Nekropolis

by Maureen F. Mchugh

SPECIAL_IMAGE-clip_image002.jpg-REPLACE_ME

  The next day he’s there, waiting, of course. It’s a place where beggars sit, but his clothes are too clean and he looks too nice to be a beggar.

  Mrs. Ibraham is out on the street behind me. I walk past him, ignoring him. He looks terribly sad. At least he has the decency not to say anything to me with someone watching.

  Can harni be sad? They’re like AI, and some AI is sad and some isn’t. Some doesn’t have emotions like us at all, even if people like my mother don’t believe it. I don’t know anything about harni, though.

  I look over my shoulder.

  “Ayesha,” he says.

  If it’s an act, or programming, it’s very good. But I keep walking. If my little girl, Tariam, comes out to play, will he remember she’s mine? Tariam would not know to be careful. But she doesn’t come to the end of the street, my mother will keep an eye on her. Tariam would like the harni, but she is shy and he’s a strange man. I can’t believe he’d take her.

  Although he took Hariba. But not like that. Hariba is a grown woman. He didn’t just pick her up and walk away with her.

  I could turn around and tell my mother to keep Tariam inside all afternoon, but I’d have to walk back past him.

  I stop at a shop and buy a card phone. Calls are cheap, only a bit of silver. I call the shop near home-my mother always has a card phone around in case of an emergency, but she never remembers to put her number in so no one can call her. “Addi, sir,” I say to the shopkeeper, “it’s Ayesha, Zeinab’s daughter.”

  When we were children, we were all in awe of Addi, who was so serious when we bought chocolate from him. But he’s just a poor man with a tiny shop.

  “Yes, miss?” he says. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Nothing wrong, Addi, sir,” I say, “but would you send a boy with a message to my mother? I saw some older boys I didn’t know at the end of the street and they looked a little rough, so could she keep Tariam inside this afternoon?”

  He’ll send a boy to my mother. I could have told him I saw the harni, to call the police, but I didn’t. What if Hariba found out? And the harni looks so sad.

  I’m soft-hearted. My mother, who used to visit family on the farm, says I’d starve to death if I had to butcher my own food and she’s probably right.

  Hariba is better. She’s sitting up again. The first time I came to sit with her she was so sick and there wasn’t anything I could do. I kept asking her if she wanted a cool cloth, some tea, anything. I wanted to do something. There was nothing to be done, and I suppose I was one more problem for her, with my wanting. I told my mother I wouldn’t go back.

  She said I most certainly would, that Hariba was my oldest friend. I said I didn’t know what to do.

  “You don’t do anything,” she said. “You are just there.”

  So I tried to just be there. But seeing Hariba sitting up is wonderful.

  Zehra and Hariba’s mother are arguing about the doctor. “He didn’t do anything,” Zehra says.

  “She’s getting better,” Hariba’s mother says.

  “That’s because someone’s taking care of her,” Zehra says. “That horse doctor was a crook.”

  “The patches helped,” Hariba’s mother says.

  “Horse patches,” Zehra says.

  “I want to sit outside, in the sun,” Hariba whispers. “Help me.”

  She puts her bony arms around my neck and I pull her up. She leans against me and totters outside to sit in the doorway on her sharp-boned bottom. “You need a cushion,” I say. She gets bruises.

  “It will get dusty.”

  “I’ll dust it off,” I say, and get a cushion. “Have they been arguing all day?”

  “All day,” she sighs. “Oh, Ayesha, I forgot my tea.”

  I fetch it for her. Today Zehra’s old neighbor is either inside or gone to a café, and except for some children playing, the street is quiet.

  “I make you run around like a servant,” she says.

  “It’s about time someone waited on you,” I say. “You’ve waited on other people for years.”

  “Oh, I didn’t wait on people,” she says. “I cleaned and kept accounts.”

  Which didn’t sound any better to me. “I hate cleaning.”

