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Yusuf missed his mother, perhaps more than anyone else. Even more than his dead brother. She was the summer’s day to his father’s winter nights. She carried her own burdens with grace, shielding the boys, ever-ready with a steaming plate of food, a gentle touch to ease his childish hurts. Not even his father’s rages could have driven Yusuf out of the family home while she was there. Her faith sheltered them all–until the day his brother Selim died.
Just when he thought he’d overcome the worst, Yusuf’s mind would leap to those dark hours. His breaths started coming in short puffs. His eyes clouded over until he faded from the present.
Doris pierced through the mist. Cool hands found his bare shoulders.
“Breathe, Yusuf. You’ll be okay.” Doris pulled back his chair and bent him forward so his head hung between his knees.
He drifted back and his body was his own once more, in Doris’s apartment. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” said Doris. Her brusque manner hid her concern.
He didn’t tell her how much he’d come to depend on her. How her touch, even briefly on his shoulder, or a hug, filled that cavernous part of him that missed his mother.
She sat, and he wished she’d stayed near. “There’s been so much discord recently. I’ve invited everyone for coffee, cake and a film in the common room, but I know you and your dislike for television. Would you like to come regardless?”
Not one of the performers could have afforded a television set of their own, and the children especially enjoyed watching the communal one. Doris, a devoted cinema goer, often treated them to showings of films that had been at the Berlinale. Yusuf usually spent time in the common room for the sense of kinship, not for the television with its flickering pictures and loud advertisements. How wasteful to spend hours glued to fictions they would forget a few days later.
Of course, the television could have been a portal to the world, to unspoiled paradises and reams of knowledge, or a way of finding out what continued to befall his mother and his people at home. Except Yusuf already knew, deep inside, that the horrors continued on repeat, despite the changing faces of grief on television screens.
“No, I have other plans.”
“I think it would do you good to see Imam Saeed today.”
His ego hung about him in shreds. “Really? What good does that ever bring?”
Doris's gaze held his. She wouldn’t tolerate any excuses. “Yusuf, you can’t bury all your emotions. They will come out. Here, or worse, when you’re on the trapeze or performing some other trick. Go, today. For me. Simeon has left us all raw.”
His voice broke, and he hated himself for it. “The circus needs me. I need to check on Emir.”
“I can do that. We need you to be whole.” She held her warm palm over his hand on the table-top, as if she were the glue that held the pieces of him together. Age had slackened her skin.
A lump rose in his throat and he willed it away.
She pointed to a photograph on the windowsill. There stood a photograph of her husband, long dead, encased in a white wooden frame. “Life is full of risks, Yusuf. At every stage. Never forget how love is a force in this universe. It doesn’t leave. It just comes to you in different forms.” She hesitated, and tore her cotton-blue eyes away from her husband’s visage. “Give Imam Saeed a chance.”
It was easier to say yes than to fight. “Okay.”
Yusuf set off as the sun climbed higher in the sky. A walk would clear his head. The confined spaces at the residences impacted his mood, one reason why he was happier in the big top. The route he chose took him through the park and past the memorial to the Soviet soldier, across tributaries of the stagnant River Spree and along carriageways heavy with traffic. The noise made him jump. In Syria, danger and fuel shortages had resulted in empty roads in the later years. A noise increase often meant a spike in death toll: fighting had resumed. In Berlin, he rarely strayed beyond the circus and the residences. Exploring the city took a confidence that still hadn’t taken hold in this new place.
What would it take to make him happy here? Would it be securing the future of the circus, knitting their futures into the fabric of this society until no one could imagine them gone? How lucky he’d been to be chosen for the circus, when others had been turned away without the option of a fast-tracked status. Why did bitterness swirl in his belly together with gratitude? Silberling had never guaranteed the circus performers would always be protected. If the circus closed, they might lose their home together as a family, but he would still have the chance of citizenship. There were no safety nets in life, so why did he expect one?
