The Loved Ones

by Alia Mamdouh

  “You mean, Blanche bought my uncle Diya’s carpets?”

  “She took them from your mother first and organized them all together at her place. What she told your mother was, I’ll offer them for sale and we will see how much they will bring. She knew their prices cold but she wanted to take some time about it, hoping that perhaps the outlook would improve and she could return them.”

  “And then—and did you know that I had no idea any of this was going on? That I never heard these stories?”

  “Suhaila plodded along with it, all of it on her own. She didn’t want to give you any more worries or problems when you were going through some difficult days yourself—and your studies, Nader, dear, all very precious you know! But Blanche—God be pleased with her—I don’t know all the details but Blanche gave her a lot of money. I don’t know how much. And told her, this is just what you cleared on one of ’em.”

  “And my mother?”

  “She believed it, dear. She always would believe. She didn’t know that Blanche had put the carpet in her own home until things got easier and she could return it to her. And one day, after they’d become friends and there was plenty of bread and salt eaten between them as good old friends, and visits, well, your mother saw one of the carpets hanging at Blanche’s. She was startled and it upset her a little and, well, when she heard the story and realized that the carpets were still there, unsold, she cried. Blanche returned all the carpets to her. I kept them with me in trust, Blanche explained to her. I only did that so that you would not have to sell them at a big loss. That’s all.”

  “What about that money she got?”

  “Blanche asked her to pay it back in installments over a long, long time. Things were getting a bit easier and your uncle went back to sending money, and you, dear one, you were helping her out a bit by then, and the whole thing was paid back. That is Blanche for you, Nader. You know that your mother calls her friends—Narjis, Blanche, Tessa, Caroline, and Wajd—she calls them little diamond nuggets.”

  I got to my feet feeling very abashed and embarrassed. I felt surrounded and a little trapped by Asma, the sixth little diamond nugget. I saw Blanche pacing in the corridor, carrying a tray piled with cans of juice. She was smiling in my direction and she nodded her head at me to suggest that I join them. But I was too tense for anywhere but Suhaila’s room to be my only refuge.

  Eighteen

  I

  My longings for Suhaila had come to feel like a swelling bruise on my heart. She had only to utter my name for me to erupt. Sitting beside her, I began to aim driplets of water onto her lips. I squeezed fruit and brought the juice to her mouth. Everything that was Suhaila became telescoped into a pair of wandering eyes that watched me, following every tiny step that I took. First thing in the morning, I was the first person she would see. I would open the large window to let her hear the sounds of birds. And my voice. I would come very close to her when I spoke.

  “This is the fine air of September that you love so much. Tessa returned to Paris two days ago. She called and we talked for a long time and she will be coming to see you very soon. These chairs will all be filled soon with them, your girlfriends—your loved ones. With whom would you like us to start? Nod your head when I call the name of one of them. Every one of them has her place in your heart. No, I’m no longer jealous of them, Suhaila.”

  She tried to smile. When she couldn’t do it, she kept trying, and I averted my eyes.

  “Ayy, though, believe me, I was really jealous of them. That was so when I first arrived and saw them beside you. I felt that they were better for you, more useful, I suppose, than I was. Maybe they were better to have around in sickness and I was better in health. Anyway, I told myself so, to give myself a respite from their eyes. So that I wouldn’t avoid or shun them as I did Wajd. I learned later, from Narjis, that Wajd was getting here every day at six a.m. and would read the latest bulletins on your health. She talked to the night nurses and did the urinalysis and checked your pulse and raised your eyelids and studied the whites of your eyes. Then she gave you a kiss on the top of your head and left for her hospital, which is an hour and a half away from Paris even by the TGV. The day before yesterday she requested two vacation days when she learned that Tessa had secured you a nice room in the sanatorium that specializes in convalescent care and physical therapy. Mother, in a few days you will leave the hospital for good. You will return to yourself and to us. Wajd said to me, laughing, Over the next day or so I am going to be emitting my wajd in Suhaila’s direction. Your mother, Nader, loves my name, because for her it conjures up everything emotional and passionate. There is no stronger feeling than wajd. She kept on insisting to me, Wajd, you must live your name fully. You cannot take a vacation from wajd. If you don’t do as I say you will get sick as I do. Pay attention, Wajd, and think about it: all of our wajd keeps us from consulting doctors and keeps us ignorant of maps that point the way to psychiatric clinics. It cures us of depression and so our solitude doesn’t hit us with a bastinado. Maalish ya hilwa, you will lose customers but gain the profit of having yourself. And then I, Nader, I always answer her with the same words: I will fall in love and reveal the secrets to you, all of my secrets. But your mother responds to me, I don’t want you to reveal or cover up or confess. Wajd doesn’t demand all of these arrangements we make for it. For wajd.”

