Among the Faithful

by Dahris Martin

  Now Fatma had reached the marriageable age when the death of her parents forced her to live with her sister, a shrewish woman, many years older than Fatma, with a raft of children and a surly husband who had all he could do to feed his own. Fatma became the family drudge. Food and house-room were begrudged her. The sister’s one idea was to marry her off. But the girl had no dowry, no talent whatsoever for weaving (unpardonable shortcoming in Kairouan), and, besides virginity, little else to recommend her. Nevertheless, a husband was found for her. Fatma was married, but soon divorced. She could not return to her sister’s. Her only other relative was an elderly uncle, Hassein ben Ali, who was probably the most unhappy polygamist in Kairouan and the butt of all jokes on the subject. Reluctantly, to save his niece from The Street, he took her in.

  He was among the first to button-hole Kalipha. And if he swore that his niece was a model of thrift, neatness and industry, an inestimable asset, a complete angel, nobody could seriously blame him. Certainly Kalipha never did. In marriage you took your chance. You stuck your hand in the grab-bag and pulled out – if Allah willed – a Kadeja or a Zinibe. What Kalipha got was Fatma.

  Poor Fatma succeeded as a servant no better than a wife. Not only could she neither cook nor weave, she proved unteachable and lazy. She was, also, an incurable slattern. Folded away in the painted chest were hip-scarves, pantaloons, and headkerchiefs that Kalipha had bought for her from time to time, yet nothing short of violence would induce her to change her garments. Her drab, loveless existence was enlivened only by such excitement as she could make for herself. It was discovered, for instance, some time after her coming, that food of both households had a way of disappearing. The cats were blamed until the day Eltifa caught her sister-in-law in the act of tying a basin of cous-cous to a cord dangling into the court. There was a frightful uproar, Fatma was never again detected in her philanthropy, but food continued to vanish.

  On the other hand, she had her own little system of economy. Kalipha’s fortunes fluctuated from day to day. If he had been lucky enough to ‘trap a tourist’, and had twenty francs in his pocket, he was rich. He spent lavishly, splendidly, but the next day he might be destitute. Then it was that Fatma would quietly take from her little hoard whatever he required. Was it cigarettes? She would put into his hand the half-dozen she had filched from him last week. Was it charcoal, tomato-paste or meal? This ant-like practice simply delighted Kalipha. ‘O djinneyeh!’ he would petition the air, his eyes twinkling, ‘grant me, if you please, a garlic for the evening’s macaroni!’ And Fatma would eventually appear and, with a mocking little smile, hold out to him the garlic.

  But one swallow does not make a summer, nor did this single trait reconcile Kalipha to her ignorance and sloth. I could not but feel that if he could secure her a certain refuge, I had no longer any right to keep him from divorcing her.

  After that night Fatma’s cold grew steadily worse. She would not keep to her bed, but dragged herself around, wasting and coughing until she was beyond the aid of my aspirin tablets. Nobody paid particular attention to her, and, even if he had had the money, Kalipha would not hear of calling in the doctor.

  Meanwhile, he was finding it no easy matter to dispose of his wife. Her sister’s door, he soon found, was shut to her – slammed and locked. For all she cared, Fatma could die on the doorstep. So the pursuit of her uncle began. It really doesn’t seem possible that in a town the size of Kairouan it would take weeks to find a man! Kalipha waited hours in Hassein’s favourite coffee-house, hung about the mosque of his devotions, haunted the quarter in which he lived – to no purpose.

  One fine moonlit night, just after I moved, we were strolling along the main street when we bumped into him. At a word from Kalipha he took leave of his companions and we seated ourselves on a bench beneath the pepper trees near the Djeladin Gate and Kalipha ordered coffees. Contrary to my expectations, Sidi Hassein was a stern-faced majestic old gentleman, not at all the sort, one would say, to be husbanding three harpies. The salutations were endless. One as much as the other was on tenterhooks, yet the leisurely tide of ‘How is your health? How is your household? Are you well? Is nothing wrong with you?’ droned on and on, until when they got to their respective cousins’ children, I could listen no longer. When I awoke Sidi Hassein was taking his leave. He swept away and I asked, ‘Well, what did he say?’ Nervously, Kalipha lit a cigarette. ‘What could he say? He will take her back. Only,’ it was a few moments before he completed the sentence, ‘this evening I learned that Fatma’s mother died of tuberculosis.’

