by Mhani Alaoui
Adam returned her gaze. How could he not? Adam looked at Shawg and remembered the shaved hair and long tress he wore as a little boy. He remembered how he’d rub his bare head and tug on his tress when he was reciting the Kuran to an angry teacher. He recalled the taste of fresh water from the nearby spring and the orange and olive trees whose branches clung to his uncle’s house. He remembered the stolen oranges and olives, and how he ran as far as he could until, breathless, he’d fill his mouth with the forbidden fruit. He closed his eyes and tasted the melancholia of lost memories and unlived childhoods. Everything became quiet, as though the world had not yet been created and the universe was a great emptiness from which emerged one silent star after another. When desire appears, all else is burnt. When Shawg appeared to Adam, everything erupted. He was consumed with desire and the craving for complete possession. She was the answer to his hardened disappointments.
A terrible pain exploded in his chest. It felt as though someone had reached inside him and torn a rib out of his ribcage. He heard a voice near his ear (well, not any voice, that voice) telling him to accept the pain for it was the sign of a miracle to come. His breathing became constricted. He touched his chest below his heart and felt a softness where earlier there had been a rib. He tasted lead, and the wilderness in his mind became quiet for a while, listening to the new pain of the lost rib.
Adam did not know who this woman was, nor did he fully understand his reaction to her presence. She had appeared before him with all the promise of a Renaissance-era painting. She was made of light and color, and her skin glistened while everything around her became obscure. She carried herself as though there had never been any woman before her, as though the destiny of the world depended on her. She made Leila look complicated and sad, unable as she was now to taste happiness or go up in flames at the mere touch of life. Much to his own amazement, the years spent with Leila now seemed unhappy ones, and that unhappiness, he was beginning to suspect, was due to her.
His heart beating, he wondered what his life would have been if he had not met Leila and if she had not convinced him to return to their country. He felt angry and betrayed. His ego rose out of its speechless slumber, and he thought of all the wonderful things he could have done with a brain like his. Leila now seemed a primitive being to him, a demon of the night sent to destroy him and exile him to the darkest corners of hell. He saw her and her child as chains keeping him away from heaven. Something inside him, something faithful still to his past and to notions of loyalty and right, reminded him: You made a promise to a woman you have loved for over thirteen years. You made a promise to your wife and child to protect them always. But another side of him, eager for pleasure and freedom from responsibility, hissed: Don’t you deserve joy? What has life with this woman brought you? Exile in a country that you were trained to leave behind, the wasting away of your talents, imprisonment, torture, demons, silence, and hell itself. Time has come for you to taste life again. This child, it is not even your child. A monstrous child who will carry your name!
The pain in his body had now risen to his head. A multitude of voices struggled to be heard and to speak—each with their opinion, their interests, and their advice. Some did not even address the matter at hand and instead just excitedly chatted away. It was as though all the djinns of the house had scrambled into his head for their enjoyment and his bewilderment. They played and spun webs of confused and confusing arguments. Some justified yielding to temptation and spoke principles that reminded Adam that the worth of a man lay in the honoring of the given word. Other, more sophisticated voices cited contradictory Kuranic verses as a backdrop to the right course to follow. One lone voice clamored that the Green Book had risen from the injunction to read and that therefore the given word trumped all other considerations. The voices in his head soon became a carnival of hollow advice where bad faith paraded.
Adam thought of the word he had given Leila and of how his word silenced every other word. He had forsaken utterance in the name of the given word. Perhaps he had made the mistake of recognizing a child he should never have recognized as his. He had lost his voice and hovered at the edge of ancient woods like a wolf. The body, after all, never lies. It reveals through its broken sinew, trembling limbs, and reddened skin every repressed desire and uttered lie. And his body, he now believed, had refused to recognize the child as his. But, yes, he had given his word, and the child would soon be baptized as his own. Adam paused in the midst of breaking a promise he had made over thirteen years ago and which he had reiterated six months back. It was suddenly clear to him, even though he would always deny it, that he already knew which path he would choose. The brilliance of his solution made him shake, and still his internal whispering continued: Oh, Leila, what would you have done if happiness had chosen you? I cannot choose, I cannot forsake either path. He sighed and a semblance of sound trickled through his lips. He felt a tugging at his wrist and, looking down, saw that the amulet given to him by a little girl one night, in the labyrinths of the Casablanca Medina, was gone.