He passed the building where he used to wire money to his mother. The troubles had advanced at such a rate he could no longer be sure she could access the meagre sums he sent her, and so he saved the money instead in a pile under his mattress. It belonged to her, his heart’s wage, in lieu of being there to protect her. Allah forgive him.
A cry of pity escaped his lips, loud enough to draw attention.
A woman pushing a pram ahead of him turned to assess him, then crossed the road just before a bus hurtled past.
Perhaps he should grow a beard, or allow his skin to tan further. It would make him look more like the men they feared. Even now in daylight hours, men’s hackles rose and women avoided him. Not one of them would choose to sit next to him in an empty train carriage. Fear against foreign-looking people had surged since terrorism visited Germany–the twelve deaths at the Berlin Christmas market, the axe attack on a train, the shooting in a shopping centre, and the Cologne sex attacks. Yusuf abhorred violence. He’d left Syria to escape his own horrors, but had somehow become tarred by association just because he happened to be a young immigrant man.
According to Doris, war refugees with a good chance of staying in Germany tended to avoid trouble. Still, who stopped to differentiate between different groups of asylum seekers when seething with prejudices? He knew what was said about people like him, how judgements fell based on the tone of his skin, the slight accent with which he spoke. Or was it his paranoia? Before he’d discovered the Arabic Library, he’d missed books, but had only once visited a German book shop. He’d found even a simple interaction like browsing books resulted in silent scrutiny of his tastes. He was a terrorist, or a sexual predator, or a thief. The world seethed with suspicion of his ilk, even here in the West, where they had everything and wanted for nothing.
It shouldn’t bother him. Being an outsider was now part of his identity.
A voice punctured the invisible curtain he’d drawn around himself. “Hey, old man, wait up!”
Yusuf didn’t slow, although he recognised the voice. He craved a peaceful walk, with just his own thoughts to accompany the tread of his feet on the pavement.
Someone thumped him on the back. A husky laugh filled his ears. Isaiah Beck’s afro loomed into view. In his hands he carried a familiar case. Inside, graffiti cans clanked.
“Hey, Isaiah.”
“I was calling you, man. You in a rush?” Bright eyes twinkled at him.
“Yeah, sorry,” said Yusuf.
They fell into step beside each other. Isaiah’s effervescence reminded Yusuf of a puppy, all bounce and boundless curiosity. They first got to know each other when Isaiah began volunteering at the residences, through one of Doris’s initiatives to foster links between locals and the refugees. Isaiah led a monthly art club in the common room, and he’d been a hit with old and young people alike. With part-German, part-African heritage, he knew what it meant to be an outsider, and regardless, his personality made it possible for him to invite himself into conversations he had no part in. He had no sense of boundaries. In Treptower Park one night after the circus, where Isaiah had a standing invitation in exchange for his art class, he’d interrupted a conversation between Yusuf and Osman, and before long, this young man with the afro hair and cinnamon skin had blurred the lines between volunteer and friend. Isaiah often sought him out after that.
Isaiah studied him. “Wow, you’re glum, man. Want to hang later?”
“You spraying?” said Yusuf.
“There’s this sick new block. Got a wall that’s begging to be baptised,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Isaiah took an interest in the world. He left a mark on it. He’d once confided to Yusuf that graffiti allowed him to etch his name onto forbidden places. He didn’t believe in ownership or belonging. For him, fluidity equalled promise. Rules and boundaries were the antithesis of that.
“Not today. I have to get back to the circus.” He needed to hold everyone together.
“Another time then.” Isaiah grinned. “I’m off. Gotta wear my new trainers in.”
He took off down a side street, fully at ease with himself. Yusuf envied the surety.
Yusuf continued, head down against the world. He reached the inner sanctum of the community centre early. A slap-slap of a ball against the walls rung out in the hall. There, he found Imam Saeed placing chairs in a round, ready for the session. Some of the younger boys, the ones who stayed with the Imam when their parents couldn’t care for them, played handball in the corner. At the back of the room, a tray had been laid with crumbling biscuits the Imam paid for out of his own pocket and some dates that always reminded Yusuf of his mother as they were the first morsel of food she ate to break her fast in Ramadhan.
