Ignoring him, Huda continues: ‘How I wish we could stop attaching so much importance to the niqab, when there are life and death issues like the marriage of underage girls, some of them as young as eight. Girls like toy dolls, forced to become playthings themselves, and have intercourse with men old enough to be their fathers or grandfathers.’
The anger on the youth’s face was terrifying as he said to her in formal Arabic: ‘Do you know that hens are slaughtered if they cry like roosters?’
‘What?’
‘A hen – if she makes a noise like a male bird, she must be killed. Do you understand now?’
‘I don’t understand Arabic.’
‘Are you threatening her?’ shouts Yvonne in Arabic.
‘Yes, I’m threatening her and you, and everybody who interferes in what doesn’t concern them, for they’ll hear things that they won’t like.’
Huda looks at him as if she’s dissecting him: he’s a hypocrite, adopting a pious persona, and she feels she must expose him. The colour and cut of his olive trousers, his burgundy scarf, turquoise ring, silver bangles and sports shoes, his big eyes that appear to be rimmed in kohl and the way he wears his hair all suggest that he frequents clubs and dances with a glass of neat whisky in his hand, rather than telling his prayer beads and praying five times a day.
‘Ooh, look at us. We’re quaking in our boots,’ replies Yvonne, pretending to tremble.
The Englishwoman joins in: ‘What’s going on? Is this all a result of my question about the niqab?’
Before anyone can answer her, Tahir comes up and says to Ta’abbata Sharran: ‘Brother Hisham, you don’t have the right to reward and punish. Only our Lord can do that. Didn’t we agree on this last Sunday?’ Then, turning to Huda, ‘What’s this fascinating information about the burka, Daughter of the Cedars? I think, my Lebanese sister, that the niqab is the first of the three tools of seduction. The second is a red dress and the third is kohl round the eyes.’
The elderly Englishman from earlier, leaning on his walking stick and puffing at a cigarette, calls out, ‘I’ve got a question for the lady who talked about blacks and Islam,’ but Hisham intervenes: ‘No. You can’t ask her a question because her information is spurious.’
‘This is extremely unfortunate,’ expostulates the Englishwoman. ‘Dialogue is supposed to be of the essence at Speakers’ Corner, however dissimilar the mentalities and however fierce the clashes of opinion. We should understand that this tradition is a reflection of the democracy that we enjoy here in Britain.’
Huda addresses the Englishman. ‘What did you want to ask?’
‘Thanks. My question is the following: what happens to women who wear niqabs on the day of resurrection when they arise from their graves without niqabs?’
Huda starts to leave without answering, while Tahir replies: ‘The niqab wearers will unintentionally disobey God, as instead of covering that’ – he points downwards – ‘they’ll be preoccupied with covering their faces.’
Hisham directs words at the Arab youth in a Maghrebi accent as if he is spraying him with bullets, and the youth replies, ‘Do you know what my head told my tongue to say? As long as you are my neighbour, I shall never know peace.’
Hisham ignores him and says: ‘We will rise up from our long sleep without genitals and our bodies will be covered in hair. Almighty God, who has made man to perfection, will surely make the decaying bones live, and resurrect him to perfection.’
Huda remembers that she asked exactly the same question of her religious studies teacher, who answered that the angels would cover our bodies, while her father assured her that everyone would be too busy waking up from death and coming back to life again to worry about such things.
This time the two women move fast through the crowd as they make for the exit, but Tahir calling to them stops them in their tracks. ‘Just a moment. Don’t leave me before I’ve had the chance to talk to you, it would kill me!’
‘Shall we let him come with us if he wants to?’
‘Where to? To the wedding?’
‘We could invite him to have dinner with us tomorrow.’
Panting, he catches up with them. ‘I want to thank you both. You’re the best propaganda for Islam. A young woman like you’ – turning to Huda – ‘talking about the burka is more important than hundreds of speakers trying to convince the West that there are modern Muslim women, blonde ones with green eyes, and dark, sexy ones. I’ve got an idea: why don’t the three of us begin a dialogue with the title “Free Hugs with Muslims”? We allow everybody who wants to find out about Islam, men or women, to embrace us, then they might get a better understanding of how spontaneous and open we can be.’