~
Leila was sitting in her room as the women prepared her for the naming. They washed her in a bath of herbs and scented water. They dressed her like a bride and poured warm rose water and oil into her hair. They fed her the heart and fat of the sheep, sprinkled with red saffron from Taliouine, the village between the valley of roses and the mountain behind which lay the great medieval jail that, to that day, still held its prisoners. They gave her sellou, a crushed mixture of almonds, orange blossom, sugar, flour, and sesame seeds. They made henna in a bowl and beat kohl to a pulp. They tapped souak (the lipstick only married women ritually wore) on her lips, drew a line of kohl beneath her eyes, and repainted henna on her hands and feet. Leila remained immobile throughout the preparations, secretly rejecting these rituals and despairing for the spontaneity that seemed to be forever lost, for that privacy that was fleeing from her at every breath she drew...
Finally, the baby was washed and dressed in white European lace and satin that came all the way from Madrid. A drop of henna was placed in the center of her palms and in the small curvature of her feet. The newborn brings with her all the fear of an unknowable elsewhere whose chaos must be condensed into words and fleeting tattoos. Leila held her child who, the instant she was born, was taken from the realm of nature into the cartography of culture. She kissed her and cooed her own words in her ear.
Meanwhile in the courtyard, Ibrahim waited, his butcher’s knife in hand, for the family to gather. He wore his white djellaba and held the sheep by the nape. He had performed this ritual for all his children without a second thought. With the help of another man, he had grabbed the sheep firmly and quickly slit its throat. He had watched it writhe on the floor and looked on as the blood trickled into the gutter. He had felt the power of God flow through him. He had praised God and named the child. Today, however, was different.
As he stood there holding his thick knife, he expected to feel that surge of adrenaline and that pride he had felt all morning. He expected to feel that extraordinary communion with the Lord that is obtained by observing His dictates. But no divine grace stamped his actions today. He craved for it with a powerful thirst and a devouring need. He hungered for the simplicity of the absolute sacrifice and the transcendence achieved through the shedding of the innocent’s blood. He wanted the devouring thing itself rather than its pale alternative. He wanted the barbaric rather than the civilized, the sublime rather than the sublimated. He was filled with the desire to kill for his God.
At that moment, he wished his granddaughter would cease to exist. He was wracked with the double certainty that she was not fit for the world and that pain would accompany her throughout her life. He wanted to offer her as a sacrifice instead of the sheep and reverse the passing of time. He wanted to stand on the rubble of the mountain and present his burning sacrifice to his God.
Then he looked as Leila walked in holding her daughter. She came in with Zohra and Aisha, and was followe
d by Hamza and Zeinab. They appeared to him as an army, a band of companions who had elected themselves her protectors. He thought he saw, but he must have imagined it, shining swords at their sides and in their hands. Then he saw it.
He saw the child for who she was and who she was meant to be—and he trembled. He saw the light guiding her. This is the end, he shivered. He recognized the end of certainty, of hierarchy, of authority. He forgot about raw sacrifice and human death, and lowered his head.
“In the name of God,” Ibrahim cried, and, holding the sheep tightly in his arms, slit its neck. As the blood flowed and the body shook, he gave the child her name: Maryam. The name came to him naturally, “Maryam,” an elusive name with a multiplicity of meanings: rebel, bitterness, loved one, killer, saint, guardian. Maryam, a perfect name for she who was conceived in darkness and fear, she with the handicap and of the forgotten destiny.
At that very moment, a scent of orange blossoms exploded into the air and distilled its lustrous perfume upon the assembly. Each and every one was filled with a delightful, singing serenity. After some investigation, it was discovered that the orange blossom scent came from the child herself.
