by Nihad Sirees
“‘Khojah Bahira will never let you near her. She’s a woman hunter. Everybody in town knows that. Now that Widad’s her ablaya, she’ll bare her fangs to defend Widad, if necessary.’
“‘Where does Khojah Bahira live?’ I asked without regard for the Khojah’s fangs.
“Khadija stood up and moved towards the door. The poor dear was worried about me in my lovestruck mood.
“She paused and whispered, ‘I’ll find out tomorrow. But God forbid…’
“Then she walked out and shut the door behind her. I stayed awake until morning.
“Two days later I was standing outside Khojah Bahira’s house. It was late afternoon. I hadn’t been able to come up with an excuse to leave the soap workshop until later in the day. I told my uncle I had a stomach ache and diarrhoea, so he let me go. I didn’t go home, though. I went straight to the Farafrah neighbourhood instead. That morning I had made up my mind. I put on my finest clothes, knotted an elegant tie around my neck under my starched white collar, and styled my hair with scented lotion. I was perfectly presentable standing there at the door. Nevertheless, I checked my hair to make sure that everything was perfect. I had thought about bringing a bouquet of flowers but I hadn’t been able to find any on the way, and I didn’t want to lose time by going home first.
“The neighbourhood was quiet. There were some people walking past, a little boy playing in the street. I was nervous of what would happen when I knocked on the door. I envied the little boy his innocence and his lack of involvement in romantic affairs. I placed my hand on my heart and found it beating more quickly than usual. I thought my face must have turned yellow; it might even have gone blood red. I waited there for an infinitely long time, standing and thinking. Then I heard Khadija’s voice urging me on. When I turned around to look for her, I realised I had been hearing things. I pumped myself up, telling myself that whatever was going to happen was going to happen, that they weren’t going to kill me. Then I gave a short prayer, walked up the stairs, and knocked on the door.
“The woman who had been playing kamancheh at the salon opened the door. She was kind but confused and asked me delicately, ‘Yes? Can I help you?’
“She was smiling sweetly, which encouraged me to open my mouth and stammer, ‘Khojah Bahira’s house, please?’
“‘This is Khojah Bahira’s house. What do you want?’
“‘I would like to see Miss Widad.’
“She stared at me with great curiosity, scrutinising my face, my shiny hair and my clothes. She was confused but she stayed calm, becoming even a bit more so. Apparently I had impressed her.
“‘Who wants to see her?’
“‘Nafeh Effendi, Hamideh Khanum’s nephew,’ I said, introducing myself.
“‘Ahhhh…’ she said, nodding her head to indicate that she recognised me.
“‘You’re the one who showed up at the women’s party…’
“‘Yes, ma’am. May I…’
“‘What do you want with Miss Widad?’
“What could I say? I should have prepared myself for questions like that.
“‘It’s just that… I’d like to see her,’ I said simply.
“She nodded to indicate that she understood, then calmed me with a smile that seemed to indicate sympathy with my awkward situation. She invited me inside and led me down a dark hallway. She was wearing a pink summer dress, and because we were walking towards daylight, I imagined I could see the outlines of her body through the diaphanous material, so I looked away. She pointed towards a simple couch in the iwan and asked me to sit down. Then she went into one of the bedrooms.
“I sat on the edge of the couch, pulled my knees in close, and folded my hands in my lap. That’s the way I’d sit sometimes when I was in someone else’s house. I felt as though the earth were shaking under my feet, then under the couch I was sitting on. I soon realised that the whole world seemed to be shaking because of my overactive heartbeat. I looked up to see two women staring down at me from the upstairs bedroom. I recognised them from my aunt’s party as the percussionist and the qanun player. The qanun player was leaning against the shoulder of the percussionist. They were both smiling as they whispered to one another. As soon as I looked away from them, I heard movement in the two downstairs rooms that were separated by opposing staircases. The kamancheh player who had let me in disappeared into one of those rooms. Instinctively I looked up to see Khojah Bahira poking her head out from one of those rooms to size me up. I could tell she wasn’t happy to see me in her house. She pulled her head back inside before I could look away. I noticed that the two staircases had beautiful wrought-iron banisters leading up to a platform connecting the two rooms. I could hear whispering coming from the room. The Khojah’s raspy voice grew louder but the conversation remained inaudible to me.