  “Mother, obviously Wajd has stayed away over the past few days because she listened to what you said. Heh, what do you say to that?”

  I wanted her to smile, to let go and cackle. Why not? At first, her eyes were staring blankly but then they flashed with laughter for a trice as if she was processing that voice, the articulations of sounds and syllables and the meanings of the words. Next I could see her eyes fixed on my hand. I moved my hand to hers and her hand pressed mine faintly, delicately.

  I do not want time to move: I do not want to be in a whole other moment of time. I want this time alone, and you here next to me, just about to say something, anything, any letter of any word, for—right here and right now—all letters delight me. We touch; I caress your palm and I feel you, although even touching never can bestow the abundant meanings that dance around one’s mother. I long for you, Mother: do not hide your eyes from me. Tell me, what is my hand saying to yours?

  Behind me I hear Asma’s sweet voice. “Ahh, dear, now you are a little easier about things, now that she has started to follow what you are saying.”

  Asma leaned over Suhaila’s chest and shoulders to give her a hug and to kiss her on both cheeks. She was reciting the holy verses and prayers, breathing them onto my mother to bring her vitality. Asma does that every time, as soon as she arrives and just before she leaves. And whenever she has come she has always been toting large bags the contents of which remain mysterious.

  When Narjis comes she whispers into my ear, “Asma can knead prayers as if they are dough. She can say the no god but God with flour, raisins, sugar, and butter. She bakes it all on an Iraqi tannur that she crafted herself and has at home, even if it’s the sort of communal bread oven you’d usually see outside. She puts it in front of your mother, and in front of all of us, as if it is the most appetizing cake that ever was—after she has recited over it to ward off envy and evil, to keep them away from us. You know, Nader, Asma got her doctorate in political economy, and with distinction, too. She was even awarded high marks for her adherence to rules of grammar and her composition and the professional way she wrote up her difficult research. Her dissertation was on the nationalization of Iraqi oil and its role in national development. She has two jobs so that she can pay the expenses of her son, who is an only child like you. We get together at the end of every week, Arabs and French and foreigners. Our association began with a few members, for the purpose of aiding Iraqi children, helping those in south Lebanon, and supporting Arab men and women held in Israeli jails. Asma drew everyone’s admiration for her discipline in examining and verifying everything even if it kept her awake until a very late hour of the night
. Every one of us who is here finds herself in an extreme state of alert and finds herself doing what she can, anything and everything.”

  “And you, Narjis? And Hatim and the girls? Don’t escape me, as you usually do.”

  “What do you mean by usually?”

  “I mean that you will say nothing and then you will stand up and walk away. You will busy yourself with going in to Suhaila. You will arrange appointments and talk with the doctors and nurses. As always, you will shoulder the burden of making sure the medical analyses are organized and kept track of. You will notice the little lapses of this sort or that, and you will measure the progress in my mother’s condition fully when it comes to nutrition, her pulse, the way she is moving and her sleeping and other things that I don’t even know about. Do you realize that whenever I see you, I picture you as a doctor, or I think that you must have studied medicine and then without thinking about it you turned to studying sociology? Yes, that’s the notion I have right now as I am talking to you and you are listening to me. I am strong and I can face danger. Certain words are not said. But I do know one thing. If it were not for all of you I would not have gotten through this trial. What would I have done without you women, Narjis? Without all of you?”

