States of Passion

by Nihad Sirees

  “The delegation descended from the train, with Mr Hashim al-Atassi at the front, followed by Saadallah al-Jabiri and all the rest. Monsieur de Martel kissed each one of them on the cheeks and the grandees gathered there to greet them did the same. When they had all lined up in front of the train to have their photo taken for posterity, a young peasant woman whose beauty surpassed anything I’d ever seen before appeared at the door of the train. She stood there in shock. She wondered if she had done something inappropriate because the masses had stopped chanting and shouting. The brass band had also stopped playing. Everyone was staring at her, finding her presence on the train quite strange. As for me, I was in love. I loved her from that moment. I wanted to know her story and what she was doing there. She recoiled in embarrassment, especially when the camera flash bulb went off and released smoke into the air. She placed her hand over her face, covering her eyes, seemingly blinded by the flash.

  “The poor thing said something to the delegation and to Monsieur de Martel before she descended the carriage steps and stepped onto the platform. The chanting started back up again and the marching music resumed. The people forgot all about her, especially when the delegation and their welcome party moved towards the exit. But I didn’t forget about her, even as the huge torrent of people forcefully pushed me along. I was trying to find her, but I couldn’t even get my own bearings as the people shoved me ouside the station, into the street, and far away from the building. I knew I had lost her. I returned to chanting slogans along with everyone else, holding Sad Malek’s hand.

  “The next day I scanned the newspapers for coverage of the delegation’s arrival and I found the photo with her in it. I bought two copies of the paper, one of which I stashed in my room. The other I placed in my pocket so as to keep it close by while I was at the soap workshop. I would take it out in order to regard the young lady’s beauty. In the evening Sad Malek and I went to a café where I showed him the picture. It seemed that he liked her as well, and she became the girl of our dreams, my friend Sad Malek and I.

  “We began to talk about her every day. We wondered what her name was, who she was, where she might be at that moment. We started making up stories about her. We wished we would run into her on the street, which was why we continually wandered around the city neighbourhoods, checking the faces of veiled and unveiled women. One time we came across a woman who looked liked her, so we followed her. When we caught up with her and looked her in the face, we discovered it wasn’t the one we were looking for. But she was young and beautiful. Malek fell in love and followed after her to find out where she lived. From that day forward he no longer shared my love for the woman from the newspaper.

  *

  Now that I had been introduced to the first link in the connection between him and Widad, I asked the old man, “Did you ever speak with Khadija about the young woman in the newspaper?”

  “I began to stay alone in my bedroom. I’d take out the newspaper and gaze at her face. I wanted the paper to give me a clue about where she might be hiding, but it was useless. Isolation made me think too much. Khadija grew nervous. Once she anxiously said that I had begun to stray and that I was getting more and more distracted. I tried not to respond because I wasn’t sure if she would laugh if I told her I was in love with a young woman I didn’t know anything about, apart from her picture in the paper.”

  “But you told her in the end, right?”

  “Of course. One night we were sitting in my room just before bedtime. She was knitting me a pair of woollen gloves for the coming winter and I was looking at an open book but couldn’t focus enough to read. I was desperate to talk to her about the girl in the newspaper. When I showed her the picture in the newspaper, she thought I was pointing at the French officer or other members of the delegation. I pointed out the young woman who was standing behind them on the steps of the train carriage. I told her I loved that woman.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She started laughing at me. Then she warned me not to fall in love with anyone because I was just going to have to marry Jalila, my uncle’s daughter. When I said I was serious, she realised she couldn’t see very well or make out anything in the picture apart from the delegation. I promised I’d buy her some glasses. But Khadija did begin to listen as I told her about that young woman. I relaxed. She gradually realised that the whole thing was merely the fantasy of a young man.”

  “Where did you meet Widad after that?”

  “I’ll tell you in due course. But I’m worried about Ismail right now. I don’t hear a sound from downstairs.”

  “Don’t worry about him. I’ll check on him as soon as you finish the story.”

  “I told you my uncle’s wife Hamideh Khanum loved music and concerts. She often tried to emulate high society women and considered herself one of them. But since her extreme obesity prevented her from leaving the house, she would host parties in the living room several times over the course of a year, although she spread word that she held a private salon on the first Monday of every month called the Hamideh Khanum Salon.

  “I could tell by the preparations going on in the house whether there was an event the following Monday. All the seats would be moved into the living room, and more chairs would be rented from a private company. I would help move the dining-room table into a far corner. I took pity on sweet Khadija, who had been instructed to set up the three rooms with the doors wide open, expanding the space to accommodate a hundred or so women in addition to the Khojah and her girls. We arranged the rows of chairs in a semicircle around where the musicians would sit. According to my uncle’s wife’s instructions, we left space for the dancer to move around. My uncle’s wife would talk excitedly about the dancer with her visiting friends. I would hear them whispering about her extraordinary beauty. One of them hinted at a romantic relationship between the dancer and Khojah Bahira, whom I had seen before at my uncle’s wife’s salon.