“My anxiety grew. Maybe she was asking the kamancheh player to kick me out. A long time passed like that. I amused myself by looking at the plant climbing along the length of the wall, musing that it probably grew up and over the wall, towards the street. I heard laughter coming from upstairs, then a door opening and soft footsteps. I turned around to find Widad standing on the landing, holding on to the banister: beautiful, elegant, bashful. Her eyes were all enchantment. She was wearing a plain housedress that hung down to her knees. I carefully stood up to greet her. I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t collapse to the ground. She smiled at me, then looked away and came down the steps, walked over to the iwan and stood right there in front of me. She extended her hand to shake mine. I was trembling. She welcomed me and sat down on the couch. I sat down next to her.
“Time went by. I didn’t know what to say. We sat there in silence. From time to time I would look over at her to find her twiddling her thumbs, just as I was. I looked up and saw Khojah Bahira and the kamancheh player staring down at us from the bedroom. Craning my head, I saw the other two women looking down on us from upstairs as well. What kind of a visit was this? How was I going to speak to her?”
“But you must have said something…” I told the kindly old man. “To introduce yourself to her, I mean.”
“Finally I managed to force myself to say something. There were five pairs of eyes staring at me.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘My name’s Nafeh and we met at my aunt Hamideh Khanum’s salon the previous Monday.’ She nodded and told me she knew that. Then we had a conversation in something like a whisper.
“‘I saw you once before, a long time ago.’
“‘Where?’
“‘At the train station. We were welcoming back the delegation coming from Paris.’
“‘Ahhh, that’s right! I was just arriving in Aleppo.’
“‘But I lost sight of you in the crowd. Ever since that day I’ve been looking for you.’
“‘Why?’
“‘I don’t know what to say exactly. I was smitten. Then I bought a newspaper. They had run that photo, the one with you in the background, behind the delegation, above the head of Monsieur de Martel.’
“‘I was in the photo?’
“‘I have two copies. I’ll give you one.’
“‘Thank you.’
“‘Your name’s Widad.’
“‘Yes.’
“‘I’m Nafeh.’
“‘I know. You just told me that.’
“‘Ahhh, right. Can we go out sometime? We could go to the park for a picnic, for example, or to the cinema, if you prefer. They’re showing a new Mohammed Abdel Wahab film.’
“‘I don’t know. I don’t think Khojah Bahira would approve.’
“‘Let me speak to her.’
“We fell silent. We sat there, looking away from one other, the conversation at an end. I could feel her looking up at my face. When I looked over to do the same, our eyes locked. Time went by. I considered getting up to leave but she stopped me by asking in a hushed voice, ‘Why did you want to see me?’
“My answer this time was quick and direct: ‘Because I love you.�
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“I continued gazing into her eyes. I really did love her. I would have died for her. She was flummoxed by my answer, by my confession of my love for her. Her face turned red and she tried to look away, but continued gazing right back at me. I felt she was happy to hear about my love for her, that she wanted to accept it.
“We were both startled when we heard Suad the kamancheh player hurrying downstairs to ask us if we’d like some tea. I said, ‘No thank you,’ and asked to speak with Khojah Bahira before I left. Suad stopped. Instead of going to the kitchen, she went over to the iwan. She was very sweet, and seemed to be enjoying this event. Still, she was worried about what the Khojah might do to me; the way she looked at me told me so.
“‘Why do you want to see Khojah Bahira?’ the kamancheh player asked in a whisper.
“‘I need to ask for her permission,’ I replied, my courage renewed.
“‘What do you mean?’
“‘To take Miss Widad to the cinema.’
“‘I sensed there was some danger in what I was asking the kamancheh player. She turned around in a hurry and glanced towards the banister. Through the crack in her bedroom door, I could see the Khojah pacing and watching us agitatedly.