“I’m glad you came. I heard about Simeon,” said Imam Saeed, extending his hand.
Yusuf shook it and looked away. He should have kept the boys safe.
“I missed you at Friday prayers.”
The constant pressure to attend the mosque irritated Yusuf, when in Syria the routine had comforted him. How could there be faith in his life without family? “My intention is always to attend.” The lie fell from his lips easier than the truth would have.
“It might bring you solace to come. In the absence of home, maybe you’ll find you’re not so alone.”
“I have the circus.”
“A place of fantasy and freedom, but does it nourish your soul? Here, we can speak Arabic. You can practice your faith.”
“I can do that in the residence. We have a prayer room.”
“Do you visit it?”
Yusuf flushed. “No.”
“There is great power in congregations.” He smiled kindly. “But no matter. I’m glad you are here today. Your brothers missed you.”
Yusuf raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that, but thank you for the welcome.”
The group trickled into their seats, and soon the session was in full throes. Yusuf listened to the debate, and wished that others from the circus had agreed to come. Instead, he sat here with a roomful of Turks who held German passports but still complained. Didn’t they know how lucky they were? One man spouted venom about the lack of jobs and how German men thought it their right to approach Turkish girls.
Adrenalin flooded Yusuf’s veins until he could not stem the tide of his anger. “Aren’t you ashamed to sit here and complain when there are others in far worse situations? Do you think I wanted to be an acrobat? We do what we must to survive.” His anger flamed.
The man’s voice boomed in the sparse hall, the acoustics lending him an edge that he perhaps didn’t intend. “I’m glad I don’t have to flaunt myself in the costumes you wear. Who are you to lecture me? You arrived last of all. You know nothing.”
Imam Saeed intervened. “That’s enough, Solomon! If you can’t listen to each other respectfully here, you leave.”
The man ducked his head in apology.
Yusuf glared at him.
“You’re not as different as you might think,” said Imam Saeed. He kneaded his fingers as he spoke. “We are all displaced people. Some of us are angry; others are grieving. Let me tell you one thing.” He skewered Solomon with a look and drew in a ragged breath. “There are over three million Turkish immigrants in Germany. Who do you think feels more alone, you or Yusuf? The circus performers are as welcome in this city as you are. Perhaps more so. Your family are economic migrants. His are refugees fleeing persecution. I won’t tolerate discord between you.” He banged a chair against the floor, showing a rare glimpse of his own fury. “You have a problem, you come to me. Otherwise, I expect you to stand side by side as brothers, without finger-pointing.”
Solomon squirmed in his seat.
Imam Saeed waved his hand, the mis-step already forgiven. “We all make mistakes. It is when our community is hurting that we need each other the most.”
The ill feeling hung in the air and Yusuf regretted coming. He shouldn’t have been so honest. He’d grown comfortable with the masks of the circus, the nightly performances when he could pretend he was a different person. Being vulnerable made him an object of ridicule and pathos. His every instinct told him to leave the session, although it must nearly be over.
Suddenly, steps sounded at the entrance to the room.
“Our guest is here,” said Imam Saeed, breaking into a smile. His kufi hat wobbled on his head.
Yusuf twisted around in his chair and there stood Ellie Richter. Was she following him? He stared at her. She laughed at something Imam Saeed said. Her fiery hair set her apart from the women he knew, along with her tinkling laugh. She possessed an innocence he would never have, and Yusuf resented it.
What was she doing meddling in his business? Didn’t she have the decency to leave them alone after Simeon? How could her professional striving be more important than ordinary people’s struggles to survive?
She turned in his direction.
He massaged the back of his neck to hide the heat staining his cheeks, and pretended she didn’t exist.