  She gave me a bashful smile and began pushing up her shirt sleeves, rolling them up to stay.

  “No, no, God forbid! What is all of this talk? You’re beginning to embarrass me.”

  “You’ll get up now, as you always do. I was hoping to see the two girls. I’m sorry, I couldn’t manage it before this.”

  “You’ll see them tomorrow, Nader. These have been very difficult days for you especially. The reports now are good. Her pressure has stabilized. Things have not gotten any worse and there have not been any added complications. I believe this is the best possible result we could expect at this point, and it is fine, because Suhaila will prevail over whatever difficulties remain. She will move slowly at first. According to the tests they’ve run on her, the nerves in her legs aren’t all paralyzed, although the left thigh was torn badly, but even this is no disaster. Suhaila has unusual strengths but her forces were flung here and there. It is as if what happened is, itself, what will return her to order, for her sake most of all. And as you can see, here she is after about forty days showing us that she is a paragon of will. There is no question: the credit for this is due to you.”

  My eyes filled with tears and spilled over. “My mother’s condition improved thanks to all of you. I am grateful to you all, because you stood by us and didn’t abandon us.”

  Narjis fidgeted and mumbled, wanting to stand up, just as Wajd, Caroline and Blanche together approached us. She turned to me swiftly. “Tomorrow, Nader. And we won’t accept any excuse. We’ll come here and pick you up around seven thirty, is that good? I have to get home now. You know, this is the first summer we haven’t gone to Lebanon—isn’t that strange?”

  I watched as they came toward us. I was wishing that I had the camera with me. I would have taken a picture that would unite me with them. They placed themselves under my direct gaze and Suhaila’s which she was regaining little by little. She doesn’t smile but she is trying to, and her face becomes all twists and she is embarrassed until the final image is finished.

  II

  The next day her three friends stood over her head. Narjis, Blanche, Asma. It was three o’clock in the afternoon when the hair coloring party began. Caroline, Nur, Wajd and I stayed outside the room.

  They sought Suhaila’s opinion, waving the tube of dye and the cotton in her face. Her expression was indication enough that she was very keen on this. Blanche had prepared her for this day. “We won’t return your hair to its original color,” she had said. “It won’t be black. No. That’s the color of the past—and it made you appear so severe.”

  Asma broke in. “You will have a different look, Suhaila, dear.”

  Blanche came back into sight holding a large wad of cotton with a very thick fluid on it. “This shade is the color of the Iraqi dates that your heart loves. It’s a good color for you right now.”

  Suhaila was submitting to their hands very naturally while Narjis offered a running commentary to make the time go faster. “This is a new type of hair coloring that you find sold at the coiffeur’s these days. It’s actually a blend of plant substances infused with scents. My sister taught me how and when to use it—this stuff is especially good for emergency situations or when you’re in a hurry.”

  Narjis reads the instructions and Asma sections Suhaila’s hair while Blanche does the coloring, laughing all the while. They arrived each toting a bag of something. Starting the evening before, Asma had been saying, “We’re bringing you a surprise. We’re getting it ready.” Caroline’s head bobs and there is a smile on her face unlike those I am accustomed to seeing from her. She seems delighted by the proceedings but does not have the fortitude to participate.

  “I don’t know anything about these affairs. I don’t know how to even up my eyebrows. There is a boutique coiffeur next to me that does everything you could think of, and when I need a change of mood, I go there. I am quite lazy, Nader. Suhaila knows that well. Imagine it, every one of them brought something for her. Narjis bought her a pure silk blouse and Blanche made her a silver necklace; Blanche is an artist with silver. Asma, my God, she said, I will give her a makeover. We all—every one of us brought her a gift and put it beside her head. Nader, this is only the preface. The doctor said that taking all of these medicines won’t make that hair of hers lose its thickness or stop growing. But Blanche says that her hair has lost its gloss. Things will get better, my dear; after all, health before all else is a matter of will. Did you bring a new film? Now let’s see, how many films have you taken so far?”

