The Celestial Gate

by Avital Dicker

  “I’ll sign the waiver,” he told the good-natured clerk who looked a little disappointed as he signed the holographic form.

  The Second Gate

  The Birth

  Chapter 3

  Anise

  Sual glanced at her watch. It was five in the morning on a Friday. She looked out the window, the mosque minarets and gilded church domes still covered by foggy tendrils. Jerusalem – still asleep.

  Sual gently lifted the thick duvet, taking care not to wake her sleeping husband. She stretched her legs out, sadly gazing at her swollen ankles and the blue veins that had recently emerged on her thighs. This body, which had until recently been so flexible and youthful, was now puffy and bloated by the more than seventy pounds she’d gained. For the last several weeks, she’d been having trouble sleeping; her large belly made it difficult to find a comfortable position. Feeling the infant in her moving, she absentmindedly stroked her round stomach as she always did.

  Every day, Sual was thrilled anew by the life growing within her. For nine months, the two of them had been sharing the same body, she and her daughter. She’d come to love the tiny kicks, kicks that grew stronger with each passing day.

  Her distended belly forced her to roll onto her side before she could sit up in bed. Through the window, the first rays of the sun dispelled the fog and made the dome of the large church across the street gleam.

  Mahmud, her husband, turned onto his stomach and let out a loud snore. She looked at him. They had been married for four years. As far back as she could remember, she’d been intended for him. Nobody had ever asked her or even sought her consent. That was the community’s way: the families had arranged the marriage when she was still a baby and it had never occurred to her to protest. Sual knew what happened to women who didn’t conform, and she wanted to live.

  She remembered her best friend Lucy. They’d been sixteen. Lucy had been promised to some distant cousin from the south, a fat, balding man of fifty or so. A day before the wedding, Lucy disappeared. She’d tried to run, but her brothers caught up with her at the central bus station as she was boarding a bus. After being beaten up by her family, Lucy had to spend a whole month recovering at the hospital. Sual would never forget the sight of her beautiful friend – her bandaged body, swollen face, broken nose. Lucy was left with a limp, a permanent reminder of the shame she’d brought on her family. As far as Sual was concerned, Lucy was lucky to be alive.

  Despite the beating, Lucy didn’t give up and continued her fight to change the old, primitive customs. Sual thought Lucy was much braver than she was. Lucy wasn’t afraid to die, whereas Sual was. She wanted to live. And thoughts of opposing an arranged marriage could only lead to trouble in a family like hers. It would have been seen as a serious violation of family honor. Had she tried to say no, her brothers, like Lucy’s, would have shown her no mercy. They wouldn’t only have beaten her, they’d have killed her. Sual remembered Amal who’d been one grade ahead of her at school. Amal fell in love with a Jewish boy and fled with him. They almost got as far as Beer Sheva before her brothers caught and murdered them both.

  Fortunately for Sual, Mahmud had grown up in the same neighborhood and was only five years her senior. She wasn’t in love with him, but love, as far as she could tell, wasn’t something she could even dream of, not in the Muslim Quarter of Jerusalem’s Old City and not with a traditional family such as hers. Sometimes, when they were together in a room, after checking that nobody was eavesdropping, Sual allowed herself to hold whispered conversations with Lucy about those Arab women who were allowed to attend university and choose their own husbands. For her, this was but a distant dream.

  Sual made do with the fact that Mahmud was young. She considered herself lucky that he wasn’t balding or fat or old. Girls like she couldn’t hope for better. Sual was married on her sixteenth birthday.

  More than anything, it had pained Sual to have to leave school. She’d been an outstanding student and had dreamed of becoming a doctor. Immediately after the wedding, the young couple had moved in with Mahmud’s parents and his family was adamant: it wasn’t proper for a wife to be more educated than her husband, and Mahmud had stopped going to school after the eighth grade to work at the family bakery. Her school principal had tried to help. He’d come to the family home to attempt to convince them to allow the gifted girl to continue her studies. But Mahmud’s mother, cursing loudly, threw him out of the house, and that ended Sual’s dream of university and medical school. She still found it hard to make peace with the fact that her dream was gone, that she’d never get an academic education.

