The Loved Ones

by Alia Mamdouh

  II

  I threw the first window wide open and then I tackled the window with the iron bars that opened on the street. Finally the grating swung loose with a reluctant screech. The morning was gathering above the tall trees in the broad garden adjacent to the building. I stared at the scene with wide-open, unblinking eyes. I could do that; my tears were less furious today than they had been yesterday. Still, they were there: they welled up and rolled down my cheeks freely but I didn’t wipe them away. I started to put on my clothes. My muscles felt tense and my movements seemed jerky. In the daylight, the sight of the overflowing shelves struck me forcefully every time I lifted my head and seemed to goad me. I couldn’t help noticing massive files of all colors bearing thin white labels plastered on the spines and filled in with a heavy dark handwriting. Letters to International Organizations. Letters from My Son (just like that! She hadn’t even written my name!). Letters from My Loved Ones in Baghdad. I saw a thick notebook on which was written the name Tessa Hayden in a different hand and ink. I saw long blue boxes lined up, looking freshly organized, as if she had arranged them very recently. As I was finished getting dressed I touched one. Dust rose from its cover. I paused before a violet-toned triple-fold greeting card to Suhaila, crisscrossed by lines and various colors. I read the message. I did not wait for you to answer me, my dear lady. Yet I wait; I anticipate writing to you as every new year dawns. It is not a question of duty. Don’t get all bothered as you so often do, trembling like a teenaged girl. My heartbeat—that is what I want you to listen to as you are going to sleep.

  My chest constricted; my heart felt the pressure. I turned my eyes away hurriedly from the top surface of the card. For a moment I felt afraid, as if I were hearing the footfall of my father’s military boots. I drew out one of the files, a black one, and read at the top in her muddled handwriting the label Income Tax. I returned it to its place and pulled out another file at random. I read what had been written there in a fine hand. Canada Diaries. I shoved it back hurriedly. The table clock was pointing to seven. I stared at one object after another; I swiveled my head from this side to that. The garden was in front of me, its trees thick with branches. I took in the odor of the fertilizer that had been spread in the course of the night and still gave off a strong smell that I found unpleasant. I pattered around barefooted and stared at the papers and newspapers piled on the floor. I left the room and headed to the little kitchen. It was very dark; no sun ever enters it, and so she had installed a lamp that hung from the high ceiling; its strong beam all but grazed my head. I am taller than Suhaila although I am still short. My father failed to give me any of his fine height or his strong athletic build; my muscles are scrawny despite the exercises I do every day in hopes that I will not appear to be a grown man in a childish frame. Now, and slowly, I discover the arrangement of the kitchen: the stylish shelves, the pictures that hearten your appetite, some recipes. A set of scales, variegated plates, and pottery. Bouquet-like bunches of herbs hung on colored ribbons, giving off their aroma. She had hung them on the walls arranging them to look like musical notes. Smelling and touching revived me and worked on my spirits. I set the teapot on the flame. Here are Suhaila’s fingers: the traces of her hands fill every niche. She would talk to everything around her and breathe in its air to invigorate her spirits. She made mental and verbal maps of the old country. She set them in front of her as well as finding a permanent place for them inside her head. In every home into which we moved she would find some way to regenerate her state of mind and lighten her longing for the country. She has a memory that never lets up. Before dinner and afterward, as if she is performing the prayers, she recites passages so precisely that one thinks they must have been engraved inside that head of hers. She puts up drawings. From kitchens the world over, from the peoples of the world, she translates the most famous dishes. She puts East next to West, the North in the South’s embrace, and whispers to herself even if I am standing right beside her. These are not hallucinations, Nader, she says, nor the raving of a mischievous Eastern woman. The eye’s appetite precedes the tongue’s desire. You know that.

  She dries off her profuse sweat as she writes titles that are as curious as can be. They are like addresses for things. This is a recipe for circling high, she writes, and far above and far away from the bastard hypocrites. And there’s the meal of the Tower of Babel that drips fire. Here is a plate for sharp applause.

