The morning air was already hot when he burst in the door. He threw the bundle of clothes and papers on the floor and walked past me without saying a word. I followed him upstairs into the bedroom and watched him rifle through the wardrobe. He never said a word. He pulled out every bit of clothing he could find. Shirts. Ties. Slacks. Jackets. Caps. His jaw was clenched so hard I thought his teeth might break.
Finally, he turned to look at me like he just noticed I was there. “I’m sorry. I’m in a hurry.”
“Can I help?”
“Check through the pockets and make sure there’s nothing in them.”
“What are you doing?”
He grimaced. “We need to get rid of it all.”
For the next hour, we collected everything. Tie clips, medals, belts and shoes. Then we went through desks and cabinets, collecting scraps of paper. Identity cards. Passports. Birth certificates. Diplomas. Commendations. We heaped everything onto the bed.
He told me to get a suitcase and as many bags as I could find. When I came back, I saw that he had made two piles. He put one into the suitcase. He stuffed the other into plastic bags. He went to the kitchen and got the kerosene.
“I’ll be right back,” is all he said when he went out. He looked so strange with all those bags.
When he came back later, he did not look at all relieved. He walked past me again and went upstairs. When I walked into the room, I saw him staring at the fire. Thick plumes of acrid smoke flew up in the wind. I thought the little date palm might catch fire, but the flames died as quickly as they had started. Finally, he turned toward me and tried to smile for the first time that day.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“We can wait.”
“Yes. We’ll stay put until things become clearer.”
I had never seen him cry before.