“‘Right now?’ the musician asked me.
“As I looked over at Widad, I could tell she wanted me to do this.
“‘Not right now. Some other day.’
“‘Go now, then,’ she said, as though she had found the perfect solution. ‘We’ll come up with a way to make it happen. The Khojah doesn’t have to know about it. She despises men.’
“I walked back towards the foyer with the two women behind me. I opened the door and asked Suad, ‘When should I come back?’
“‘We’ll find a way to get in touch with you. Don’t come back until then. Goodbye.’
“I grabbed Widad’s hand under the pretence of shaking and saying goodbye. Her hands were moist with sweat. She seemed to agree with everything I said. She was hooked on me. I pulled away and left. When the door closed, I leant against the wall to gather my strength. I’d used all my strength to make my first and last adventure a success.
“The nearby voice of the muezzin was calling out the dusk prayer, tender and reassuring. I looked up at the sky and said, ‘O Lord.’ I saw the climbing vines of ivy. They had tumbled over to the outside wall, just as I suspected. I wiped the sweat from my brow and started walking home slowly.”
The old man fell silent. He closed his eyes and remained quiet. As far as I could tell, he was trying to pinpoint the exact moment in his memory. He was breathing heavily. Some of the wrinkles in his face were trembling. I looked at the photograph for the last time and returned the frame to its place behind the curtain. The rain was loud, creating a regular and pleasing rhythm. Just then it occurred to me to look at my watch. It was past twelve. A new problem floated to the surface of my mind. How was I going to feed Shaykh Nafeh? I stood up and pressed my ear to the door. I thought perhaps I had heard voices downstairs. The strange thing was that Ismail hadn’t moved since I’d kicked him out of the bedroom by threatening him with the rifle. I continued to listen for a moment but didn’t hear a thing. I drew away from the door and turned towards the window. I tried to look out through the blinds. The inky darkness prevented me from seeing the back garden. I moved away from the window. I was nervous. The old man was snoring softly, his mouth open. Suddenly I had the urge to go back to the window because I sensed something unusual. Maybe the light reflecting on the glass had kept me from seeing out. I switched off the lights and hurried over to it. I would have shouted from fright had I not thrown my hand over my mouth. There was a head there, just below the window, blocking out the natural light. Two white orbs were looking right at me through the two slats. I was sure it was Ismail. Apparently he had got a wooden ladder and was climbing up in the rain to spy on me. Before he could see me in the darkness of the room, I threw open the window and his head vanished. I pushed aside the window frame and looked down. There he was, Ismail, trying to scurry down quickly. I pointed the rifle at him and shouted at him to freeze.
Ismail stopped where he was and looked up at me. He was glistening from the rain that soaked him, sopping wet and hurling spite towards me. If the rifle had been in his hands instead of mine, he would have shot me right then and there.
“You’re spying on us, you son of a bitch!” I spat—but I whispered so as not to bother Shaykh Nafeh. “Aren’t you at all afraid that I might kill you?”
“Kill me?” He paused a beat before continuing, “You’re a motherfucking coward. You couldn’t even kill another dog like you.”
“I swear to God. I’ll kill you if you don’t stop pushing me.”
He let out a short, derisive snort. As he climbed back up two steps I could see him more clearly.
“What are you trying to get out of all this?” he asked me.
“Why don’t you just get out of here? Leave us alone. I swear I’ll let you go in peace.”
“Don’t start with me. I’m going to stay here with the old man. He needs me.”
“For the story?”
“He needs to get it out. I’m helping him by listening.”
“How long are you going to stay? Until he’s finished?”
“None of your business.”
“It’s not worth it. I’m going to kill you before you can leave.”
“I’m the one with the rifle. It’s aimed at your head as we speak. Let me hear the rest of the story in peace. When it’s over, I’ll be on my way.”
“I don’t want you to hear the end of the story. Even if you do, you’ll be dead before you have the chance to take it with you back to the city.”
“But why?”
“Because the city has forgotten all about it. I don’t want people to start talking again.”