  There was a noticeable improvement in his attitude toward Fatma after that; it was as if he was aware for the first time that she was mortal. Sidi Hassein would relieve him of Fatma tomorrow, but now the thought of losing her among those termagants was horrible to him. Whether from fear of her disease or genuine concern for her welfare, he tried desperately to get her into the free ward of the hospital. He was told that only paupers were eligible and, so long as Fatma had a husband, she could not be considered destitute. For the time being, while she was with me, she was getting milk, rest, and sunshine, but what would become of her after I left? It was this worry that unstrung me, persecuted me with the mysterious terror that made me fear I might be losing my mind. This fear, itself, must have driven me mad if I hadn’t found – to my unspeakable relief – that all along Kalipha himself had been the prey of the same gruesome sensations! He, however, did not attribute it to our anxiety. ‘It is this house,’ he said with a shudder. ‘It is polluted, it breeds evil. Though I said nothing, I felt it from the first. Somebody must be interred beneath the pavement. If a house is haunted, neither benjoin nor the ninety-nine names of Allah can purify it.’

  Finally, after much deliberation and discussion, Kalipha arrived at this plan. On the day of my departure he would divorce Fatma, thus enabling her to get into the hospital. Next, with the sole object of stabilizing his resources, he would marry himself a weaver. If Fatma came out of the hospital alive, he could then afford to provide for her. The plan sounded all right, but would it work? Kalipha hadn’t a doubt in the world. He even explained it all to Fatma and readily obtained her consent. To be well again, poor girl, that was her one desperate hope!

  Her problem settled, Kalipha began, with Eltifa’s able assistance, to cast about for another wife. Never since I had known him had there been any confusion in his mind about the type. ‘She need not be young,’ he elaborated. ‘Youth – phu – I’ve had enough of it! She need not be beautiful – for if she be beautiful her value may reside only in her face. She must be a widow or a divorcée for they are acquainted with life – and they come cheaper. Let her be calm, clean, and thrifty – I do not demand much. But, most important of all, she must weave!’

  The time for finding a gem of this description was short, because in two weeks I was to leave, and Kalipha was very anxious that I pass judgment upon his intended. There were three candidates for his bed. At the offset they were all ‘gazelles’, but, upon closer investigation, two were eliminated. Of the third, Turkia daughter of Sadoc, Eltifa had great hopes. I was urged to accompany her when she called upon the girl’s family to inquire into her qualifications. So one afternoon, a few days before my departure, I set out with Eltifa and Halima, her closest friend and the chief of her orchestra.

  I was ready to be charmed with Turkia. First of all, she was not a divorcée, but a widow who had been married to the same husband fifteen years. Secondly, her name was favourably known among the local rug merchants. Upon her husband’s death, she had returned to the home of her parents who were having a little difficulty marrying her off again on account of her age – she was over thirty.

  We were received by the women of the family as ordinary visitors, although, of course, the object of our call was clearly understood. Turkia was present, but her mother and sisters-in-law did all the talking. The conversation was easy and affable, while Turkia served us coffee and little date-stuffed cakes – of her own making we were told. For my par
t I liked her immediately, and I tried to tell her so when our eyes met. She looked so trustworthy, so wholesome and capable! She was not young, but certainly she wasn’t old; she wasn’t beautiful, but she was far from being ugly. She could cook; she could weave – that carpet on the loom was hers. What a wife for Kalipha! I only feared she was too good for him!

  I could hardly wait to learn Eltifa’s opinion. ‘Well, Sherifa,’ she began, as, our visit over, we moved off down the lane, ‘What do you think of her?’ My eager praise caused her to chuckle under her veil. ‘Ah, yes,’ she sighed, ‘if my brother is not a dunce he will snatch this ruby!’

  ‘O Eltifa, he will!’ I cried. ‘She is all that he asks of a woman!’

  A dry little laugh was her answer.