  Suhaila loves all kinds of aromatics and spices. Ways to visualize things, pictures of tables and tablecloths embellished with lace and gold and silver threads, Arab-style coffee cups. Glassware for serving drinks, in particular special stemware for wines. Sometimes when she writes down amounts in recipes she gets some of them wrong, and then when she makes the dish it is more appetizing than the power of inspiration. In this miniscule space she would mix, and combine, and offer a running commentary. The place itself turns into a wonder when we prepare our own foods, she said. For the sake of a precious, delicious and little bite, we must please ourselves as long as we can’t expect that from others.

  The first thing she said to Sonia, on the day they were first introduced in Brighton was: Don’t be stingy in your mind’s eye when you are here in this amazing place. Try the tastes of India, of Iran, and of Iraq. Experiment with your knowledge, not as a chef and skilled expert, but to the contrary: as an impetuous, frivolous, out-of-control human being who wants to know and is ready to learn by trying things out. I may be the worst cook in the world, but I am the best there is at trying and developing a taste for the food of other people.

  My mother was lying for Sonia’s sake, to give a mental lift to this wife infatuated with her son. But Suhaila was every bit as capable of poisoning some guest if she couldn’t stand him or didn’t like him much. The cooking would look noxious. The guest would wish heartily that he could flee the scene, and she could be very sure that he would never return. The moment a guest proved to be simpatico, though, fitting into the family and appearing constantly at the dining table, her gruel would turn into the food of paradise. She ladled it out, and the guest was in heaven. This is precisely what happened with the Vietnamese driver Ken and his paramour, Sayyida Lady.

  III

  On one of my uncle Diya’s trips to attend one of those conferences that were always held in the British city of Brighton, he met Ken. At first this fellow seemed an oddball. We could not make out his age. He was quiet and extremely polite. He would get out of the taxi and open the passenger-side door for my uncle. It wasn’t really a taxi but rather a hired car; Ken owned it, and it was put at the disposal of conference participants. Diya was assigned to him. They quickly understood each other despite the reserved natures of both. As soon as Ken learned that Diya was from Iraq and married to a French woman they bonded. Twice Ken invited him home to his large apartment, or perhaps it was three times. He introduced Diya to his two children, products of his first marriage. His wife had died years before. Life is harsh here, he said, but we are able to find some outlets to give our existence a bit of flavor. The rest is not in our hands. Ken was Buddhist, and he had a unique way of choosing special dishes and of knowing how to find the spark that sets off conversations and penetrates the other person’s mind to send it soaring into the distance, awakening the intelligence and offering as a cherished goal the attainment of calm and happiness and contemplation. In those days my uncle thought seriously about inviting us to Brighton and introducing us to this creature to whom he had given the charming name Enlightening Asian Moon. During one of those evenings at Ken’s, however, my uncle suddenly stopped eating the delicious food before him to ask his host if it was within his power to find a place where his sister’s son could live while he completed his university education. Ken gave Diya his characteristically placid smile but no immediate answer. After they had sipped their fragrant green tea, Ken stood up and asked my uncle to come along with him. Uncle Diya followed him to the upper floor. Ken was standing in the center of a spacious and well-lit room furnished in
the English manner. In a low voice, as if he were revealing a secret, he answered Diya’s question. Diya, this wing has its own bathroom and kitchen, both very small. It is possibly enough room for two people if we were to make a few simple rearrangements such as putting in a partition or curtain or an internal door. Don’t worry, leave it to me. Your nephew will live here. Have you told me his name, though?

  Nader Adam.

  Will they live together? Pardon the question, but as it is right now the place would not be comfortable for two people for any length of time.

  She doesn’t know exactly. Sometimes she wants to be with him always, and other times she says that he has to bear the responsibility himself and it is better this way. But she will always be coming here. You, too, you must visit us in Paris. Right now they are living in a very basic apartment, one we own, my wife and I. I left it for them after I was transferred to Africa. And the rent, Mr. Ken?