  Sual told no one, but she refused to give up her studies. At the very least, she was determined to complete high school and matriculate, and every night, after Mahmud had fallen asleep and started to snore, she’d take out her books and learn on her own.

  The matriculation examinations were scheduled a few months from now. If she could only elude Mahmud’s mother, who observed every one of Sual’s steps with her small, shifty, hawk-eyes, she’d be able to take them. This notion gave her strength and hope. Still, this wasn’t the major obstacle. What had turned Sual’s life into hell on earth was the fact that her belly remained as flat as before the marriage.

  In the small, close-knit Muslim quarter community, whispers behind Sual’s back that she was “flawed merchandise” started to circulate and spread. A year after the wedding, she wasn’t pregnant yet. Mahmud’s mother, who’d never been particularly nice to her, started to harass Sual to her face, making her life a living nightmare.

  Three more years after the wedding and Sual’s belly still refused to swell. Every time she went out, she was subjected to the neighborhood women’s stares, thinly veiled by pity and scorn.

  On one of her weekly visits to her daughter, Sual’s mother told her that people were saying she was barren and that Mahmud should divorce her and marry someone else. Before leaving, she gave Sual a concoction prepared by the scary Turkish coffee reader from the alley near their house. Her mother instructed her to swallow a teaspoonful every night before going to sleep, never mind its bitterness.

  Sual did as told. She couldn’t confess the truth, not even to her mother. Three long years she’d compressed her lips and bowed her head in the street, stubbornly repulsing the pitying looks and keeping her secret. Sometimes, at night, she allowed herself to dream of the life she might have had, wetting her pillow with tears.

  She thought back to the morning of the wedding. Aisha insisted on having the traditional awkward mother-daughter conversation. Sual, red-faced and embarrassed, listened for what seemed an eternity to her mother’s old-fashioned advice. There was no point saying that she was already sixteen and that the internet had all the information anyone could want. Aisha wouldn’t have understood. Her mother was unwavering in her determination to live exactly the same as she’d lived twenty years ago. She didn’t even have a cellphone, obstinate in her avoidance of all electronic devices.

  On the wedding night, after the party was over, Sual changed out of her wedding dress and into a nightgown her mother had sewn. She turned on the nightlight next to her new bed, covered it with a cloth to dim the light, and quickly slid in between the sheets. Mahmud will be here any moment, she thought.

  The hours passed without a sign of him. The excitement tinged with anxiety that she’d felt was slowly replaced by fatigue. Eventually, Sual fell asleep.

  Mahmud entered the bedroom early in the morning, waking Sual, who pretended to still be sleeping. His hair was a mess and his breath reeked of alcohol. Without looking at her, he turned his back and passed out.

  This happened night after night. For three years now, Mahmud would arrive home late, throw her a hurried “good night,” and turn his back. She may have been married, but a man’s hand had yet to touch her.

  At first, Sual felt relief. From what she’d heard from friends, the whole business could be really painful. B
ut when the days turned to weeks and months, Sual started to think it was her fault. Maybe she wasn’t attractive enough. Mahmud was always polite to her; he never complained about the food she made and he never hit her. He also never touched her. Sual was lonely in that big house of his parents. She’d spend whole days on her own. Mahmud worked most hours of the day in the bakery and went out with his friends almost every night.

  Sual stopped eating to lose weight and even started wearing eye makeup, but Mahmud continued to ignore her and she was too embarrassed to tell even her own mother.

  About a year into the marriage, Sual discovered the truth. It was a sun-soaked morning. She was hurrying home from the outdoor marketplace, determined not to give Mahmud’s mother a new reason to embitter her life. As always, she turned down the narrow alley leading the house. Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice. Curious, Sual approached the fence, identifying Mahmud’s voice with certainty. Through the bars of the iron gate in front of a shabby yard strewn with empty soft drink cans, she saw Mahmud passionately embracing a strange man.

