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Amazon.com: After the Storm: 9781790895045: Moring, Marcel: Books

Review

"After the Storm is often sad but also radiant with love: the enduring bond of a daughter and her father; the irritable but bedrock connection of family; the quiet intimacy of a close-knit community; the commitment of a husband and wife to help those in need."−The Berkshire Eagle

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"I'm not an easy touch when it comes to novels, but Marcel Moring's new book,

After the Storm, had tears dropping from my eyes by the end. . . The genius of Moring's novels is that they pull off the neat trick of embodying and transcending the essence of a place. . . . This is an exquisite novel, a must-read for anyone with an interest in what it means to be alive, anywhere and everywhere."−Daily Beast

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"There is an assured, charismatic new maturity to Moring's voice. The results are electrifying."

−The Chronicle

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"Compulsively readable, in large part because [Moring] probes the characters' psyches in a nuanced and poetic manner . . .

After the Storm signals the ongoing maturation of a gifted storyteller." −Christian Science Monitor

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"My main goal in reading Marcel Moring's new book,

After the Storm, was to avoid crying. I failed. And by the last page, I was bawling. So, yes, much like Moring's earlier works, this latest novel is bathed in sadness and despair with the requisite occasional ray of hope. You won't be able to put it down. To those readers who manage to get through it without shedding a tear, well, I tip my hat."−SheKnows.com

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"Like a sculptor working in a soft medium, [Moring] gently molds and shapes individual pieces that ultimately fit together in a major work. . . . Family matters in ways small and large. Moring seems to be telling us that the way we care is who we are and, ultimately, the face we show to life."

−People

From the Author

In the Holy Land, on a hill outside Jerusalem, there is a small cemetery facing the Jerusalem hills. If you visit this cemetery, your eyes may notice a small grave with many flowers on it. People from around the world come and pay homage to the woman buried there, leaving behind flowers and notes of gratitude. There is no name on the grave, only five words: "Mother. Righteous Among the Nations."

CHAPTER ONE

At first she didn't have a name.

Ahmed's wife, Aisha, looked at him, feeling guilty about the newborn, "I wish I had bore you a son."

Ahmed put his hand on hers. "Shhh... Don't say anything."

The old midwife wiped Aisha's sweaty forehead as Aisha's sister, Surayda, took some towels out of the room.

Aisha was exhausted; the birth had taken nearly a whole day. She looked at the baby girl. The baby looked back at her. She did not cry. She just laid on her mother's chest, her eyes wide open.

Aisha looked at Ahmed worriedly. "Why does she not cry?"

Ahmed touched the baby's tiny fingers. "She has smart eyes."

The midwife nodded. "With such big eyes, she will have good luck."

Ahmed nodded.

The old woman coughed and grabbed Surayda by the hand, telling Ahmed and Aisha, "We'll give the two of you some time alone."

Aisha nodded. She sighed and closed her eyes, "I wanted a boy..."

Ahmed put his finger on her lips, "Don't say that. She will be our pride, you'll see."

* * *

Time passed quickly. The seventh day's celebrations were approaching, yet Ahmed and Aisha still did not have a name for the newborn girl.

Ahmed went to the house of the imam. The imam, Ahmed knew, could help with these things. Though he was mostly in charge of prayer and matters involving the mosque, the imam was also known for his practical advice.

The imam's wife opened the door, her eyes smiling through her veil. "Ahmed! Congratulations! I hear God has given you a baby girl!"

Ahmed bowed gently. "Grace be to Allah."

"Grace be to Allah," the imam's wife said and moved aside. "Come in. The imam is now mediating some silly argument between two merchants, but he will be happy to see you when they leave."

Ahmed thanked her and sat on the chair in the corridor. Through the curtain he heard the imam speaking passionately in the drawing room. Nervous, Ahmed off took his red cap and fidgeted with the edges. His thoughts drifted to Aisha.

He pressured her to tell him which name she had in mind. Yet each time he asked her she said she did not care. She seemed detached these past few days. None of the visits by neighbors and friends cheered her up, nor did she eat the sweets that they brought with them. Ahmed was worried about her.

He hoped she would get better soon. He also hoped she would be more pleased about the baby. His wife had been complaining that the baby did not cry, and that her eyes were frightening

Ahmed tried to console her, promising her that the baby was perfectly fine. But he, too, wondered why the baby did not cry, apart from occasional shrieks when she wanted to be breastfed.

Ahmed heard movement behind the curtain before it was pulled back and two men appeared. "Ahmed!" said one of them, "Congratulations. May Allah give her health. What is her name?"

Ahmed looked down. "We will all know tomorrow at the celebration."

The other man laughed. "Ahmed, don't overthink it. It's only a girl!"

Ahmed tried to smile politely.

The imam's wife escorted the two men to the door and motioned for Ahmed to enter the drawing room.

As he entered, Ahmed saw the imam, his white cap on his head, sitting erect and sipping coffee. He looked so dignified. The man exclaimed, "My dear Ahmed! Congratulations!"

Ahmed smiled. The imam was always pleasant, with a smile in his eyes. He motioned for Ahmed to sit down on the pillow in front of him.

The imam looked at Ahmed, noticing his concerned face. "What is it? Is the baby unhealthy?"

"No." Ahmed shook his head. "All praise to Allah. She is healthy. She is almost...

too healthy."

The imam exclaimed, "Too healthy?!"

"She... does not

cry."

The imam raised his eyebrows.

"And she looks very... serious...."

The imam closed his eyes, nodded and smiled, "You received an old soul, Ahmed!" He opened his eyes. "Congratulations!"

Ahmed was surprised the imam did not seem bothered at all. That was good.

The imam saw Ahmed was still concerned. "How is your store faring?"

Ahmed nodded.

The imam, trying to probe Ahmed to speak, asked, "Is antique furniture selling well?"

Ahmed shrugged, "The past four years have been challenging, ever since the beginning of the war."

The imam nodded, "Well, with the help of Allah the war will end soon."

Ahmed nodded as well.

The imam sighed not wanting to ask Ahmed what had prompted his visit. When someone opened his door to another person, he could never imply in his words that the visitor should explain why he had come. That was not in line with the tradition of hospitality.

Ahmed sensed the anticipation of the imam and built up the courage to murmur, "We have yet to... come up with a name for the baby."

"Well, what does your wife say?"

Ahmed shrugged and looked down, "She does not... speak... much these days...."

The imam nodded, "She must be tired."

Ahmed looked at him and then lowered his gaze.

"Well, Ahmed, what names do you have in mind?"

"Some of Aisha's friends have suggested

Fatima, or Khadijah..."

"And, do you like those?"

Ahmed shrugged.

The imam took a deep breath and closed his eyes, "The name Fatima means,

the shining one." He opened his eyes and searched Ahmed's gaze. Seeing nothing, he closed his eyes again and said, "And the name Khadija means the trustworthy one." He reopened his eyes and looked at Ahmed with anticipation.

The younger man said nothing. None of these names fit. That was why he had come.

The imam sighed and hummed, gently wobbling his head. "Think, Ahmed. What was the first thing−the very first thing−that you thought when you looked at the baby?"

"I am not... I do not remember."

The imam's eyes pierced Ahmed. "And if you

did remember? What would be the first thing you thought of?"

Ahmed felt pressured. "I guess..." He searched for words. "I guess I felt pride, a great honor−"

The imam exclaimed, "Aha!"

Ahmed looked at the imam, not understanding.

The imam nodded his head incessantly. "You felt pride. And you are her father. Pride. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And so you need to name her, '

The pride of her father.' Or in Arabic, Zaynab."* * * *

END OF EXCERPT

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