And that is how Maryam Tair came into this world.
~
Zohra knelt and gently touched the sheep’s spilt blood with her finger, asking for the animal’s forgiveness. She then drew a small crescent moon on Maryam’s neck, behind her right ear, and whispered, “So you may hear all the suffering of the world and be compassionate always.”
The family formed a circle around the child. Mehdi, Yasmine, and Driss came closer. The scent of orange blossom was everywhere. It brought peace and clarity to those who inhaled it. Mehdi was close to Maryam now, close enough to feel her difference. He began to sense the winds of change rise and imagined that they would carry people like him to safer shores. But his feet had been anchored to a cold earth for far too long, and he feared he would not be able to wait for that liberation nor experience the moment when people like him would walk this country without any shame or fear in the world. Driven by forces beyond his control, he prophesized:
“You will bring hope to those you meet. You will open the doors of the dream world and help people fight fear and hatred, anger and ignorance. You will make the margins bloom with beauty. You are perception.”
Yasmine came next. She looked at Maryam and sensed her power. She thought of all her stunted dreams and the calculations that arose from her failures, like so many banners against despair. She too felt the frustration of lapsed time, but she had to admit that she had never truly despaired. She was the cold warrior with the blue-grey, vapid essence animating her. Driven by forces beyond her control, she prophesized: “Your mind is powerful and free. You will drive your questionings off the beaten path. You will push your reasoning to its logical conclusions. You will crave knowledge. You are thought.”
Adam waited behind Yasmine. The silence that had filled him these past months was dissipating. His voice had been returned to him. He was calm and burning all at once. He knew what was in his heart and what it would soon drive him to do. He had lost pity and loyalty along the way. His delusions had created a permanent strain on his psyche, and he had finally chosen to let go. He was in a constant state of panic whose only outcome was cowardice. Driven by forces beyond his control, he prophesized:
“You will see the world for what it is but also for what it could be. You are a magical, supernatural being who will heal the cracks in the world. You will embrace the image but also what lies beneath. You are heart.”
“Ameen,” echoed the assembled guests. They began walking back to the house when Shawg asked Leila, “May I hold her in my arms?” And before Zohra could stop her, Leila put Maryam in Shawg’s arms.
She held her close, so close. She breathed her in and stroked her cheek, but all she felt was envy. Her face drained of color, and her eyes lost their light. She thought of the injustice of a world that granted such beautiful gifts to a weak, ugly child and that had allowed a person like her, a person of power and beauty, to wrestle with adversity and disdain. A shiver ran down her spine while hatred filled her heart.
“Perception, thought, heart, they will not come to you easily. You will have to fight for them. You will walk alone. You will fill others with wonder, but no one will come close to you. You are fragile, driven by guilt. Your heart will never know the fullness of love. You are love forever seeking plenitude in the tormented quest for the loved one. You are dissonance.”
Shawg then dropped Maryam into her mother’s arms and stepped back.
II
Rebellion
“Grant me my divorce, Adam.”
Leila sat with her hands on her knees and her back straight. She had been sitting for an hour listening to Adam’s tale of woe and rebirth. He was distant and matter-of-fact. When he started, Leila was perplexed, and that perplexity increased as she heard the story of his life, of their life together, narrated with words she herself would never have chosen. She began to wonder whether his prolonged muteness had given rise to a distortion in language or to a loss of meaning. It took a moment for her to understand the purpose of his speech.
“Grant me my divorce, Adam.”
“I have spoken to your father this morning, Leila. He and I agree that what is best for you and Maryam is that you remain my wife.”
“You have fallen in love with another woman and you wish to remarry. I accept. But give me my honor back or I will go mad.”
“Don’t raise your voice at me, Leila. Your behavior is irrational. There’s no need for a divorce. A woman like you in a country like this, you would be ruined without a man. Put your feelings aside and think of your future...and your child’s future. You need me.”
“I will go mad, Adam. In the name of what we once had and of what I believe we still have, let me go with what is left of my pride.”
