The Girl from Baghdad by Michelle Nouri Read Free Book Online Page B

simply a big party with the whole family getting together to exchange gifts. The week before Christmas Day, Dad knocked on the door with a surprise: a tree to decorate.
    â€˜It’s enormous! It’s bigger than me!’ I squealed with joy. ‘Do we have enough lights for such a huge tree?’
    Dad put it on the floor in the living room. ‘Come on, give me a hand. Klara, get the decorations.’
    Linda, who was just two years old, stayed in our mother’s arms, watching with wide eyes. In just a fewminutes, the floor was covered in tinsel, decorations and cords full of little lights.
    Klara and I, in a frenzy of excitement, passed everything to Dad, who was the only one who could reach the tallest branches.
    â€˜Now for the grand finale!’ Dad announced, after we had finished adorning the tree. ‘Klara, turn off all the lights and come sit next to me, Mum and Linda here on the couch. And you, Michelle, are you ready?’
    â€˜Yes, Baba,’ I answered from my place.
    â€˜Go!’
    I switched on the lights and the tree lit up with a thousand colours. We all applauded our little masterpiece.
    The night before Christmas, Dad took us to dine at our favourite restaurant at Hotel Al Rashid. It was a marvellous moment: just us five, gathered around the table, happy together. We went to that restaurant every Christmas Eve. On Christmas Day, we gathered at Bibi’s house with the rest of the family as usual.

    During 1982 the parties at the homes of my parents’ friends continued, along with the dinners at big restaurants in the city. Mum and Dad were besotted with each other, like young lovers. At the end of one evening, hugging her closely, Dad covered Mum’s shoulderswith his jacket to keep her from shivering in the night air.
    When we went to Bibi’s or Ahlam’s house, Mum didn’t dress like she did at the parties. She wore normal clothes, but nothing glamorous, and barely wore makeup. Even Dad behaved differently; he was always nice to her, but I never saw him touch her like he did when they were alone or with their foreign friends.
    Despite this, Bibi’s house was the place I felt really at home; we spent every weekend there. It was normal to stay even two or three days, in which case the enormous villa transformed into a marvellous campsite of endless fun. When I was ten years old, there were already more than twenty grandchildren, a horde of energetic kids running wild. We loved everything around us: the flashy colours of the rugs and curtains, the scent of the food that wafted from the kitchen. A different world lay behind each door, there was always someone in every room. Our mothers prepared tea, seated in a circle, while bread baked on the little stove. Some rooms held cousins still too little to take part in our adventures. Exhausted from running around, we sidled up to our mothers to steal a little treat or watermelon seed. But the quietness lasted just a few minutes. The flurry immediately started again, only to be interrupted by Aunt Kasside’s loud voice announcing it was time to eat.
    For lunch, we all gathered in the dining room, sitting in a circle on the floor around a low table. The aunts and Mum brought out heaped plates of seasoned meats, hummus and rice. Everyone served themselves.
    We didn’t use cutlery at Grandma’s house, like we did at our own. Rather, we used morsels of hot bread, ripped into pieces. The mothers taught the youngest children how to gather the meat with their fingertips and bring it to their mouths without letting any fall.
    After lunch, when the air was still scented with cumin and turmeric, we moved the table and covered the majolica floor with thin mattresses. We all lay down together on the big soft rug. Despite the risk of getting a relative’s foot in your face, those were the most magical hours. The blinds were closed and it was easy to shut your eyes and fall asleep in the dim light. The soft