The Occasional Virgin

by Hanan al-Shaykh

  PART TWO

  The Occasional Virgin

  2

  Three months after they met in Italy, Huda and Yvonne go walking in Hyde Park. Huda has come to London for five days to negotiate a deal with a British theatre to show her play One Thousand and One Nights after its success in Toronto.

  ‘I’m longing to discover London with you. I still don’t know it as I should, even though I’ve lived here for nearly twenty years,’ says Yvonne.

  They walk along, noticing all the seasons in the same place at the same time: spring, summer, autumn and winter; from fragrant green grass to brown earth and tall yellow plants whose liveliness has been drained away by the sun; trees bare of leaves and others whose new young leaves have just opened; trees that have preserved their white blossoms, under the illusion that it is still spring. Black crows fly down from the trees and land on the ground, while the pigeons crowd together, one of them dropping some food.

  ‘I’ve never seen such big crows in my life. They look like birds of prey, eagles even!’

  ‘Don’t look at them, Huda. They’re bad luck.’

  ‘I’ve always liked crows and owls. I felt sorry for them when I was little because people hated them so much. I remember I used to defend them and remind people that they were God’s creatures just like us.’

  ‘Of course. You always have to be different.’

  ‘I like their personalities, how owls prefer to live in desolate places, and ruins and old empty caves and the tops of church towers. And did you know that crows can pick out the best kinds of dates? So people wait to see which date palm they choose and follow them.’

  ‘So, from now on I’ll like owls and crows.’

  ‘Disgusting!’ shouts Huda suddenly. ‘Kleenex, hurry Yvonne, before I throw up.’

  Yvonne searches through her pockets for a tissue, guessing that a bird has defecated on her friend’s face. Not finding one, she bends down and picks up a large leaf and gives it to Huda, who throws it away in revulsion as soon as she brings it near her mouth, and quickly wipes her lips on the sleeve of her jacket.

  ‘Do you think there’s some kind of public toilet nearby? Let’s buy a bottle of water. Please, I want to wash my mouth.’

  They run towards a kiosk that looks from a distance as if there is a demonstration taking place around it. Yvonne arrives ahead of Huda. She buys a bottle of water, after making her way through the groups of people gathered near Speakers’ Corner. Huda rubs her lips violently as if trying to clean a tarnished silver jug, then empties the remaining water on the sleeve of her jacket.

  ‘The crow wanted to reward you for your affection, to give you the good news that a guy’s going to kiss you on the lips today because you’re the choicest of dates.’

  ‘Definitely. The guy who’s going to kiss me wants to taste shit. I’m going to throw up.’

  They find themselves at the heart of Speakers’ Corner, despite the fact that the only thing on Yvonne’s mind is a late breakfast – brunch with coffee, the aroma of which would penetrate her brain cells, and eggs fried in olive oil and sumac.

  ‘Come on, Huda, I’m going to die of hunger.’

  ‘I swear I didn’t know that women could talk at Speakers’ Corner too!’

  A woman in her early fifties stands on the lower of two white-painted wooden steps and rests her hands on the upper step. She looks as if she’s riding a scooter as she addresses the crowd: ‘God created people in vast numbers of races, in order that each race should stay where they are and not stray from their roots. If they emigrate to another country, they disobey the Creator and rebel against His just will.’

  ‘Not true!’ shouts Yvonne. ‘The Creator has not only blessed the emigration of me and my friend here,’ raising Huda’s arm high, ‘but has given us any amount of help in our new homelands.’

  All eyes zoom in on Yvonne and Huda for a few moments before a voice is raised in the crowd. A young Arab man, smartly dressed, sporting a trendy flat-top hairstyle and a dark red leather jacket, calls back to the first speaker: ‘Do I understand, my dear Myrtle, that you want your Queen to pack her bags and leave, given that her ancestors were originally German?’

  ‘The Creator’s just will? Haven’t we already violated the Creator’s just will, not only while we were present in the countries we colonised, but after we left too? Have you heard the one about the English officer who used to take out his blue glass eye and put it on his desk, and say to the Sudanese officials whenever he was about to go back to England on annual leave: “Don’t think I can’t see you when I’m away! This eye of mine will be observing your every move.”’

