by Nihad Sirees
“What happened?” I asked the old man. “Had she fallen in love with her?”
“No. Fatima wasn’t like that. You might say she had a mother’s feelings. Would you believe that Fatima had never had a child by the kind-hearted scrap metal seller? It hadn’t bothered her at the time because she saw with her own two eyes how children were dying from hunger, getting sick and throwing up and being trampled underfoot. Her own mother had died mourning the little child she would leave behind, all alone in this terrible world. At that moment she wished never to have a child or become a mother herself. She never experienced that special feeling mothers have for their sons and daughters. When Khojah Bahira hired her to take care of Widad, she was overwhelmed by maternal feelings from the very first day. She took care of Widad the way a mother cares for her own daughter.”
“That’s nice. And Widad, how did she feel about it?”
“The young woman loved the servant because she had filled the void left by her mother, who had been buried in Maydan Ekbas,” the old man said. “She missed her whenever she heard Fatima’s stories. Often she would rest her head against Fatima’s shoulder as she listened to her, her mind drifting through the worlds that were constructed in her imagination, the universe of those stories with Kurdo and the Armenian girl. Every instalment of the story, every sentence, would miraculously become images she watched in her head. Much of the time she would fall asleep as she breathed in the scent of her housemaid. After a while this smell became more familiar, odours became mixed together for Widad, and she could no longer tell the difference between the scent of her mother, Badia, or the smell of Fatima. The two scents merged, becoming one and the same thing.”
“So did Fatima leave?” I asked, wanting to get back to what happened after Bahira tried to kick her out.
“She did.
“Widad was huddled in the corner weeping when Fatima came in to say goodbye. She was carrying her belongings, dressed and ready to go, and she had wrapped a scarf around her head. Widad stopped crying and got up to embrace her. Then she started to cry against Fatima’s chest, heedless of the way her tears were soaking into Fatima’s dress. She continued sobbing, and they remained like that for a while, until Widad calmed down.
“‘I hate Khojah Bahira,’ she whispered in Fatima’s ear, as Fatima gently stroked her head.
“‘Don’t blame Khojah. He knows what best for you. She worried about you.’
“‘Take me with you, Fatima.’
“‘Too hard, Widad dear. I’m housemaid. You’re important lady.’
“‘So tell me, where are you going? I’ll try to convince Khojah Bahira to bring you back.’
“‘Khojah Bahira stubborn. Nothing you can do.’
“‘I’ll try anyway. Just tell me where you’re going. Please.’
“‘Fatima, he doesn’t know.’
“‘Promise me that you’ll call and tell me where you are as soon as you get settled. I want to know what’s going on with you.’
“‘Çok güzel.’
“Just then Widad pulled her head away from Fatima. She held her, kissed her, and smiled. And what a smile amid her tears and red eyes and dripping nose. She was adorable. Fatima smiled back at her.
“‘You’re my mother now,’ Widad found herself confessing. ‘Let me call you mother.’
“Fatima liked that. She felt happy despite being thrown out of the house. She said goodbye and left. Widad followed her out into the courtyard. Aisha and Farida stood there beside the fountain, leaning against one another, and Suad stood near the living room. She could see Widad’s pain as she followed her servant anxiously. Soon the door clicked shut. Widad rushed back to her room and closed the door behind her. Khojah Bahira watched all of this from her window onto the courtyard.
“Bahira loved Widad, passionately loved her. She found her adorable when she cried, with her eyes and nose inflamed. She used to call Widad’s mother ‘Caramel’. She deserved the name as much as her mother had, even more so.
“She was happy that God had sent her Widad, happy despite feeling that Widad had started to hate her after she’d kicked Fatima out, and that was why she had to do something, to take care of her even at the expense of her lifestyle and profession. To hell with the women’s gatherings. To hell with all the ladies and their weddings. She would focus exclusively on her sweetheart.
