Strings - Capstone Amal Al Shamsi (1)

“Because you say that, I will,” Hamza replied.
The connection seemed to waver, perhaps she was shaking her head.
“Did you eat?” he asked her.
“We were preparing food since the morning, remember? I am helping mama at her house
with the guests.”
“Hah, yes.”
They shared another lapse of silence.
“Baba, why are you calling me a lot now?”
Hamza busied himself with his food, although now it was painfully evident that it was
mostly a pretense.
“I don’t mind,” his daughter said. “I talked to Jasem. He said he bought some things for
his kitchen and he’s trying to cook. Can you imagine?” Then after a while, “It would make me
feel so much better if he was close to you.”
“You don’t trust him then?” He couldn’t blame her, but it was also not on his hands.
“I do.”
“Then what?”
“Do you want to talk to mama?”
He licked his finger and looked out of the window. “It’s all right, thank you. I have to go.”
“Where?”
Hamza was taken aback by this question. “I have to sort something out. What else?”
“As you like,” she said. He felt jilted, he wondered when she got like that. His daughters’
voice weaved in and out, she must have been moving around. “If she asks,” she said, “I’ll tell
mama you got this cat for. For her birthday.”
“For what?” Hamza asked. “I got her a wallet.”
“I know,” she said.
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