  It isn’t high. Plus, I’ll make it twenty percent lower, for friendship’s sake.

  Food?

  He could be a companion for my son Ian and his sister Heidi. We will take a small amount from him as long as it is just him. It’s possible that Lady, my friend, won’t be very happy about this, but that isn’t important.

  Ken smiled—that smile which hovered between wonder and delight, and we could never tell which it meant. Lady is a somewhat inflexible woman, he told my uncle. She is strong-minded and a bit bossy, but there is one extremely important thing to keep in mind. If you fall into a real crisis you will find that she’s at your side in a way that’s truly rare. That is why I put up with her hard edges.

  And so that is how I transferred from the Sorbonne after one year there which left me reluctant to continue. I went to Brighton and into the very different educational system of the English. The rents were unbelievably high. My uncle would work everything out in advance with Mr. Ken, and sometimes he paid in my uncle’s stead if the money transfers were delayed.

  When Suhaila and Ken met, she felt an immediate sense of trust. His sentiments were not on display but they were nevertheless real. When we were by ourselves upstairs, Suhaila said, Just imagine, Nader—this lovely man knows more about your country and about Palestine than we ourselves know. As for the upper floor, it had been transformed for me more or less into a place of security which was neither a permanent home nor the sort of temporary stopping place where, upon leaving, we would not know where we would be next.

  With the passing of time, we became members of a single family. We would invite him for a light Iraqi dinner and he would invite us to his apartment when he was making Vietnamese and Chinese and Japanese food, its presentation as perfect as could be.

  Have you heard the way he analyzes the situation, the war, the East-West struggle, the history of the region, and America’s role in everything that has happened in his country and what goes on all over the world?

  The tenor of my mother’s words seemed to rebuke me. Mother, he’s just repeating what he has read in the British press or heard from some of his Arab and foreign colleagues.

  But he views it all in a really reflective way, without any extremism or provocation.

  Fine. Better than me and maybe than you, ya? My voice was a little louder than usual as I spoke. She went pale and silent as we heard knocking on the door. Mrs. Lady was standing there. She wanted to invite my mother to attend one of the meetings held by the self-convened women of Asian origins group. If you are interested in this, she was saying, you can come. We will have a light meal—Indian—and then we will have a dialogue between members and new friends. Aren’t you considering joining us?

  That woman had given herself the name Lady in contrast with every lady she had happened to encounter in shops, parties, and the elegant invitations she received as a member of some environmental society. When they first met, my mother found her, as she described to me later, aggressive, Nader. She is a bit hostile. Her tongue is truly vicious and sometimes dirty. She pokes fun at everything; she can be devastatingly sarcastic. She is the polar opposite of Ken.

  On their way to that meeting, which was specifically for divorced women and widows, Suhaila had to listen to stinging words about her foolish mania for searching out any and every means of learning my father’s fate. When she saw the hodgepodge of Indian, Pakistani, and Anglo women, though, my mother felt a little more relaxed. A little while later, though, she had an encounter that staggered her. One of the women, on her way to the little raised stage, and in front of everyone, stopped beside Suhaila. She was a woman of color, in her forties, and she had an odd, even delusional, air. Lady explained my mother’s story as a way of getting them acquainted. That woman laughed very loudly and directed her words, which everyone could hear, to Suhaila.

  You really ought to be happy rather than sad. I wish my husband were dead, but he is in fine health and he’s with another woman. And I work like a beast of burden just to stay alive. Yes, it’s better when they die.

  They were ascending to the podium, talking, squealing, winking, and laughing, and then coming down, hysterical, whooping, and talking in yet stranger ways about families and marriage. Could that be attributed to their being without husbands, or because they had a longing for men who would feel in their company as they did when they were with their buddies and colleagues? These were things my mother said to me when she returned from that evening, her thoughts disturbed and her mood very agitated and tense.

