Naphtalene

by Alia Mamdouh

  “Go and bring twenty skewers of kebab from the town.”

  He left Adil, took out half a dinar, and went to the table, took the glasses in his hands and came toward us: “Drink the laban now.”

  He did not look into my face or Adil’s, but reached his hands out to the sink, turned on the tap, washed and dried his face, and took off his jacket. There were splotches of sweat under his armpits, and on his stomach and back.

  He sat beside Adil and stretched out his legs. I slid down to the floor in front of him and looked at his feet. Instead of his boots he wore ordinary shoes, which I unlaced and pulled off, but when I began to pull his socks off, he pulled them back up and said, “Thank you, little Huda, we’re going out shortly.”

  He ruffled Adil’s hair, stretched him out on his lap, and petted his face. They looked at each other. He lifted his face to him as I stood before them: “Have you taken your school certificates yet or not?”

  “Papa, Adil passed, and I—”

  He took me by my hand and pulled me to his side, and put his arms round me. My tears streamed down, and my father cried as well. He took his hands away from us and raised them to his head, covered his face, and the sound of his sobbing grew louder and hung in the room’s hot air.

  This was a face I had never seen before, and all those moments and old images drew us closer together. His haggard face, the delicate strands of gray more plentiful in his hair, the despotic appearance that aroused our aversion and hatred. These were his tears; he had not borrowed them from someone else, and he was not covering them with a handkerchief. He did not display them, and we could only see them up close. If only Iqbal knew; if only Wafiqa knew; if only the whole neighborhood knew that Officer Jamil was covering us with his wailing and his charm. We were crowning him now as father over our small heads, and he was sealing them with white wax and accompanying us as we crossed the road. No pistol with which to humiliate, no whip scourged our skin. Jamil had stopped crying, and we stopped studying his head; we held him by his arms and took him by his sides, and turned to him. We squirmed into his embrace and he hugged and kissed us on the neck and hair, smelled our ears and mouths, and a tear fell from his eye on to our hands. We cried as if Iqbal were there with us all, released from prison and free with us. He stood us up in front of him and looked into our faces, never taking his eyes off us. He dared, he dared us, and got to know us; all that was before us were tears and sorrow and fright.

  My father had changed. We were surprised to see he had changed. He kept us waiting, and joined us halfway.

  My father.

  We grabbed him and shook him and stood together and pulled him to the sink. He blew his nose, washed, and groaned. We were behind him. I grabbed Adil, wiped my face with my hand, put the cloak on my head, and we went to the washrooms.

  We went back and found him stretched out on the bed, his face washed clean, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth about to speak. We stood at his head, Adil stayed near him and I wandered round alone. I picked up the tray and went to the table, took out the bread, peeled the eggs and potatoes: “Papa, will you eat with us?”

  “I’ll wait for the kebab.”

  “Grandmother and Auntie will eat kebab at the holy shrine.”

  He spoke in a very soft voice: “How are they?”

  Adil stood in front of him: “Papa, why don’t you visit us like before?” I quickly added, “They send you their greetings. Grandmother prays for you all the time when she says her prayers. She raises her head and says, ‘Soften Jamouli’s heart.’ She wants to see you. She said, ‘I’d accept him coming even if he got upset and beat you two,’ Papa. They are at the holy shrine.”

  Sergeant Jasim came in. He did not see my father in front of him and did not know whom to salute. My father stirred on the bed and then stood up.

  The smell of kebab, onion, and chopped celery. I opened the bag, and a light vapor emerged through my fingers. A layer of fat was stuck to the bottom of the bread. Red sumac was sprinkled on the skewers of kebab and wilted sprigs of mint. There were sharp Karbala-style pickled vegetables, cooked in vinegar with hot peppers, cucumbers, rose-hued boiled turnips, and tomatoes. Sergeant Jasim returned with a container of laban and clean glasses. We three ate. It was the first time we had eaten together. My father broke up the bread and put the kebab in the middle and pushed it toward us. Adil’s voice: “I’ve had enough, praise God.”

