Mama Hissa's Mice

by Saud Alsanousi

  “Where did they come from?” you asked her impatiently.

  “Why would I tell you?” She fought back her laughter and tugged at your hair. Moments later, she carried on telling us the story that happened a long, long time ago in a place somewhere between the desert and the coast. “Many, many years ago, when there was no oil, no electricity, and no concrete—”

  “But where did the story take place, Mama Hissa?”

  “If you interrupt me one more time, I’m not going to continue!”

  But then she did, telling the tale of Shail and his friend, bound together by their love for a girl called Aaqiba, and the land they had inherited from their ancestors many years ago. They cultivated it and lived off the fruits of their labor, not knowing any other shelter but the land. During the day, they would tend to the land. At night, they would take turns guarding it. Since they didn’t budge from the land for even a single day, or ever neglect it, or hand it over to strangers to till it, the mice were unable to steal their rice, wheat, corn, and barley crops. The mice starved. If a mouse starves, it will risk its very life to satiate its appetite, even if it comes at the cost of destroying homes. The wicked creatures realized that they wouldn’t control the land as long as Shail and his friend remained two peas in a pod. They didn’t want to get rid of both of them, though. For the mice to survive, one of the friends would need to remain. He would have to till the earth so that it could continue to produce crops one season after another. The mice knew that both friends were madly in love with Aaqiba, each seeing himself as more worthy of her love. They saw this as their sole opportunity to gain a foothold on the land and drive a wedge between Shail and his friend. The mice attacked Aaqiba in her faraway tent. She screamed for help. Shail and his friend rose up, each trying to outdo the other to rescue her. They charged into the darkness, following her voice and the light from her lamp streaming out of her tent. Jealousy crept in between them. Each one yearned to save the damsel in distress and win her love.

  Shail and his friend quarreled by the tent, each claiming that Aaqiba had called out his name. Shail picked up a sizable rock and fractured his friend’s skull with it. His friend fell to the ground, blood pouring out from where his hair parted. At the sight of his friend’s blood, Shail was inconsolable. He fell to his knees, shaking his friend’s shoulders. Shail thought he was dead. He yelled, cursing himself. He fled, running away from the sin that now stained him. The only way to atone for his sin was to shut himself away from the world, running away to the southern sky, far, far away. Alone, without any stars nearby. The sky cried out in anguish over the two friends’ predicament, its tears pouring down all over the earth. As the mice ran to the friends’ land, the injured young man regained consciousness. Upon waking up and not finding Shail nearby, he wanted to search for him. Aaqiba gave him her lamp. Not finding Shail on the land that the mice had left in ruins, he kept wandering in the wilderness, carrying the lamp, calling out to Shail, who had disappeared into the sky, no longer to be seen.

  Every year, on the same day that Aaqiba had called out for help, Shail reappears when the sky remembers the misfortune of the two friends and cries for them. Shail would look out at the land and survey what had happened to it, searching for his friend, who carried Aaqiba’s lamp and faded into the desert. That’s how Shail became a star. As for his friend, he simply vanished. He was forgotten and the legend didn’t remember his name, though some people started calling him Shuhab, the shooting star, claiming to have set eyes on him fleetingly one night carrying his lamp, darting across the sky. The mice died on the land, useless without its owners. And as for Aaqiba, she remained all alone without a lamp.

  “I wish I could die and become a star,” Fahd said to his grandmother.

  She shuddered. “That’s God’s choice and not yours.” She feared an angel may have just been passing by and heard his wish, carrying it to God.

  “It’s only so that I could see you all from up above if I missed you,” he added sadly, looking at her face.

  “May my day come before yours,” she said, swatting his forehead.

  “And the story about the four mice?” you asked her. You shielded your forehead with your palms, fearing a similar whack. She ignored you, so you made clear to her that you weren’t all that interested in Shail’s story, which couldn’t possibly be true.

  “Ibn Al Zarzur never lied or bore false witness in his life!” she countered. “The sky will crash down on us!” You were reminded of the fate awaiting those who lied. The sky had to fall down, with Shail, so that he could meet his friend, you thought before you asked God for forgiveness. The saluki started yipping. You glued yourself even closer to Mama Hissa. The old woman grumbled that she hadn’t kept track of the dog’s upkeep during his time at her house.

