by Mhani Alaoui
“Leila is heavy with child,” she whispered to it. “And what a child! It is the child, the one from the first story—our story. Her coming has required great sacrifices. Violence brought her into this world, the bloodied flower of chaos. But it is love that has reclaimed her as its own. It may well be that savagery is needed to pluck stars out of the firmament and to transform a doomed trajectory into an enlightened path.”
The House
Leila was once Adam’s love, closer to his heart than God himself. She was the alif, the one, the first. She was the beginning of all things, the first exhalation, the first and third letter in the Arabic name of God, Allah. Her love was absolute presence. She was the straight line extending from earth to sky, without end. The alif that is sensuousness and life, the first exhalation and the last breath, but an illusion after all, for the line extending to infinity will at some point curve and disappear. She was the alif that contains the second letter, ba: the beth, the home, finiteness. The alif that holds the thought of its own demise.
~
Leila and Adam settled into the Nassiris’ dust and memories, and tried to shut out their fears and recurring nightmares. One night, Leila was awakened by moans and a melancholic humming that seemed to come from outside her door. She got up from bed, opened the door, and walked toward the moans and humming. She soon found herself in the corridor that led to Zohra’s bedroom. When the moon was full, the corridor was crisscrossed by the falling shadows of trees. In between the shadows, women with bright robes and white veils were whispering frantically. When they saw Leila, they fled soundlessly up into the shadows.
Leila felt a sudden pity for these wispy, unhappy creatures. All the ghosts had fled, except for one. She seemed to hesitate before drifting toward Leila, her eyes lowered and her hand holding the veil to her face. After circling around her tentatively, she spoke to Leila.
“Welcome home, Leila of the Night.”
“Why are you moaning, poor thing?”
“I’m moaning because that’s what ghosts like me must do.”
“Why are you here?”
“The mistress of the house had me killed.”
“Why?”
“I was beautiful and very young. Can you still see my beauty through these shrouds? Everyone agreed that I was the most beautiful. Your mother looked like a shriveled old nut next to me. Her husband married me and promised me precedence over her. He was going to turn over the keys of the house to me. So she arranged to have me killed.”
“My mother?”
“Yes, that crazy goat.”
“You’re very arrogant and full of yourself for a ghost. You must have been dreadful alive.”
“Beautiful women must be arrogant to be taken seriously. Otherwise, they will feel like ghosts before they’re even dead. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?”
“I was told that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“That’s nonsense. Beauty is a consensus. And my beauty was admired by all.”
“Don’t you feel remorse?”
“Why should I feel remorse? The one who brought me here should feel remorse. I had no choice. My only choice was to groom myself and be as beautiful and arrogant as I could. The woman who used the ancient manuscripts should feel remorse. I’m not the only one the Patriarch brought into his house and bed. Your mother’s sorcery plunged us all into a state of despair so deep that death was a relief. And now the cohabitation with the djinns, that’s no easy matter either. They’re difficult and moody. They think they’re gods. The djinns are all mad, did you know that?”
“There are other ghosts like you?”
“At least a hundred.”
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe. But this house is worse than Bluebeard’s, I tell you. It’s worse even than the mad sultan Shahriar’s palace, and with no Sheherazade to stop the cycle.”
“But then it stopped.”
“It stopped, but everything stopped with it. We did have our revenge, after all. We are the dead brides from hell. Life itself stopped. We killed all joy and expectation. Except for you, dear one...and that silly garden. No one can touch that.”
“Why me?”
“You’re special. No matter how bitter we’ve all become in this prison, we can recognize an opportunity when we see one. And you, Leila of the Night, with your full belly carrying a most unique child, are that opportunity. You don’t have to fear us. And we will take care of the djinns for you.”
“Do the djinns want my child?”
“They want your child, yes, but not in the way you think. They believe that your child is the one from the oldest story in the world, a child of most extraordinary fate...The last time that they were this excited was when Sheherazade talked them out of their bottles and caverns under the sea.”
“Are they evil djinns?”
“Djinns don’t know good or evil. Plus, you can’t really depend on any of them. Loyalty isn’t a word they understand. Their world runs parallel to ours, and their hair stands on end when strong emotions shake ours. They just want entertainment.”
“Oh, then they will be most disappointed. There are no strong emotions left in this heart, or this house—only ashes of lives past. I too am a ghost. I crave sleep and forgetfulness.”
“Leila, the living should never think they know death. We are what is not, we are what you are not. The wisps and fumes you see are not our essence, they’re the trace of our absence. You still have a man in your bed. Get as close to him as you can, breathe in his warmth and his skin. That is what you will miss most someday, what you will moan and go mad for.”
