by Alia Mamdouh
She let him have her head, kissing his hand and sobbing into his chest. “God rest her soul, sweet Jamil. God willing, you will never see adversity again.”
Iqbal was among us like the tomb. Munir was present here, like death over our heads. No one asked about Nuriya and the children. Nor did he invite us to his new house. There was a flurry of hand movements between grandmother and Jamil; he produced some dinars and put them in her hand.
And . . . the months passed and the days crowded. Grandmother was at the market, Farida was on the roof, and we—Adil and I—cleaned the house.
We began in grandmother’s room, turned over the sheets and bed covers; it was the first time I was the lady of the house. I did not even think of Munir, or imagine Farida being poisoned and dying, or Munir being carried home drunk and dying alone. I started with the windows like my mother and issued orders to Adil.
“Oh, if Mahmoud saw me now!”
I had the keys to all the rooms in my hand. I opened them up and stood before the steps to the roof.
Like a prisoner, Adil stripped his bed and lifted the beds and chairs, rolled up the carpets and dusted underneath them; he looked me in the face and smiled. He was wearing short trousers. His shoulders were broad. All of a sudden he was growing taller, but his pockets were still filled with raisins and dried apricots. Now he had to go to the barber Sayyid Abd al-Latif for a monthly haircut, where his ever longer and thicker locks of hair were cut off, so he looked like a boy whose beauty had been squandered on those around him.
This Iraqi brother, who was dumb with terror in my father’s presence, changed as we crossed the ruined dirt dams. We hoisted our bodies and looked over to the other side of the street, toward the tree-lined corniche road lined with tall houses with spacious gardens full of lofty trees, with constantly sparkling windows complete with iron shutters. We stood for a long time and smelled the penetrating fragrance of citrus blossoms, stocks, and roses immersed in the water of the Tigris.
There children played table tennis, badminton, or volleyball in special areas of the park. They went down to the river by the side paths of their houses, they swam and went home, always wearing new sandals, and draping snow-white towels over their slender bodies. The girls in some of these houses took private piano lessons, and big buses came to take them to their private schools run by nuns, or the Frank Ayni Jewish School. They never looked back much, and when they looked ahead their glance was a combination of indifference and annoyance at the rows of boys walking on foot and carrying their books in cheap linen bags. These boys kept dusty sweets in their pockets along with a few coins to be shared with their brothers and friends and they went along singing, laughing and whistling at the buses, houses, indeed the whole world around them. Adil gazed at Khulud and sighed: she was an arrogant girl, as beautiful as a foreign doll. If Adil disappeared for hours I knew where he had gone. He would be there; he knew her name and how many brothers she had. He picked flowers for her and he went down to the banks of the river, walking close by her huge house, which practically smelled of money, good meals, and long vacations. He put the flowers on the garden wall, but waited for no one.
He went there every Monday and Thursday, walking slowly. He studied at night and flew his kite in the afternoon, writing her name on the biggest one before launching it into the sky. He saw her as a creature who had come from the sky, who had no time for citizens of the earth.
He stood in front of the bus at her school and watched her board as if she were going into the sky. He went from one class to the other, washed twice a week, and legions of sorrows collected in his eyes.
Suddenly the door opens and closes. We turned around and a single utterance choked both our throats: “Uncle Munir!” His bald head, his bright eyes, his face, now even darker. He coughed and cleared his throat. He looked at everything around him as if seeing it for the first time. There were more dark lines under his eyes, and I presumed, the same old talk behind his lips. He did not look at us or follow us. Adil did not hide from him, but kept watching him. I was silent. I held Adil’s hand and stood before him, never taking my eyes from him. We exchanged looks. He was uglier than before. My hair was tousled and my dress was hiked up above my knees. I pushed it down. My face was dusty. I cursed this Munir, his father, his grandfather, and his sharp, penetrating voice: “Where is my uncle’s wife?”
“She went out.”
“She went out? Odd. Where to?”
He did not look up. I took Adil into the bathroom: “Wash, and clean your body well.”