  Most of the bystanders applaud this intervention from an elderly Englishman leaning on a walking stick.

  ‘Bravo! You’re a good man. I like you!’ shouts the Arab in the leather jacket. ‘But let me assure Myrtle that there are some English who want us here, in fact they really need us. It’s a matter of life and death for them.’ He pauses for a moment, then says, ‘I’m talking about the beautiful pigs. We’re the only ones who like them and treat them with affection and respect. We’re kind to them and don’t slaughter them and eat them. In fact we want them to remain and procreate.’

  The place erupts in laughter and the woman orator shouts: ‘You should be shedding tears instead of laughing. You’re kind to animals? Is that why you slaughter sheep and cows with knives, with no warning and no sedation so that their meat is halal? Is that what you call kind? It’s the height of cruelty.’

  ‘No, no, that’s wrong. You’re mistaken, my dear Myrtle. The word halal doesn’t refer to the way the animals or birds are slaughtered, but to the prayer before they’re killed.’

  A man who looks Turkish comments: ‘Halal means that the animal faces Mecca while it’s being slaughtered.’

  ‘Mecca?’ shouts the young Arab. ‘How are we supposed to know the direction of Mecca when it’s foggy and rainy all the time?’

  An Englishwoman who looks like Vanessa Redgrave calls out: ‘And what about us? Don’t we throw crabs and lobsters alive into boiling water? Isn’t that the height of cruelty?’

  ‘Thank you,’ comments the young Arab. ‘On behalf of every Muslim in the world I thank you!’

  Then the Turkish man intervenes: ‘Animals are God’s creatures. They have souls just like people. People borrow animals from God Almighty. When they pray for animals’ souls it’s like them asking God’s permission to shed the animals’ blood.’

  The two women are immediately disillusioned. ‘Go, go. Crows really are bad omens.’ Huda drags Yvonne away. ‘But I’d like to go over to that Arab guy in the leather jacket and say, “I’m a talking animal. Please borrow me from God!”’ she says regretfully.

  ‘Halal, halal, oh God!’ grumbles Myrtle loudly. ‘Will we never be done with this halal?’

  ‘Shhh, Myrtle, don’t ask for God’s help,’ shouts the witty Arab youth, ‘or he might come to save you, and then what will you do, when he descends from the sky and settles in Britain and the number of people arriving here goes up by thousands, because of course he’ll be surrounded by angels and devils, and they’ll take jobs away from the British.’

  The laughter of the bystanders suddenly changes to gasps of disapproval as a young man approaches, looking as if he has come straight from the desert – tall and dark-skinned with large, dark, flashing eyes that appear to have kohl round them – and catches hold of the Arab youth’s hand, trying to pull him away and repeating, ‘Shame on you, shame on you, Tahir.’

  Although they are dazzled by his striking physique, both Yvonne and Huda notice his turquoise ring and the silver bracelets round his wrist, which seem out of keeping with his violent behaviour.

  ‘How very rude! He looks North African to me. He’s scary!’

  ‘Wow! Have you seen that body? And those eyes! Scary? He can scare me any time. I’d like to tremble in his arms.’

  ‘He looks like someone you couldn’t joke with.’

  ‘But you have to agree h
e’s got a nice body.’

  Their attention is suddenly caught by a group of laughing people, waving their hands around like birds, then jumping high in the air with their eyes closed, while their leader shouts, ‘Laugh louder, louder. Laughter is the new cure for all illnesses. It doesn’t discriminate or proscribe. Drink and eat half what you normally do, and laugh four times as much.’

  As they leave them behind, they see Tahir, the Arab youth with the dark red jacket, in a circle that has formed around an African monk, there to preach the Gospel and argue against the Quran. ‘You British, your forefathers guided us to Christianity, and now you’ve forgotten what you taught us.’

  Huda and Yvonne are about to continue on their way, losing interest in what’s going on around them, when something the monk says makes them stop, something to the effect that Islam gets through to the British by way of the food they eat and the shishas they smoke.

