Seven Times Happy

Muin Masri grew up in Palestine before immigrating to Italy in 1985. Cross for Sale is a loose collection of stories and memories—sometimes lyrical, sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant—about growing up in Nablus in the 1960s, when life was very different from what it is right now, though change would soon come to the area.

The First Beautiful Thing

The earliest memory always triumphs, and lasts a lifetime: the first little brother, the first embarrassment, the first kiss, the first crush, the first exam, the first trip, the first disaster, the first serious book read, the first movie, the first lie complete with a locked-pinky promise, the first fall off a bike, the first outing with friends, the first motorbike, the first car, the first night camping, the first drunken binge, the first job, the first swear word . . .

I have a terrible memory, but particularly vivid in my mind is the first impression in my life worth remembering: it is not in black and white, but in white and midnight blue.

That was my whole world. Her, sitting in front of the mirror, and me on the floor. She would make herself beautiful, and I copied her. When she smiled at me, I felt like I was in a fairy tale. When she stood up, I followed her with my eyes. She motioned me to come, tahal, with her finger, and I said “no” like that with my head. Finally she disappeared, and I went back to making memories.

Many years have passed since we last saw each other, but I can still picture the delicate way she had of opening and closing the dark blue jar with “Nivea” printed in white. It was the only Western luxury that entered our house; all the other beauty products were strictly local. Skillfully and confidently, without the slightest bit of waste, she took the necessary globule on the tip of her fingers and spread the cream first on her face and then on her hands, contentedly. She looked like a diva from the sixties, and for me she really was. By this I don’t mean to pay tribute to a mass-market brand, but as a result of those intimate, stolen moments, I’ve never stopped using the snow-colored cream. I don’t know if it really works for wrinkles, but as a balm for memories, yes.

Unlike her, I’ve never managed to open the tin without improperly tearing the foil covering that protects it, and I always find myself with an excessive glob on my fingers.

Mothers have this gift: they transmit gentle, unique memories.

A Mother’s Joy

The most complicated thing in life is asking a woman if she has ever been happy, especially if that woman is your mother and has only known wars.

Yesterday marked exactly thirty-seven years since I arrived in Italy. I felt then as if I had discovered all life had to offer: freedom, lightness, and joy, things impossible to find in Nablus, as in all places where there is war, poverty, and apprehension.

Years ago, my mother came to visit me here in Italy, and I, guilelessly and respectfully, out of pure curiosity, asked her: “Mama, have you ever been happy?”

At that moment she retreated into silence, seemingly offended; then she looked me in the eye and, with barely a hint of a smile, said: “Yes, I have been happy seven times.” After that she went back to smoking her narghilè.

I honestly never understood what she meant, and at the time I didn’t feel like persisting, but I like to think she meant the seven times she gave birth to us children.

Translation from the Italian