Possibly unused to lying, he said immediately and without thinking, “Of course not, but probably from Jerusalem.”
She looked at him sideways, and mumbled, “From Jerusalem? Who in Jerusalem would buy a salon in Wadi al-Rihan? Is it possible that somebody would leave Jerusalem and come live here? Only a stupid person would do that.”
He said to her impulsively, feeling a little embarrassed, “Why, Violet, what’s wrong with Wadi al-Rihan? It’s like paradise and paradise is beautiful with its people. I consider Wadi al-Rihan the most beautiful city because the most beautiful person lives there.”
She turned her face away from him, rolled her eyes, and started jiggling the leg that was stretched in the air facing him. When she realized what she was doing she changed position and raised her right leg over her left one, away from him. He now saw only the beautiful side of her face with her short hair, her elongated neck like that of a goldfinch, and her marvelous body. He returned to his dreams and said, “When I was in Washington I met a woman who looked like you, but you’re certainly younger and more beautiful. She was a famous writer and we met in a nightclub. I was standing at the bar having a drink and suddenly the barkeeper presented me with a drink offered by a woman surrounded by a group of men, sitting at another table, talking, drinking, and smoking. I asked the waiter to return the drink and tell the woman that an Arab man does not allow a woman to pay for his drink. The glass was returned, this time carried by one of the young men who were with her. He whispered in my ear, ‘The lady wants you to join her.’ We were introduced and I learned that she was the famous English writer Gloria Simons, have you heard of her?”
Violet shook her head and said listlessly, “No, I haven’t heard of her.”
He didn’t pick up on the resentment in her voice because he was preoccupied with himself, his past memories, his future dreams, and the promises this visit held for him. He went back to casting his net through his story and the riddles it carried. She noticed that he laughed revoltingly, making noises similar to the bleating of a goat suffering from a cold.
He continued his story: “Gloria was angry because I had returned the drink she offered me and also because our horses had won the race. She said that she wouldn’t forgive me unless I apologized in public for my behavior and for the race. But ΐ told her that I was an Arab and I wasn’t used to giving in to a woman and this was true too of our horses. I assured her that we would continue to win races.”
Violet uttered something like a complaint and smiled disgustedly, saying, “Thank God we’ll win the race.”
He turned toward her for a second, then reverted to his memories and his story with Gloria, which ended in bed. Before reaching this stage, he told her in detail and with real pleasure how he had left Gloria with pride and haughtiness. He refused categorically to apologize, showing her that he was an Arab man who didn’t give in to a woman whoever she might be, just as purebred Arab horses don’t lose to Western horses. He explained how he had dealt Gloria’s British pride a third blow. He found out, however, that women like a strong man because when he returned to his hotel room two young men were waiting for him. They told him that Gloria swore that she wouldn’t go to bed that night unless they brought her the proud Arab man. He went back and she took her revenge, but it was a revenge as sweet as sugar.
He turned to her and, whispered, “This is how women are, this is the way it is in life.”
Feeling a shiver that froze all the pores in her body and settled in her stomach like a big rock, she was unable to utter a word. He interpreted her silence and calm as a sign of his success. He was convinced that the fish had taken the bait. This bolstered his confidence, and he went on talking with an impetuosity that was not in harmony with his appearance, his age, his position, and his family name.
“That’s how I like women to be, open and knowing how to enjoy life. Our Arab women and Arab men as well, don’t know how to enjoy life. I personally consider sex a need and something that has to be expressed and not suppressed. I don’t understand why people complicate matters?”
She commented in a whisper, avoiding his eyes, “Is it because people complicate matters that you don’t want anyone to know about your visit?”
He noticed the underlying irony in her words but ignored it because he believed that no matter how hard she tried Violet couldn’t be more clever than he. After all, she was a hairdresser, with no culture or diplomas. She was also a woman of modest background, a little woman from Wadi al-Rihan, compared to him, the consul, the all-knowing, who had lived for five years in Washington and before that in Turkey, Spain, and other countries. She was no more than a limited woman, whereas he was a master.
He explained slowly, “I am an extremely open-minded person in the matter of needs and desires. I believe that a person must satisfy all his needs and express them any way he wants until he is satisfied. It doesn’t matter how, what counts is personal satisfaction. As far as I’m concerned everything is acceptable, even homosexuality. Each person should do whatever he wants without restrictions.”
She commented in a detached and ironic manner, “Do you mean they can parade in the streets?”
He lowered his gaze, shook his head slowly, and said with patience, “No, not parading in the streets.”
He repeated his words a second time, but she didn’t reply and continued to jiggle her leg in the air. He noticed how cold and unresponsive she was, finally! He was furious, but he remained calm because by nature he was patient and forgiving, and she was young and he was older.
He said to her, “Your problem is that you don’t listen.”
She stared into his face, saying with a chilling calm, “I don’t have a problem!”
He corrected himself saying, “I mean that you only hear what you want to hear.”
She looked at him again, but her respect for his age and his status as a guest was waning, and she asked him, defiantly, “Whom do I have to listen to?” She would have liked to add, “To your brain, to your loathsome words, you disgusting man?” But she didn’t and went back to balancing her leg in the air.
