Hidden Colours, page 18
Still, the demons in her family seemed manageable in comparison to what Yusuf faced, and without Yusuf knowing her more intimately, it must seem like her life sparkled with joy compared to his.
They ate, ignoring the charred bits, and her mother turned to Yusuf. “You must miss home.”
Her father coughed. “Give the boy a second, Katharina, before you come at him with all your questions.” Kind eyes shone underneath grey eyebrows that grew bushier by the year.
Yusuf plastered on a smile. “Yes, I miss home, Frau Richter. I miss it a lot. But the home I knew isn’t there anymore. I have a new one now.”
“I hope you’ve been made to feel welcome. Your German really is very good.”
“We have language lessons a few times a week at the residences.”
“Are they enjoyable?” said Katharina, struggling to chew her mouthful.
“Yes, although we find that amongst ourselves, the refugees have adopted a mix of languages. We reach for whatever word we find first, that will be understood by our conversation partner. It’s like a constant language exchange.”
“How marvellous.”
Yusuf’s eyes twinkled. “Of course, sometimes it leads to misunderstandings. Like the time one of the kids wanted to tell me the shower had run out of hot water, and he used the term ‘holy water’ instead. On the whole, though, the kids are picking up the language faster than the adults. They’ve even been holding little clubs, learning the lyrics to songs by the Fantastischen Vier and Udo Lindenberg. The German teacher finds it funny to hear them try.”
“That sounds like great fun. It’s been awhile since I’ve put together a mixed tape. Maybe I could do one for the children?”
Yusuf took sip of water. “They’d love that.”
“How long have you been in Germany, Yusuf?” said her father.
“Almost two years now.”
“It must have been such a wrench leaving everything behind.” Her mother was all warmth, practicality and activism rolled into one. She bloomed at the thought of taking another person under her wing. Caring for others amounted to her life’s work.
“A wrench?” said Yusuf, knotting his brows together.
Ellie chimed in. “Difficult.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, there have been difficult moments, but I’m grateful to be here.”
Her mother ploughed on. “Luck plays such a big role in how our lives unfold. I’m sorry this happened to you.”
Yusuf’s expression hardened and he put down his cutlery, leaning forward, his voice a velvet casket of grief. “I don’t believe in luck. When civilians are bombed, someone is responsible. It’s not just luck.”
“Of course. I’m sorry to be so clumsy,” said her mother.
“What people have endured there is inexcusable, son,” said her father with a longing look at the contents of his glass, as if he wished the water would transform into wine.
Yusuf’s olive skin turned a motley red, as if he feared his outburst had ruined lunch, and he couldn’t fathom how to rewind the past few moments. “Even now, I feel powerless to stop the suffering that continues there. There’s a weight you carry with you,” he said, his fingers tracing the beads of condensation on his water glass.
Her mother pushed aside her plate. “It’s hard, being somewhere new. You must miss your mother.”
Her mother’s sensitivity radar had gone awry: she’d hit the bullseye she should have known instinctively to avoid. His own mother.
“Why don’t we talk about something else. Yusuf wanted to invite you to the cir–” said Ellie.
Too late.
Yusuf set down his cutlery. It clattered against his still full plate. “I’m sorry. Can you excuse me?” He pushed back his chair.
Her mother lips turned downward. “Yes, of course. Yusuf, I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing Frau Richter. I just need a minute.” He walked into the back room.
Her father rose, but Ellie shook her head.
Yusuf had his back to her when she approached him. She placed a hand in the small of his back and stood for a moment, watching the dust particles dance in the air, waiting for him to compose himself. When he faced her, an emotion she didn’t recognise sparked in his pale face. His fragility surprised her and convinced her she’d been right to hide Silberling’s machinations from him.
“She didn’t mean anything by it, I promise,” said Ellie.
“I know. I’m embarrassed. Maybe it was too soon to see this happy family life.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Look around you. Every corner of this home is filled with memories. What remains of my family, I can fill a shoe with.”
