States of Passion

by Nihad Sirees

“So I’ll stay then.”

  “Listen, I don’t think you should hear his stories. You’re a puerile and insolent person, tricking the old man into trusting you like this. Ask him to talk about something else.”

  “What is it about these stories that gets you so worked up? It’s just an ordinary tale…”

  “None of your business. There are some things that are none of your business…”

  “Does it have to do with Widad or Khojah Bahira?”

  All of a sudden he grabbed me by the throat and squeezed until I felt like I was going to suffocate. “I’ll cut out your tongue,” he said, thrusting his face in close to mine, spraying spittle across my mouth. “You’re going to forget whatever he’s told you, you hear me? You’ve got to forget all about it!”

  He let me go before I choked to death. I had trouble breathing, and as I was trying to catch my breath, he grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head up at a painful angle before continuing to threaten me.

  “I pray to God the rain stops. Then you’ll have to go, or else I’ll stab you to death with the knife I left on the counter for you. I’ll be gone for two hours. When I get back I’m going to say that your family didn’t answer the phone. In the meantime, you can speak to the old man. You’d better not ask him to tell you any more of his made-up stories.”

  He yanked my head to one side and then let it go before walking off. I nearly toppled over as I backed away. I fell against the living-room door, struggling to catch my breath, waiting for the colour to return to my face.

  “There’s something I can’t figure out about your servant Ismail, Shaykh Nafeh,” I said later. “He doesn’t seem to want me to hear the story about Widad.”

  “What I talk to my guests about is none of Ismail’s business.”

  “Sure, but clearly he would prefer for this story to remain locked away in your memory vault. Sir, I also noticed how you go quiet whenever he walks in on us. It’s come to the point that he wants me to leave.”

  “Let’s forget about him and get back to Widad. Now, where were we?”

  “Please, I have a question before we resume the story. Who is Ismail? Is he just your servant, or is he?…”

  “He isn’t a servant.”

  “Does he have something to do with the story? It seems like he has something…”

  “You’re getting ahead of things. Let me finish the story and you’ll be able to figure it out for yourself.”

  I asked him to let me throw out a few more questions before Ismail got back from wherever he had gone. It was very important to me that I flesh out the picture of these characters in the story I had painted in my mind.

  “What do you want to know?” he asked.

  “Last night in your bedroom I found a picture of Widad at the train station in Aleppo.”

  “Yes, I held on to that. It’s a photocopy of a newspaper clipping.”

  “Where did you find the newspaper?”

  “I had to search for a long time before I was able to find it and buy a copy. It was at the National Archives in Aleppo.”

  “Do you remember the name of the newspaper?”

  “I think it was the Aleppo newspaper al-Shabab, published by the late Muhammad Tlas.”

  I wrote down the name of the newspaper on a piece of paper I had been carrying around in my pocket so I could jot down notes I was afraid I would forget, then put it away once again. Ordinarily I carried a notepad around with me in order do quick sums or record passing thoughts about the agricultural harvests or the loan data, but I’d lost it while trudging through the rain on the way there.

  “I had to skim all the issues of newspapers and magazines from September and October 1936,” he continued.

  “And is that issue of al-Shabab still there?”

  “I’m not sure. That was thirty years ago. Why do you ask? Do you want a copy?”

  “I do. The photocopy I found behind the curtain in your room doesn’t give a clear impression of Widad. I think if I took a look at the original perhaps I’d be able to get a better picture. Also, do you have a picture of Khojah Bahira?”

  “No, but somebody told me that there’s a photographer who held on to a framed and enlarged portrait of Widad and Khojah Bahira in his studio. It was a beautiful photo, which was why he kept it, hung it up in his shop like an advertisement for his work.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I think it’s called Dunya Studio, in the Bab al-Nasr neighbourhood.”

  I took out the piece of paper again and wrote down the name of the studio.

