Naphtalene

by Alia Mamdouh

  You had never before seen a man kneel. Your father never prayed. Adil had practiced a long time but forgotten the first move. Your aunt knelt only to herself. Your mother always prayed alone. You had never seen any of these.

  They prostrated themselves, and stood up again. Gestures, prayers, movements. Just as from a distance, you did as the praying women did, up close you prayed as the men before you prayed, their heads and bodies submitting to God and the Prophet and those close to him in the presence of God: “Peace be upon you, and the mercy and blessings of God.”

  The opening sura of the Qur’an is on their lips, recited softly in perfect unison. They lift up their palms, wipe their faces, and move, row upon row, waiting for the voice of Mahdi, who knows the Qur’an by heart, to recite the holy verses. Their black and yellow prayer beads come out and are looped around their hands and fingers.

  Some of them leaned against the wall, others on the water tank. Silence fell. They coughed with deliberation, moved their heads, straightened their backs, breathed gently, and listened to the voice of the reader entering through the crevices in the corners, coming through the walls. I recited along with him, walked, and heard him in the wide courtyard of broken flagstones. I stood in the middle. The children and women gathered themselves and their cloaks, peering into the back door of the mosque.

  The Abu Hanifa Mosque was the mosque of my first quarrel, and my first temptation to play under the tall lotus tree. One day we sat under it, the boys and girls of the neighborhood, we laughed, and chased one another. We shook the dry, sour lotus tree and dodged its big, oily fruits. We played hide-and-seek around it, hid our head and sides, filched the large juicy berries, and grabbed one another by our shirttails, braids, and dishdashas. We encircled the stump with our arms, Mahmoud covering half of it, and I had to make up the other half, so that we were clutching the tree against our chests. We shook it, and our fingertips touched and trembled.

  We waited for its short season of fruition. We all lined up underneath it, and Mahmoud climbed up, shook the dense branches, shook them and shook them some more. I looked up and saw him looking down only at me. Firdous shouted, “Mahmoud, be careful!”

  She turned to me: “It’s all just for your sake, so you can eat some ripe berries!”

  I laughed and did not answer her. Everyone gathered the ripe berries from off the ground.

  Mahmoud filled his pockets with ripe, juicy berries, so plump that the skin was bursting. He came down, seeing only my arms waiting for him. We held up our skirts for them, counted and ate them, swallowing the pits. We smacked our lips, savoring the taste of dates in our throats and between our teeth, never satisfied.

  Here we took the first of our hesitant, unsteady steps, until our feet grew a little heavy. Here we opened our eyelids on the high domes. We ate hot bread and cooked date paste with sesame and nuts. We carried plates of elaborate and expensive wheat-and-meat pudding, pots of stale food and dishes of date molasses and milk.

  My grandmother sent me here on holy days. I carried the basket and made the rounds of the old men and women squatting in the corners and on the stone steps of the mosque, who lifted their heads to me: “God bless Umm Jamil and help her prosper. She has never forgotten us.”

  They took us together. Nahida’s girls, Afaf and Ansaf, stood face to face, not moving, not blinking, not extending a hand. They were the intelligent girls, clean and well-mannered. We did not smile or speak, only stared. Suddenly, they hurried off after their mother.

  I watched them process around the tomb.

  They all came here from my grandfather’s big house: the elderly of the neighborhood, the women from other streets. We went around and around, then stopped before his window, and the voice of my aunt called from behind me: “Pray and ask for what you want. A plea to Abu Hanifa is never ignored.” She pushed me in front of her as if I were on my way to school. She surrounded me, and I heard the movement of her cloak and her rapid, heavy breathing. She waited for my tongue to spring into action as she enveloped me under her armpit, the sour smell of the sweat that trickled down her neck and belly:

  “Hah—have you gone mute? This is the only place you show any manners. Have you prayed or not yet?”

  “Will you pray for me?”

  “What’s wrong with your tongue? May God cut it out and give us a rest from it! I’m not praying for anyone. Everyone prays for his own soul.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Say, ‘God, guide me on the right path, may my father prosper and my mother, brother, and grandmother be blessed with health; and may my aunt marry very soon so that she will be rid of Huda and that damned house.’”