  “Me neither,” ’Am Saleh said, and went on to convince himself how important it was to keep a dog to protect the house. The dog kept barking. ’Am Saleh turned to Fahd and ordered him to untie the saluki and take him to the patch of dirt nearby in case he had to respond to the call of nature. He looked over at you, ribbing you by revealing your secret: “Scared of the dog, are you, boy?”

  The old woman responded without looking at you, “Others fear dogs dressed in clothes!” ’Am Saleh’s face drained of color. She looked at you and ordered you to untie the dog. You were paralyzed.

  You swallowed your spit. “Me?”

  She patted your back and urged, “Come on now, you lion!”

  Fahd beat you to the corner of the courtyard and yelled, “Come on!”

  His grandmother stopped him from going any farther. “Sit down, you!” Your sweat poured out despite the moderate temperature. In your heart you started cursing Shail, who had pushed you all out into the courtyard to chat late into the night. No sooner had you gotten up from the ground, dragging your steps to the saluki’s corner, nearly halfway there, when shouts and chants of “God is great” rang out from the roofs of the surrounding houses in condemnation of the occupation troops. At first only the dog was scared; then you were too. A long fusillade of gunshots rang out, burning red, filling the sky like rain. The saluki’s barking imitated the staccato sounds. You all shook with fear, scurrying inside.

  The last to reach the living room was Mama Hissa, her footsteps sweeping the ground, carrying her radio, terrified by the hail of gunshots. “As the saying goes, if you see Shail, then you know it’s going to rain,” she quipped. You all burst out laughing at the height of your panic, even though it was raining bullets. The phone rang, silencing the squawking in the living room. You exchanged nervous looks as you did every time the phone rang. ’Am Saleh cradled the receiver, his face transforming into that of someone who had just received tragic news. His mother murmured, “Protect us, O God.” He didn’t speak much. He was looking at the top of the stairs. From his trembling hands we could tell how dangerous a call it was.

  Aisha whispered, “Nothing bad, I hope?” He signaled to her with his hand to be quiet.

  He stammered into the phone, “There is no power or strength save in . . .” He set down the receiver and let out a long sigh, staring at the ground. He couldn’t get his words out.

  “Is everything okay? What’s wrong?” Aisha yelled at him.

  Mama Hissa’s voice rose, warning Aisha: “Your volume!” ’Am Saleh disappeared into his room, his wife trailing him. Your curiosity, like Fahd’s, was at its height. You both asked Mama Hissa what was going on.

  “Wait for Aisha: maybe she will have some news,” she advised.

  Her daughter-in-law came back, her face drained. In a hushed tone she informed you all, “They’re rounding up and sending off girls to the detention centers.”

  “Why?”

  Aisha lingered, hesitating to answer Mama Hissa’s question, looking at both of you out of the corner of her eye, still regarding you as children. “Why do you think?” Wordlessly, the old lady beat her chest with her palms. Fahd’s mother shook her head. “May God keep our girls safe,” she breathed.
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  ’Am Saleh didn’t stay in his room for long. He came out gripping an electric razor, like the ones Mushtaq the Pakistani barber used when shaving our heads. With light, quick steps he climbed the stairs. The old woman was speechless, staring at him wide-eyed. She yelled out to him while trying to stand, ever so slowly stretching her arms out to Fahd so that he could support her. “Where’s he going? Wait, Saleh, fear God!” She then egged her daughter-in-law on. “Go on, Aisha, catch him!”

  Fahd and you were frozen in your place while Mama Hissa dragged her feet toward the stairs, leaning against the wall, calling out to her only son. All we could hear from upstairs were violent knocks, desperate knocks on Fawzia’s door and Aisha pleading, “Open the door, Saleh! For God’s sake, no!”