  Sometimes we have a need to dole poison onto plates, she added, and offer them to some creatures. Sayyida Lady is one of them.

  Fourteen

  I

  I had not even glanced into my room—the one in which I had lived for about two years. I had no desire to unearth that room from the past right now. The phone rang and suddenly a lump swelled in my throat. I leapt up as if some part of me had touched a live wire. I stumbled over the nearest pile of newspapers and documents as I went to pick up the receiver.

  “Alloo . . . Alloo?”

  It seemed a voice that I had not heard before. It was a jumble of loud words, tears and entreaty. The woman spoke very fast.

  “Ayni, ayni! Nader, dear, your mother, O God, prayers for His messenger Muhammad, these are the pleas of those who love her, your mother’s habayib, my prayers, by God . . . hassa rajaat, I’ve just come back from the mosque. I stood there and I opened my heart to my Creator, my dear, I told Him, it isn’t hard for You, O most merciful, to bring her back to us, to her poor, poor son. Nader, yamma salayt . . . I prayed right at dawn in the mosque and then came right to the hospital, I’m there right now. My son, it isn’t unlikely . . . mu bi‘iid ‘ala Allah, God may well hear my prayers, nothing’s too far away for Him. Nader, ayni, come quickly, shubiik, what’s the matter and why aren’t you here, my son? It is Auntie Asma, Umm Hammada, haa, my dear, and Shawkat’s on his way, too. Don’t eat any breakfast, son, I baked khubz al-abbas for you. The blessed bread of Abbas, the Prophet’s grandson! By his blessed grave in Karbala, that precious one won’t look unkindly on our beloved now! Just listen to me, Nader, dear, listen, Suhaila moved the fingers of her right hand, ayy! I swear it, w-Allahi al-azim, by Almighty God, she did. Yimkin li-khatrak ibni—maybe for your sake. Yallah, my dear, goodbye, now. Maa salama.”

  I began to walk down the street. I didn’t look at anyone. But the voice of Angélique, our fifth-floor neighbor, besieged me. From the side street she was trying to get me to stop.

  “Hiii, Mr. Adam, ça va? C’est vous?”

  “Oui, madame, ça va.” I echoed her, my voice restrained. I was breathing heavily as I stopped opposite her. She swayed right up to me. The smell of wine welled up from her mouth, clothes, and hair. I felt annoyed and uncomfortable as she took my hand to walk me away from this neighborhood and that building. So her malady, it seemed, had worsened to the point where it was now unsupportable. What was I going to do now?

  “When did you arrive, Monsieur? And your mother—how is she now? Is she in good shape?”

  Her appea
rance was disgusting and shameful. She had lost her mental equilibrium and her face and form had aged greatly even though she was younger than Suhaila. Her clothes were filthy; there were bits of dried food here and there, holes on the sleeves, and rips on the front of her dress. She was carrying a mass of various-sized keys: she owned several apartments in the building. She did not look straight at me but continued talking in a nervous voice.

  “Imagine, Monsieur, my mother too went into the hospital after she lost control over her organs and muscles and—”

  I seized her hand and lifted my head to look at her. “Madame, yes, I hear you, but I must go, I must be at her side. We will see each other again and we can talk for a longer time. You know how highly my mother thinks of you.”

  Her voice rose in my face as she clutched at my arm; she started shouting ugly things at me. “Merde! Even you don’t want to listen to me. Now don’t look at me like that, I am not mad as people think in this building. Your mother knows me better than them all. Don’t believe anything that’s said about me. Believe your mother and no one else. She’s the only one who still speaks to me. She hugs me and we have a glass of wine together sometimes. They’re crazy. Bad, wicked, merde. My father died, Monsieur, and my mother doesn’t know me. And Jacques, miserable, wretched Jacques, left me and went away with a girl from Morocco. And Anne was separated from me, my daughter Anne, after the court ruling—Jacques took her, he stole her from the school door, he said she doesn’t want to live with me any more.”