Strings - Capstone Amal Al Shamsi (1)

She partially closed the door, but Hamza did not hear her retreat. Behind it, she was
muttering, “Now why are you crying like a baby? Be a man.”
Hamza rushed down the steps.
The palm fronds were shaking as flames licked down the center part, splitting down to
the leaves. He could not tell which tree fouled the other, they both crackled dryly under the
weight of the hungry orange light. He somehow expected the blue of the sea to be visible against
this light. Hamza took a seat on the curb, waiting for the truck to come along. It had been ten
minutes. He felt his skin darkening in the heat. A man came out of one of the houses, glancing at
the fire. The man then watched Hamza closely for a while.
When the firemen came, there was not much left to extinguish. The palm trees had
mostly worn themselves out. The men in uniform traded looks as one of them hosed down the
remaining sparks. Up until their arrival, Hamza had made a considerable dent in the fire with
his neighbor’s garden hose.
They asked him how it started, muffled in their masks. But they seemed more concerned
with him. His voice must have been highly disconcerting over the phone.
The firemen debated where to grab dinner, looping Hamza into the conversation. He
suggested the cafeteria with the picture of the grapes on the banner, but declined their
invitation.
Hamza’s mother had come out of her house some time ago, in slippers, her home dress
peeking out from under her abaya. Silver peeked out of the scarf on her head. She held him by
the forearm, pulling him back as the water started to trickle off into the street. A fireman was
looking into Hamza’s eyes with a flashlight, saying nothing. Then, clicking the light off, he
nodded his head towards Hamza’s mother. It was like he could not believe something, but he
walked back to his group to help them roll up the hose.
“What would we do without you?” His mother was holding him by the chin.
He smiled out of embarrassment. His beard felt warm against his skin, as if the hair was
trapping the heat.
His mother left to the house and returned with platters of pastries, fussing over them not
being heated up. The firemen took off their gloves to eat. They smelled like rubber. They didn’t
know that what they consumed so offhandedly was four of his mother’s hours, standing and
taking breaks, stirring and holding her wrists. Possibly the only thing on their minds was that
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