I closed the door behind Adil.
“Come here,” said Munir.
I went to him. He was wearing a wolf skin. I saw a jackal before me, loathsome and sinister. He sat on the mat in the middle of the house, lit his cigarette, and threw the match on the clean floor. I silently asked God’s pardon as I brought him an ashtray.
“Don’t you see how tidy the house is? You’ve come back and brought your orders with you. God must have been angry with us to have sent you here.”
He started to laugh, a slow, shameless laugh, then raised his voice: “By God, you’ve grown up. Now you’re giving orders. What—didn’t you want me to come back?”
“I didn’t care whether you came back or not.”
“I came back for your sake, for all your sakes, especially you. You have a sharp tongue, and you’re saucy and stubborn. I can raise you.”
“You have your wife in the house. Go up to her. Raise your voice with her.”
I got out of his way, leaving his wicked voice behind me: “Come here. The house is tidy, and Umm Jamil is not here. Were you waiting for me? Hah?” He laughed gloatingly and resumed. “Hah. Why don’t you answer? Where has your grandmother gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“And her?”
Oh, her.
I vanished without answering him. I looked for a voice to sting him; the Qur’an on the radio gave me faith, and I lifted my voice high, chanting with it, moving before him. I went into one room and came out in another; he coughed but did not speak. He smoked, and lit one cigarette from another. I prepared Adil’s clothes; his voice sounded from the bathroom as if scaling a lofty mountain.
“Huda, come.”
“What?”
“I’m out of cigarettes.”
“Go and buy some yourself.”
He rose from where he sat and came near me, stopping me in front of the door to my room. He took me by the hand and twisted my arm, and said, almost inaudibly: “If it had been Mahmoud at the door, you would have gone to buy them. Hah, I know everything about you—now you’ll go and buy the cigarettes.”
“Ouch. Let go of my arm. I won’t buy them. Even if you beat me to death. You go and buy them.”
“Don’t raise your voice louder than mine. Do you understand? If you want, I’ll make it clearer for you.” He twisted me and I turned with him to release my hand from between his clasped palms. For the first time we touched each other with such strength. “Fine! Ouch!” I shouted. He released my hand. I looked at him. I wanted to spit in his eyes, darkened by such thick eyelashes that even as he spoke he seemed to be asleep. He reached for his pocket and took out some money which he put in my hand. He left me alone and walked away from me into the house. I was frightened when I saw him in my room: “By God, you’re getting religious like my uncle’s wife. Now hurry up and go.” He looked around him, his hateful face, his eyes like a dog’s. I went out, muttering, “You should have bought them before you came.”
I went to the gate of the house, opened and closed it behind me, disappeared into the passage and waited.
He removed his jacket and dropped it to the mat, then walked down the hallway that led to the bathroom.
In a flash I mounted the steps and stood panting in front of Farida.
“Auntie, Munir is here.”
It was as if the gates of hell had opened. She got up, her face blazing, her lips dry, her eyes bulging out, pushed me aside and raced down. I was behind her. He
r voice was like my father’s when he dragged me down the stairs by my braids.
“He came and didn’t bother to see me? Munir Effendi! Where is he?”
She turned to me: “Where is he? Where is my fine, gallant cousin? Today is your judgment day, Munir. Come out.” She began trembling: “You little bitch, are you trying to fool me? Only you haven’t fooled me. Where is Munir? Tell me, or I’ll kill you instead of him.”
She had my hair in her hands: “I swear, he was here a minute ago.” She turned and saw the jacket and his cigarette butts, and looked all around: “Where is Adil?”
“In the bath.”
It was as if Farida’s face was spiked with thorns; the whites of her eyes were bloodshot and half her tongue was hanging out as she raced to the bath, opened the door, and thrust her head in. I was behind her. Adil looked stung, holding a basin of water in his hand, his face covered with soapsuds. He turned his head quickly and put the basin between his thighs: “Did I hear Uncle Munir’s voice?”