  THE SECOND MOUSE: BLAZE THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE

  THE NOVEL

  Chapter 6

  Staying in the old woman’s room at night drew you together, closer than ever before. Slowly, your annoyance with her dissipated. Her nightly chatter in the bedroom was nothing like her daytime words. It was as if when she removed her dentures, under the cover of darkness, she bloomed into a different woman. You started to believe that these dentures stood between you and the stories that you ached to hear. Such stories were only freed from the old woman when she took out her dentures. After dinner you went to her bedroom straightaway while she would go to the bathroom to wash up and do her ablutions before going to bed. You were surprised that she did wudu’ even though she was just going to bed and not praying. She’d always respond, “It’s so that even if God comes to take my soul while I’m asleep, I can die pure.”

  She would always enter the room, drying her forearms with a perfumed towel. You would fold your arms over your chest, leaning against the wall next to the door as you waited for her to finish preparing your designated area to sleep. “I’m not an old lady!” she’d rebuke you whenever you approached her, trying to help. She would finish arranging your mattress beside her bed on the floor, despite her difficulty bending over. You would lovingly look on at her effort, breathing in her refreshing nightly scent: Lifebuoy soap, or the red soap as she would call it. She would brace her hands on her knees as she bent over, saying, “O God, on You alone I lean and no one else.” You would press your lips tightly together so that no laughter would escape; her already ample backside grew larger whenever she bent over. She would then proceed to her wardrobe and open its wooden door, the scent of white naphthalene balls quickly flooding the room. Next, she would remove her milfah and deposit her bracelets in the wardrobe. Picking up the Pompeia cologne bottle, she would finally pour out a sizable volume of golden liquid into her palms before returning to her bed. She would sit down and request, or sometimes order, “Turn off the lights.”

  “Not yet, Mama Hissa,” you’d say, pulling a sad face.

  “Turn it off,” she would repeat, shaking her head. “We won’t sleep without story time—don’t you worry.” Your smile widened. You flicked the switch without shifting from your spot next to the door. You didn’t wait long to turn the light back on. You found her ready, poised, smiling just as widely, flaunting that her dentures were still in place. She was onto your game. Clasping the bottle of solution for her teeth, she looked at you and said, “Turn off the light and come to bed, you Jew!”

  You tried to get on her good side, coming across as wounded. “But I want to see you take out your teeth, please.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  You turned off the light. You groped your way through the dark. Every night her utter devotion silenced you. You listened to her whispers as she spoke to God, intoning praises to Him before sleeping. Only with her did you feel that God was close, as if He was soaring up, high in the sky above. The old woman would read verses for protection. She’d then blow into her hands. She would mumble some words, but you could only make out the ones with s’s. “Sssubhan . . . praissse be to . . . O God of the ssseven ssskies . . . God, I asssk You . . . You who fed usss, gave usss drink, and gave usss enough . . . There isss nothing before You . . . bisssmuka, O God . . . in Your name . . . I entrussst myself to You.” So she hadn’t taken out her dentures yet.

  As soon as her praises to God petered out, you’d start with your questions. She would then begin telling the stories you loved, the sss of her prayers replaced by different hissing sounds. She answered your every question, telling you all kinds of stories, but not the one about the four mice that she had promised. She always postponed it to the next night. She spoke about whatever she wanted to speak about. You understood some of what she said. There was a lot you didn’t know. She would speak, propelled by the need to speak, with your questions or without them. At nighttime, Mama Hissa became something else entirely. In these nightly story sessions, you learned what you didn’t before, such as why Mama Hissa came down hard on Saleh—it was because he himself was so strict with Fawzia. Saleh was in charge at—and only at—home, a man lording his misfortune over his sick, fatherless sister. Why was Fawzia ill? It was a trial from God. Why did God put her to the test? He was testing her. Why was He testing her? Because He loved her. “Doesn’t God love me? I’m healthy and don’t have any sicknesses.” “Shut up and ask God for forgiveness.” “God, forgive me.” “May He forgive you, my boy.” “If she passed the test, would God forgive her?” “The real test is with your mother, Ms. Principal, you fool.” “When has God ever given her a test?” “I’ve never seen a jahil like you who asks so many questions.” “I’m not a child. When did God try her?” “When her father died in those coffee-shop bombings five years ago. How she cried, but even when faced with her crying, I wasn’t able to cry. I didn’t cry for Saleh’s father, but I cried for Fawzia. ‘Daddy’s girl’ is what he used to call her, God rest his soul. I cried for her when we had to take her to the hospital completely in pieces. She’d fainted. Saleh, who I wanted to be a man in his father’s absence, became a child. Aisha, since the beginning, was Aisha. I didn’t detect any sadness in her at Saleh’s dad’s departure. Maybe she still considers him alive in those photos that she keeps, silly woman.”