“Bahira was jealous of Fatima’s imaginary heroes. She was convinced that those characters would turn into flesh-and-blood men with names and bodies. She had allowed Widad to live there without exposing her feelings for her out of concern that she might leave. She gave her space so that she could get used to the house, its way of life. She didn’t intend to reveal her feelings until later. She felt pleasure whenever Widad observed Aisha and Farida rubbing up against one another, unabashedly touching and exchanging kisses. Widad would laugh when she saw them doing that. She enjoyed watching even as Bahira stole furtive glances to track her reactions, monitoring her breathing, her blinking, the moistness of her lips, so that she could evaluate her level of readiness.
“Bahira’s extreme caution with young girls began after an incident with Sabiha, who had run away from her family and joined the troupe as a prodigy singer. When Bahira invited her to join them she did so immediately. She was olive-skinned, her hair was black as night, and she had particularly soft features. There was nothing rough about her. By contrast, there were many women with rough shapes but smooth natures, including Khojah Bahira herself—a thin mouth, nose and eyes. She was happy, laughing all the time, even when she was singing. Bahira loved her from the moment she laid eyes on her, and her love for her grew steadily as she taught her how to sing. One day Bahira made a move, pulled her in close and started kissing her. This came as a great shock to Sabiha. She was shocked and she recoiled forcefully and pulled herself out of the Khojah’s clasp. She was troubled. Her face turned bright-red and flustered, despite her eventual laugh as she regained her composure and pulled herself together. But after that Bahira felt that this girl wasn’t hers, that Sabiha would run away and return to her family. And that’s exactly what happened. Bahira lost her love this time and became depressed. Her friends and performers had to console her for a long time before she could forget about the prodigy singer.
“Bahira was standing behind and to the side of her window so that the women in the courtyard couldn’t see her. She was in tears, knowing full well that she had been cruel to Widad and Fatima because of her love, which she hadn’t been able to express.
“Is it wrong to feel passion? To love? They would say she wasn’t normal, that she was a bint al-ishreh who had to get married to a man to continue working at weddings, as many women in the profession had done before her. This wasn’t right. She hated men. Every human being should be allowed to love however they pleased. What matters is that the beloved have a good heart and kind nature. God is beautiful and He loves beauty. Whether the beloved is a man or a woman shouldn’t be important. Affection is what matters.
“She wasn’t comfortable with men. She wasn’t attracted to their rough, stubbly skin, their facial hair, their grunts and boisterous voices. God had created her this way—loving women. She loved soft skin and breasts. She loved the scent of a woman and detested the odour of a man. She had loved a great many women, one of whom was Badia. Now there was Widad.
“Through the windowpane she watched Aisha and Farida arm in arm as they sadly returned to the iwan. They were devastated to see Widad broken-hearted over her servant. The two of them sat down on the sofa. Aisha leant her back against the cushion and cradled Farida’s head, stroking it as Farida rested against her chest. She wiped away the tears wetting her thin cheeks and sighed deeply. She loved that woman who looked like a man.
“The day Fatima left, Widad locked herself in her own room. It wasn’t a work night so they all stayed home. A heavy silence fell over the courtyard, except for the sounds of footsteps whenever one of them stumbled here or there. Suad tried to enter Widad’s room to brin
g her some food, but Widad made her leave the plates outside the door. Suad thought it would be better not to disturb her that day, although she found an inventive way to lighten the mood and actually speak to Widad. She picked up her kamancheh and stood by the door, serenading her with long selections from the songbooks of Muhammad Uthman, Dawud Husni and Mohammed Abdel Wahab.
“Widad listened to the doleful sound of the instrument. Suad was a talented player, and she made Widad forget her hatred for Bahira for a short time. Widad smiled at an upbeat section, at which point she felt hungry and started to eat. Suad kept playing for an entire hour, and then pushed open the door and looked inside. Widad was sitting on her bed, resting her head on her fist. She had eaten some of the food, so Suad smiled at her encouragingly and closed the door once again.