“He opened the door on me a minute ago.”
She was dripping with agony. Her piercing voice hunted him through the rooms of the house. She came out, went into the water closet and stood at the door. She heard the sound of water pouring out of the pitcher, and banged at the door: “Come out, Munir. Come out.”
In seconds everything turned to terror. I watched her, not moving or uttering a word. Farida had been preparing for months; what she gathered was scattered by her voice, which grew heavier and more tense; her tragedy could be heard. She pushed against the door and banged on it. Then we heard his heavy, mocking voice: “Wait a little. You’re truly mad.”
The door moved, and there was a glimpse of his baldness. She reached out her arm and started with his head and neck. She pulled him out by his tie, then pushed him back inside and followed him in. She pushed his head into the toilet and then pushed him outside, grabbed him around the waist, and they ended up in the long, narrow corridor. Their voices clashed and there was the sound of blows.
“Huda, call the neighbors, and you and Adil come—all of you come and see your aunt’s married life.”
He escaped from her arms but she caught him. He looked at me and nearly fell: “Surely your aunt has gone mad.”
Farida opened her arms and raised her voice: “Yes, mad. You took a year and I waited. Every day I said, today he’ll come. Today he’ll open the door and come up. Today will be Munir’s day.”
So this was one of the gentlemen! My aunt collapsed on him, pulled him, and he slipped away. She grabbed him by his shirt and brought him down to the floor as he kicked about. She gathered her rage and screamed, “Even if I kill you with my own hands I won’t be satisfied.” I wanted to reach out and beat him myself. She shone and whimpered and bent over as if she were in the market bath. She pulled him to the middle of the house, snatched the pillows and threw them at him, stepped on him and pushed him, got on top of him and sat on him. She raved and called out, got up and sat down: “I’m going to kill you with my own hands!”
I watched, and the man hacked and choked. He twisted his arms and kicked his feet. Farida’s chest shuddered. She grasped his thighs tightly, and repeated, between gasps for breath: “Come here! Grab his legs with me!” I did not move. She got up and put the pillow over his face, sat on his chest, opened his legs, seized his leather belt, and began to undo his trouser buttons, then pulled down his trousers, worked up like a lunatic. In a flash she stripped him naked in front of you. You watched the movement of his legs as they kicked and flailed.
Everything was before you now: the hunting rifle and the unicorn.
She spat on him and beat him, shouted and cursed him. She bit him and formed fists, raining blows on all his limbs. “I don’t want you to die. Death is too good for you.”
She beat him and howled.
“Listen, Munir, I’m going to throw you out. Get out before I kill you.”
She turned and exploded, then collapsed a distance away from him, poisoned. She knelt on the floor and rent her clothes from top to bottom, smote her cheeks and tore her hair. She wept and wailed, and suddenly set upon him in his resigned state. His feet were still, his trousers were halfway down, and what was between his legs looked like stale meat. Your aunt’s voice had trailed off; she wailed almost inaudibly, crying softly but not rising. She called but no one came to her. She exclaimed “Allahu akbar,” beat her neck and fell on him again, only her arm threatening. She was sweaty and her hair was matted, the bosom of her dress was open with her breasts exposed, now jiggling outside, now back inside. Adil walked through the house, terrified but silent; he did not stop or see anything. He went into our grandmother’s room and buried his face in her bed.
Mr. Munir felt himself, pulled up his trousers and pushed the pillows away from his head. She went to him and kicked him in the chest and forehead, stood over his head and spat on him as if she were about to vomit. His bald pate shone with spit and sweat, his harsh, wrinkled forehead withdrawn a little. He closed his eyes, covered with spittle. She pushed him in the stomach and muttered and she pulled me by the arm. We went in to Adil and she turned to lock the door with the key, then sank to the floor, beating her thighs, and tearing her hair. None of us made a sound. I thought of my grandmother as I heard the sound of the outer door opening and closing again.
15
Everyone in our street was stopping by the shop of Hubi the butcher, all stunned by the rumors: “The police have taken Hubi away.”