  The old lady fell silent.

  “Mama Hissa, did you fall asleep?”

  “Where would sleep come from, my son? God please heal her and strengthen her . . .”

  She spoke to you about her love for Fawzia, Daddy’s girl, the apple of her eye, and how God had granted her life in her womb after the death of nine boys between Saleh’s birth and that of his sister. She started repeating what her daughter’s doctor had said after losing Saleh’s dad: a sudden high spike in blood sugar, a symptom of a psychological crisis. The doctor didn’t disguise his concern about the possibility of the momentary crisis becoming a lasting sickness due to Fawzia’s genetic predisposition, her neglect of treatment, and a lax approach to eating what was off-limits.

  “Then what happened, Mama Hissa?”

  “It wasn’t a matter of two days as the doctor had said. Other than illness, what else have I passed on to my daughter? She used to remind me when to take my medication. Now we remind each other. Does ’Am Saleh hate Fawzia? Saleh hates his weakness, poor man; he feels helpless, but he loves his sister and worries about her. In spite of what he did to her yesterday, Fawzia didn’t challenge him. She understands that he loves her and what he did was only out of worry for her. You were in the courtyard when he came down to the living room, the electric razor in hand, crying like a jahil, his mother’s dearest soul.”

  “Mama Hissa, did you see Fawzia? Did she open her door for you?”

  “I saw her, apple of her mother’s eye, like a pigeon whose feathers had been plucked.”

  “Did ’Am Saleh remove all of her hair? Huh? Mama Hissa, are you asleep?”

  Mama Hissa sobbed. You wished you could see her face, but it was too dark. The old lady stopped crying and asked her God for forgiveness. Without you even prompting her, she carried on speaking about Saleh.

  “Saleh, God help him, is my son and isn’t my son. I have never understood hi
m, even when he was a child. If only he were more like his son, named after his grandfather Fahd, may God pardon him, his son who inherited his grandfather’s features and nature . . .” She let out a sigh that sounded like a laugh. She advised you to be good to her grandson. She took it even further with what she said to Sadiq later: “You three are like the Kayfan girls. Your friends are your support and help.” She fell silent before she focused on Fahd, her chatter laced with great love. He was his parents’ only child since Aisha had had the operation. The matter of the womb no longer provoked questions in you; neither did the link between the removal of it and how that meant no more sons after Fahd. You were listening to the old woman like someone getting to know a woman that no one else knew, a complete stranger.

  She went on. “Fahd has become a man; he resembles his grandfather, even in how much he loves mutabbaq samak . . . the stray cat that he is.” The old lady fell silent. A smile filled her face at the thought of her husband. “Saleh is a darling, but he listens too much. One word takes him far away, and another brings him right back to where he was. He listens to Aisha . . . to his friends in the diwaniya and the mosque gatherings . . . to the TV, news on the radio and in the papers . . . and the Monday demonstrations,” she added.

  You don’t know why, as of late, the old woman slipped into talking about her son, who you didn’t care about as much as Fawzia. You remember how ’Am Saleh behaved according to the phone calls he had received since the first day of the occupation. Mama Hissa continued, “He completed his college degree in Cairo. The pictures of Gamal Abdel Nasser that Saleh’s dad had put up on the walls of the house multiplied when his son came back from Egypt.” She was quiet for a moment and then asked you, “Do you know the leader Gamal Abdel Nasser?” You didn’t respond. “Shame on you! How can you not know such men?” Her voice went up. “Abdel Nasser who fought the Jews!” She made fun of you and your friends, and how you parroted “Greetings to the Arab nations” every morning at school without understanding what you were chanting.