Of Stars and Broken Promises
Evening: The Red Tree (1910) by Piet Mondrian
By Abir Barakat
The citrus fragrance of the lemon trees filled Souad’s nose. She was sitting at the bottom of one of the trees, reading The Little Prince in perfect French as the sky lost its blue color and gave way to a beautiful assortment of orange and red hues.
Souad always believed that the trees listened to her, and that her reading was the reason for their fragrant scent and delightful taste. The best lemons in all of Palestine was what everyone said, and Souad couldn’t help but be proud.
“Souad! Souad!” Her little sister, Itaf, called.
“I promise I’ll read to you again tomorrow!” Souad waved at the trees and sprinted away. They would be here in the morning, waiting for her to tell them stories of things that hadn’t happened, but never of ones that had.
“What is it, Itaf?”
The younger girl averted her gaze, “It’s them again. Auntie Youmna and Auntie Yusra…”
Only her mother’s teachings prevented Souad from groaning at the mere mention of those names. They weren’t bullies, whom Souad could easily scare into leaving her alone. Far from it, but that was exactly the problem. They were old women in their fifties or sixties, who had sons in their twenties or thirties, whose names Souad didn’t bother memorizing.
“Mother said that she wants you to come say hello.” Itaf twiddled her thumbs. A grin slowly bloomed on Souad’s face, “Then, let’s say hello.”
She knew exactly what to do when met with persistent, dense people. She was twelve years old after all, so she had tons of experience with such characters. She made all the necessary preparations, and by the end of it, she was sure she looked exactly like Grendel of Beowulf, if not worse.
There was a flare in her step as she headed into the house. She marched her way toward the salon, where she was sure the guests were.
“Miss Souad!”
Her plan skidded to an abrupt halt as she felt hands on her shoulders. One of the servants gripped her, preventing her from going along with her plan. The poor woman was trembling while another apologized to their honored guests for Souad’s absence, saying that she was not feeling well.
“I’ll draw a hot bath for you. This way, Miss.” The woman gently pushed Souad into one of the bathrooms, making her wrinkle her nose.
If only the servants weren’t around, Souad could have given the guests and her mother quite a scare by showing up like this, and she knew for sure that they’d finally leave her alone. She took a lot of time bathing to be sure that the women would be gone by the time she was done, but when she finally got out, she could still hear their voices coming from downstairs. She huffed a breath as she climbed the stairs, taking two steps at a time, until she reached the highest floor after which she went out one of the windows. Her mother would scold her if she ever found out, but Souad’s sacred place remained a secret, even from Itaf. She climbed on the sills and bricks until she reached the very top of the roof. She could see the many fields growing around her house, lit up by the soft light of the moon and stars. Her lips stretched into a smile as she looked up at the night sky. If the trees were her audience, then the stars were her confidantes, and Souad made full use of their silent, sentinel-like presence.
The twinkling celestials always knew their places and their goals. Souad hoped that, eventually, they would share some of their wisdom with her.
She knew she was meant for more than what everyone wanted her to be. The stars would guide her because they knew too. They would lay another path out for her, and Souad would take it without a second thought.
She would wish upon the stars to her dying breath if that was what it took to get just one that vowed to secure her the life she deserved. People could say whatever they wanted to say about her. They could plan for centuries, but Souad would never yield. She’d wait for that one bright sparkling friend.
And to all the deceitful people who would call her naïve, Souad had only one thing to say: No star has ever broken a promise.
*
It was happening tonight. That thought plagued Souad’s mind and shrouded her shoulders like a dark cloak as she walked through the big, long hallways. The sun’s light had not yet peeked over the horizon. Souad’s only solace was the small glowing lantern in her hands.
She steered it toward the walls, shedding light over the many hung paintings. Her eyes focused on one she rarely noticed. Pale blue water was painted under a broken bridge, where a lone silhouette sat, peering at the clash of dissonant colors in the distance. Souad forced her gaze away, but it landed on another painting, making her shut her eyes and turn sharply.
The first rays of sunlight broke through the darkness of the night, but Souad knew better than to hope that this day would remain this quiet. Experience had taught her better. She knew that it was only a matter of time now before the sound of a thousand bombshells and bullets would ring through Palestine’s sky. Only a few hours before a million screams would be cut short and a million bodies would fall. Then, Souad would run and hide in an underground shelter, as per usual, with dozens of sweaty, smelly people, who would be dead in all but name.
They would wait for hours, their breaths would mingle, and Souad would read tales from her book with the dog-eared pages. Everyone would listen to the sound of her voice with distant eyes and murmured praises.
The sun’s new light didn’t reach the hallways, so Souad tightened her grip around her flickering lantern. She needed to memorize these halls. Not even she, with only twelve years to her name, believed that she would come back home before long.
She pressed onward and took rarely traveled paths in her own house. She never noticed that the halls dragged on for so long or that the paintings whispered a thousand ill words that she’d rather not hear.
It was time for breakfast, but the house remained deathly still. She made her way outside. She should bid the gardens and fields farewell too.
She remembered when the grounds donned a different robe with every season, when the aromas of different fruit and blossoms wafted in the area, filling every passerby’s lungs with their sweet promises and caring embraces. She remembered how the trees were many a time her audience as she practiced her French. Their leaves would always rustle after she finished, clapping and urging her to speak again.
*
Now, everything refused to bloom, afraid of the pungent smoke and fires. The trees’ leaves departed with the wind, leaving them naked and silent.
“I promise…” Souad’s lips trembled. The trees glared, for even they knew that she would be forced to break any promise she made.
The day wilted with the trees and the fall of a million corpses, and Souad finished getting ready to escape from her home, similar to what so many other families had done. She followed her mother and siblings until they ended up in a boat, and they slowly moved away from Palestine’s shore.
Silence threatened to suffocate them, and her family looked at her with eyes that shone brighter and clearer than the moon in the sky. Souad silently shook her head. She forgot the book with the dog-eared pages along with her flickering lantern back home.
She turned her gaze away from her family, but there was nothing else to look at. Nothing, except for the far, far shore.
The calm sea threatened to remind her of days of laughter and sunshine, of sea-collecting and fun times. However, the farther the boat took her, the louder the ringing in her ears got, and the more distant and jagged her memories felt.
The waves rocked the boat gently, but all Souad could hear was the storm brewing inside, and all she could see were the sparkling stars in the black-blue water, mocking her with their promises of a better tomorrow.
Even stars go out one day, Souad wanted to remind them, but her throat was too dry. The stars lulled her into a false sleep, taunting her with memories of times past and dreams that would never come to be.
Abir Barakat is a Lebanese writer based in Turkey. With a focus on literature and creative writing, she has recently graduated from the Lebanese American University. She often finds herself lost in the pages of a book or in the process of creating one. To her, writing is a form of art meant to bring people together.