by Emily Danby
That evening Hanan came of age. She said goodbye to her old world and slipped skilfully and silently into the responsibilities of her new routine. Whenever her mother asked how her husband was treating her – whether he was kind and cordial – Hanan made no response. Her mother interpreted this as shyness, dropping the subject until much later when Hanan began asking for advice on how to gain her husband’s affections in the bedroom. Her daughter’s exclamation that her husband wanted to bite her lips and nibble at her breasts frightened her. The girl was incomplete, she felt. These were the signs of corners cut in her training to becoming a good wife, of an over-emphasis on decorum. Hanan’s instruction was of no use to her in dealing with her fear of the evenings, which increased as the years passed and she did not become pregnant. Anwar had started to keep his distance, not just from her but from the house altogether. He hadn’t noticed how she had engrossed herself in completing her studies, in keeping up with her mother and the neighbours, going to her parties and fulfilling her other duties. She continued with her studies because it was what her mother wanted; it was for her sake that she stayed at home. To Hanan, it didn’t matter; there was no life running through her veins. It was as if she’d been born dead, as if she’d been created simply to march towards death. Hanan had a destructive urge to slip into a coma and be relieved of the burdens of her world, as if she had never existed. As if she had never been her mother’s daughter.
What would have happened if she had refused Anwar point blank? She wondered now.
The telephone rang once more and stirred Hanan from her daydreams. She went back inside and shut the curtains, as if to hide from it. The room was bathed in darkness. Hanan felt calmer. She pulled the telephone cord out from the wall and, with trembling hands, switched off her mobile, throwing it to the ground. As Hanan lay on her bed exhausted, Nazek’s face appeared before her. She had tortured Nazek so badly, she thought. Nazek had done so much to please her and to win her back from that pock-marked maid, the maid who, when all was said and done, was her little lover.
Hanan’s little lover gave up all hope of the rubbish truck coming, or of spotting anyone walking through the place, which was silent even though the sun had now risen towards the domed roof of the sky. Aliyah’s mind was in another place – the place where she belonged, where she could remove her veneers and return to her mother’s embrace, to be just as she was created. She wouldn’t let life pass her by anymore, Aliyah reassured herself. She would do all sorts of things.
The heel of her shoe snapped instantly as Aliyah stamped in anger, assuring herself that she was going to be ok. She fell. She turned her head to look back. Why she felt a sharp twinge in her chest as she imagined her old world had disappeared, as though it had never existed, she did not know.
Taking off her shoes, Aliyah found the source of her troubles. A small tack had come loose. This was a problem she could resolve. She put her bag aside, picked up a stone and bashed the tack back into the heel. Putting on the shoes, which fastened around her ankles, she cautiously set off once more. Why hadn’t she brought any other shoes? Pausing, Aliyah realised something: they weren’t her shoes! They were Hanan’s.
Aliyah tried to recollect what shoes she had worn in Hanan’s house and laughed; she realised she’d never had a pair to leave the house in. The only shoes she had were special ones for the house – footwear for service. Even on the rare occasions when she was obliged to go out, Aliyah wore the same shoes. The thought hadn’t entered Hanan’s mind to buy her any, even though she had showered her with presents and even taught her how to smoke. Aliyah was a prisoner; a slave to the whims of her mistress, who wanted her never to go beyond the villa walls.
She carried on her way, dreaming of her mother’s room. Things would be better once she got to al-Raml, she tried to reassure herself. Suddenly, a figure appeared in the distance. Her heart jumped and she ran towards it. A moment later, she realised she was hallucinating; her discovery was nothing but a disappointing trick causing her to take off again. Remembering Anwar lying naked in his room, Aliyah felt pity. She frowned. He had been so happy waiting for her to come to him on those long nights. She could sense his longing, the joy he felt when she skirted by him while cleaning, when he pretended to be sleeping or when seemed to be afraid as she undressed in his room, all the while ignoring his servile glances. Anwar’s image drew closer. That final image. His body’s odour. Aliyah felt nauseous and started to wretch once more.
The mistress’s scent allowed Aliyah to flourish – to open out and grow taller, while the master’s made her feel the need to wash at the end of the evening. Why do it with him then? Why destroy your life with your own hands? Aliyah shrugged and carried on along the road, away from Hanan.
Hanan awoke from her brief doze and looked towards the window. It was as if a mountain were weighing over her head. For a second she forgot who she was. She groped at her chest, finding no additional breasts. Ants were crawling beneath her skin; she could feel them nibbling away at her heart. But when she looked at her hands there was no sign of the insects. Hanan burst into tears.
She opened her window out onto the green plain and the little palaces with their rendered facades. Thinking of Aliyah – of her startled little face – Hanan felt her love was stronger than ever before. She pictured Aliyah’s tall frame as the girl walked alone. Fire sparked in her chest as she recalled the look of Aliyah’s teary eyes.
Hanan ran out without putting on her headscarf, paying no attention to the gardener cutting back the trees. It wasn’t until she felt the sharp pebbles below that she noticed her feet were bare. Heading straight for the car, Hanan realised she wasn’t carrying her keys and ran back even wilder this time, panting as she made her way up to the top floor. Quickly, she emptied her leather bag, grabbed hold of the keys, descended the stairs and got into the car.
Bewildered, the gardener ran to open the great iron gate, yet to his surprise it was already unlocked. Strange; he was sure he’d pulled the bolt over before going to bed, but the mistress was driving at such speed there was little time for him to think. He ran towards the house, sure that something must have happened for her to be going out barefoot in her thin nightdress, with untamed hair and bloodshot eyes. The master must be dead. The gardener dashed to Anwar’s room, surprised to find him standing behind the window, barely able to support himself. Leaning on his ivory cane, Anwar’s emotionless gaze followed Hanan. He paid not the slightest attention as the gardener greeted him. Anwar remained so still that for a second the gardener imagined his master had turned to stone; his eyelashes made not the slightest flutter as he stared with eyes startlingly wide.
Hanan drove at high-speed, her heart pounding. She surveyed the place around her but found no trace of Aliyah. She ventured down every side street and each of the mansion driveways, turning around each time to leave a cloud of dust and disappointment in her wake. The silence of the road was alarming. Hanan was scared as she looked about her, watching out for any sign of another living being, lest someone discover her humiliated state. The residents of the area had all chosen to build out of Damascus to keep their secrets private and to enjoy the fresh air. There in their odd-shaped mansions, with their tiled swimming pools and wide tennis courts, they were far from prying neighbours, from news of the scandals they might be exposed to.
Hanan went from street to street. Aliyah must have got further than she thought. In the distance, she spotted a group of dogs gathering around the remains of an animal. Hanan felt uneasy. She locked the car door and turned down another side-street. Aliyah must be hiding behind one of the walls, she convinced herself as she turned the steering wheel, chewing on her lip. Joy glimmered in Hanan’s eyes as she drove around some of the houses. She stopped when she came to the open ground and the long road that separated the cluster of mansions from the first villa standing alone. The land stretched out for miles, the whole space illuminated by the light of the sun. Hanan got out of the car and glanced about her as if getting ready to dance.
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The place was empty but for the flocks of birds in the distance.
‘Aliyah!’ Hanan shouted. The voice was loud. She didn’t feel as if it were hers. She called out again, but there was no response. No voice calling out in harmony.
Hanan got into her car and set off at speed, startling a pigeon, which took off high into the sky as she careered away, leaving in her wake a thick cloud of dust.