He said, in an effort to save the situation but beginning to lose his patience, and stammering, “I mean that a person must satisfy his needs without complications and must eat until sated.”
She smiled, amused by his stupid and obvious approach to show off and to reach his aim, “Without restrictions?”
He nodded, saying, “Without restrictions.”
She asked, “Without rules?”
“Yes, without rules.”
She asked again, “Without commitment?”
He replied, “Without commitment.”
Her smile grew wider and she thought to herself: What a shit of a man, how dumb he is.
Encouraged by her smile, he continued, “The situation requires guts, however.”
She looked him straight in the eyes and said in a clever manner, “Of course, of course, it requires courage and that’s why no one must know about it, it must be done in secret.”
His pupils hardened and he felt trapped despite his eloquence. He had the impression that he was naked in front of her perceptive eyes and he didn’t know how to hide his feelings. His self-confidence shaken, he said to her, “It seems that the wine I’ve drunk has had an effect on me, I had two glasses before you came.”
She didn’t respond and continued to jiggle her leg in the air, carelessly. When she noticed that he had withdrawn into himself she did the same. She was sensitive to others’ pain and their feelings. Many had the impression that she was weak and not as strong as she really was. Her extreme sensitivity led some people to take advantage of her. She always surprised them, however, reacting like a stubborn mule that rises suddenly, kicks, and throws its rider on the ground in seconds. Luckily, the Bey withdrew at the last minute, causing her anger to cool down before reaching its maximum and turning against him.
Violet tried to address him as a human being with a heart and a conscience, “I don’t know why peo
ple always misunderstand me!”
He noticed her meditative tone and her well-spaced words, which he mistook for hesitation and weakness. He regained control and waited for a suitable opportunity to attack.
She said in a gentle tone that conveyed weakness, “I do not know why people think that I’m easy. What gives them the impression that I’m cheap?”
His eyes gleamed as he thought that the situation was improving because she was finally maneuvering. What about being easy and being cheap and giving the wrong impression, who was she fooling? Didn’t Mazen Hamdan have his fill of her and Mazen is no better than the others.
She wondered modestly, “What’s wrong with me: my clothes, my hair, or my makeup? Futna, however . . .”
She didn’t continue as she remembered that Futna al-Shayib was his cousin or his cousin’s daughter, a relative of sorts. It wouldn’t be decent to mention her before him. She corrected herself and resumed saying, “Many girls dress like me and wear even shorter clothes. I don’t wear short or revealing clothes, my makeup is simple, and my hair is its natural color, so why do people think as they do?”
He asked with great interest and pleasure because she was beginning to respond and open up to him, “What do they think?”
She moved her hand in a way that revealed her confusion and desperation, as she said, “I really don’t know why, but I know that they think I’m cheap.”
He smiled and asked, “What are you saying? That isn’t possible.”
She said bluntly, “Is it because I loved Mazen openly that people think I’m easy?”
He said, reflectively and looking at the wall facing him, “I think, Violet that the big mistake was that you loved openly and that you established a long-term relationship.” He avoided looking at her, however, as he spoke.
She regained her composure and remembered that she was facing a man suffering from all kinds of illnesses. He despised women and people generally, and had no respect for beautiful love relationships and for truthful words. He offered nothing but words. As for his capacity to ponder deep emotions, face difficulties, or examine the secrets of the soul and its contradictions, those were things he couldn’t do.
He came back to the same subject, “Your mistake was loving openly and believing that love is forever. But love is an infatuation, lasting only a second. You didn’t have my experience, ask me. All women come and go and the soul remains confused because the feeling is never satisfied. What remains is the desire, only the desire.”
She asked coldly, “You mean that love doesn’t exist?”
He shut his eyes, appeared reflective, and said sincerely, “No, there is no love.” “And no feelings?” she asked.
He shook his head left and right, and said, “And no feelings, or rather temporary feelings, nothing more.”
“And what remains is only desire, just that?” asked Violet.
He said, quite convinced, “Only the desire.”
Her blood pressure rose, she regained her mule-like character, and began kicking.
“And you’re visiting us because of such desire?” she asked him.
He didn’t answer. She had guessed correctly, how could he lie and disprove her? Also, speaking directly is not agreeable and can be tactless.
She insisted, “Are you here because of that desire?”
Her voice was louder than necessary and people could hear her. He was concerned.
She went on addressing him in her direct manner, “This means that you want a prostitute, a clean and cute prostitute, and also one free of charge.”
He was very scared, what if Umm Grace entered the room now? What if Violet’s talk became louder? What if her voice reached the street and the neighbors heard? What if, what if? He wondered what had happened to her. She had seemed wise and reasonable, listening politely to him. She had even begun to yield. What had he said that caused her to react this way? She, a prostitute? Is there a respectable, educated, and dignified woman who would refer to herself as a prostitute? He hadn’t realized that Violet could be impolite. He’d better escape before the situation deteriorated into a scandal. She might say more unpleasant things that would shock the ears of the polite gentleman he was. He’d better leave before the situation got worse!