The ghost drifted away, and Leila was left alone in the cold corridor. She thought of these women who were ghosts when living and remained ghosts beyond the grave. She thought of these women chained to a man and his household, and how they created worlds increasingly more sophisticated and detailed to retain control of their existences. She thought of how they conjured territories and borders, mountains and poisonous lakes, castles and dungeons, fine silks and intricate brocades, and their houses became places of wondrous intrigue and willed isolation. She thought of the beautiful, sad ghosts who had drifted past her with their colorful dresses and veiled souls, and wondered if she too was that? Of the doors between the living and the dead, of the creatures that troubled the boundaries and made you doubt where you stood. Of the broken dreams and the superficial ecstasy, of the giggles and kohl, the envy and bruised desires...She thought of her mother who, with all her strength and ancient knowledge, never tried to free herself from a tyrannical husband but instead reaffirmed his hold on her. And she thought of the child growing inside her and prayed for it to be a son.
~
Leila returned to her bed and to her husband’s silence. She curled up against him to breathe in his warmth, only to feel an even greater estrangement than before. Adam had ventured even deeper into his world of silence and was behaving like an animal in wait. He was a subdued being whose mind had gone elsewhere to rebel and hunt. Even in his sleep, he offered little comfort. Leila could sense the wilderness beneath and the primal call for solitude. She believed in his acceptance of the child, but she also sensed that his decision to become a father to a child conceived in violence had broken something inside him. The lead poison injected into him while in the demons’ lair was forcing his mind and body into submission.
Adam felt Leila’s presence at his side and took in her warmth and quiet breathing, but he could not bring himself to turn and hold her close. The silence and the poison had pressed his mind back into unknown territory where howling wolves conversed with hunched intellectuals in broken streets and dark alleyways. He had been turned inside out, and his gaze was now projected inward, into the endless depths of the primeval mind where the orphan he once was, and always would be, helped him pin stars to the velvet sky.
The orphan took his hand, and they both looked at the stars they pinned and the constellations they created. They named the constellations and
arranged the constellations into words. Adam drifted deeper and deeper into the wild steppes of the mind and discovered the infinity of the inner abyss. He discovered the point where one line intersects with another to create a plane and where the individual consciousness connects with the universe. Silence was his ultimate refuge from a disquieting reality, as he curled his body into a ball.
~
Every morning, Ibrahim Nassiri sat at the round table in the large Moroccan room and had his breakfast, which consisted of olive oil, homemade bread, honey, and orange juice. He had either coffee or unsweetened mint tea, depending on his mood and daily schedule. He had once insisted that his family join him around the breakfast table. When Leila left for Paris, Ibrahim started eating his breakfast alone. Today, he decided that the family would sit around the breakfast table once again. He believed that tradition and daily rituals would keep madness at bay.
Ibrahim sat at the round table, with the olive oil, homemade bread, honey, and orange juice, and waited. A large tray of both sweet and unsweetened mint tea had been set near his right hand. He was ready. Aisha, Leila, and Adam walked in silently and sat around the table. Ibrahim poured rose water from the silver samovar over their hands. After Ibrahim offered them tea, he took a loaf of rye bread and sprinkled salt on it. He divided it into four pieces and gave one to each member of his family.
“Today we break this bread together as a symbol of a marriage renewed, a daughter returned, and a family reunited. In these difficult times for our country, we have been luckier than most. Our suffering is behind us, and now the time is for healing. This too shall pass.”
He invited them to eat. The house was quiet and bathed in the sunlight filtering through the garden. Leila mixed the olive oil with honey and dipped her bread. The taste of the warm honey and bread in her mouth brought forth a flow of memories. Once, she had believed in her father’s kindness and in the power of his protection. She remembered the daily ritual purifications and the recitations of the Kuran. The crescent moon hung above their house, while her father performed his ablutions and prayed, all trace of pride and vanity gone from his humbled body. My Proustian madeleine, with its own exquisite bitterness and hardened center, she thought. Memories are where truth comes to die.
Men like her father, she now knew, were pragmatics. They transformed faith into dogma and bent justice to their will. They were constantly searching for the most convenient compromise between their appetites and their fear of God. Ibrahim felt a prickling down his spine. He felt, and he was not a man who felt much, that his daughter was judging him. He looked at Leila and saw that her eyes were crystal clear. He shivered uncontrollably, for the clarity in her eyes was unbearable. And he became angry. He understood that his daughter, defiled and pregnant, was indeed judging him.
“What are you staring at, my daughter?”
“I am merely looking, Baba.”
“Are you judging me, my daughter?”
“I am merely looking, Baba.”
“Looking? Then truly see. See that I, an old man, am now the guardian of a mute, a shamed daughter, and an unborn child.”
Ibrahim was filled with rage: the same sudden, violent rage he once felt when Aisha stood between him and his pleasure, all those years ago. A violent rage that threatened to destroy what was left of his family and his home. The house hissed and creaked, as the air became heavy and the trees shook. Aisha put her hand firmly on Ibrahim’s arm.
“Beware, Ibrahim. Look around you at what is about to happen. Your anger is palpable, and its consequences will be dire.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I am warning you.”
Ibrahim sat still. He quieted down. He inhaled and exhaled his fury and suffering. And he inhaled once more.