  I went directly home with her for it had been arranged that Kalipha would be waiting for us there. He and Abdallah were drinking tea when we came in. Dispassionately, Eltifa delivered herself of her report as she slowly unwound her haïk. When she had done, I began. Unlike Eltifa, I could not contain my enthusiasm, and they all started laughing. Even Abdallah’s sober face shone like a jack-o’-lantern. ‘You are a born match-maker!’ Kalipha kept crying until I began to feel that he was much more amused than interested. Finally, I reproached him. ‘But, ma petite!’ he cried virtuously, ‘How can you say that! I am listening, I am impressed. Continue! She is about thirty you say, rather plain-looking – go on!’

  ‘But, as you yourself have said,’ I insisted, ‘these things are not important. For she can cook and weave and …’ Here I caught Kalipha smiling broadly across at Abdallah. Exasperated, I asked him point-blank. ‘Will you take her for your wife?’

  ‘Why of course, my little one!’ he declared, straightening his face with difficulty. ‘This Turkia bint Sadoc is the one wife for me. My search is at an end!’ But it was of no use – he couldn’t keep back his laughter. ‘What a little match-maker!’ he gasped through his fingers.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Adorning of the Bride

  IT WAS INCREDIBLE that a short journey by sea and land could take one so far, far away. Kairouan – Concarneau – were ever two cities more strongly contrasted? Swift-moving skies, air like brine, steep streets, crowded harbour, coifs, sabots, peasants – grim and self-contained, one could fancy almost inimical: that was Concarneau. It stimulated, it invigorated me, but it could never endear itself to me as Kairouan had done.

  I had not long to wait for Kalipha’s first letter, written in the flourishing penmanship of the public scribe. Its contents should have been no great surprise: ‘At last my sister has found me a wife! You well remember the nice little man, Sidi Mohammed, who shines shoes in the souks? This Kadusha is his stepdaughter. She is a virgin, very young, they tell me, and brown as a date. I like very much a brown skin. It is certain that Sherifa will love her! The marriage contract has already been signed, and I await only your return for the ceremony.’

  So this was the result of our pains! Turkia’s talents, her long successful career as a wife – these things did not count. Nothing counted, in reality, except virginity – virginity and a brown skin! The patience, the sympathy I had wasted upon his bombastic tirades! Eltifa’s weary laugh came back to me; long ago she had learned. Well, he had doubtless got what he deserved – some silly little thing, all face and figure, of whom he would soon tire. His casual assumption that I would return for the marriage irritated me, but what really angered me was the fact that he had not even mentioned Fatma. She had evidently been divorced, if the contract had been signed, but was she in the hospital? I had not the patience for the hyperbolical congratulations that Kalipha fondly expected. In one scant sentence I wished him well. The rest of my letter was devoted to urgent inquiries after Fatma.

  Three weeks must have passed before I received his classic answer. ‘My dear sister, I am well, but my pocket-book is sick. That is to say, empty. First, there was the expense of buying the new wife. Then, during the fête my distinguished nephew from Salambo, with two of his friends, passed five days with me. This cost me dear, I assure you. Then Fatma died – another little expense. It was a great pity that you were not here for the birthday of our glorious Prophet.’

  ‘Fatma est morte – encore une petite dépense.’ No more than that. The mail was distributed as I was eating breakfast and I remember that, long after the dining-room was cleared, I sat there holding my letter, looking off to sea in the direction of Kairouan, trying to realize that Fatma was dead. I could search the White City over and I would not find the unfathomable little creature. That she was dead, at an expense to Kalipha, was all that I knew, all that I would learn from correspondence. Fatma est morte – encore une petite dépense! I could not get the words out of my mind. For days they swung in time to my movements, my conversation; at night they paced sombrely through my sleep. Fatma was everywhere, enigmatically smiling at me from the paysage across the harbour, from among the painted sails, the clouds in the sky. It was never the plump, tousled-headed little creature who had first welcomed us to Kalipha’s household, but a tiny wraith with dervish hair. The sea murmured Fatma est morte – encore une petite dépense, the wind took it up. And sometimes at night I heard them both moaning, Mreetha y’Sidi! Mreetha!

  There had been tears in her eyes when we said good-bye that morning in the court. ‘You will get well, Fatma,’ I told her. ‘The hospital will cure you.’