He stood up without saying a word, quietly and calmly. He was hoping she would say something pleasant and polite to apologize for her words and show her regret and embarrassment at having said what she had. Instead, she stood up and said painfully and bitterly, “People always misunderstand.”
He replied, sincerely and warmly, “I didn’t misunderstand, I didn’t.”
She shook her head in a manner that expressed irony and bitterness and walked him to the door. As he was walking toward the stairs he seemed very short, shorter than he was, and she felt taller. She closed the door quietly and said to him from behind the door, “Abd al-Hadi Bey, you didn’t misunderstand, you didn’t.”
Abd al-Hadi Bey ran away to Jerusalem early in the morning, leaving behind him the culture and Wadi al-Rihan. He took off in his Mercedes very early in the morning. Everyone wandered why. What had happened to cause this sudden departure? Wasn’t he working with the organizing group planning the inauguration ceremony for the Center, looking for gifted performers, and trying to breathe life into this defeated people? Wasn’t he the one who had said literally that a people cannot be counted and can’t progress if they don’t rebel against themselves and against their values, then rise culturally to erase the days of disarray and disgust and the crimes committed in the name of the homeland and in the name of patriotism? We said amen and didn’t oppose him except when he suggested an evening where he would recite poetry and Violet would sing and play the guitar. Then everyone fell silent, offering no response. Mazen had an embarrassed smile as he visualized the Bey on the stage among the young people and those wearing jeans. He wondered how he would carry himself, what he would say, what he would wear. He imagined him standing under the lights in flesh and blood, with his double chin and his fat, wearing his tweed or cashmere suit and reading from a book. Would it be an English or an Arabic book; would he read Hemingway? No, not Hemingway since he isn’t a poet. Whose book, then? Nizar Qabbani, undoubtedly. He would tell Violet while she played the guitar: your eyes are like the lamps of a temple.
My uncle asked whether anyone had upset the Bey.
No one replied, but Futna had a theory, “Maybe because he wanted to recite poetry and no one agreed?”
Mazen explained, “I don’t think so, it wasn’t a serious matter, even Violet knows that. Isn’t that true Violet?”
But Violet looked at him coldly and said dryly, “You know best.”
The sentence she had repeated many rimes that day finally caught his attention. He wanted to reconcile with her and bring things back to where they had been between them. He wanted to explain to her that he was finally willing to accept that life provides logical and reasonable things, while the extraordinary and the unusual existed only in his head. As for reality, his reality, the reality of the country, the reality of the people, the reality of women and love and feelings, those were the norm. Whatever was reasonable and available was the solution, the political line to follow, the Authority, the land, the people, this weakness, and this defeat. How can we achieve total liberation for a divided people, a people without heroes and lacking the proper support for their political measures? Had people been stronger and more solid, they would have achieved greater liberation. Is there a perfect liberation for an imperfect people, à defeated people? This is the interest due on the people’s capital, this is its savings account. And he is no better than his people. What does he have to offer them that would entitle him to demand an extraordinary woman, a dream woman? He didn’t even appreciate Salma Jubran, who was like a dream. He didn’t remain faithful to her. He gave her nothing because his capital was meager, or rather nil. He demanded a great deal, and when it was time to pay back, his pockets were empty except for a rusted dime, like the remains of the Engl
ish army, a useless niggardly inheritance, only a few dimes!
My uncle asked, bewildered, “Did he return to Jerusalem without saying anything?”
Amira said, clearly concerned, “He must have returned for a serious matter, may God protect us.”
Violet smiled and looked beyond the horizon of the terrace, murmuring to herself, “A serious matter!”
She remembered yesterday’s scene with mixed emotions of anger and pleasure. She was angry because the Bey had dared say what he’d said and because he’d treated her, at the beginning, like a child or a schoolgirl. He thought that she would bask in his magnificence and be honored to know him, he, the gray-haired man, and she, Violet. She felt a wonderful pleasure in her discovery that she was brighter than he expected and even more clever than he. She remembered how-he had used the excuse of the two glasses of wine to hide the true reason for his failure or for his stupidity. He isn’t stupid, definitely not, but he’s stupider than he realized. Now he knows and that’s why he ran away.
Futna asked her, “Why are you laughing? Let us laugh with you!”
Mazen seized the opportunity to butt into the conversation, saying, “Ms. Violet is not aware of things anymore and has forgotten those she knows, thinking only of America. Let’s see, what in America is better than here?”
She gave him an oblique, angry look and wondered what he meant. Lately, he had been trying to get her attention, to curry favor with her, to say the beautiful words she wished he had said in the old days. She no longer cared about that; she had made up her mind to sell the house and the salon and immigrate to Florida. She wanted to live there like a queen, free to come and go, to swim, dance, and sing, to join a club or a band, then marry and have two or three children. She wanted to live in a nice house with a backyard and a garage she would open with a remote Like Grace’s. She wanted to lead a peaceful, comfortable life without problems, without struggle, and without worries.
Mazen said to her, defiantly, “If America is truly beautiful no one would have left, isn’t that true, Zayna?”
The Inheritance Page 24