  The shopping bags fell from her hands, the contents tumbling out every which way. Sual paid no attention to them, fleeing as fast as she could, far, far away.

  She knew exactly how the neighborhood treated such men. Clearly, Mahmud was hiding his nature because he feared for his life. She wished him no harm, but none of this was her fault.

  She was only seventeen. She hadn’t eaten freely in a year; she’d felt rejected and unattractive. He should have told her; he had no right to make her feel that way. Sual thought about the long, empty years awaiting her and ran even faster.

  Without thinking, her legs carried her home to her mother, the only place where she’d ever felt good. She stopped at the entrance, unable to cross the threshold. Were she to enter and tell the truth, she’d start a war between the families and Mahmud would be harmed. No, she couldn’t live with that on her conscience.

  Roughly, Sual dried her tears, refusing to give Mahmud’s mother the pleasure of seeing her weak. Carefully, she re-applied makeup to her swollen eyes and only then turned around to her husband’s home, the place that had become her prison.

  Three years had passed since then. Three years of knowing and keeping silent. The pain was replaced by anger, but the anger, too, passed, leaving behind only despair. Some nights, Sual almost dared speak with Mahmud, but she always, at the last moment, took fright and changed her mind.

  Sual knew that she wasn’t going to get pregnant by her husband but couldn’t think of a practical solution. On the one hand, she couldn’t tell anyone the truth about Mahmud. On the other hand, were she to get pregnant in the near future, she’d find herself divorced, humiliated, an outcast without a home to live in.

  It was a particularly hot summer afternoon. Sual walked slowly through the Old City alleyways. She was carrying multiple shopping bags, dripping with sweat under her heavy, long-sleeved, black dress. In summer, Sual would usually go to the marketplace early in the morning, but today, because of the heatwave, she’d decided to wait until the sun was past its zenith and the paving stones of the quarter had cooled off somewhat.

  A pesky fly had decided to accompany her down the alleyway, landing alternately on her nose and her forehead in an irritating dance. Sual stopped to rest, carefully putting the shopping bags down on the ancient stones and tried to shoo the fly away with her hands. Leaning back against a wall, she dabbed at the perspiration on her face with her headscarf and brought her breathing under control.

  Because of the high temperature, foot traffic was sparse. She looked across the street at the shop full of hookahs and other souvenirs. Normally, it would be packed with tourists, but today it was almost empty.

  Two soldiers in green uniforms, rifles slung over their shoulders, passed by. They didn’t bother Sual. She was used to soldiers. Rock-throwing and shootings in the Old City of Jerusalem were part of everyday life.

  Sual remained in place for some time, enjoying the shade and silence. Near the hookah shop was Yusuf’s famous hummus joint, a small place consisting of a few old wood tables wobbling on the narrow sidewalk. Usually, Yusuf’s was packed; his hummus was excellent, its reputation well-deserved. Yusuf would make the hummus in the morning and, normally, it would all be gone by the early afternoon, after which he’d close up for the day. But today, apparently because of the heat, nobody had been particularly hungry, so the stand was still open.

  Three tourists sat at one table. A young, chubby woman had her back to Sual. Her brown hair was gathered into a messy ponytail, and her hand lay confidently on the knee of the bespectacled young man to her side. Next to them, on a cracked wooded chair, a half-full glass of Turkish coffee in front of him, sat the most beautiful man Sual had ever seen. Oddly, his eyes were glued on her.

  She suddenly felt her blood rushing madly through her body. She sensed the pulse pounding in her right temple, threatening to explode the blue vein there.

  Nervously, Sual tugged at the hijab that had moved out of place and hurried to cover her face again. She had never felt such a burst of heat shaking her limbs. Instead of casting her eyes down, a reaction that had become second nature to her over the last few years, she looked back into the man’s eyes without thinking.

