The Blood of Lambs: A Former Terrorist's Memoir of Death and Redemption Read Online Free
Author: Kamal Saleem
marble counter and around the low kitchen table.
“Kamal, crush these very finely,” Mother would say, dumping a kilo of pistachio meats on the table before me. I loved helping in this way, the scent of nuts and dough and pastry glazes wrapping around me likea comforting blanket. Amira, my oldest sister, chopping the spinach for fatire, small pies. My oldest brother, Fouad, browning meats for the sanbousick, meat pies. Ibrahim smashing dates for baklava —my mother would make six different kinds.
Laughter filled our tiny kitchen during these times, the pink sun warming us through the window as it rose.
3
When I was small, I was awakened most mornings by the smoky scents of brewing Turkish coffee and my father’s Italian cologne. He bought this elixir by the liter and slapped it on after showering in the chilly water that ran under Beirut from the springs of Jabal Sunnin . Each day, before the sun peeked over the mountains, Father left for his blacksmith shop, and all day long I looked forward to his homecoming. In the evenings, he would scoop me up in a hug, and I could smell the metal dust on his skin, the masculine scents of iron and fire.
I always loved climbing on my father’s back, holding onto his big thick neck. He had a French moustache, thin, not thick, sitting just on top of his lips.
I liked to run my finger over it. “Daddy, when I grow up will I have a moustache like you?” I would ask.
Fifty times I asked him that and yet each time, he would smile and say, “Yes, my son, you will have one just like mine one day.”
My father almost always arrived home after sunset, almost always carrying two leather sacks filled with fresh vegetables and grains from the market, or souk . One day over a family dinner in the kitchen, when I was about six years old, Father looked at me across the table where I sat between Fouad and Ibrahim.
“Kamal, would you like to go to work with me tomorrow?”
Joy surged through my heart and that night I could hardly sleep, my anticipation percolating in me as though I were going to a great feast. Itwas before sunrise when Mother rousted me from the couch in the living room. I could already smell the coffee and Father’s cologne, and I heard ice-laced rain pelting against the windows. Mother double-dressed me, pulling Ibrahim’s trousers and shirt over my pajamas. She had made for me a special hat of a shape she had seen in pictures from Tunisia. It was shaped like a ship, pointed in the front and back, wide around the middle, and trimmed in fake fur.
When I stepped outside with Father, an icy wind snapped at my ears. I could hear the ice pinging down on tin roofs. My father tried to cover us both with his good umbrella.
The blacksmith shop was in an area called Zaytoon, not far from the Mediterranean, set between an area called St. George Chalet and the Valley of the Jews. When we reached it, Father used a key to unhinge a great padlock, then rolled up the door, which rattled its way to the top.
I hurried inside out of the biting wind and into the dark place that smelled like my father. Quickly, he exchanged his street clothes for blue work pants and a khaki shirt. Right away he began building up a fire of rock coals, not wood, in two big barrels. In Father’s shop, everything was manual, nothing was electric. In the middle of the wall, high up, two huge barrels created pressure, and Father used the big chain dangling from the ceiling to pump heavy air into the ovens.
I stood watching him in awe as he strode back and forth across the floor, yanking tarps off the machinery and bringing the shop to fiery life.
Soon the coals glimmered in the furnaces, sending off an orange glow. The shop radiated with dry heat and Father took his shirt off. Suddenly, I saw him in a new light. Covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his skin reflected the fire’s copper glow. He was muscular, cut all over, his torso the shape of a sharp V, with wide shoulders narrowing to a trim waist and a
“Kamal, crush these very finely,” Mother would say, dumping a kilo of pistachio meats on the table before me. I loved helping in this way, the scent of nuts and dough and pastry glazes wrapping around me likea comforting blanket. Amira, my oldest sister, chopping the spinach for fatire, small pies. My oldest brother, Fouad, browning meats for the sanbousick, meat pies. Ibrahim smashing dates for baklava —my mother would make six different kinds.
Laughter filled our tiny kitchen during these times, the pink sun warming us through the window as it rose.
3
When I was small, I was awakened most mornings by the smoky scents of brewing Turkish coffee and my father’s Italian cologne. He bought this elixir by the liter and slapped it on after showering in the chilly water that ran under Beirut from the springs of Jabal Sunnin . Each day, before the sun peeked over the mountains, Father left for his blacksmith shop, and all day long I looked forward to his homecoming. In the evenings, he would scoop me up in a hug, and I could smell the metal dust on his skin, the masculine scents of iron and fire.
I always loved climbing on my father’s back, holding onto his big thick neck. He had a French moustache, thin, not thick, sitting just on top of his lips.
I liked to run my finger over it. “Daddy, when I grow up will I have a moustache like you?” I would ask.
Fifty times I asked him that and yet each time, he would smile and say, “Yes, my son, you will have one just like mine one day.”
My father almost always arrived home after sunset, almost always carrying two leather sacks filled with fresh vegetables and grains from the market, or souk . One day over a family dinner in the kitchen, when I was about six years old, Father looked at me across the table where I sat between Fouad and Ibrahim.
“Kamal, would you like to go to work with me tomorrow?”
Joy surged through my heart and that night I could hardly sleep, my anticipation percolating in me as though I were going to a great feast. Itwas before sunrise when Mother rousted me from the couch in the living room. I could already smell the coffee and Father’s cologne, and I heard ice-laced rain pelting against the windows. Mother double-dressed me, pulling Ibrahim’s trousers and shirt over my pajamas. She had made for me a special hat of a shape she had seen in pictures from Tunisia. It was shaped like a ship, pointed in the front and back, wide around the middle, and trimmed in fake fur.
When I stepped outside with Father, an icy wind snapped at my ears. I could hear the ice pinging down on tin roofs. My father tried to cover us both with his good umbrella.
The blacksmith shop was in an area called Zaytoon, not far from the Mediterranean, set between an area called St. George Chalet and the Valley of the Jews. When we reached it, Father used a key to unhinge a great padlock, then rolled up the door, which rattled its way to the top.
I hurried inside out of the biting wind and into the dark place that smelled like my father. Quickly, he exchanged his street clothes for blue work pants and a khaki shirt. Right away he began building up a fire of rock coals, not wood, in two big barrels. In Father’s shop, everything was manual, nothing was electric. In the middle of the wall, high up, two huge barrels created pressure, and Father used the big chain dangling from the ceiling to pump heavy air into the ovens.
I stood watching him in awe as he strode back and forth across the floor, yanking tarps off the machinery and bringing the shop to fiery life.
Soon the coals glimmered in the furnaces, sending off an orange glow. The shop radiated with dry heat and Father took his shirt off. Suddenly, I saw him in a new light. Covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his skin reflected the fire’s copper glow. He was muscular, cut all over, his torso the shape of a sharp V, with wide shoulders narrowing to a trim waist and a
Readers choose
A Knight's Victory
Laurelin Paige
Edward Lee
Meredith Greene
Sergei Lukyanenko
Parker Kincade
Cara Covington
Louise Allen
Rachael Duncan
Rebecca K. Watts