  “It’s not so bad,” she says. “Cleaning other people’s dirt is not like cleaning your own. I don’t know why. And you get to snoop.” She laughs at my expression. “I used to clean closets, hampers, drawers, everything. I knew everything about the mistress.”

  “Like what?” I say.

  “Like that she has to shave under her chin. And she’s worried about having a fat neck, she has this special antifat cream she uses, as if it ever did any good. And Mbarek-salah has this, um, device, that he can put his, you know, his thing in.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Hariba looks around to make sure none of the children are in earshot. “It’s from outside of the country, you know.” I know. It’s forbidden. “It’s sort of like a plastic bag,” she says, “only it’s more like one of those floats children use when they can’t swim? And it’s shaped like a woman’s, well, you know.”

  I know, but I can’t imagine it.

  “It’s not filled with air, it’s filled with this, um, gel,” Hariba says. “So it’s more like a real woman. And when you turn it on, it sort of ripples, you know?”

  I can’t help laughing.

  “Really,” she says, laughing, too. “And it gets warm and it’s like rippling, and he sticks his, um-”

  “I know what you mean,” I say, nearly helpless with laughter.

  “Well, you can’t blame the poor guy, it’s not like he ever got anything out of the mistress.”

  “You saw this thing? You cleaned for Mbarek-salah? I thought you were over on the women’s side.”

  “One of the men on the men’s side was having an affair with one of the girls in the kitchen, and she told us about it. She got him to show it to her.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said. “No one would do that.”

  “It’s true,” she insisted. “And think about it, it’s the perfect wife.”

  I hold my hands up to my hot face, laughing. “You are wicked, Hariba!”

  “No, really,” she says, “I’m not making it up!”

  We laugh and then a silence comes.

  “What was he like?” I ask.

  “Mbarek-salah?” she asks.

  “No,” I say, “the harni .”

  “Why do you want to know?” she says, irritable.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  She looks suspicious. “He’s good,” she finally says. “Better than anyone else I’ve ever known.”

  Which doesn’t tell me anything about what he was like.

  “You don’t believe me,” she says. “None of you believe me. This place is so backward, you all think he’s some sort of abomination.”

  “Hariba!” I say, furious. All my life I have been trying to get out of the Nekropolis. She’s the one who was willing to stay here, and she would have if Fhassin hadn’t ended up in prison, if someone would have married her. She’d have stayed in the Nekropolis, had her babies, and made her funeral wreaths until she got old before her time.

  “It’s true,” she says. “Just because he wasn’t born, you all hate him and you don’t even know what he’s like.”

  “I’m asking what he was like,” I say through gritted teeth. “Listen, girl, I’ve been trying to get out of this cemetery my whole life and you know it, so don’t punish me because your aunt and your mother are living five centuries ago.” Of course, I do think he is an abomination-well, not an abomination, but something that should never have been. Look at what he’s done to Hariba’s life. But I’m not some stupid, superstitious old woman who can’t even read.

  She snakes me a look.

  I shrug. “Fine.”

  “What do you want to know?” she says.

  “What he was like. I mean, how was he differ
ent?”

  She rolls her eyes. “He’s like a normal person, just nicer. He’s just a person. You met him. You liked him.”

  I did like him, but mostly because Hariba was treating him so badly. “I met him for an hour one afternoon,” I say.

  “Did he act different than a human?”

  “He was awfully nice, for a man,” I say.

  She laughs, a short sharp bark like a dog.

  “I was only with you two for a little bit of time, and you didn’t even want me to talk to him.”

  “I didn’t care if you talked to him,” she says.

  “You acted as if I’d catch something if I looked at him.”

  “I did not,” she says.

  I’m too irritated to say anything, so I cross my arms and watch the street.

  “I don’t know how to say what he’s like.” Hariba finally says. “He’s like a regular person, only better.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Like that,” she says. “Just like that. Akhmim doesn’t do that, he isn’t sarcastic. I’m trying my hardest to tell you what he’s like and you just roll your eyes.”