  Sergeant Jasim went to the middle of the room. Whenever he saluted I wanted to laugh. His moustache was luxuriant, his complexion yellowish, his cheeks clean shaven, the hair of his head frizzy, and he had one green stripe on the shoulder of his jacket. He was short and stocky, and his teeth were white: “Sir, we’ll open the gate at three-thirty.”

  “Leave solitary until I come.”

  He went and sat on the bed, took his shoes and put on his jacket, put the sidara on his head, and straightened it as he stood in front of the mirror. He washed and dried his hands.

  “Papa, we’ll go with you.”

  Adil said, “To the shrine?”

  “No, not now.”

  The voices of men outside, the tramping of their feet, their military gait; the gate opened with the movement of large keys and the rattle of iron chains. Adil went to the window and pulled the curtain aside and looked out. “Papa,” he said sadly, “Do you remember when you told me, ‘Come and see how I live in Karbala, the dirt and black death’? Papa, I still haven’t forgotten that.”

  Adil turned to us and ran to our father, buried his head in his chest, and we left the room.

  I had disappeared inside the cloak, with only my ugly, plague-stricken face showing. Whenever we passed people, they stood up and saluted us.

  The police came through the doors and stood in the large courtyard, their rifles on their shoulders and their faces expressionless, their lips thrust out, their uniforms sweaty, the sun beating down directly on to their weapons. There was a sudden flash in front of us as we passed them. They watched us, their eyelashes trembling and eyelids twitching. Their arms were not steady, and the vast courtyard rose as one human wave as they moved and turned. The women shouted. They opened their arms and uttered moans and incoherent words. Their tears flowed down their cheeks. Minutes tumbled by these women, things, and faces.

  Friends, relatives, fathers, brothers, uncles, neighbors, spreading their cloaks on the floor, looking into bags, handing out food and cigarettes, sharing water and a little money, weeping and kissing, falling silent, watching, as we plunged into their midst. They touched Adil’s head and looked me closely in the face.

  The faces of the prisoners, slender figures tall and short, their eyes wandering, cheeks sunken, thick moustaches and slack jaws. Their dishdashas were dirty and their sandals cracked. They all became one colorful, wandering, mad planet.

  The men looked like the men of our neighborhood: Abu Mahmoud, Abu Iman, Abu Hashim, and Hajji Aziz. We approached, and the gates which had been olive green were colorless. Here they were before me, I felt them with my hand and looked inside: stone steps, thick brown paper, dug-up earth, the high wall. Flies flew out into the heat and solitude outside. The smell spread outside, like the heat of the baker’s oven in our street, like the mud of the Euphrates in the first months of flood.

  My father left me; I leave him. Not one stone over another; not one neighbor near another neighbor.

  How could that man laugh? When would he urinate?

  I counted: one, two, twenty, one hundred. I did not know how to count the prisoners. Mahmoud knew that I did not like arithmetic, but I was able to count them. They sat on the ground near the children. The women sprawled out on the ground though the sun was no good at this time of day. Some laughed, and diverted me, laughing. Was it lawful to laugh in prison?

  My mouth had a bitter taste, my lips were parched, and my tongue was dry. It was tea time. I turned round: my father and Adil were standing before the locked gate. A group of police officers stood round my father. On the other side was the solitary.
/>   When my father was alone with me on the roof, I was alone with the ants, flies, and fear. The iron bars before me were as silent as our iron roof with glass. There I looked down from high up. I saw everything all at once. My mother, as well, had been freed from prison and wooden talk. Here there was no white or gray glass. The gates were high with small round windows admitting fine dust and flies. No steps took me to the high roof, and no staircase brought me down to the doors that opened one after another. A few visitors waited to the rear. Rifles, police, my father’s height and his face, also freed from his prison, coming out one after the other. My father turned round before them, Adil raised his head and looked, holding him by the arm.

  My father extended his hand to them, took them by the forearm, and walked with them a little. One, two, seven; they became thirteen. They opened their eyelids a little in the light, moving along with a number of guards among them, though at a gesture of my father’s hand the police moved away. He produced a packet of cigarettes, walked, shared some and lit them with a match. His hand touched their fingers, and they took deep breaths, they sat and stretched their legs out on the ground. My father turned to us and stepped back a little. We stood at a distance. The families sat down to rest by one another. One of the sergeants approached us.