  “Why don’t you pray for us all?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! Even in this sacred place you’re still a brat? Where on earth did they get you? Fine, I’ll pray by myself. I don’t want anyone near me listening to what I’m saying.” She pinched me by the forearm and went away from me. I did not know what should be said in front of the tomb. My grandmother sat far off, telling her beads. Her gaze took in none of what was all about her.

  She did not pay attention or speak to anyone; she had gone, she was traveling; all that could be seen of her body was the triangle of her face and the shiny glass of her spectacles. My mother always sat beside her; she turned, prayed, and asked for what she wanted. She wept silently and then sat down, waiting for nothing. Adil squatted between both of them, watching everyone, never budging.

  I slipped away from my aunt and her voice behind me, and looked out at the courtyard.

  These high domes. The main gate of the mosque was to the east, a rectangle of carved yellow bricks, bordered by inscriptions cut into their blue surface. To the north of the door stood the four-sided clock. One clockface counted the hours from sundown, and the three others reckoned the time from noon. They were faced with yellow aluminium. The clock was unique in its form and its beauty. The mosque had two domes and a minaret on the east side, one over the sanctuary of the praying area, and the other over the tomb of Abu Hanifa, may he rest in peace. They began with the renovation of the outer enclosure with yellow brick inlaid with blue tile from Karbala inscribed with some of the ninety-nine beautiful names of God. When I lifted my head up to the blue minaret I heard the sound of the beating of turtledoves’ wings and those of gray and white pigeons as they took straws for nestbuilding and flew higher, alighting on the top to sleep there.

  Suturi raised birds like these. We used to call him Suturi the bird boy, and stole grain for him and hid stale bread and leftovers for him, and went up to his family’s high roof. We cleaned the nests of droppings and threw grain to the birds, soaked the dry bread, and scattered it on the ground.

  Adil loved Suturi’s birds. He ignored us and went to his house. They stood together, watching the birds flap away: “Suturi, look at them, look how far away they’ve flown! I’m afraid they won’t come back!”

  “No, they know the way back better than you or I do.”

  “Fine, you know birds better than me. My father won’t let me raise birds. He says, ‘You have paper kites; they’re like birds, fly them and let the birds fly in the sky where they belong.’”

  “I don’t imprison them. Look—the cage is empty and the birds are in the sky. I just like playing with them. When my father died I began to raise them.”

  “Yes, I see, but I’m afraid they’ll lose their way and not come back, like my mother.”

  I walked, and mounted the stairs. The air was arid and suffocating. The leaves on the trees were not stirring. The gnats and mosquitoes attacked. They came from the nearby riverbank and the dense trees. They buzzed and droned and bit me, stabbing at my face and arms. I hit out at them and tried to catch some; I pounced at them as they flew into the beam of lights in the corners of the mosque. I scratched my skin, arms, and legs. I ran around the corners, shook down the leaves from the trees, gathered them, crushed them in my hands, and waited for the sap from their dry stems.

  No one noticed me. T
he darkness was spreading over the houses and closed alleys. It was a yellow, plague-stricken Ramadan night. The sound of the big lorries made the street tremble. The holiday sheep were taken off, and the hoarseness of their voices reminded me of my aunt’s. They pushed ahead and walked all around one another, waiting to be slaughtered.

  My eyelids were festering, my hair was unkempt. Come, Mahmoud, I have let down my braids for you. You want it down loose, and I want it flying, fleeing from the houses, from brothers; come, children of the neighborhood, I’ll follow you from the riverbank to the graveyard, and from the school to the public parks. Stretch out your palms and wet them with my tears. Light the lamps of the mosque, the houses, coffeehouses shops, palaces, and the courts.

  The men came out, moving, walking, like light, quivering birds. They went to their houses nearby, or dropped by the Naaman Coffeehouse, ordering strong tea, listening to the popping of the coals as they burned in the filthy hookahs.