  Her voice is loud. I glance back into Zehra’s house, afraid that Hariba’s mother will hear. She’s looking over her shoulder at us. I smile and look back at Hariba. “Your mother is listening,” I say quietly.

  “I don’t care,” Hariba says, but quietly.

  We sit and don’t say anything. I have better questions in my head: Is he smart? Is he ever angry? Does he feel the same things we do? How is he different from us? But I can’t ask them now.

  “I’m tired,” Hariba says, petulant. “I want to go in.”

  I come to see her, and she gets mad at me. You’d think she’d at least have the decency to recognize I didn’t have to come see her.

  * * *

  The harni is waiting at the same spot. He doesn’t say anything as I come closer. I’m nervous. He doesn’t look any different than a person, except that he’s handsome, like a foreigner who has had his genes enhanced. I want to speak to him, but I’m afraid to. I could just keep walking.

  “She’s getting better,” I say.

  “Did you tell her I asked about her?” he says. “Did she send a message?”

  “No,” I say, and walk past him.

  I can feel him looking at me, through my veil, like his eyes are heat on the back of my head.

  * * *

  The next day I don’t go to see Hariba, because my husband wants me to look at a flat in Debbaghin, but to get to the train I have to walk past where the harni waits. He’s not there.

  Is he still in the death house where he and Hariba were living? What’s he doing, is he sick? Harni probably don’t even get sick. If I was going to make a creature, I’d make them so they didn’t get sick.

  I am glad he’s not there. Or maybe not, I don’t know.

  If I left the Nekropolis, then I could just lose track of Hariba and her harni . Things would take their course. When my cousin moved out of the Nekropolis, I stopped seeing much of her. Not because either of us meant to, but she had to work and her son was in a crèche in the day and we tried to get together a couple of times for tea. It would be like that. Alem isn’t really pleased with this flat, but if I got a job, we could get a better one. I could work in a tea shop or something.

  The flat is on the fourth floor, up under the roof where it’s hot. The air cooler is on, but it doesn’t do much good. There’s a way up onto the roof, a trap door, but when I ask if we could sleep on the roof, where it would be cool at night, the landlord says he doesn’t want it unlocked, because thieves could get in.

  “We would be on the roof, we’d hear a thief,” I say.

  “You don’t want to sleep on the roof here,” he says. “Anyway, what if you forgot to lock it and you were gone? Anyone could come in my building.”

  For some reason I think of the harni waiting on the roof.

  It isn’t a very nice flat, it doesn’t have very much space. I thank the man and wonder why Alem wanted me to see it. Sometimes Alem just needs me to agree with him so he feels better about something he’s decided. He’s been complaining about how hard it is to work and then look for places to live and about how he’s seen so many places he can’t tell a good place from a bad one. I like it that he does that. At first it made me nervous, I think because of my father-my father never wanted my mother to have a single thought. And I wanted a husband who would be a real husband. I’m not so old-fashioned as most women in the Nekropolis, but that’s just the way I am. Alem isn’t weak and once I realized what he wanted, I found I really liked it. If he ever made a decision, for instance, if he decided that we should take this flat, I would do what he wanted.

  I walk back to the train so disappointed. I want to live here so bad. Every flat has water and cool air. The markets are not just carts and stalls but shops on the corners, bigger than Addi’s shop at home, with dates and oranges in bins out front. Cool air comes out the doors.

  The buildings are tall. On the first floor of one there’s a sign in a window that says FOR RENT and two men are sitting in front with a paint can. Their clothes are paint-spattered. I stop and tug my veil closer around my face.

  One of the men looks at me and says, “Miss? Are you here to see the flat?”

  “No, sir,” I say.

  The other one shrugs. “I don’t think she’s coming,” he says.

  “I’m looking for a flat,” I say boldly. “My husband just sent me to look at one he had seen,” I add, so they won’t think I’m too forward.

  “Where?” the first man asks.

  “Around the corner,” I say.

