Hidden Palace by Helene Wecker

Author:Helene Wecker [Wecker, Helene]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, Historical Fiction
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2021-04-09T00:00:00+00:00

14.

The morning fog pressed itself upon Little Syria, sneaking through the gaps in the window-panes, weighting the air and dulling the senses. Mothers stood half asleep at their stoves, their pots of rice and lentils threatening to scorch. On Washington Street, the newsboys called out halfheartedly about Allied losses at Gallipoli, German deaths near Verdun.

In the kitchen of the Faddouls’ coffee-house, Maryam warmed the day’s first coffee-pot while Sayeed scooped the beans and cardamom into the grinder.

“I forgot to tell you,” Sayeed said as he worked. “I stopped in at Faris and Habiba’s yesterday, when I was in South Ferry. They told me they’re moving to Detroit. There’s a grandchild on the way.”

“Oh, how wonderful! Habiba will be such a happy grandmother. But—what about the restaurant?”

“They’ll have to sell it, or find someone to take over the lease. He asked if we were interested.”

Maryam glanced at her husband, startled. Was he suggesting that they move to Brooklyn? “What did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t know, myself—but that I’d ask you.” His eyes were on his work, but she could read his worry for her as clearly as if he’d spoken it aloud: How long can you go on like this?

A pause. Then, “No,” Maryam said. “It’s a lovely thought, but no.”

“It’s a good location,” he said quietly.

“It is. And someone will be lucky to have it.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s time. I’ll get the door.” She squeezed Sayeed’s arm as she left: an acknowledgment of his concern, and a plea for understanding. Away from his eyes, she took a deep breath and crossed herself, then unlocked the door and turned the sign from Closed to Open.

The first customers trickled in, yawning and sighing as they sat. Chair-legs squeaked against the floor. Maryam walked from table to table, pouring, smiling, listening. Gossip was shared more quietly these days, thanks to the war. Few felt comfortable bragging of success, or grumbling over a minor misfortune, when so many of their loved ones were in peril. The Mediterranean blockade had stretched the villages of Lebanon to the breaking point. The remnants of last year’s harvests had all been sent to the Imperial supply lines—and now, just as the spring crops began to ripen, came news of locust swarms unlike anything seen in a generation. They flew in clouds that blocked the sun, fell upon fields and stripped them bare in minutes. It seemed clear that no matter how much money Little Syria’s residents managed to send home, no matter how many coins they added to the collection plates, it wouldn’t be enough to ward off starvation.

They spoke little of it, among themselves. It was too difficult to talk about, too weighted with guilt and worry and helplessness. Instead they turned to matters of the neighborhood, and vented their frustrations there—which meant that Maryam didn’t have to listen for long before she caught the word Bedouin as it flew past her, flashing like a silver bird.

She angled toward its origin, a table in the corner, listening as she approached:

It’s been three years now.

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