  “Sir, we have thoroughly searched the trays.”

  With a nod of his head, the food was distributed to them.

  We walked behind him; we turned when he turned and stopped when he stopped. Now he was close to us, now far.

  Suddenly he turned to us: “Adouli, go and bring the rest of the kebab.”

  Adil ran in and returned with the kebab, eggs, potatoes, and bread. My father walked with the tray on his shoulder, the cigarette in his hand, talking with the guards and the circle of men who had been around him. We stood together before those men. They did not lift their heads or lower their arms. They were motionless and silent.

  “This is Master Abba’s kebab, which my mother has prayed over and sent.”

  He took the tray, placed it on the ground, and walked away quickly. They lifted their faces to face the sun. For the first time I saw their faces. Their eyes were beautiful, their eyelids were swollen, their eyelashes were dry, their hair was dusty, and their fingers trembled as they held their cigarettes. They coughed. At last their lips opened to show their yellow teeth and white tongues.

  “Thank you.”

  We walked behind my father, who was now far ahead of us and entered the crowd. I saw him, calm and contented but far off. I did not know when his fright ended, or who had buried him with titles. I could remember his first slap and his dreadful lair. His face was moist with sweat, tobacco, and iodine. He was the handsome king on the throne of those who sat before me, my good-looking father who had begotten me and loathed no girl like me. One day Iqbal said, “One night your father came to you when you were in bed bloody and sweaty. You were fresh and new. He was afraid when he first saw you. I thought he would change you to mere bones, and you would make him a policeman constantly standing at your door. He hated it when you cried at night and wailed in daytime. He hated your slow shouting and your rapid breathing. When he slept, he imagined you were hitting him on the head, and he’d wake up wanting to hit you, but I woke up and stopped him. He cried, you cried, and we all cried together. I could never fool him, and neither could you. Every woman fooled him except us. I used to lie down beside you, and he’d lie down far from us. He’d mutter between his teeth as he slept: ‘I’ll only have boys, I’ll never get Huda married. I’ll have her dedicate herself only to me. I’ll have her never grow up.’”

  He turned and we turned with him. He pointed to one of the guards, and looked at his watch. He approached him politely, greeted him, and looked ahead: “Split them up now. The visit is over.”

  My father gave orders but did not have to listen to them. He dragged his feet sluggishly. Minutes of goodbyes and the sound of kisses. Heads drew away from the circles and stood apart from one another, they turned and walked away, stopped, picked up their children, put on their cloaks, sobbing and praying. Leave-taking clogged the space between their noses and mouths.

  The last of the women visitors left the courtyard, a poor, bent-over and tearful old woman who walked and stopped, turning around and ceaselessly praying: “God is good, my son. Yes, you are not the only one in prison.”

  She reached the main gate and spat on the ground, wiped her mouth on her arm and repeated, “Be patient!”

  We followed her out. My father asked for the driver and the car. Adil clung to me. We turned to look back.

  The courtyard was empty. Blowing dust sent crumpled leaves flying round us. The pebbles were not shiny, and the ground was dry. The sun was sinking quickly as we got into the car. My father sat in the front seat, with Adil and I in the back. I wiped away my sweat with my arm, and the cloak slipped down a little. I coughed and sneezed. I raised my arm again to my head and looked ahead. Sergeant Jasim was driving us to the holy shrine.

  14

  Farida primped every day, furtively, lest my grandmother know, summoning no one, alone in the cold room on the high roof filled with gloom and sorrow. The night gave her feelings of hatred and loathing. Months of days. Hours of bruises and slow, repressed rage. Every day she fed her beauty with bribes and great blessings, never leaving her bed of indifference. She wanted the appearance of the first scream: a man and a woman.

  Grandmother taught her the obedience of the blood and the merit of waiting as a beautiful virgin. The white handkerchief was under the pillow, but she took it out and looked at it for a long time: “How I hate this color.”