  ‘Inshallah,’ she had smiled mistily. As Allah wills. I think she knew that she would not get any better.

  I could not be interested in this Kadusha. I supposed I would try to like her for Kalipha’s sake, but for the attempt even, I needed time. I advised him repeatedly not to postpone the wedding on my account, yet his letters continued to assure me that the nuptials attended my return. So, as a sort of memorial to Fatma, or perhaps from innate perversity, I changed the date of my sailing and returned three weeks later than I had intended.

  Kalipha was at the dock to meet us. As I stood near the bulwark scanning the crowd on the shore with eyes made clear and critical by absence, I spotted him with something like horror. Good God! I thought. Is that black diabolical-looking Arab, that hideous caricature of a villain, your friend! He was alternately wiping his eyes with and waving a large red and yellow handkerchief. It was only five days to his wedding, yet no man had ever looked less the bridegroom. He was unkempt, unshaven, and wearing what appeared to be a child’s white burnous. (Afterwards I learned that, having sold his own burnous for the price of the fare to Tunis, he had borrowed Abdallah’s for the journey and his dishevelment was due to the fact that he had spent the night on the wharves.)

  His vociferous joy, my own happiness to be back, soon swept all that was unworthy and strange from my feelings and, by the time we were settled vis-à-vis in the train for Kairouan, I was seeing him in the old way – a lovable mixture of watchdog, father, brother, and child.

  Now, as we rolled across Tunisian country, I heard the whole story of Fatma. If it was grim, it was, also, mercifully short. She was admitted into the hospital on the same day that she was divorced, and on the next, Kalipha, with an easy mind, took the family to Monastir, a village on the coast where they spent a fortnight with Jannat’s schoolmaster son Mohammed. Fatma was dead and buried by the time he returned. His account of her end, consequently, was patched together from hearsay.

  Fatma was in the hospital less than a week. She was always stealing things, it seems. From the moment she entered, the ward was demoralized; the doctors went crazy trying to enforce order and quiet. Finally, when she was caught stealing biscuits from the patient alongside of her, ‘ils la jettent la porte’. The hospital is located about a mile from the city and it is a fact that early one morning some bedouins found Fatma lying by the road. They carried her with them to Kairouan and, after trying the sister, they left her at the Uncle’s. The very next day the women put her out. She went from door to door after that, ‘but everybody feared her disease’. So she crept into a mosque where she was found insensible and sent ba
ck to the hospital. ‘It was several days before she could die, the poor thing. They said she was like a finger.’ She was buried, without funeral, in the cemetery of Sidi Arfah. That was all, except that her clothes – pretty things folded like new – reverted to Kalipha.

  It is a seven-hour journey by train from Tunis to Kairouan, and, in all that time, Kalipha did not mention his fiancée unless I did, and then indifferently, as ‘the new one’ or ‘this Kadusha’. For fear of embarrassing him, I suppressed most of the questions that had been accumulating during my absence. One, however, simply shot past my guard. ‘But Kalipha, how could you afford the purchase price of a virgin?’

  ‘It was not high in this case,’ he explained placatingly. ‘Sidi Mohammed, who is my friend, was willing to let me have the girl at a bargain. She is only his stepdaughter, you know, and he has two children – and another en route. Two hundred francs is cheap for a virgin, but it was riches to Sidi Mohammed, poor man.’ There was quite a pause. ‘You know,’ he added self-consciously, ‘this Kadusha can weave. They say she is very strong at the loom. A veritable tigress, they say.’ As I gave no sign of being the least bit impressed, he pursued, ‘Demand of the rug merchants. They will tell you the prices her carpets bring. Ask Basheer or Mohammed el Mishri – ask any of them!’ I averted my head toward the window. ‘Ah, yes,’ he reproached me sadly, ‘I divine your thoughts. But you will see!’

  Kalipha was to take possession of his wife on Thursday, the eve of the Sabbath, and he returned to Kairouan on the preceding Saturday, the second day of the momentous Marriage Week. There was nothing in his behaviour, however, to indicate that this was not just another week to him. I teased him a little about his indifference. ‘Oh, yes, you seem very calm, but one knows that your heart is jumping. It is not possible for a bridegroom to be calm!’