‘We’re ready!’ exclaims Yvonne.
They introduce themselves, and he carries on: ‘Pleased to meet you, Huda and Yvonne, Yvonne and Huda.’
All of a sudden, Hisham appears, as if he has sprung from the bowels of the earth. Tahir smiles: ‘Look who’s come to apologise to you, ladies.’ He turns to Hisham. ‘I was just saying why don’t the three of us begin a dialogue with the British. These two ladies wear black abayas and cover their heads, but wear masses of make-up, bright red lipstick, or better still wear niqabs, then raise their veils from time to time, and give hugs to the British. Can you imagine the reaction from the British men?’
‘Shut up, you idiot. Shut up. I knew you were stupid, but I didn’t know how stupid,’ shouts Hisham.
‘What’s it to do with you? For your information, we’re no longer at Speakers’ Corner. This is a private meeting. Now, where was I, my dears? I know, I was saying can you imagine the sight of a veiled woman embracing a British man?’
Before he finishes his sentence, he is brought to the ground by a sudden powerful blow aimed at him by Hisham. Blood pours from Tahir’s face. Yvonne bends over him, while Huda goes after Hisham, shouting, ‘How can you be so violent? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I’m calling the police.’
Yvonne calls, ‘Huda, Huda.’
‘And you’re not worthy of your name.† Your name is innocent of you. What’s the connection between you and the true faith? You’re error†† personified. And remember, your place is in the kitchen, not here.’
‘Yes, my place is in the kitchen,’ shouts Huda at the top of her voice, ‘so I can make a soup from your bones.’
Thunderstruck at this response, Hisham merely shakes his head vindictively, chewing on his lip, and leaves the group at speed.
People immediately crowd around the young Arab, including the Jamaican with the Hitler moustache and Myrtle, who helps Tahir to his feet, wipes the blood from his face and wants to call an ambulance, but Tahir protests: ‘It’s not worth it. Otherwise the police will use this incident as an excuse to give us more grief. It’s best if I leave quickly before someone calls them.’
‘Why don’t we take you home in a taxi?’ suggests Yvonne.
‘It’s best if you give me the fare and I deal with it myself!’ says Tahir. ‘My grandfather always went on foot from our village to the town where his school was. One day when it was pouring with rain a man happened to pass by on a donkey and offered to give my grandfather a ride in exchange for ten piastres. My grandfather replied, “Why don’t you give me five piastres and I’ll give you and your donkey a lift on my back?”’
Everyone laughs and the Jamaican says, ‘I’ll walk with you to Marble Arch underground station. It’s very close.’
Tahir begins to move around, leaning on the Jamaican, and nods a greeting to the others before leaving.
‘Thank you, my friends. I’m so happy, in spite of all that’s happened,’ says Tahir. ‘Something you hate can be good for you. I never imagined for a moment that Myrtle, queen of the racists, whom I’ve enjoyed teasing for the past four years, would volunteer to help, and the Nazi, king of the anti-British racists, that they’d actually compete with one another to help me. And there they are now shaking hands without being told! Look how they abandoned everything and rushed ov
er to rescue me. As for you, my pretty Lebanese friends, I want to marry both of you.’
‘Are you certain you don’t want us to take you to the doctor?’ asks Myrtle.
‘No. No thanks. But do you know what? This coming Sunday I promise I won’t criticise you or make fun of you.’ The woman smiles affectionately at him, and he continues, ‘But I’ll make a hole in your tongue, like some Berber tribe does to brides on their wedding night, and put a ring in the hole and tie a thread to it and pull on it whenever I want to shut you up.’
Myrtle laughs heartily and says cheerfully to him, ‘Now I’m sure you’re fine. So I’ll see you next Sunday.’
Yvonne and Huda kiss him on both cheeks by way of farewell. ‘We’ll see you next Sunday.’
‘Indeed you will, my blonde and my brunette.’
They walk away.