  I used to collect photographs of Baghdad, Basra, and Mosul. My uncle and I corresponded by email, using a private address so that my emails would not reach his wife. He sent me pictures of the archaeological remains, the inscription-covered tablets, lakes, stands of date palms, men’s clothing from the beginning of the century during the Ottoman occupation and then on through the British occupation of Iraq, women’s dress in the cities, north and south, the first automobiles, and carts and carriages pulled by Arabian horses. I would seat Leon on my lap and point them out. I would pass the pictures slowly before his lovely eyes. I would talk to him about everything as if it were me who feared that it would all be forgotten. I would collect all the palm trees in a cluster where his eyes were focused and then, no longer captured by it, he squirmed, muttered and, throwing his head back, began to squawk. I would spell out Baghdad for him in all languages. I would sit facing him and try to stimulate him to repeat it and fill its letters with music. Bit by bit I would feed him the knowledge that Baghdad is a musical composition worth his singing. Leaning over and speaking right into his ear, I would tell him to repeat it. He listened to me, and sometimes he responded, and then he would slip out of my hands and flee and I would go after him and drag him back. I was a happy father, happy with Leon, happy with fatherhood. How often I buried my head in Leon’s little chest or his belly. I could almost eat his little feet, I loved them so much, and I wouldn’t know what to say to him, as if I had been very late in returning to him. Every time I looked at him, I saw something new. I saw a picture of me with my mother, of me and my father; I saw myself sticking out my tongue in the photographs my mother had taken of me in the garden, as if I were being recorded for an advertisement of a mother and her child. I had never seen a picture of myself smiling or laughing. Was I a child who annoyed others and disturbed the calm of their days? I photographed baby Leon’s feces as he toyed with them. I photographed him bathing and crying, eating and stumbling as he took his first steps. I photographed him to escape from him and to return to him so that I would not forget myself. I took his picture as a way of joining him, of meeting him and meeting myself. I would develop the films and mass them in albums but not hang them in front of my eyes in the living room. To do that scared me: I was afraid
that if I hung them up I would forget him. And I wanted to preserve, keep hold of, him. Time was going by and life was moving at a run and I was celebrating Leon’s second birthday. Photographs do not preserve love, my love for my mother, my love for Leon. I was awakened from my meditations by Narjis’s voice.

  “I am certain that you will not even know her. Come on, go on in.”

  I heard the sound of many footsteps—Caroline’s, Nur’s, Wajd’s, and some of the nurses, rushing into her room. I went in last. Everyone was smiling: a smile of true victory beaming into my face.

  I stared dumbly. It did not cross my mind once that we were standing in a hospital room. The curtains were lowered except for a thin sliver left open through which seeped golden light. I wanted to let out a whoop in her face and I wanted to burst into tears. She was a young woman beautiful as a bride–and she was this age. Heads bobbed toward her in pleasure. Every movement we made, every sound from our mouths, she heard, and she would turn her head slowly and evenly in the opposite direction so that we could see the lovely relaxed hairdo that enhanced the delicacy of her appearance. She was beautifully dressed: a blue blouse—her favorite color. I didn’t hold back my tears; I didn’t feel any shyness or shame as I had earlier. Narjis sensed the tension in the air and said in a firm voice, “Even if they are tears of joy, Nader! Please, we want smiles only.”

  Blanche put her hand to her mouth and let out a low ululation.

  “Zaghariid only work in a loud voice, Suhaila, dear,” Asma remarked.

  Caroline went to Suhaila, bent down and kissed her on the cheek, and then moved to her head and hair. She patted everything gently. She did not know what to say but her voice made it clear that she could not rein in her patience. “All of you—you are such devils!” she blurted out. “How did you do all of this and how did you do it in such a perfectly short time? She is returning to us looking better than she did before. Honestly, I have never seen her as pretty as she is today.” She turned to me. “It’s quite important, this, Nader, all of this that is happening right now. You must feel confident now about her will to come back.”