“Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
– T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
It hangs, as it always has, from a rope attached to the railing – red, the rusty shade so popular in Beirut’s seventies. Out of the balcony, swaying gently over a quiet, side street; a rustic, well-worn, circular basket made of hand-woven reeds.
Empty, for now, it lets the breeze carry it at its whim left, then right, like a pendulum above the neighbour’s clothesline. On Saturdays, it hangs over flowered bedsheets. On Tuesdays, the eighty-year-old lady’s whites. On Thursdays, her risqué black lace.
As a child, lowering the basket was my chore every day, after school at three thirty, just before lunch and play. The list, in Mamy’s round, intricate loops that look like poetry, would be on the table: “An onion; tomatoes; bread; parsley, fresh please,” beside a few coins and bills. Into the basket, over the balcony!
Down, slowly, one floor, two, three, the rope sliding through my fingers. I did not mind the splinters. I was on an expedition. At street level and the end of the rope, which I held solemnly, the basket and I would wait. Never longer than a minute. A slight tug then, peaking over the balcony, I would confirm the magic had worked; the basket would be empty.
Hocus pocus! My mother’s list would have vanished with the money. Another minute and tug later, poof! An onion, tomatoes, bread, parsley!
Sometimes there would be change, or not. Invariably, however, there would be, to my never ending wonder and delight,
candy!
Two chewy chocolate bonbons, two Kinder eggs, two mini boxes of Chiclets… Always a surprise, always in twos, for my sister and me. Presents that appeared out of thin air with Mamy’s groceries.
Later that night, if we had studied well, tidied our rooms, not bickered, taken our baths promptly, and neatly brushed our hair, we were given our candy to eat on the frayed Persian carpet. Two little girls in nightgowns, cross legged and barefoot on the cobalt blue pattern would savour their treasure. Comparing notes on taste, speculating about the identity of the mysterious wizard of candy. “And tomorrow, what do you think it will it be?”
A bag of potato chips? A box of Smarties? Cream biscuits? Which, chocolate or vanilla? If he sent one of each, we would share.
On our better, more collaborative days, we did. On others, we bickered. The candy, then, was confiscated, whoever had started it. Once, too, spurred by confidence and gluttony, I added chocolate chip cookies to Mamy’s list. I received a hot pepper and note that said: Please.
How my sister laughed, until she saw me wipe my tears, then she stopped. Wordlessly, she split her own chocolate bar and gave me the bigger piece.
For years, the magic basket hung on the balcony, and the wizard remained a mystery. Then Monsieur George, who lived on the ground floor, died on a Sunday last spring.
We only knew he limped and smoked. We would glimpse him doing both as we raced out the building each morning, late, chasing the bus. After the funeral, Mamy untied the rope and basket. We, in any case, grew too old for candy and wizards shortly after.
Eventually, I left the country. Apparently, so had Monsieur George’s family, years ago, when bombs were being dropped, not baskets. His wife and brother had died and his children now led lives overseas, too far away and detached from his. From this country.
So Chez George was cleaned out. I was not there for it. My sister said it was like watching Ali Baba’s cave emptied. Instead of treasure chests, cardboard boxes of canned beans and bags of rice, produce gone brown since his death, and the chips, Chiclets, and Kinder eggs we’d dreamed of.
My sister said that, at the very end, the hollow store had looked comically – no, not comically – small. How had it held it all? How could it be gone, and with it, the innocence of believing that if, just if you placed a wish in a basket and hung it on a balcony, you might get it?
The shuttered store was bought, I heard. It might reopen next summer as a pub or take-out falafel shop. I hope not. Not that I have a say, or right to one. It has been years since I last came home, years since I made a wish. Some days, I think of the basket, crave a piece of candy, and wonder if our neighbour still washes her racy lingerie on Thursdays.