  “The name won’t help you,” he said. “I already went there, but it was too late. The photographer’s died, and his wife cleaned out the studio. They told me that someone who emigrated to Brazil took all his equipment and his pictures with him. I spent a long time searching for him but now I’m an old man and I’m tired of looking.”

  “One last question. Have you ever told anyone this story before me?”

  “I never saw the point in telling it after I came here with Ismail. What educated person in their right mind would follow all those roads and seek shelter with us, giving me the chance to tell the story? I thank God it’s been raining for three days straight. I hope it continues until I’ve finished. But if you keep asking questions, I won’t have time.”

  “So I’m the only person who knows this much?”

  “Ismail knows the story, too, but he hates it. He’s always asking me to stop talking about it. He’s even tried to convince me that I’m making it all up, that I’ve confabulated these events because of how isolated we are here and because my mind is breaking down from Parkinson’s.”

  “I understand…”

  “And there’s that other person…”

  “Which person?”

  “The doctor who loves to go hunting. He was on a hunting trip when he got lost in the woods. He was dying of thirst when he arrived on our doorstep. It was so hot outside. It must have been June. That was three years ago. We welcomed him here and I started telling him the story while we sat out on the veranda. We would stay up until dawn, which comes early in the summertime.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “One day I woke up and sat down to wait for him. After waiting a long time I asked Ismail, and he told me that the doctor had left early that morning without saying goodbye, which made me very sad.”

  I shivered. My fear of Ismail returned. I imagine the circumstances under which the doctor had left. Either he had been killed or he had left under duress.

  “How long did he stay with you?” I asked.

  “Three days.”

  “Had he heard as much of the story from you as I have? More? Less?”

  “I think he heard about the same amount. I can’t remember.”

  “Do you remember the doctor’s name?”

  “Yes. I repeat his name whenever he comes to my mind. His name was Dr Waleed Fares.”

  Distressed, I bolted upright and walked over to the window, looking out at the world drowning in rain, thinking to myself that there was a strong possibility he was dead. If I were forced to leave I would come up with an excuse to return to hear the rest. Only death could prevent me from doing so. I became certain that the same thing that happened to Dr Waleed Fares was happening to me, and that whatever happened to him was going to happen to me as well. I also thought… this story might lead to my death.

  Just then I saw Ismail standing there, about a hundred metres from the garden gate, unmoving beneath a blanket of rain. He was facing me. Perhaps he was staring at me through the ropes of rain. When the old man cleared his throat I tried not to think about what might happen and went back over to him, sat down and politely asked him to resume. Words cannot describe just how relieved he seemed when I asked him to do so.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Good morning poplar branch standing upright

  The flesh lives on

  O day

  While the bone must end standing upright

  For the sake of
the oppressed eyes may I reach my end standing upright

  A slave awaiting the moment of command

  A POEM OF ADMONITION KHOJAH BAHIRA SANG

  TO WIDAD AT THE HAMMAM

  “As WIDAD SURRENDERED to Suad’s hands while she put on the final pieces of jewellery, Khojah Bahira said:

  “‘Come on, we’re late, it’s already past twelve.’

  “‘Of course, ablaya, we’re ready,’ Widad replied, gazing in wonder at herself in the mirror.

  “Bahira went out into the garden and began barking orders at Aisha and Faridah. The two women lined up the bags and the suitcases, which had been stuffed to the gills. Suad crouched in front of Widad. She was mesmerising, a woman unlike any other.

  “‘Soon you’re going to be famous, Widad,’ Bahira said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Everyone’s going to know you as one of the most beautiful women in Aleppo. Women will gasp at your charms. Your name will be on everyone’s lips.’

  “Widad smiled as she examined herself a second time. The four women had taught her what it meant to be beautiful, what it was that made her so beautiful. Suad’s cheek was still caressing hers, two faces joined together, imprinted on the surface of the mirror.

  “‘You’re pretty, too,’ Widad told Suad, trying to be nice.

  “‘Who, me?’ Suad asked. ‘I’m a dog compared to you. It doesn’t bother me, though. Every gasp that escapes from a woman’s mouth when she sees you is for all of us.’