  They passed the backgammon board back and forth. The players’ shouts grew louder, and smoke drifted from the students smoking and studying at the rear of the coffeehouse. The pensioners’ coughing mingled with mentions of the names of Nasser and Nuri al-Said, Salih Jabr, the Regent, the handsome young king and the English, the demonstrations and the leaflets, the government and Voice of the Arabs radio from Cairo. All these were on the men’s lips, softly, in whispers—in fear. Cigarette smoke and coal fumes irritated their eyes. They shouted, murmured, and fell silent as they waited for their plates of skewered kebabs, sheep’s testicles, and liver. They ate and joked, and all left before the call for the last meal before sunrise.

  A parasang separated our house from the mosque, with just a few more meters from the coffeehouse to the other houses. When the men went to the coffeehouses, the women left to go to a gathering in someone’s house and to streets further away. Married women, widows, and young women waiting for a strong support, for a roof that did not leak, and a faithful man. Hand in hand, three, four, they came out and walked down the deserted alleys. They went into the other streets, reaching the dirt dam, and the lights of the lofty houses shone like diamonds. Their cloaks enveloped every inch of their bodies, and veils covered their faces. They did not cough, blow their noses, or sigh.

  The game began; it had been agreed upon the previous night. The women I knew brought their offerings from the main street. They watched the needle of the scale and how it moved among the mouths of the men passing before them. The women walked behind them calm to the point of suffocation, waiting for a slip of the tongue from the first man, to give them a way to deliverance and good fortune. A man might say to another, “Today was a good day—I made one sale and got a week’s worth of profit. My friend, all is still well with the world.”

  The other might let him in on his secret: “Oh, God, my wife—she can’t get enough gold. Her demands start as soon as I open my eyes in the morning, and we don’t get to bed at night until she’s got all my money from the day.” If the conversation turned to politics, they stuttered a little, and barely audibly: “Yes, my sister’s son has leaflets. It’s driving her mad.”

  The women memorized every word, analyzed and interpreted, sought out the hidden meanings and insinuations of this unknown creature: man. The whole web moved about him; with obscure codes he was present even in his absence. They followed his star when the sun rose or the crescent moon disappeared. They revealed their inner selves to him and contacted him from within their rooms and cloaks.

  That is what my aunts did: Farida, Najia, Bahija, Rasmiya, Umm Mahmoud, Zubayda, and Umm Suturi. They all imagined a devilish companion giving them a name, a title, and security.

  They hid their rusty darts in their hearts as they returned to the humid alley, the stained steps, the cold family, and the constantly nagging children.

  Rasmiya’s voice rose among the others: “I saw her sleeping in the mosque, with the women. Where would a girl of her age go on a night like this?” The voices of my beloveds; they were coming toward me.

  They stopped in front of me and I ran away from them. They chased after me. I raced. Hashim grabbed me by my legs instead of my braids. I could not see their faces, and the last pallid rays coming from the shopfronts. Firdous pulled one leg and pushed the other, and suddenly her voice was rough: “Huda, stop a minute. I just want to tell you one thing. Fine, come to our house.”

  Mahmoud and Nizar tucked me between their arms. Adil was standing, motionless. Everyone stood at my head. We fell to the ground, and I kicked and panted. Adil huddled in my embrace at last, and we shouted with one voice, “Mama! Mama!”

  They pulled me away and we dragged our feet. Firdous took me by one arm and Adil seized the other.

  Our house was filled with the same people. The chairs had been set out on the roof, and the whole house was carpeted with rugs and thick mats. Not one candle burned. There was no hiding place where we might escape Iqbal’s coughing. The dishes had disappeared. The glasses had been put away. The sticks of incense had spread a new odor that reminded me of Suturi’s birds.

  All your aunts, the women, everyone you knew was in the hallways, in the kitchen. They sat on the stairs. The bride had removed her tiara but kept her wedding dress on. She sat, her legs open, and began to clap. Grandmother leaned her back against the wall, a Qur’an in her hand. Umm Suturi stood in the middle of the house, in the middle of them all, like a slaughtered bird, her cloak belted around her waist, her head uncovered; her kerchief had fallen off. Her hair was a mingling of dusty red and faded black. The smell of black henna mingled with sweat and animal fat. Her shoulder-length hair was loose and fanned out, and covered her face and eyes. She wailed and lamented, striking her chest:

  “Oh, gravedigger, make a cover for my tomb

  My mother and I go a long way

  I’ll tell you how it was with me.