  Time stopped. The world around her disappeared. The only things remaining were the blue-eyed stranger and her with her dark brown irises. Her legs trembled under her long dress and she thanked Allah for the supporting wall behind her back.

  The blond fellow got up, took some coins out of the pocket of his faded jeans, and tossed them on the table. He then got up and started walking toward her. Sual panicked. Quickly picking up her shopping bags, she started to run up the alley toward home. With shaking hands, she opened the heavy metal door to the house, put the groceries in the kitchen, and rushed up the stairs to her room.

  She was worried she’d been seen and even more worried about the sensation that had flooded her body when she looked at the stranger. She wasn’t even allowed to think about it. It was too dangerous. She took a deep breath, tossed some cold water on her face, and changed out of the sweaty dress into a clean galabiya before heading back downstairs to make supper.

  The next day, Sual was, as usual, the first to rise so she could make breakfast for everyone. That morning, Mahmud’s mother was harsher than ever before, but Sual kept silent and obediently cleaned the house. It was the day for her weekly visit with Aisha, and she wasn’t going to give this old crone an opportunity to deny her the few happy minutes allotted to her every week. An hour or so later, when walking down the alley to her parents’ house, she couldn’t keep from casting a quick glance at Yusuf’s hummus place, even though she assumed the stranger was a tourist and her chances of seeing him again were slim. The stranger, of course, wasn’t there. Sual’s disappointment was mixed with relief.

  Throughout the afternoon, she helped her mother with housework. As the two were cooking together, Aisha told her about the relatives from Jaffa who had visited the previous day and also that her father would probably need an operation soon. Sual loved these rare moments, alone with her mother in the kitchen. When her brothers were back from work, they all sat down to eat together. Sual savored every moment. She’d waited all week long for this.

  In the evening she regretfully said goodbye to her mother, hating the thought that she was now forced to return to that cold house where she now lived with her cold, indifferent husband and his malicious mother.

  She popped into the corner grocery store to buy some milk. As she exited the shop, she again saw the stranger. He was dressed in a white T-shirt that showed off his muscular body and deep tan and immersed in conversation with someone on the phone. Sual’s legs started trembling again. Casting her eyes down, she started moving away quickly. Just what I need, she thought bitterly, someone seeing me and reporting. In this tiny neighborhood, nothing went unnoticed. But in the split-second before he crossed her pat
h, she was unable to restrain herself anymore: she looked up and the blood drained from her veins.

  That night, Sual couldn’t sleep. For four years, she’d been married to a man who didn’t love her. She was only nineteen and her life was over before it had begun. She thought about Mahmud disappearing into the night, leaving her alone. She thought about the religion, tradition, and family that had robbed her of the chance to be happy. Mostly though, she thought about the future that awaited her, the desolate, childless years ahead that would undoubtedly pass like the last four – in quiet, hopeless desperation. For the first time in her life, Sual decided to fight back.

  Over the next two weeks, she obsessed about the stranger. He filled her nights with unfamiliar feelings. During the days, Sual couldn’t help looking for him in every Old City corner and alley. All in vain. That’s how it goes – tourists come for a visit and, sated with new experiences, go back home soon thereafter, she thought.

  Time did what it always does. Weeks passed and gradually Sual stopped looking for the stranger, returning instead to the routine of her life. It’s best this way, she thought. At least she wasn’t risking her life.

  One Sunday noon, Sual was at the stove frying cauliflower. It was another unbearably hot, late August day. The old fan creaked as it sluggishly stirred the warm air around. Hasham, Mahmud’s mother, walked into the kitchen. Sual, sweating, took a deep breath and braced herself for the old woman’s attack.

  Hasham took a piece of fried cauliflower from the heap, stuck it into her mouth, and chewed loudly.

  “Throw it in the garbage,” she shrieked, grabbing the frying pan out of Sual’s hand. “You can’t even cook! And make me some tea,” she commanded, slumping heavily into a kitchen chair.