  “From the courtyard she could hear Bahira telling them to hurry up. Just then Widad kissed her and got up. Soon after that the carriage delivered the five women to the Balaban hammam.

  “Now that her love had been well and truly accepted, Khojah Bahira decided that the time had come to bring Widad out of her forced isolation and present her to the women of Aleppan society. She no longer feared that someone was going to steal her away. Bahira had been nervous that Widad might get scared and possibly even run away if she confessed her love. But Widad accepted it with an open heart. When Bahira kissed her for the first time, she responded in kind.

  “Bahira spent the entire day in Widad’s room. They held one another in bed all day long. They cried together, too, their tears running together. The women always had something to cry about. Ever since Widad accepted her Khojah’s advances, being apart from her had become difficult. Bahira wasn’t satisfied with just embracing and kissing her sweetheart, and Suad was forced to bring their lunch and dinner to Widad’s room on a serving tray so Bahira could feed Widad by hand. When Suad left the room she would report to Aisha and Faridah that things were going as well as possible. Joy spread through the Farafrah house. The women started playing cheerful music underneath the window that looked down on the courtyard. Aisha danced even as she banged out the rhythm. That night Bahira guided her sweetheart back to her room so that she could sleep in her bed with her, at which point Suad reclaimed her own room.

  “At first Widad was embarrassed whenever Bahira stroked and kissed her in front of the other girls. But modesty cannot destroy passion, and since they all lived in the same house, freely entering each other’s bedrooms, everyone had to accept public displays of affection. There was nothing more natural than seeing couples in a romantic situation, caressing. At first she was embarrassed whenever Suad would come into her room for whatever reason when the two of them were in bed together half naked, or, shall we say, with very little on. Bahira didn’t like her body to be separated from Widad’s smouldering body. She didn’t see the need to move away from her if Suad or Aisha or Faridah walked in. She always had to sit next to Bahira whenever they were in the courtyard or some other room together. To sit beside her also meant touching her the same way Aisha and Faridah did right in front of her. Meanwhile Suad would go around serving all of them because she didn’t have anyone.

  “Within a few days everything began to feel normal to Widad. She started to appreciate the pleasure she and Bahira enjoyed, which only made her find Bahira even more beautiful and pleasing. She started to feel a lump in her throat if her ablaya neglected her for even a moment when she was engrossed in a conversation or busy with something else. As the days went by, Widad stopped feeling any shame when the two of them went into the bath together or came out at the same time. Bahira had become her ablaya, which, as we already mentioned, was the most natural of things in the Farafrah house.

  “Widad was ready to move on to the women of Aleppo. She had become aware of her self-worth and the extent of her beauty and gracefulness. Even more important, she had learnt how to show it all off naturally, without going too far or not far enough. She learnt how to speak and laugh properly, how to style her unruly hair, how to walk in high heels without falling, and how to touch her face without ruining her makeup. In Aleppo high society she would meet elegant and privileged women from the upper crust who were beloved for their musical talents and their passion. Daughters of pashas and beys and aghas and effendis. Wives of merchants and factory-owners and large landowners and distinguished bureaucrats. She might come into contact with the wives of the governor or the mayor, the head of the Chamber of Industry or Commerce, government officials or judges and court employees. For all of these reasons, Khojah Bahira was careful not to let Widad mix with the people until she was fully put together. She also wanted to detonate this secret weapon in the faces of all those other women when she revealed to them that she was her new abalaya.

  Bahira had reserved the Balaban hammam for precisely this purpose, sending invitations to all the women who would be interested, especially women of a certain disposition. Suad attended to Widad’s makeup while someone else took care of the food and sweets that would be on offer at the hammam. Apparently word about Widad had already spread among the women, and tongues wagged in telling the tale of a dangerously beautiful woman whom the Khojah had taken as her new lover. Curiosity was at its peak by the time invitations to see Widad actually arrived. On the appointed day, cars and buses, both public and private, started to deposit women at the hammam, clogging the streets leading to Bab al-Hadid and the Serail near the citadel. Some women had to walk a great distance on foot. Other Khojahs were also invited. Of course, Khojah Samah, Bahira’s rival in music and in love, was among those invited. Bahira wanted to make it clear Widad belonged to her, and there was no point in trying to win or steal her away from her.