They stood in her parents’ library. Keepsakes from her childhood decorated a small desk in the corner. Medals from teenage swimming competitions hung from overflowing bookshelves. Ellie shrivelled. Had she been unfeeling, inviting him here without knowing how he’d react? She should have known the permanence of her roots only made his own rootlessness more pronounced.
She reached out to him, and he pushed her back.
“You have everything, but I’m not even sure you know it,” he said. “If I were you, I’d be on my prayer mat every day, giving thanks for what I have.”
His willingness to point fingers at her just to make himself feel better angered her. “My good fortune isn’t my fault, Yusuf, just like your poor fortune isn’t your fault.” She refused to be his punchbag, but she wanted to comfort him, still. “Please don’t push me away. I want to help.” She held her hands out to him, palms upturned.
Her parents could probably hear every word. Just behind him, her mother’s placards from marches leaned against the wall. It had always soothed her to march with her mother, but even at twelve years old she’d been aware of the foolishness of marching only to absolve yourself of the need for any real actions. She’d always believed in fighting injustice. It constituted the main reason why she’d pursued journalism.
“I’m ashamed, Ellie. That’s how I feel. This isn’t the man I’m meant to be.” Pride emanated from the set of his shoulders and his flashing eyes.
“You think I don’t know that? Your story isn’t finished, and you have more control than you think.”
“You’re wrong. It’s so easy for you to say.”
She paused, uncertain of how far to push him. “You’re not the only one with problems.”
She intended to make him feel less alone.
It backfired.
“You think you have problems?” he said, his body coiled tight like a spring. “Go on, Ellie, tell me your problems.”
“You know what? It’s not all about you.” She didn’t care anymore about being overheard. She could express herself without the lag that came from a foreign language, and she pressed home her advantage. Her heart pounded. “As privileged as I am, I’m allowed to feel sorry for myself too. I’m grateful for my life, but that doesn’t mean I have to be satisfied the whole time. It’s okay to want more.”
“You in the West, with your culture, your foreign holidays and the world at your feet. You always want more.” He shook his head, deflated. “Don’t you see? Just having enough is no bad thing. I would die for that.”
It cut her to the quick that he thought so little of her.
“I have no right to expect the world at my feet, to be exempt from suffering. But I have the right to point out entitlement when I see it,” he said, stumbling over his words, slowing down so that each syllable drilled itself onto the fabric of her mind. He stepped away and rearranged his hoodie, all brisk movements, his tone like ice. “Please say sorry to your parents for me. I shouldn’t have come.”
His words stung.
She let him go.
Chapter 24
The police came around, asking questions about a fight between two men in the park. Fear sparked in Yusuf when one of the officers closed in on him, and he found himself retreating from the common room, leaving it to Doris to smooth things over. He couldn’t be sure of the police agenda, or how Karl might have twisted the story of that afternoon, so his lips remained sealed about Karl’s repeated provocations.
Terrors began to fill his sleep once more. He couldn’t decide what the trigger had been: Simeon’s stabbing, the clashes at the circus, the argument with Ellie, or his growing suspicion that perhaps the Interior Minister wasn’t a friend to refugees after all. Fragments of Silberling’s television interview had filtered through to the circus folk, unsettling them, revealing the fragile footing they stood on in this new home of theirs.
If only he could reel back time. If only Selim hadn’t died. If only the war hadn’t started. If only his mother was there to believe in him when he didn’t believe in himself. If only he hadn’t come to this place. Why did everything good in his life crumble to dust?
He’d been unable to sit still since his argument with Ellie. Once he’d dressed, he headed to the circus tent to practice his skills, hoping the physical exertion would dull the whirr of thoughts in his head. The midnight blue and bronze tent quivered in the wind, as if it was a real, breathing person. Yusuf followed the tunnel into the ring and inhaled the scent of circus life: the sawdust that grounded him; the sweat of the performers; the lingering salty musk of popcorn.