  “Whenever the Monday parties convened I would always be sure to spy on the women. I would sit with Khadija on the landing and look down on the living room. Khojah Bahira was on my mind, with her manly look and masculine clothes. When I was thirteen years old I began to take more pleasure in watching the women play music and dance and kiss one another. Then I noticed how some of them would ask for sheets or blankets, according to custom, and place them over their thighs. I could see the outline of their hands as they writhed and rubbed against each other under the blankets. They were banat al-ishreh. They caressed one another in view of the other women. Khadija warned me not to look at such things but I didn’t pay any attention to what she said.

  “On this particular Monday I was in my spot by the window on the stairs leading upstairs. So that nobody could see me I had left the small curtain sewn by Khadija closed. I would draw it back a little with my finger and look out. The living room was filled to capacity with women, friends of my uncle’s wife. Hamideh Khanum was sitting in her chair in the front row. To either side of her were her closest friends, whom I knew well from their visits to the house. They were chatting and laughing with one another. My uncle’s wife’s servants and Khadija were performing their duties. I noticed that all the women had curled their hair. They were also chewing gum. Those who were well-known lovers of women would cling to their ablaya. Because I was looking over the musicians from up on the landing I could see things that were concealed from the others. I would see one of them caress her girlfriend’s ear with her fingertips while another one leant her head back and rested her neck in her girlfriend’s hand. I also saw rapid kisses as they whispered in each other’s ears.

  “Then the Khojah came in, followed by her performers. The Khojah greeted my uncle’s wife by kissing her on both cheeks and then did the same thing with a number of other invited guests. Everyone took their seats facing the performers. The Khojah’s voice was gruff and the way she moved and sat was masculine. Apparently Hamideh Khanum had inquired about the dancer. Bahira said that she was changing her clothes and would be ther
e shortly, just as soon as the mood warmed up.

  “Mohammed Abdel Wahab was all the rage in those days. The all-female troupe started to play one of his songs from a film with Warda, ‘His Eyelid Teaches Love’. Placing a fez on her head, the Khojah started singing. She was mimicking Abdel Wahab. The women were playing, snapping their fingers as they started to sway. The kamancheh player stunned me. She was very pretty. I also saw a woman holding her girlfriend who was sitting on the floor beside her. Then she plunged her hand in between her thighs in order to stroke her down there. Both of them were in the second row, which allowed them to hide from prying eyes. Her girlfriend surrendered. She rested her head on her shoulders, closed her eyes and smiled as if in a dream. A little while later I saw the women looking behind them. A young woman dressed in a gallabiya made from embroidered white silk saya came forward and stood in front of Khojah Bahira so the women could admire her height and her beauty.

  “All the women were staring at her, as if they had been bewitched by some kind of magic spell. Even the woman who had been caressing between her girlfriend’s thighs removed her hand, mesmerised by this young woman. The band was on to their second song, ‘Why Do You Tease Me?’ by Mounira Mahdiya. Khojah Bahira hadn’t started singing yet. I looked over at her. The magic spread to me as well. I became completely still. Even my breathing slowed down. It was the young woman from the station.

  “I pulled the curtain back all the way and pushed my face up against the glass. I forgot about trying to stay hidden. What good was that caution in the presence of such magic? Just then she started to dance. My movement had attracted her attention and she was staring up at me, smiling sweetly. Her smile calmed me. What was this dance that so captivated all the women and me? It wasn’t a dance, more like effortless movements to the rhythm of the music. My heart was pounding. My entire body was quivering because of my long-lost love; now, all of a sudden, I saw her dancing right before my eyes. Khojah Bahira also saw me but she didn’t pay me any mind. I received another look, then a third, then a fourth. Whenever she looked over in my direction, she would smile. Later on she would tell me that she had been smiling at the hilarious sight of me, with my face distorted against the window pane.

  “I didn’t realise what I was doing until I had walked down the stairs and was approaching the living-room door. I was burning up with love and my desire to see her up close. I also wanted her to see me. My love had no meaning if she didn’t notice me, didn’t recognise me. The path between the rows of chairs began at the living-room door and ended where the musicians were. I stood by the door, unconcerned with the anger my presence might stir up among those women who were accustomed to covering themselves whenever men were around. In those days, I was more confident than most men. I stood there without taking my eyes off of her. From time to time she would look at me and our eyes would meet. She was so gorgeous. Without even being aware of it, I started to move through the chairs in her direction. When Khojah Bahira noticed how mesmerised I was by her dancer’s beauty, she frowned even as she kept on singing. I stood in the middle of the space; Widad looked at me while she danced. It seemed as though she were dancing for me and me alone.

  “The Khojah finished singing and the dancer stopped dancing. We were face to face. For some strange reason the women didn’t seem to notice me at all. They were too taken by the dancer, as well as the soft ambience all around her.

  “‘What’s a man doing at a women’s party?’ Khojah Bahira demanded, angrily gesturing at me.