“But it’s the story of the old man’s life.”
“And my own life, you goddamned homewrecker.”
So that was it. Ismail had some important connection to the story. He was a part of it. I had been expecting that.
“It won’t be long before the old man passes away. He’s had a long and full life,” he went on, but with a much more intense edge than before. “At that point, I’ll go back to Aleppo. I don’t want the story to get there before me. I’m going to live out my life there. I’ll defend my reputation and my dignity with every fibre of my being. If you think this rifle is the only weapon in the house, you’ve got another thing coming. The problem is I don’t want to kill you in front of the old man. You do realise that you were in the crosshairs of my pistol just a little while ago. The old man is the problem.”
The rifle wobbled in my hand. It was no longer aimed at his head. So he had a weapon. He reached down to his waist, pulled it out, and held it up for me to see. He smiled wickedly as he slid it back under his waistband. He seemed to be saying something else but I couldn’t understand him. I was hung up on the matter of weapons. Ismail was dangling there by my mercy as I gripped the hunting rifle. I knew it was out of ammo, but I didn’t have the heart to use it anyway. Like he said, I’m a motherfucking coward. I didn’t want to kill anybody, even if it was Ismail, who was just waiting for the chance to get rid of me the same way he’d got rid of Dr Fares, as far as I could tell. Meanwhile, he had a pistol, but he wouldn’t use it against me as long as I was protected by the old man. But what if the old man were to die? The thought terrified me. This meant that my life was bound up with the old man’s. I would have to protect him.
My upper torso was sticking out the window. Rain was pouring down on me, but it didn’t bother me at all. My only concern was the old man, and how to keep him fed.
“The old man has to eat,” I told Ismail gently.
“The old man’s gonna die, O Great Master, all for the sake of your stupid story. And you know what’s going to happen to you if anything happens to him.” Then he added, “Why don’t you just let me come in and feed him?”
“You know I’m not going to let you
inside. You’ll bring the food at the appointed times, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Come on, go back to your room and we can all get back to our normal lives.”
He was trying to lure me away from the old man’s room so he could carry out his plot against me. I refused.
“You knew full well that I’d say no way,” I said. “I also love life.”
“Are you afraid I’m going to kill you?”
“Absolutely. You’re going to kill me as soon as I’m away from the old man.”
“Aren’t you afraid I might poison you?”
“You’re going to bring the same food. You won’t give me a special plate. I’m going to eat the same thing you give Shaykh Nafeh.”
He was silent for a few moments while he thought the matter over. It seemed he didn’t have any other choice. Through gritted teeth he grunted how much he hated me, how I wouldn’t get out of there alive. Then he climbed all the way down the ladder. I watched him walk away, cursing me nonstop until he disappeared on the other side of the garden. I shut the window, switched the light back on, and dried myself off. I took off my wet clothes and borrowed a shirt from the old man’s closet. After half an hour I heard Ismail’s footsteps walking down the hall. He placed something on the ground, tapped on the door, and then drew away. When I opened the door he was standing by the staircase. He spat and then went back downstairs. There was a serving tray with a number of plates, some drinking water, and the old man’s medication. I carried the tray inside and locked the door once again. After waking the old man, I fed him and gave him his medication. I placed the tray back in the hallway, then crawled into bed beside him and fell asleep, cradling the rifle.
In the morning the old man roused me with a gentle nudge. At first I was disoriented to find myself in his bed, but after a few seconds I recalled the events of the previous day. The rifle was on the floor beside the bed. The first thing he asked after waking me up was to go to the bathroom.
“The bathroom?” I asked, yet another chore that was required when taking care of him. I also needed to use the bathroom. I stood up, grabbed the rifle, and hurried over to the window. The rain was still coming down. The garden was peaceful. I looked for Ismail but didn’t see him. Even the wooden ladder had disappeared. I backed away from the window and stood in front of the bed, clutching the rifle as I considered the best way to get to the bathroom without running into Ismail. Apparently I was a funny sight because the old man was smiling, and then he burst out laughing.