He longed to practice alone, but an air of concentration pervaded the tent. A handful of performers toiled, deep in the throes of their routines, despite the early hour. Only repetition and rehearsal kept them sharp; rusty skills formed the surest route to injury. Witnessing their exertions brought him no pleasure this morning. He wasn’t himself. He recognised the patterns that revealed inner turmoil. Zul clowning about on the trampoline made him cringe rather than laugh. He squeezed his eyes shut in response to Aischa’s clumsy dismount from her galloping steed. Time and again, he’d observed variations of the acts, but his mental arithmetic of the timing of jumps or the crescendo of a set piece seemed off, as if his judgement was impaired.
As if he couldn’t trust himself.
He crossed his arms across his chest and retreated to the stands to wait. More performers arrived, skipping into the ring, calling out hello. Being here, surrounded by people, made Yusuf feel more alone than if he’d stayed cooped up in his flat. He pressed his lips together and scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration, restless, eager for his own turn.
Ellie lingered in his mind: her downturned lips, tearful eyes and the voice that sought to soothe him but fell short. He’d ruined everything. Even his friends in the circus couldn’t scale the walls he’d erected around himself.
Leyla approached, a cotton headscarf framing her sweaty face, an apron tied around her plump middle. “You look pale. You need one of my pastries to give you strength.”
Whatever the ailment, food was Leyla’s answer. She’d offer treats to a man on his deathbed, long after he’d given up physical nourishment.
“No thank you,” said Yusuf, dull-eyed and cold.
The pastries glimmered with egg-white. She leant forward with the tray, and he resisted the urge to up-end it. “Take one. I promise, it will help.”
She irritated him for an instant, the way she smelled of the kitchen and her exertions, the powder crusting her fingers, her eagerness to serve him. He couldn’t bear any more attempts to cheer him up, the innocent queries after his well-being. “I said no.”
She moved away, surprised and downcast. Remorse hit Yusuf, a plummeting of his stomach, knowing he’d hurt her. He was as bad as Najib. A word of encouragement wouldn’t have harmed him. Instead, he’d caused offence with his disinterest, his monosyllabic refusal. He should have learned his lesson from how he’d lashed out at Ellie. No amount of backtracking could undo words uttered in haste.
What was happening to him?
His breath came in rasps.
Tremors rocked his body.
In the corner of his eye, his dead brother loomed, but when he turned, he saw only a stuffed bear in a top hat and bowtie marked up as a raffle prize.
He stared at his feet, throat thick with tears, overwhelmed by the instinct to hide away like an animal in a burrow. Just until he’d regained his composure and control. His seat clattered shut as he rose to his feet. On the way out of the tent, he forced himself to make eye contact with Emir, wave goodbye to Leyla and shower encouragement on Esme–who blushed at his attention–teaching her doves a new trick. He acted on autopilot. His mind had already shuttered.
In his apartment, he crawled underneath the covers, seeking refuge in the arms of sleep.
“Roll up! Roll up! Get your tickets here. Witness the skills of far away continents right here on your doorstep!” said Emir into the megaphone, a gleam in his eye.
You couldn’t keep a good man down. Far from despairing about the racism they had encountered, Emir had been energised since the protest, buoyed by the support of Imam Saeed, and even more so by the kindness of individuals in the community.
The day after the protest had seen letters of support arriving in great big sacs. Even Dawud had been delighted by the pictures children had drawn. They’d offered their drawings to their favourites: Esme had been reimagined as a princess; Osman as a friendly giant; the horses as unicorns underneath a pyramid of girls. Dawud received a superhero cake from a chattering girl in pigtails. Neighbours brought typical German foods to share with the circus folk, much to Leyla’s joy. There’d been hot plates of strudel, tiny halal sausages with curried ketchup and great balls of potatoes with a lingering papery taste.