  “So that’s why Khojah Bahira had that party?” I asked the old man.

  “Exactly. Her aim was to have a reception, to invite all her friends and clients, most of whom were also banat al-ishreh, in order to introduce her new girlfriend, who at that point was as unknown to the community as the community was to her. Presenting Widad was a little bit like announcing an engagement.”

  “Were all the women present necessarily of the same… orientation?”

  “For the most part. There would have been quite a few women who hung out with them but who weren’t banat al-ishreh themselves. They would have found a certain pleasure in that, even if they had no zdeeqa themselves.”

  “A zdeeqa is a kind of girlfriend, right?”

  “Correct. The invitation would be addressed to the ablaya and her zdeeqa. You’d see them sitting two by two.”

  “But why have it at the hammam? Why wouldn’t she invite them over to her house?”

  “It had become customary to hold such gatherings in the public hammam. Things happened more organically in those spaces, without disturbing children and husbands, many of whom would have had no idea that their wives might be going to the hammam for reasons other than to bathe. There’s another important reason as far as the banat al-ishreh are concerned. It’s totally natural at the hammam for a woman to take off some or all of her clothes and to wrap herself in a towel. This was a preferable situation since it made it easier for them to caress one another.”

  “Please, continue,” I encouraged the old man.

  “When the bus with Khojah Bahira and her women reached the edge of the government building, the road from there to the Balab
an hammam was totally cleared of other buses and cars so that their vehicle was able to drive right up to the door of the bathhouse. As as it came to a stop, Suad and Aisha and Faridah hurried inside carrying the packages and musical instruments while Bahira and Widad waited in the bus for a sign to follow them inside.

  “The outer courtyard of the hammam was full of women, seated two by two on cushions lined up on benches or on the floor, which had been covered with cloths. They took off some of their clothes or stripped down naked and wrapped themselves up in towels. Some of the women there had fancy titles with particular rings and echoes to them:

  “Fadila Khanum, wife of Nu’man Beyk, who had inherited from his father 6,000 hectares and a spacious konak in the village where he would spend most of his time in spite of Fadila’s hatred of the village and her particular love of living in Aleppo. Her zdeeqa Waheeba Khanum, the respectable woman married to the head of the lawyers’ guild who dreamt of being elected to Parliament. Fadwa, wife of Professor Nazem, the litterateur and poet who taught Arabic literature. Umm Saadeddine, wife of the Board of Directors of the Ghazal cotton and spinning company of Aleppo. The wife of the district governor of Minbaj. Adeela, wife of the personal translator for the French High Commissioner Comte Damien de Martel, and her ablaya. Saadiyeh, wife of the editor-in-chief of Voice of the North magazine. Umm Umar, wife of the esteemed head of the Syria Social Club who brags about his wife’s relationship with the wife of the governor. Sumaya, wife of the governor. Amina Khanum, wife of the president of the association of literary clubs in Aleppo, and eloquent spokesperson simultaneously both for and against the French, depending on the circumstances; her girlfriend, the very skinny daughter of the assistant to the head of customs. Umm As’ad and her ablaya Dalal. Mounira Khanum, wife of the owner of the Phoenicia Glass Works, well known for her good looks and her high morals. Miss Yusra, wife of the owner of Sarah’s Scents Workshop for all kinds of colognes and face creams and hair-styling products. The wife of the owner of the National Factory for Shirts and Socks, and her girlfriend Iftikar, wife of the owner of the Imperial Sawfar Hotel. And other wives of high-society men, in addition to Khojah Samah and her new Jewish ablaya Raheel.