“Early the next morning, Bahira slipped into Widad’s room. She stood beside her bed and regarded her sleeping beauty. Widad’s elbows were folded and her hand was on the pillow, as though she were looking back at her. The blonde hair Bahira had curled herself was spread haphazardly, a small, solitary curl rested limply on a neck as white as snow. She was so adorable while she slept. If Bahira hadn’t been so concerned not to wake Widad, she would have reached out and caressed her.
“Her pale skin was even more alluring than the experienced Khojah had expected. Sleeping women seem more beautiful and paler than they do when they’re awake. Her gown was hiked up to the middle of her thighs and wasn’t clinging to her chest because her nipples had become so soft.
“The Khojah crouched down and rested her wrists on the bed. She continued to watch Widad sleeping there peacefully, scrutinising her forehead and the line of her nose, down to the tip as it curved around after that in a subtle arc towards her lips, full and crinkled, then the curve of the chin, the bend of her neck.
“It was here that Widad most resembled her mother Badia: in the curve of her chin and the bridge of her nose. But the corner of her closed eye looked strange to Bahira. Had she inherited that from her father, Captain Cevdet? Was he that handsome? If so, that meant she had also inherited from him those balanced and graceful movements that had captured Bahira’s imagination, those unnamed and indescribable movements, which Raheel called a kind of uncommon dance.
“Widad shook her hand, which had fallen asleep and gone numb as it rested on the pillow in front of her. She opened her eyes and saw Bahira’s face staring down at her from up close. Still suspended between sleep and wakefulness, she shuddered with fear, her pupils dilated. Sensing her disquiet, Bahira smiled at her, reached out and touched her cheek and neck. Widad relaxed once she realised it was Bahira, and closed her eyes again but didn’t fall back asleep.
“‘Good morning,’ Bahira said in a soft and gentle voice. ‘I just came to see how you’re doing. I know you hate me right now but here I am anyway. I don’t want to lose you the way I lost your mother. It doesn’t matter how much I loved her. A man came along and stole her from me. He took her away to one of those border villages and made her live like a peasant woman. Then she sent you to me before she died so that I could take care of you. May God have mercy on her soul. She knew what a big mistake she had made, and she didn’t want you to trust in men and soldiers and outlaws. I love you. I don’t want to lose you. You may hate me now but someday you’ll understand why I had to do this. It was for your protection.’
“Widad stared directly into Bahira’s eyes, listening to what she was saying. She didn’t like what she heard but she didn’t hate Bahira either. She listened.
“‘I won’t leave you in anyone else’s care ever again,’ Bahira continued. ‘You’ll come with me wherever I go, to parties and weddings. You’re my sweetheart and you’re going to stay right by my side.’
“She smoothed Widad’s hair and caressed her ear, sliding down to her neck. But Widad’s resentment rose despite Bahia’s gentleness.
“‘I cared for Fatima,’ Widad said harshly. ‘She loved me the way my mother did. I even called her Mama.’
“Bahira remained silent as she listened, trembling.
“‘I’m not going to run away with some nogoodnik the way my mother did with Captain Cevdet,’ Widad continued.
“‘I don’t want you to get involved with any men at all.’
“‘Why not? In Maydan Ekbas there were a lot of men. I didn’t particularly like any of them except for Bayonet Abduh, and I never thought about going off with him. I’m so pathetic…’
“‘You can’t trust men. They’re all selfish. We women understand one another more fully. And if you do leave my home in order to shack up with a man, I wouldn’t want you to become a slave to him.’
“‘Of course not. I’d just as soon stay here. I love you, and I love Suad and Aisha and Farida.’
“‘So you don’t hate me…’
“‘Of course not. I don’t hate you. And I don’t want you to hate Fatima. Ask her to come back and I’ll give up on her stories.’
“‘Forget about her. I’ll be like a mother to you from now on.’
“Widad frowned. She wanted Fatima, and if she came back she’d love Bahira. She turned over. Behind her the Khojah exhaled. She wanted Widad as her own, all to herself. She wanted her to become a woman untainted by men, even from the world of make-believe.
