Seven O'Clock on the Stairs

The sign on the lift says, "Out of order. Back soon."

Three weeks is a long time for soon. Every morning, Malika reads the sign again. Every evening, it says the same thing. The lift stays dead, and the stairs stay long.

Malika lives on the ninth floor of a tall grey building. She is fifteen. Every day she climbs nine floors with her school bag. Her legs hurt, and her bag feels like a rock.

On the stairs, people complain. They complain on the second floor and on the fifth floor. They complain to each other and to the walls. Nobody calls the building office. Everyone thinks that someone else does it.

Every evening at seven, Malika hears slow steps below. Then Omar climbs past her door. He is sixteen, and he lives on the eleventh floor. He carries a big steel pot with two handles. He holds it with a pair of thick yellow oven gloves. Steam comes out from under the lid. The smell of spiced rice fills the stairs.

Malika stands in her doorway each evening. She tells herself it is for the smell. Omar always says, "Hello." Malika always says, "Hello," very quickly. Then he goes up, and she goes in.

The stairs smell of paint, dust, and other people's dinners. Each landing has a small window. Each window shows a bit more of the city. Malika knows every crack in the wall.

On Monday, Omar stops on her landing for a short rest. His face is shiny from the heat of the pot. He nods at her, and she nods back. That is all. On Tuesday, the same thing happens. On Wednesday, he nearly drops a glove, and she nearly speaks. "Nearly" is the best word for Malika this week.

The neighbours talk about him. They do not talk to him.

The man from the fifth floor speaks first. "Why does he carry hot food up eleven floors?"

"And why the oven gloves?" says the woman from the fourth. "On the stairs? Like a cook in a film."

"Strange boy," says the man.

They say it to each other, never to Omar. Malika hears every word. She has the same questions. They sit in her chest like small stones.

At school, her friend notices. "You look odd today," she says.

"There is a boy in my building," says Malika. "He carries a pot up the stairs. He wears oven gloves. Nobody knows why."

"So ask him."

"What if he is rude?"

"What if he is not?" says her friend. She eats a fruit and shrugs. "It is only a question, Malika. He will not hurt you."

That night, Malika lies in bed and thinks about the question. It is easy to say in her head. In her mouth, the question is too big. It will not come out.

On Thursday, Omar arrives at seven. His steps are slower than usual. He reaches the ninth floor. He puts the pot down on the top step and breathes hard. His oven gloves are wet with steam.

Malika is in her doorway. Her heart beats fast. She takes one step out.

"Can I ask you something?" she says.

Omar looks up. He seems surprised. "Yes?"

"Why do you carry a hot pot up the stairs? And why do you wear oven gloves?"

For a second he says nothing. Then he laughs. It is a short, tired laugh, but a real one.

"Three weeks," he says. "I pass this door every night, and nobody asks me anything. They only look."

"I am sorry," says Malika.

"No, it is good. Thank you." He wipes his forehead with his arm. "Our cooker broke on the same day as the lift. The building has a cooking room in the basement. Any family can use it. So I cook down there and carry dinner up."

"Eleven floors," says Malika.

"Eleven floors. Twice, if I forget the spoons." He holds up his hands and wiggles his yellow fingers. "And the gloves? The handles of this pot are hot enough to cook an egg. These are the only things I have that can hold them."

Malika laughs. She cannot stop herself. It is a loud laugh. It goes up and down the stairs.

"Nobody helped you?" she asks, when she can speak.

"Nobody asked if I needed help." He shrugs. "And I did not ask them. It is hard to ask. Especially when everyone sees a strange boy with a pot."

Malika thinks about her three weeks of staying silent in the doorway. She thinks about the small stones in her chest. They feel lighter now.

"Two floors left," says Omar. He bends and takes the pot by its handles. The steam rises again. The warm smell of rice and spice fills the air. Malika's stomach makes a loud sound.

Omar hears it. He smiles. He stops, and he takes one glove off his hand. Then he holds it out to her.

"The pot has two handles," he says. "One glove each. Do you want the front handle or the back?"