts, and then it turns ugly.
“What are you playing at here, Salama?” he says with a hiss. “This is only five hundred dollars. And where’s the gold? Are you tricking me?”
I straighten my back, digging my hands in my pockets. “No. I’ll give you the rest when you take us to the boat.”
He stares at me for a second before barking out a laugh. A few heads turn our way, and I clutch my stomach to curb my panic. They look away, each too engrossed in their own worries to care about a laughing man.
“I keep underestimating you. All right, there’s a boat coming in a month. It’s a standard route, one taken many times. Through the Mediterranean to Syracuse, where a bus will drive you to Munich. You’ll be setting sail near Tartus. I’ll drive you there myself.”
It all sounds simple enough, though it’s far from that. Tartus, which overlooks the Mediterranean, was once an hour away from Homs. But that was without the new borders and the military swarming the route like poisonous ants. Now it takes hours. All I know about Syracuse is that it’s on Italy’s coast and that Munich is a city in Germany. I have no idea how far they are from each other.
“How will we get to Tartus with all the checkpoints?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the terror behind it.
He shrugs. “Don’t worry about the military. That’s where the money comes in. I’ve never been detained before.”
A headache, the result of the never-ending stress, originates in the center of my brain, producing a dull throb. This journey feels impossible. Germany and Italy feel impossible. As of now, they’re just words I’ve read in books and heard on the news. I can’t even picture them in my mind.
I clear my throat. “Why does the boat need four weeks? Isn’t there one sooner? Layla will be in her eighth month.”
He clicks his tongue. “It’s returning in a few days, but it’ll take some time before it reaches port here. The men will need to make sure everything is working well. Besides, you’re not the only one who’ll be sailing on it. I’ll know more within a week or so. These things take time.”
Helpless. I feel helpless and shackled to events I can’t control. Ones that determine Layla’s fate.
The hospital’s doors slide open, and I stand on alert, ready to witness another lifeless body, but it’s only Kenan. His eyes are sparkling and he’s wearing a different sweater under the worn-out brown jacket. His camera swings at his side. My heart catches at the sight of him.
I know I could easily love him. In a might life with the fantasies I orchestrated for myself, it would be so easy to fall for his lopsided smile and passionate dreams. I think about Layla’s words. I wonder if it’s worth finding happiness in Homs before I leave. Or if that happiness will lead to heartbreak and losing someone I might want to share my life with.
Layla can preach about a rosy world, but Khawf and his cynicism are the reality.
When Kenan’s eyes fall on me, he smiles, his whole face brightening like the sun on a spring day, and my heart speeds up.