“She gently touched her thigh and asked her to turn around, but the young woman wouldn’t budge. Bahira was patient with her the way a lover waits for the beloved. They remained like that: Widad with her back turned and Bahira crouched beside the bed, hand touching Widad’s thigh, then moving up to her waist. Bahira found that Widad wasn’t going to prevent her, didn’t push her hand away. She was accepting her touch, and it appeared that she had grown accustomed to these things because of how often she had seen it with Aisha and Farida when they were touching one another. She got up and sat on the bed, leaning against her and resting her elbow on the pillow in order to tousle Widad’s hair. Now she began to stroke the girl’s arm, then her shoulder, moving up to her neck. Widad’s coquettishness and the feel of her skin were so pleasurable. Bahira’s head was hovering directly over hers, and she noticed that Widad’s eyes were open, staring firmly at an insect on the wall.
“‘Do you know what love is? You’re old enough to know something about it. It’s when you get hung up on someone and can’t bear to be apart from them. It’s like a girl who loves her mother. But then again it isn’t anything like that. Aisha and Farida love each other. God bestowed upon human beings the distinction of being able to love another. It’s the opposite of hatred. As far as a woman’s concerned, to love is to lose yourself in the one you love. Without any reason or purpose or benefit. Men love women because they’re selfish. Women love only in order to give. A man can only take, he demands a woman’s future for himself alone. He impregnates her so she’ll bear his children for him, makes her serve him at home, cooking and cleaning and working for his well-being. Her comfort isn’t important. When a woman loves another woman, the goal is love and love alone. Without children, the two of them cooperate and serve one another. It’s the purest form of love. Our love is like the love of mystics.’
“Widad was listening to her closely, no longer just looking at the insect. They were so close that her heartbeat could be felt in Bahira’s body. Bahira decided to confess to her. The time had come.
“She drew closer to her and whispered, ‘I’ve started to have feelings of the purest love for you. I love you. I threw out Fatima because I was afraid you would fall in love with a man and not love me. I was afraid you would hate me for that. Forgive me. A woman in love will kill for her love. Sometimes she’ll behave badly.’
“Khojah Bahira fell silent. Widad was waiting for her to finish. She liked what she was saying. Eventually she turned around to look at her. Her face was only a hair’s breadth away from Bahira’s. Each of them could feel the other’s breath. She was searching the Khojah’s eyes for the words she was waiting for her to say. She found her staring back at her strangely. Bahira was fragile, desp
erate, sincere. There was something else she had noticed in Aisha and Farida’s eyes. She wasn’t sure what to call it, something that makes eyes heavy, warms the heart and parts moist lips.
“Bahira closed her eyes, letting her mouth fall onto Widad’s lips.”
CHAPTER THREE
How the Old Man’s Servant Ismail Plotted to Kill Me, or at Least Make Me Run Away
IT WASN’T VERY LATE, but I could tell that the old man was exhausted from talking for hours on end. Ismail wasn’t around; possibly he’d gone to bed, or perhaps he was sitting in a corner of the house plotting something unpleasant. I offered to help the old man to his room and asked him to show me the photographs hanging on the walls so I could see pictures of the people in the story I had been listening to over the last two days. I was certain that this dignified old man was one of the characters in the story he had been telling me, or at least that those characters had once been part of his world.
After uttering that racy sentence about Bahira kissing Widad he stopped talking for a while. It seemed appropriate for me to stand up and take a look outside. It was dark and rain-washed. The sound of the downpour had grown more intense ever since the old man had stopped talking. As I stood there, I wiped away the grime from the window with my handkerchief and pushed my face against the glass, cupping my hands around my eyes in order to get a better look at the darkness outside. It was difficult to see anything. The only light was coming from the window, pooling on the ground, expanding and then vanishing. The rain had created a shallow river near the window that was filled with bubbles, as if it were boiling. Imagining Ismail’s face coming at me from out of the darkness, I was seized with panic that made me suddenly jerk away from the window.