  “The women needed a few seconds to extricate themselves from the grip of the dancer and absorb what Bahira had just said. I was gazing into the eyes of my enchantress, and she was gazing right back at me. All of a sudden a maelstrom of judgements and ululations broke out as the women realised they would have to conceal their feelings as well as their chests and their legs. Many of them noticed that their hands were in places they shouldn’t be. When I looked over at my uncle’s wife, I saw her whining as she pointed towards the door. Just then I felt myself being shoved by my aunt’s servants and by Khadija. I was so mesmerised that I didn’t even notice what was happening. I collapsed outside the living room. Khadija brought me to my senses and started pushing me upstairs to my room. I cast one backward glance at the dancer and saw her doubled over in laughter at what was going on all around her.

  As I was being prodded upstairs by Khadija’s two powerful hands, I heard Khojah Bahira introducing her dancer after everyone had calmed down. She said her name was Widad…”

  “So you had been searching all over town for your sweetheart, and you ended up meeting her inside your own house?” I asked the kindly old man.

  “That’s right. It never occurred to me that I might see her at our place, especially because I saw her for the first time as a young woman arriving from the countryside. The second time I saw her she had been transformed into a well-known and much-loved dancer.”

  “Weren’t you a little bit disappointed to discover that she had become a dancer?”

  “On the contrary. She was so attractive. You might say that her beauty was extraordinary. And the way she moved, it was as though she were doling out tenderness to each and every person. That’s what made her seem a sorceress. My love for her only grew.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Everyone at the party thought I was acting strangely. Hamideh Khanum complained about me to my uncle Ibrahim Pasha. He called for me that night and started shouting: ‘We try so hard to provide for you, you little ingrate, but you’re never going to grow up!’ He told me he couldn’t understand why I would walk in on those honourable women while they were unveiled. He said he was going to punish me for it.”

  “Well, did he?”

  “The truth is that he was convinced the dancer had hypnotised me just as she enchanted everyone else. He decided to keep me out of the house during the next party.”

  The old man was smiling calmly. He had forgotten all about Ismail. The memory of his first encounter with Widad had put him in a good mood. But I found the whole thing rather strange. I was sitting there with a loaded rifle in my hands, constantly watching the window, or looking over towards the door, then over at Shaykh Nafeh lying in bed. It was so odd that I should be defending his memories with a gun and trying to keep Ismail, a man still incomprehensible to me, from putting a stop to our conversation. I cautiously stood up, as if I were racing from one trench to another, and picked up the framed photograph I had hidden from Ismail’s view. I gazed at Widad, standing on the stairs of the train, just above the head of Monsieur de Martel.

  “I spent the next few days totally confused about what to do,” the old man said. “I had found the young woman from the station but she was still so remote from me. Sometimes I was ecstatic, sometimes I was sad. Love had found me but there were still many difficulties. Should I just go and talk to her? What would I do if I found myself face to face with her? What could I possibly say to her? Should I tell her I was in love with her? Would Khojah Bahira let me talk to her? Hundreds of questions were running through my head and I didn’t have the answer to a single one. I was fed up with the vow to marry my cousin. That is, the vow made by my dead father, who had linked my inheritance to my marrying overweight Jalila. Then there was the fact that Widad had become a dancer. I was sure she had more admirers than there were hairs on my head. And finally there was the intimate relationship she had with her Khojah, which I’d heard about while eavesdropping on my aunt and her friends. Did my love for her have any hope?

  “Khadija could sense what I was up to. She noticed I was always distracted and sighing. Sleep didn’t come easy for me. I started asking her to leave me alone so I could stay up late with the newspaper. She could tell what my problem was without knowing specifically that the dancer was the same woman I had fallen in love with at the train station. She thought I was a strange young man who fell in love with every young woman he met. That’s what she said when she invited me to tell her what was bothering me. One time, after ev
eryone had gone to bed, she said, ‘We’re alone now. Nobody can hear us. Tell me, Nafeh, are you in love with the dancer?’

  “She whispered this, as if someone were pressing their ear against my door.

  “‘Yes, I love her, Khaddouj,’ I replied. ‘I’m so clueless when it comes to affairs of the heart.’

  “‘When will you stop falling for young girls? They’re a dime a dozen. Besides, it isn’t healthy to fall in love with every woman you see.’

  “I looked right at her. She was right to say that. But she didn’t realise that the girl at the station was also Widad the dancer.

  “‘It’s her,’ I said with a sigh.

  “‘What do you mean?’

  “‘I mean, I finally found the girl from the station. It’s Widad.’

  “Khadija needed some time to process what I was saying. She repeated to herself several times: Is she the same person? Is she the same person? I nodded at her, and she leant forward on her knees and stood up. She began to pace around the room silently, picking up a few things here and there. She was thinking. Then she came back and sat down next to me.

  “‘But she’s a dancer and a bint al-ishreh’, she whispered.

  “‘I don’t care,’ I said, slightly irritated. ‘If I never get the chance to see her again and speak to her, I’ll just die.’

  “‘You won’t die if you don’t get another chance to talk to her. Now your uncle Ibrahim Pasha, he’ll kill you if he finds out about this.’

  “‘Please, tell me how I can meet her. I don’t know what’s come over me since the day I first saw her. Help me figure out what to do next.’