Even today, though the crowds didn’t reach capacity, a palpable sense of good will filled the air. Children skipped and squealed in excitement. The dissenters, too, seemed to have stayed away. They couldn’t count on it, of course: this could be the calm before the storm. In fact, Doris had raised the question of whether the circus required security, but Emir had pooh-poohed her. Why should they change arrangements? Wouldn’t that be a victory for the thugs? There could be no reason for the performers to travel to and from the residences in pairs. Any incidences had been mere flashes in the pan. Everything would settle down. The circus folk just had to believe.
Yusuf harboured doubts but his voice remained in the minority. Only Zul backed him up.
“There is naivety and there is stupidity,” said Zul in hushed tones as they tidied flyers in racks at the entrance to the tent.
“What can we do? Parole the grounds ourselves?” said Yusuf, shaking his head.
Zul nodded. “You had good form the other day against Karl. I know I’m not the strongest, but maybe you can teach me to defend myself better.”
Yusuf waved off the compliment with a flick of his hand. “I love you, man, but you’re not a fighter. And I was lucky. We don’t want our own mini-war here, with rival groups squaring up against each other. We need to put an end to this once and for all.”
Zul dug his hands into the pockets of his billowing clown trousers, dejected. “Maybe we should speak to Doris.”
“She’s as helpless as us. She’s our friend but she doesn’t have the authority to make real change,” said Yusuf.
“How about Silberling?” said Zul, gnawing on his fingers in mock terror. “His assistant is here tonight. The one with the crazy curly hair. We should speak to her, suggest putting a council together. We could come up with ideas on how to impress Berliners more, to win a place in their hearts.”
A vein throbbed in Yusuf’s neck. “His assistant is here tonight?”
Zul nodded. “The usual seat.”
“I don’t think she’ll help. The last time Silberling was here, he told us to sort ourselves out. Like it was our problem, not his. This is their project. No one from the ministry has even visited Simeon in hospital. You’re clutching at straws, my friend.” Yusuf stacked the last batch of leaflets and straightened his costume. Ten minutes until showtime. “I’ll think of something.”
“Like that Western film my son used to like. What’s it called?” Zul fumbled to grasp the name from the buried memories of his son. He smiled. “The Lone Rider?”
Yusuf poked him in the ribs. “Very funny. The Lone Ranger.” His brother had loved that film too, one of the old American exports they’d become aware of on a time lag.
In the ring, Old Sayid’s band swung into its final song before Emir took to the ring to warm up the audience. The beat of the drum and jangle of the tambourine instilled a sense of urgency in the two men. They knew their cue.
“Break a leg,” said Zul.
“Yeah, and you.”
They dashed to the ring and Yusuf glanced at the audience. Sure enough, Silberling’s assistant, the nervous woman with the yellow corkscrew curls, watched morosely from the front row. Emir stood centre stage, beckoning the audience to move forward, making for a more intimate experience. Zul jumped into action, borrowing Osman’s most docile goat, as they had practiced in rehearsals, pretending to chase it across the ring as the crowd howled with laughter, and Emir shushed him. The goat ran circles around Zul, and he fell repeatedly, transformed from the worried man he’d been just minutes before, his energy electrifying the audience.
Once Emir had chased Zul off the stage, who in turn was hot on the heels of the goat, he returned to tip his top hat to the band. Old Sayid, playing the trombone, riffed for a delicious few minutes, then laid down his instrument.
Quiet reigned in the tent. Only a medley of coughing pierced the silence. Yusuf snuck a glance at the front row, and his nerves ratcheted up as he took in the boredom evident on Silberling’s assistant’s face.
Emir’s voice filled the tent. “Now, ladies and gentleman, I have a rare treat for you tonight. Esme’s doves are ready to debut their ring of fire trick. She’ll be guiding them through ever smaller rings. Such is their trust for their mistress, they will subvert their fear to obey her. Rest assured, no animals are harmed here at the Treptow Circus. Not one feather on these dear birds will be singed in this performance - however much you enjoy chicken wings!” He tossed his top hat into the air and a chalky substance flew out, which transformed into seven doves hovering in a semi-circle about his head. The audience pointed in delight.