“No. They will say I have abandoned wife and daughter. They will say, after what you’ve been through, that I’ve abandoned you.”
“Who is this they who have the force of law in your eyes? Is it God? Since when does the great Adam care what others think of him?”
“I will not grant you your divorce, but you are allowed to stay here in your parents’ house. You don’t have to live with…her. And my daughter, nothing will change. She is mine. I have recognized her as my own. That’s more than most men would have agreed to, given the circumstances of her birth…”
“A man? You think this is what a real man does? You were more of a man when you lost your power of speech. Or was that a lie, too? Was everything a lie? Has she bewitched you? I think I’m going mad. This is just a bad dream. How could you change so fast? How could you forget what we shared, just like that, in the blink of an eye? Oh, I am beginning to believe in she-demons and black magic.”
“You must calm down now. You’re being hysterical, you’re unrecognizable.”
“This is not hysteria. This is rage. Marry your whore then, but let me go.”
“You speak ill of another woman, you spit on her virtue. Know then that she is pure, that she wishes to wait till we are married. Keeping you as a wife is the best solution for us all. You and I have not been happy together. Leila, remember our pain, our solitude. Remember my delusions and your empty days. We deserve happiness. But I am an ethical man, and I will continue being your husband. It is done.”
“Oh, grant me my divorce. In the name of our love, of our days together in Paris and the dreams we once shared and that you now deny ever were, let me be free.”
“Free? You’re a mother and you speak to me of freedom? Speak to your father. I can’t reason with you anymore. This is how it must be.”
“I’m breaking. Look at me. We are taught to fear divorce and a solitary life. But this—bigamy, polygamy, call it what you want—is hell. The shame of being told to share, or kept in for pity’s sake, told that you can be dispensed with at any time. Only a pervert could suggest such a thing. And to me, I, Leila. Do I
seem so weak that you think I deserve this, or will accept it? Give me my freedom so that my daughter can grow up beside me and not be ashamed of her mother.”
Her voice had risen. She was screaming, screeching like a caged bird desperate for the freedom of the world. She clawed the air and tore at her clothing. Her eyes brimmed with tears and her soul with wounded pride. He had broken her heart.
Adam drank in her fury. He looked at her wild hair and her torn clothing. He saw her teetering on the brink of madness, and he began to retreat, slowly, his hands raised to protect himself from her. Yes, Shawg had been right. She had warned him that Leila would behave like a hysterical woman. She told him that she had seen it in her—that fragility of temperament beneath, that anxious look recognizable as the key to an unstable mind. He walked away thinking of neurotic females and the quasi-natural, unavoidable moment when women just seem to snap.
He could not, however, deny the darkness that had taken hold of him ever since he made the decision to marry Shawg. He had discovered selfishness and had toned his behavior accordingly. And, as Shawg told him in one of the darkened hallways of the great old house, he deserved happiness more than anyone. He may have been a great man, and he probably still could be—if he listened to his own needs for a change. And Shawg was good, wasn’t she, for she had immediately agreed that he keep Leila as his wife but under the condition that she remain under her parents’ roof. Could he deny, furthermore, that for the first time in years, he was a man again. He got hard when she smiled or glanced his way. He felt excitement and even, he blushed slightly, the desire for power and physical domination. The rush, the miracle…yes, for now he could speak, scream, sing his happiness. It was all so new. He was twenty again, in love, young, and ardent again. God had given him a second chance—he refused to waste it. Especially for a woman who was spent, whose life would sway from one melancholic sacrifice to the next. The muscles in the right side of his face began to twitch. He put his hand to his face and rubbed the twitching muscles to relax them. The twitching only increased, and he stood there quietly, waiting for the spasms to pass and terrified that he may lose his voice once more. The spasms finally subsided, leaving him feeling uneasy and on edge. He pressed back on his anxiety with a hardened heart and lascivious thoughts. After all, hadn’t his voice been returned to him as a prelude of bliss to come and the promise of ecstasy? And only Shawg could ease his doubts.