  ‘Whenever you inhale the smoke of a shisha, the plague of the shisha gets into your bloodstream. Smoking shishas will lead you astray and make you indolent. As you smoke a shisha, it will whisper to you, “I’m from the land of Islam, Islam, Islam” and brainwash you.’

  Amid the eruptions of noisy laughter, Tahir remarks: ‘He’s right, absolutely right. When I was smoking a shisha yesterday, a jinn came up out of the smoke and bellowed menacingly at me, “You must become a devout, pious and fanatical Muslim at once, or you’re a dead man, you’re a dead man, you’re a dead man.” He said it three times, and I began to tremble, as I had no idea how to become a devout, pious and fanatical Muslim. But my wife was cleverer than I was and stripped off in front of the jinn, so he went after her and left me in peace.’

  Gales of laughter again, especially from Yvonne: ‘We were too quick to leave. He’s cute, and smart. He kills me.’

  The young Arab salutes the circle with an air kiss, then brings a finger up to his mouth as if requesting their attention.

  ‘Can I ask you a personal question, and I hope you’ll be frank with me?’

  ‘Go ahead. What’s your question?’ says the monk seriously.

  ‘Are you a Muslim?’

  ‘How did you know?’ jokes the monk.

  Yvonne hurries over to introduce herself to the young Arab man, thinking to herself that Arab men don’t bother withdrawing before they come, relying on the woman to take precautions. He merely nods at her before looking up at the sky. Yvonne doesn’t understand this behaviour, but raises her head skywards herself, and all in the group copy her. There is nothing to be seen except clouds like white sheep grazing.

  ‘I’m looking for your name in the records of Muslims and I can’t find it,’ declaims Tahir.

  Everyone dissolves into laughter, and the monk replies, ‘Of course you won’t find it because the Virgin Mary spreads her washing to dry on top of the Muslim names. Did you notice how clean it was?’

  Tahir disappears into the crowd. Yvonne comes back, taking hold of Huda’s hand and hurrying her in the opposite direction.

  ‘I’m no longer attractive, Huda, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I introduced myself to him, but he ignored me completely.’

  ‘He’s too busy playing the fool. It would have been better to talk to him after he’d finished his conversation with the monk. Anyway, I noticed he was looking at you as if he really liked you.’

  ‘Thank you for trying to raise my morale.’

  ‘Raise your morale? You’re a sex bomb!’

  ‘You mean a time bomb that makes men turn and run the moment they see it.’

  ‘Maybe he ran away because he was shy.’

  ‘Maybe. Come on, let’s go and find him.’

  They move from one group to another looking for Tahir and discovering that Speakers’ Corner is like a popular market, each speaker a vendor calling his wares, as the audience move between groups, until a certain topic or the sound of laughter or a heated dispute attracts them.

  ‘You know, Huda, it’s never occurred to me all these years I’ve been in London to stop and see what’s happening at Speakers’ Corner. It’s really entertaining.’

  ‘And we learn to listen to the opinions of others, even if they’re unreasonable or superficial!’

  Tahir isn’t in the group surrounding the man who looks Jamaican and keeps repeating ‘Englishness is whiteness’. This man is rhythmically stamping his feet, so much so that the thumping drowns out his voice. He is holding a couple of posters categorising human beings according to their skin colour – white, Asian, black. He is wearing a military uniform and Nazi-style headgear and his Hitler moustache is out of keeping with the warmth of his eyes and his beautiful white teeth. He pounds the earth with his boots, as if he wants to make a hole in it, and points to the posters: ‘This is how the British police see you.’

  And he isn’t in the group surrounding the young Irishman who is blaming environmental pollution on women’s vanity, because their hair dye finds its way into rivers and seas. But they do find him in the biggest group, where a Muslim preacher from Bangladesh is arguing with a black man from South Sudan. It is clear to the two women that the preacher is trying to cover up some slip of the tongue when he says to the black man that there is no future and no honourable life for black people unless they all became Muslims, like Malcolm X and the boxer Muhammad Ali.