  “Jamal’s flat? Up under the roof?” He shakes his head. “Jamal’s a crook. Come look at my flat, I’ve just painted it.”

  It’s on the second floor, and smells strongly of paint. It’s clean and white. The rooms are not very large, but there are two bedrooms, one very small, but enough for Tariam. The windows look down on the street and it’s deliciously cool. It has shutters, which I love, they’re so old-fashioned.

  “How much?” I ask. It’s the same as the other flat, the one Alem wanted me to look at. “We’ll take it,” I say.

  “Your husband allows you to speak for him?” the man says.

  “He’ll talk to you, but I’m sure he’ll say yes,” I say. What if it’s rented today? I dig in my purse and find my bankcard. “Here’s our bankcard,” I say. “I can give you a deposit.”

  He takes the card thoughtfully. “All right,” he says. He puts the amount in, and presses his thumb against the pad. “It’s yours. When do you want to move in?”

  “I have to talk to my husband,” I say. Such a big decision, made so fast. I look around the cool rooms and they seem even smaller. What have I done?

  But I smile and thank him. I hope Alem isn’t angry.

  I take the train home.

  The harni is back in his spot, which irritates me. I wish he would disappear. I have to put a stop to this. He doesn’t see me, he’s watching the dust, leaning against the wall like any man with no job. I try to think of something to say, some way to tell him to leave me alone.

  “What do you want from me?” I say.

  He glances up and sees me and straightens up off the wall. “Did you see her today?” he asks.

  He’s so single-minded about her that I’m invisible. Which I should admire, it should be romantic but it isn’t, it’s annoying and short-sighted.

  “No,” I say. “And I didn’t want to see you. What do you want, why do you wait here?”

  “I want you to take a message to her,” he says.

  “Go away,” I say. “Leave her alone. Leave me alone.”

  “Just one thing,” he says. “Ask her for me.”

  “Why would I take her a message?” I ask.

  “Ask her, what does she want me to do? That’s all, just ask her that.”

  “I won’t ask her anything,” I say. “You should go away.”

  He nods, not
at all angry. “I should,” he says, “but I can’t.” He’s not like a real man at all, he has no pride, to stand there in the street and be told off like a woman.

  “You’re not good for her,” I say. “You’re not human.”

  “I told her that,” he says.

  “I am not going to talk to you,” I say.

  I haven’t told Alem about the harni because if I did he would tell the police and they would arrest him. I’d like it if he were arrested, but I don’t want to be the one who causes it. If he keeps hanging around, somebody will say something to somebody, I’m sure.

  I could tell Alem about the harni after he’s arrested, but then I’d have to explain why I didn’t tell him before. I would like to tell someone about the harni . I’d like to ask someone about harni . I don’t know how Hariba stood it.

  Not Alem, though. He doesn’t talk about things. He tells me about his day and every little thought that passes through his head, but he doesn’t really talk about things. My mother always said, “Men don’t have to know every little thing.”

  I’m afraid of what he will say about the flat.

  Alem comes home in his blue coveralls, so Tariam can see him from far down the street. She runs into the street without a veil, in the short dress she wears in the house so her legs are bare, shouting, “Papa! Papa!”

  But Alem just laughs and scoops her up and kisses her curly head. “Princess!” he says.

  She grins at me, knowing she has gotten away with something. He spoils her so bad. It makes me mad because he spoils her and then it’s up to me to try to correct her. “Tariam!” I say. “Look at you running naked in the street! Come in here!” I hate that, making me the bad one. But I know I’m too critical of him.

  “Alem,” I say, my face very grave, “I have to tell you something.

  “What?” He carries Tariam in, her long brown legs hanging down. She’s getting too big to carry, my baby.

  “I saw the flat and I didn’t like it.”

  He holds his face still, so I don’t know if I was supposed to like it or not. Is he angry?

  “I found another one,” I said. “It’s very nice, very clean and cool.

  “Where?” he asks.