Pearls on a Cracker

“It’s a delicacy” Newman said and he smiled showing his bright white teeth.

I looked down, at the little pearls balanced on a water cracker, a layer of cream separated the two.

“This?”

“Yes” Newman moved his bony hand, the skin translucent. Thin fingers slightly purple. He looked ill, but I didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to offend him.

I don’t remember how we met. Who said hi first. His blue eyes tracked my movements as i popped the cracker in my mouth.

There was no taste. I frowned.

“It doesn’t taste like anything Newman”

He cocked his head slightly, the smile cracking his face into two.

“It’s a delicacy” He repeated. “Sometimes they have little taste”

He tightened his thin tie, it had teal poker dots with a navy backdrop. It already cinched his windpipe. Now it looked like it was strangling him right in front of my eyes. But he didn’t look disturbed.

We stood in a crowd. Outdoor party. With tables covered in white cloth and a champagne tower that glittered beneath the fairy lights that decorated small trimmed hedges.

Someone bumped into me from behind and I stumbled. Newman took the opportunity to hand me another cracker.

I shook my head “I don’t what it”

He pursed his lips, disappointed. His bony fingers plunked the food from my hands.

“You need to pretend. Otherwise you won’t survive”

I wake in a cold sweat, the kind that comes from hunger and sickness. Sand coats my skin, my tongue, my eyes. I blink furiously. Newman’s face disappears and in his place is a vast expanse of the Sahara Desert. I sit up, wiping my eyes. Coughing. His last words fade slowly. It takes me a while to stand. And when I do, my back bows, baking underneath the hot sun. My body feels heavier than it should. Like i’m carrying more than myself. Hot blood dribbles down my chin. I lick my lips. It tastes of iron. A delicacy.

My Aunt was a trouble maker when she was young. She would go off and play pranks. Set fire to her mother’s vegetable plants. It was the first time she saw her mother cry. And once burned an ant underneath a broken bit of glass. “When you're young, the world is so big. Consequences are so small. As you grow older, the world shrinks. Your actions weigh heavy and you realise it’s happening. Some fight it. Otherwise avoid it”

“What did you do?”

“I said goodbye to our family. I said i was leaving. Everyone’s world had shrunk, and they refused to leave despite it clearly dying. Your mother wanted to come with me too. She was so brave. She planned to carry you in her stomach all the way across the desert. All the way to Khamilia, Morocco. Where Uncle lived.

“Do you miss them?”

“Every day”

“Are they alive still?”

“No darling. They died”

“How?”

“Famine”

Newman is back. And for the first time he visits me during daylight. The sun shines through his skin. He weighs so little, the sand doesn’t shift underneath his feet. He’s wearing no shoes and i wonder if the soles of his feet burn.

I ask him if it does.

He looks down at his hands, then at me. And shakes his head.

“Are you not going to talk?”

He doesn’t respond, instead walks steadily beside me as i stumble.

I don’t remember who suggested to keep walking.

I curl my fingers, in between the knuckles cracks form. My dark skin becomes shiny. I think it’s from the blood.

His clothes have been torn. I can see red skin. “Will you be alright?” I ask.

His head turns slowly, he looks at me as his body moves forwards. Shakes his head and smiles. I look away and when i look back he’s gone.

There was a T.V in the living room growing up, everyone hated the ads. But I enjoyed them. They broke up the constant droll of news. News of disease, murder, hunger. News of celebration, heroism, life. I think the bad stuff outweighed the good stuff though. The television sat on the floor so i could sit down and watch it. My father often used to chase me away from it, muttering about going outside. My mother never cared, a part of her didn’t want me to go out as i always caused so much mischief. Inside, she could keep an eye on me. There was this ad that always played - about fish eggs, i forgot what they called them. Something to do with C. Apparently you put them on crackers, or bread. Or even on rice. I always thought that was stupid. If you let the fish grow, you get more meat. The ad always went like this: “Want to garnish your dish? Impress your neighbours? Go buy Henick Newman’s pearls now for 15% off”

“Is that you?” I turn my head, watching Newman stride alongside me. I did’nt know how i knew he was there.

He’s looking straight ahead but I can feel his eyes on me. He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps walking. Forcing me to speed up my pace to walk alongside him.

“People eat fish eggs whilst others can’t eat the fish” I say.

I have loose cream pants, a brown tunic and a scarf that flaps in the wind. Grains of sand sting my exposed ankles. I look down, my feet ooze with dark blood, two stop signs. Urging me to halt

“What comes first, the chicken or the egg?” I say. The wind picks up, I look to my left. But I already know.

Newman is gone.

The driver said it would take two days to reach the next village. Yet the sun has gone up and down eight times. I did’nt carry enough supplies for that long. I didn’t space it out. Henick Newman’s ad always ended with an outdoor party. People would be laughing, pouring drinks down their throats, dancing. And then the camera would zoom in. On the water crackers, with cream cheese and pearly orange fish eggs. They would shine, sparkle. It’s a delicacy. That was their catch phrase. I open my mouth. Hot air and sand. It hurts to swallow. Fish need water. Yet water was a rarity growing up. It was scarce like the T.V channels. It was polluted like my father’s temper. Avoidant like my mother’s attention. But resilient like my sister. I need to get to Morocco. To see my Uncle. To birth this baby. She is me and I am her. Who came first the chicken or the egg?

Somewhere, someone is calling it a delicacy. I keep walking anyway.