  The black man is insisting that the preacher show him the Quranic verse that talks about God’s love and concern for blacks, while the preacher pretends to look for it in the Quran he has in his hand. At this point, Tahir starts cracking jokes in Arabic: ‘A Sudanese whose wife gave birth to a white son told her to put him back in the oven.’ Laughter from all those who understand Arabic. ‘Have you heard the one about the Sudanese woman who took part in the Miss World beauty competition and won the title of Miss World, the Negative?’

  ‘Shame on you, man,’ says a woman wearing a headscarf. ‘How can you be so racist?’

  The Bangladeshi preacher closes the Quran, kisses it, then brings it up to his forehead, claiming that he doesn’t want to bore his listeners and would rather finish his sermon.

  ‘Why don’t you just apologise for lying to me? That would be much better than pretending you can’t find it, my brother.’

  The preacher’s embarrassment, and his worn clothes, make Huda feel sad. Her father used to kiss the Quran, then bring it up to his forehead, and she finds herself intervening. The astonishment that shows on Yvonne’s face when she hears her friend speak is nothing to the surprise that Huda herself feels. ‘The Quran doesn’t mention blacks, but—’

  The youth from the desert interrupts her: ‘The Holy Quran’ – emphasising the word ‘holy’ – ‘you have to say the Holy Quran. The two words are inseparable.’

  Ignoring him, she goes on, ‘But the Prophet Muhammad is the one who said—’

  He interrupts her again: ‘You have to say “peace be upon him” when you mention the Prophet’s name.’

  ‘The Prophet Muhammad is the one who said that an Arab is no better than a non-Arab, unless he is more pious.’

  He stands squarely in front of her as if to block off her air supply. ‘Are you deaf? You’re not talking about your relatives, or a film or a novel. You must add the word “holy” when you mention the Holy Quran, and say “peace be upon him” when the Prophet’s name comes up, peace be upon him and his family.’

  ‘God’s messenger is the one who ordered the emancipation of slaves and made them free and forbade racism.’

  ‘Substituting the word “messenger” doesn’t mean that you don’t have to say peace be upon him whenever the name of our Prophet – peace be upon him and his family and companions – comes up. Do you understand?’

  ‘Now leave the sister in peace,’ remarks Tahir, ‘or do you think you’re Jeremy Paxman?’

  Warm applause and loud laughter, especially from the British in the audience.

  Then the man from the desert addresses himself to Huda. ‘If a person is going
to talk about religion, he should clean his mouth out before he utters a single syllable, or else keep it shut.’

  When Huda merely stares at him without answering, Yvonne says angrily, ‘Should I reply to him since you’re keeping quiet?’

  ‘No,’ remarks Huda in a voice loud enough for him to hear. ‘With some people silence can be more powerful and eloquent than words.’

  The man from the desert shifts his gaze from Yvonne back to Huda, then shakes his head as if he can’t be bothered with them and goes on his way. As soon as he has gone, Yvonne says, ‘Journey of No Return!’ And they laugh because it’s the title of a popular song about a guy in prison who’s never coming out.

  ‘I’m going to die of hunger. What do you think about eating here?’

  ‘Let’s do it.’

  They move away from the groups of people and the noisy voices, taking the paved footpath around Hyde Park until they reach the opposite side of the lake where swans, seagulls, ducks and pigeons jostle together, competing over the bread and crisps and popcorn that people walking in the park have thrown down for them.

  As soon as they find a table in the Lido Café, Huda slumps into a chair and sighs deeply. ‘I know he’s hateful,’ says Yvonne, ‘that’s why I wanted you to shout back at him. He thinks he’s got the monopoly on religion. How dare he talk to you as if he was swatting flies! If I were a Muslim, I’d have given him a bloody nose.’

  ‘Do you have to be a Muslim to teach him a lesson?’

  ‘So that I don’t seem like a fanatic, or a sectarian.’

  Huda laughs: ‘I’ve just thought of a suitable name for him, Ta’abbata Sharran! Ta’abbata Sharran means “the one who held evil under his arm”. It’s the nickname of a pre-Islamic poet. His mother saw him going out with his sword under his arm, and when someone asked where he was, she said, “He put evil under his arm and went out.”’

  ‘Ta’abbata Sharran. It suits him. It’s a great name! If you’d thought of it before, I would have called him that to his face.’