  My mother provided adequate protection for me.”

  Her voice shook the house. My aunts stood in the middle, the breasts of their dresses open, their hair loose, their voices splitting the air as they repeated after Umm Suturi. They beat their chests, faces, heads, cheeks, and foreheads with their hands, which rose and fell as one, up and down, as if connected by an invisible thread. The circle grew, and they put Adil and me in the middle. We got down on the floor. They got down in front of us, striking themselves and shouting in our faces. Umm Mahmoud was in front of me. Aunt La’iqa did not weep, but struck her face; her large breasts heaved up and down. Her pelvis ground back and forth in front of me. All the women on their feet twirled around one another, striking their faces in front of one another. They were afraid Aunt Najia had stopped breathing. She moved her head, but her hand could not reach her open bosom. The women of the neighborhood were lined up in the hall, crying and covering their heads with their cloaks. Umm Suturi was the toughest of all: she did not cry, but stood and drew us to her voice, which changed and overflowed with sadness. The sobbing intensified as she screamed:

  “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you,

  It’s written down in a notebook in my heart.

  We were forced to part from you.”

  Their ribs broke, and they all inhaled as one. Everyone repeated, “Alas! Alas!” My grandmother said nothing. She prayed softly, as if standing in the desert seeing my mother before her. She turned the pages calmly. Her face seemed whiter. Unshed tears shone behind her spectacles. Her hand did not tremble. Her chest rose and fell. Her asthma came back whenever there was a wedding or funeral. She coughed and choked. They brought her water and medicine, and she quieted down and her voice sounded as though she were addressing herself: “Lord, You are all knowing. You are the protector. Oh, Lord, take her from my heart as You have taken her from my path. Every day You test me, Lord. Almighty God, I do not oppose Your will. God is great! She is already one week buried. Jamouli knows that but he won’t say it. Why? Why? Dear Iqbal, this too is a test. God is constantly testing His servants. Rest there in the gardens of grace. I prayed the Sura of Ya Sin forty
times for you, and it will do you some good there in Heaven. It will relieve you of some of the pain of this dirty world. A thousand mercies to your soul!” Whenever she closed the Qur’an she kissed it, rose slowly, seeing no one, even though their shouts tore the air.

  Suddenly she pushed the bodies aside, seized us, pulled us, shoved us before her. No one stood in her way. We stumbled among the cloaks and shoes. She headed upstairs and pushed us out to the roof. She opened the door and stood face to face with the sky. She walked on, with us beside her, holding us tightly. We were trembling all over. She removed her spectacles and placed them on top of the mud wall, then looked at us and pulled us in wordlessly. She took us to her bosom and hugged us, and we buried our faces in her belly, sobbing and hiccupping. Her voice blotted out the whole sky: “We’ll cry here—I am with you. Cry for your precious mother. Cry your tears out here. When we go downstairs I don’t want to see any tears in your eyes. This is the way the world is. We come and we go. Others come and carry on. No one remains. Even the Prophet, the beloved of God, was taken, to be with Him. Only Almighty God remains.”

  She took our hands and sat us down before her, crying from the bottom of her heart and lamenting:

  “Alas for her who locked the door

  And cast away its keys.

  Who left; from whom we’ll hear no more.”

  11

  “Little dove of mine, where have you gone?” You have left.

  The sounds of the dove mourning on the domes of the mosques and the distant, lofty treetops where it settled. Coming from far away, distorted, they reached my ears, and I repeated their song after it. We were alone; when we felt lonely we stood on the walls of the roofs, between our house and Mahmoud’s. He moved his beak to the rhythm of a nocturnal flute. He murmured when he realized he was still alone. I arched my back, pulled in my stomach, and moved my head and arms, then my fingers, and we shouted aloud together.

  When he heard the sound, he began to flutter his short, ruffled wings as they beat against each other and in the sound of flapping grief was gently stirred. It moaned, and I choked back my tears.