“They say he was circulating anti-government leaflets.”
“No, they say he cursed the Regent and Nuri al-Said.”
“God help us and our children. They say he was behind the last demonstration, after Nasser nationalized the Suez Canal.”
We had watched the demonstration: my grandmother stood in front of the Friday Mosque with the women of the neighborhood, praying for the young men as they passed before her holding their banners high. “God protect you, my dears, and bring you safely home to your families.”
She was bewildered, exclaiming as if she stood in the line of fire. Umm Suturi belted her wool cloak round her waist, stretched, and tightened her black band round her head, trilling. She regulated the water spigots, set up five thick wooden posts and set pots and pails of clean water between them. She filled canvas sacks with loaves of oven-fresh bread. They drank as they passed before her, shouting slogans and munching the fresh bread.
Rasmiyah had prepared a number of emergency supplies: surgical spirits, dressings, cotton, and iodine. Abu Mahmoud had new types of cheese, which he set out on big plates and left in the care of Umm Mahmoud. He was wearing his new trousers embroidered with silver stripes, a new leather belt, and had a new headcloth fastened round his head. He looked like the mitwalli of the mosque, Hajji Aziz, who stood near him. Between them were Abu Hashim, Abu Masoud, Abu Iman, Abu Ghanim, and Muhammad the builder. Blind Umm Aziz brought big holiday plates dotted with sweets, calling out, “Today everything is free for our boys.”
They all came out: the coppersmiths, carpenters, ironworkers, and builders. Aunt Najia’s young voice parted the crowds of women and children before her: “Dears, clear the way a little for me. I’m ill and out of breath.”
Bahija, La’iqa, and Aunt Naima raised their voices in prayer: “God bless the Prophet Muhammad. Protect them, O Lord, and let them be our protection.”
Aunt Farida went up to the high roof and stood there. Her voice was inaudible and her face was indistinct, but she clapped and chanted. The front of the demonstration appeared at the intersection of the first houses passing down Great Imam Street, and she jumped and skipped, rushing amid the throng. Her clothing was white and her head was covered with a bright veil. She refused to wear her cloak on this day. She stood in front of Abu Mahmoud, who was holding the hands of the boys and girls of the neighborhood, making us one circle.
Adil had not chosen a partner or a spot to stand in; he moved in our midst like a sleepwalker. Suturi and Nizar called out and laughed. H
ashim was bursting with enthusiasm and played with his voice, wanting to release it. Mahmoud was far, far away, dripping with sweat. His voice erupted like a fit of dry, irritated coughing. “He’s become a communist,” the people said.
I did not understand what that word meant, though I had heard it as if my father had his pistol out and was chasing me. Mahmoud had changed; his face was harsh and his appearance was different, his luxuriant moustache was now a permanent feature of his face, and a strange stillness had slowed his rapid gait. He had changed and become introverted; he was tense, no longer among us. When he stood near me, he used big words and the titles of thick books.
He came quietly and left secretly, and passed through the neighborhood as we slept. The family’s former sense of security was gone, and their easy kindness had become wariness. He was careful the way he looked at you, and when he locked eyes with you his eyes were like a threat. When you were with Firdous it was she he spoke to, and when you were alone you beat yourself in his name. Everyone in the neighborhood bit their tongues and feared for him: grown-ups, family men, important people, all knew that “getting into politics means trouble,” but they knew very little more and kept quiet.
Mahmoud began to disappear from school and home, from the neighborhood and his neighbors, his close friends, and you.
The day he gave me a leaflet I was afraid, trembling and stammering. The first leaflet was like a first forbidden kiss. I could not move; my stomach was upside down and I nearly fainted. I knew that there was something like a bomb inside it, and if I touched it, it would blow my hand and head off. I read it but only found Nasser’s name mentioned once carelessly.
Muddled, I stopped reading and handed it back to him in silence. He vanished before me and left me only the temptation to read. I hardly understood anything; there was hardly anything I didn’t understand.