‘It’s strange how I stopped fancying Tahir and just felt sorry for him as soon as I saw his face covered in blood.’
‘What happened to him must have shocked him to the core. I wanted to ask him if Ta’abbata Sharran always fought with him, or if the fact that I was there provoked him. And now that nasty, stupid guy thinks he’s escaped my clutches.’ Huda extends her hands in front of her, claw-like, and bares her teeth, like a cat ready to pounce.
‘Did you notice how he ran off like a rat abandoning ship?’
‘But he won’t escape from Error! Because I’m sure I’ll come across him again at the American Embassy at 3 p.m. Big Ben time. Error will get the better of him sooner or later.’
‘Oh, I forgot the demonstration.’
‘Error never forgets.’
3
Huda stands in front of the advertising posters that Yvonne has designed inspired by certain scenes or situations in Lebanese life that she still remembers from her childhood: the poster of the Bedouin singer with full lips and kohl-rimmed eyes, the usual beauty spot on her cheek, and the caption ‘My hair colour matches my beauty spot’; another of a man handing his wife a packet of pills, on which is written ‘Meet my new friend. His name is Aspro.’ Huda begins to hum the song from the old advert: ‘Aspro, let it be your friend, Aspro, let it be your friend.’
Yvonne hurries out of her room, blusher in hand, to complete the song with her friend. ‘Aspro removes aches and pains, Aspro, Aspro, Aspro.’
Another poster shows a mermaid with the face of a society woman known as the Lebanese Esther Williams because of her swimming prowess. Beneath her picture was the caption: ‘I use Mermaid tampons because they allow me to swim every day.’
‘Wicked girl. I never saw this on your website.’
‘It’s fresh from the oven.’
‘It’s fantastic. I want you to design a poster for the play.’
Finally there is a poster that prompts Huda to declaim in a theatrical tone: ‘Who said that a girl’s honour is like a match you can only light once?’ These words appear in Arabic, accompanied by an English translation, around an open white box in which lies a single strawberry, displayed like a piece of jewellery. Accompanying it also is an inscription that reads: ‘Don’t worry, girls, nobody will ever know your secret. You won’t need a doctor to restore your virginity, or a pharmacist to sell it to you. The magic solution is to buy your virginity from this site: www.hongkongandsingapore.com.’ Yvonne appears again with six packets in her hands. ‘Please take one’ – she opens one – ‘if you want to be a virgin again! Go on.’
‘No, no. I don’t believe this!’ shrieks Huda.
‘You’d better believe it. Chinese hymens are bestsellers in the Arab world, especially in Egypt. They cost fifteen dollars a packet! The woman stuffs the “strawberry” up there and when the groom has sex with her it bursts and its juice flows like crimson blood and the man has peace of mind because his bride is a virgin! My poor auntie, she became a nun and married the church because her fiancé deflowered her before he went to work in Brazil, to make sure she wouldn’t think of marrying anyone else. But unfortunately he never sent for her and she never heard from him again so she took refuge with the church.’
A wicked thought flashes through Huda’s mind.
‘If your aunt had been living in our poor quarter in Beirut, our neighbour Saadiyya would have given her powdered glass and shown her how to put it “up there” on her wedding night, so she’d have bled like a virgin who’d never kissed anyone but her mother. Long live China! Yvonne, you’re a genius! The poster is super amazing!’
*
A year after her father’s death, Huda had decided that she would become a man, as males are both kings and ghouls. You’re not allowed to eat in front of them, or meet their eyes. You have to cover your knees so the walls don’t see them, because maybe men’s eyes are somehow left in the walls, for men are present even when they are absent. You mustn’t stand on the balcony and look out at the world. You mustn’t talk on the phone.
That night Huda cut her hair herself. I want to be a man! Men are kings and ghouls. Men don’t cover themselves, or the only one who did was the neighbours’ son who liked his own sex and whose father sent him to the shaykh, Huda’s father, so that he could help him banish devilish temptation and make him once again as God had created him, a man who loved women. ‘But God made me like men in spite of myself.’ ‘No, son,’ replied the shaykh. ‘God created human beings in pairs so that the human race would continue.’ After a few months of receiving advice and being exposed to some scare tactics, the young man confided to Huda’s father that he had definitely repented and that all he wanted now was to carry out the five religious duties and spare himself evil in the next life, and the first thing he needed to do was to cover himself!