  Her black dress covered her body; we saw her as she fled among us. She took it off when everyone was asleep and threw it on the floor, trod on it, and stamped on it, starting to scream, and the words mounted up before her: “When he comes, he’ll find out who Farida is! Where will he go?” She felt the clothes with her hand, holding each one up as she stood naked before the mirror: “Even my beautiful skin has turned black. I hate black. I hate Munir. I swear to God Almighty, you are taboo to me until Judgment Day. You’ll see.”

  Munir had long been absent. She did not love him, but now she wanted him. Grandmother had lost her former authority and her calm. She had lost weight and looked emaciated, purer than before, yet with a resigned face. She bore a heavy load on her shoulders. She emerged from rooms and passed down the hallways, went to the kitchen and ascended to the roof. These two women never spoke or went near each other. She knelt and prayed, opened her arms, made incessant supplications, lamented all alone. She went to the Friday Mosque and stood with the poor people, crept in among them and addressed his specter: “Why did you go through with the marriage ceremony? Why did you build the room and buy all those things? Munir, why don’t you come? Farida will die and I’ll die after her. Come, may God guide you and deliver us from this tribulation.”

  The horizon of the neighborhood took shape. Our neighbors and friends, women and young ladies, relations and acquaintances, waited behind their walls for the spurt of blood.

  Farida learned to talk to herself for hours. She looked at herself in the mirror, took a long knife and began to pass it by her neck.

  Ready for the slaughter: “I’m the one who will slaughter you. You’ll see.”

  We waited before her, unafraid, not speaking to her or going near her roof. She wandered from room to room, lighting all the lamps to see all the gaps in the tiles, and leaving the lights on until dawn. Grandmother pushed us roughly when we wanted to go up the stairs. For the first time I saw Wafiqa’s gruffness, and I kept silent. In Karbala, she had tied green scraps to the tomb of the Lord of Martyrs, had grasped our heads, Adil’s and mine, and made him kneel on the holy ground, saying: “I prayed to the Commander of the faithful, Imam Ali, for Jamil to have a son, and Adouli was born. Jamil said ‘We’ll name him Adil.’ He loved that name so much: Adil was the first son of his first wife. People began to call Jamil Abu Adil. When you came, I chose your name
, Huda—‘guidance’—because I said, perhaps God will guide her on the true path. Your father said, ‘You choose the girls’ names.’ Patient, reasonable Adouli, was a gift from our blessed Commander of the Faithful.”

  This white dove stood to her full height in the holy shrine, and cried at the top of her voice: “I beseech you, Abu Abdallah, lift this cloud from us all. God is most great. What has happened to us? Fine, Jamouli came, and I saw him before God takes me to His mercy.”

  When Jamil came, she kissed him. They did not speak, but tears streamed down their faces.

  I could not find grandmother there. Whenever I opened my eyes I saw her telling her beads and watching the sick youths, crippled children, and black-draped women. All I saw were clear eyes looking out from a well of tears.

  Their chests were familiar; I wanted to embrace one of them and sleep among their clothes. Their arms were strong; their forearms never wearied of clutching the grillwork windows of the tomb, cradling their children and weeping.

  The smell of food cooking in the distant rooms wafted through the air to our nostrils, and I remembered my aunt’s delicious cooking. I smacked my lips at the broiled Karbala meatballs and longed for Lord Hussein kebab. The fragrance penetrated the stink of sweat and the steam of anonymous bodies that reminded me of Umm Suturi.

  Grandmother prayed for her and for Suturi to have success and divine guidance.

  Loud weeping, muffled moans, the stifled supplications sometimes not heard; a chaos of sobbing as if drawn out upon the sinews of rope. Wherever I turned there were voices and more voices. Adil squatted like an angel pursued by devils. Farida said all her prayers and relaxed. She wiped her face and left her body uncovered by the cloak. A soft light radiated from the fabric of her skin. Grandmother turned round and round like Mahmoud’s top. They called to her: “Who is Umm Jamil? Her son wants her outside.” Jamil was before her. She took him in her arms, a queen in her tears, and kissed him on his forehead and hand. He drew her to him and took her hand, bent to her chest and the middle of her belly, wanting to carry her among the women and children as they smiled and stared at us as hard as they could. Farida walked slowly, diffident and sleepy. He kissed her forehead and did not speak to her.