“That’s enough. The tea is cold. The olive oil and honey are spent. I have not gathered you here to battle our fates and our mistakes with you. I have gathered you here today to tell you that our family will be coming for the birth of Leila’s child. That is good. For everyone, the child is Adam and Leila’s child. The full truth of the events of these past months will never be disclosed, not to anyone. It will be a secret that must be protected by all members of this household. I want Zohra and Zeinab informed.”
The hissing and creaking subsided, and the trees cooled down. The house and the garden had, it seemed, agreed to an uneasy truce—a truce while masks were raised and stages set. Adam and Leila stood up, while Aisha went to find Zohra and Zeinab. Adam put his hands in his pockets carelessly like he used to when he once was a young mathematics professor in the Parisian Latin Quarter with a potential for rare brilliance. He walked out of the room feeling the extent of the responsibility ahead and his incapacity at pulling through for wife and child. As for Ibrahim, he stayed alone, his hands moving above the table to the beat of a melody only he could hear. Or perhaps he was realizing that he too was a pantomime in a story written by immaterial scribes who held them all with invisible threads. He had a bitter smile on his face, for he understood that he had lost his daughter.
~
Aisha’s heart was secretly beating for the house that would be full again. Yet she did not know how to welcome life where previously there was only death and decay. She thought of the ashes, shadows, growing fissures on the walls, and lingering moans, and she made up her mind. She went looking for Zohra and found her standing in front of the orange tree.
“This tree is the heart and soul of the garden. My husband’s family brought it with them when they left Fes.”
“It is a most special, but stubborn, tree.”
“I come to you today, Zohra, to keep you to your word of protecting my daughter and her child. We have family coming for the birth, and they will be staying here for a while. The house could be cruel and reject such visitors. It could terrify them, sadden them, or even haunt them. I need your help protecting this household and its inhabitants.”
“I did make that promise. But if I am to help you, you must trust me and trust whoever or whatever I solicit to help me protect you.”
“Yes.”
“…It is done then. Don’t worry anymore. You carry all the keys of the house around your neck?”
“Yes.”
“Then allow me to touch the key to the door that leads to the street beyond, that I may be granted permission to bring someone into the fold of the house.”
Aisha nodded and presented the key to Zohra who rubbed it between her two palms.
Aisha then went to find Zeinab. She remembered when she once ruled over ten servants and her house was the envy of friends and enemies alike. She remembered when the holidays were ten-day affairs and the courtyard became the backstage of grand, glorious productions. Ten sheep would be brought in, slaughtered, hung, and cleaned. Their entrails, meat, eyes, tongue, and head would be prepared and presented in steaming Chinese porcelain plates. Grilled, sauced, oven-cooked, or skewered, on couscous, with vegetables or dried, the meat would be consumed for ten days and nights. The lentils were sorted for small stones, and the couscous was sifted. The bread was kneaded and laughter soared. The women sat on the floor or crouched on their heels and made magic. But as the years passed and their lord-like influence waned, Aisha let the servants go and stripped her lifestyle of its mundane delights. She was left with Zeinab.
~
Zeinab had been brought to Aisha ten years earlier by an older woman who asked her to take care of the child like one of her own. In return, the child would help her with all the household chores. Zeinab was fourteen years old when she started working for the Nassiris.
Zeinab Ben Issa grew up in the Sraghnas in the southern Moroccan region of the Haouz. Her village was at the foot of the rolling hills that line the entrance to Marrakesh. Her family was large with four brothers and five sisters. She was one of the youngest of the ten children. Bright eyes, swift feet, and unruly hair, she was a beloved child. Holding her tightly by the hand, her grandfather would walk with her to pick almonds and olives from thei
r almond and olive groves. He was often silent, but sometimes he told her of old heroes and their raids against enemy tribes or foreign occupiers. Other times, he would pick up his awwada, short wooden flute, and play ballads while they rested under a blooming white almond tree.
When she returned from the fields, her mother would warm some water she gathered from the well and scrub her down, holding her tightly against her. Her mother’s hands were rough and scratched against her skin, and Zeinab would burst out laughing, putting her head in the hollow of her mother’s arm...“Mama, Mama.” She went to school but for a brief while only. The school was far, the path difficult, and the teacher often absent. So her mother and father let her roam freely in the plains and hills, caring for the sheep and goats, while her grandfather secretly taught her how to play the awwada and charm the herds into following her blindly and sure-footedly.
But then the days of heat became long and unbearable, while the almond and the olive trees stopped yielding their fruit and the bark darkened and died. The sheep and goats had to be taken farther and farther away from the village to find pastures, and the water became scarce and muddy. She remembered, ever so vaguely, a night when the tribal elders sat in a circle in the middle of the village and talked among themselves for hours and hours. Very soon after that, people started leaving the village to go far, far away. Perhaps they too were taken farther afield to find greener pastures. Men they did not know would come in their trucks and transport people to work in fields that did not belong to them anymore.