Huda’s short hair, her eyes free of kohl or eyeshadow, her unplucked eyebrows and bare skin, made some of the young women become infatuated with her, while the local youths thought she was competing with them for the women and remarked when they saw her: ‘Do you dress to the right or the left, for we can’t see it at all?’
She changed her mind. She didn’t want to be male or female. She wanted to be a car so she could travel through the streets in broad daylight or the depths of the night with only freedom as her companion. She learnt to drive in secret, surprising her instructor with her skill. She told him of her desire to teach women to drive, in particular covered women who wouldn’t accept instruction from a man. The owner of the driving school agreed, laughing and nodding his head in pleasure at the idea, and wrote on the car ‘Ladies Taught By a Female Instructor’. She reverted to wearing a headscarf so that the covered women would trust her, and taught them not to be afraid, to have confidence in themselves and not care about what men said: ‘Where are they driving to? Hell, or Qadisha Valley? Hey sister, you know cars run on petrol, not tomato sauce!’
When she decided to join her brother in Toronto, some years after the outbreak of war, and enrol in college to study theatre, she was eager to carry on teaching Arab women in Toronto to drive in her spare time, but as soon as she arrived there she encountered the old Huda again and the proof was that when she met her college lecturer, she became infatuated with the way he spoke, the stories he told and his theories of life. She fell in love with his fingers holding a CD, his smile when she came to his office in the university one day to ask him if he had looked at the essay she had handed in the day before, because she wanted to change something in it. As he looked for her paper, he chatted away, recounting how he had been distracted when he was teaching the previous day, and had begun describing a play he had attended, and the long dinner afterwards, where he had drunk a lot of wine. He gave her the essay. She stood up quickly, thanking him, promising to return it the next morning. When she reached the door he called to her: ‘I’m really curious to know what you’re going to change in your essay. Can I make a copy of it before you put in the changes?’
She handed him her essay and he fed the pages into the photocopier and promised her he wouldn’t read it before she gave him the corrected copy. She had chosen a story from a Schubert so
ng as the assignment was to create a theatrical situation derived from another art form: a painting, a novel, a piece of music, some verses of poetry. The theatrical situation she had chosen was ‘the unknown’: it was the tale of a dwarf and a queen who were alone in a boat. She had relied on the booklet accompanying the CD, which told the story.
A queen and her dwarf were alone in a boat that was being tossed about by the waves and carried far out to sea, until the mountains looked like ghostly shapes shrouded in mist. Why had the two of them set out on this boat trip? Was it because the queen was fed up with life and wanted an adventure? Had the weather suddenly changed? But while Huda was leafing through the booklet again the following day, she noticed that the rest of the story of the song was on the next page. The dwarf was the one who had taken the queen on this sea trip in order to strangle her with a red silk cord because she had chosen the king over him.
When her professor praised her a few days later for her treatment of the subject, she invited him to dinner. The third time they met, she said she’d like to visit him in his flat. She confessed to him that she felt seriously confused and wanted to free herself from this feeling, then surprised herself by undoing her skirt and sitting in front of him in her tights, then taking off her tights and sitting there in her knickers. Now the professor was confused and tried to avoid looking at her, but smiled and asked if she would like something to drink. He wanted to know more about her.
‘Did you tell me you were from Lebanon? From a Muslim family?’
She didn’t answer him. She was still under the tormenting effect of the red chilli pepper, of Fatima tied to the door handle, Nadira and her fainting fit, Issam imitating a monkey, Sawsan going up into the air, her face to the sky, calling, ‘I’m the wasp’, and Huda, looking down at the ground, calling ‘I’m the bee’.
She took off her knickers in front of the Canadian professor. ‘I know that this is what we’re both thinking about, and if you’re not thinking about it yet, then maybe in five minutes.’
The Occasional Virgin Page 10
