Mama Hissa's Mice

by Saud Alsanousi

  Sadiq, who I thought wasn’t paying attention, busy with his video game, actually was. He told me frankly that he wasn’t invested in the back-and-forth of the star-crossed lovers, but was still optimistic about the desired outcome because he trusted his sister. “And because Fahd is my brother and I know him,” he added. After his father’s refusal, however, he didn’t hesitate to enlist me as an intermediary to advise Fahd to stop chasing his sister, because this was their fate, and there was a better ending in what God had chosen for them. Insults upon insults were hurled at me because of the message I passed on to Fahd. He was livid. Hawraa no less than him. They agreed to end my role as an intermediary because no good would come of what Abbas and Saleh had chosen.

  “Destiny is what we choose it to be!” they kept insisting.

  Skinny is what I had always known Fahd as. But there’s a difference between skinny and gaunt. He was being eaten alive from the inside out. This was clear from his sallow face. His voice. His sandbag eyes. My friend was drying up. He grabbed his oud. He sang what seemed to be a capitulation to fate, a yellow song, “If I were the tree who had the fate to live in the coolness of your shade, even the heat of the sun wouldn’t have burned my eyes.” Sadiq had disappeared from the diwaniya, making himself scarce. He couldn’t take his friend’s songs, which droned on about the departure of Hawraa. Fahd, Ayub, and I barely met up anymore. In the end, I completely lost hope for a happy ending to the love story that I had watched blossom since childhood. I called Sadiq, pleading with him to return after he had achieved what he wanted—forbidding his sister from communicating with Fahd. He stipulated one condition. “He’s got to stop his ridiculous oud playing and singing about my sister!” Giving in to my pleading, Fahd neglected his oud, leaving it in its leather bag in the corner. Sadiq came back to the Rawda diwaniya, and so did Dhari, after the reason for his absence was no longer being played. The PlayStation was back in action. And so returned the heady smell of oud cologne, which I had missed on two occasions—the first after Mama Hissa’s death and the second when Dhari left the lounge. But the diwaniya that I had loved became a loathsome place and source of worry, thanks to Fahd and Hawraa, and the complications I thought I had left behind in Surra.

  It wasn’t until 9/11 that we had something else to preoccupy our minds. As the world’s eyes turned to New York, the attacks became the hottest topic of discussion in the diwaniya. Dhari defended. He justified. He would have risked his life to prove that the whole thing was just a game to sully Islam. Sadiq countered, cursing Al Qaeda and those in their ranks, while Ayub just let them both get agitated only to make fun of them. Their debate dragged on that night, going as far as insulting the religious symbols of both sects. Each reminded the other of past events attributed to the opposing sect. They delved deeply to establish the truth, quoting God’s words from the Quran, one challenging the other, going back in history to the time of the Prophet and what came afterward. I didn’t make any effort to shut them up, taken in by each retelling of history according to the cumbersome religious legacies passed down to each of them by their fathers. Sometimes I was with one, sometimes with the other. Fahd whispered to Ayub to pass him the oud from the corner when the din of their voices became unbearable. He balanced the oud against his lap, singing with his eyes closed, his face tilted to the ceiling. “If you treat me with stubbornness, I will turn to the sky for mercy!” Both of them came to their senses, looking at me as if their reconciliation had been undone. Dhari left, followed by Sadiq.

  Fahd opened his eyes, looking at the door. “Good riddance.”

  Khal Hassan’s wife called me incessantly, asking about Dhari. Who were his friends? Where did he go? Why did he cut himself off from the diwaniya? I didn’t know much.

  Five months passed like this before Fahd’s face regained its color, and he plunged the diwaniya into a cerulean haze the day he sang “Hour of Joy.” Sadiq returned after a long absence. I understood that something was going on in Surra. Mama Zaynab’s stance was clear-cut as day, the moment she swore on everything holy: God in His sky, by the Prophet Muhammad, Imam ‘Ali, the milk of Mama Hasiba, and the breasts that fed her son. When Abbas insisted that the marriage was unequal, she reminded him of her mother, Hasiba, and how nothing impeded her marriage to her father, Kazim. “They got married and lived together for many years . . . Everything was fine!” she said, making the whole thing seem easy.

  Sadiq shared with me what his grandmother had divulged to him. If my mom hadn’t taken that oath about Surra, I would have been there in a heartbeat, knocking on Mama Zaynab’s door and kissing her forehead. Hawraa was right when she said that, by having Mama Zaynab around, Mama Hissa hadn’t really died after all. Her neighbor’s ill treatment didn’t deter her from doing what had to be done. Despite her poor health, she put on her abaya, clutched her cane, and dragged her feet to Saleh’s door. She knocked on it, repeatedly. He turned her away. Once. Twice. She went a third time. She remained in the courtyard, refusing to enter a house that didn’t afford her respect. She shook her head. “Hissa’s eye is still open!” she told him, unable to hold back her tears. “Hissa’s eye is watching you.” Fahd’s dad turned pale. She told him that she wanted to die with her eyes closed for her own household, and that the last thing she would see would be her granddaughter’s son by Fahd. “What’s between me and your mother is greater than the games between you and Abbas!” she said, turned around, and started shuffling away while pointing her finger toward the small garden in the courtyard. “I take Hissa’s sidra as a witness against you!” she declared with finality, leaving Aisha and Fadhila to do as much as they could to resolve the matter.

  As for me, I stayed far away, being kept abreast of developments by Fahd and Sadiq. Hawraa and Fahd’s affair was a complex one. Two steps forward, five steps back. Sadiq’s dad imposed the condition that if they had to get married, then they had to observe Shia rites; Fahd’s dad opposed, warning his son that if he gave in so soon, “Tomorrow they’ll have you wearing a turban!”

  Spurred on by Mama Zaynab, the four of us—Sadiq, Fahd, Hawraa, and I—all agreed to reach a consensus. “Go on, you all,” she urged. Fahd and Hawraa got married in March 2002. They never disclosed whether it was done according to “his” sect or “her” sect. Sadiq and I, after standing as witnesses at their marriage, committed to not divulging the matter of sect to anyone. I remember how Dhari, Sadiq, Ayub, and I were preparing Fahd on his wedding day as if it were a group wedding. We organized everything while Saleh went on pilgrimage to Mecca and Abbas withdrew to the confines of his home, avoiding the wedding altogether. Sadiq and I waited while Fahd finished his Moroccan bath in Salmiya, while Dhari and Ayub went to get his wedding attire: the dishdasha, ghutra, and bisht from Alameen the Punjabi’s shop. Sadiq and I spied on Fahd from behind the glass door of the barber’s, but the steam prevented us from seeing what was happening. “How’s our groom?” I asked, laughing.

  “Guys! I’m dripping in oil!” My laughter became a sad smile. If only the woman who had originally said that could have seen her grandson at that moment!

  After we had gathered in the Rawda diwaniya, we decided to set off to the Sheikhan Al Farsi wedding hall in Surra, where the men’s festivities would take place. Afterward, we’d continue our celebration of Fahd, leading him in a procession to his wife in the Diamond Hall at the Sheraton Hotel in the old city, where the women’s party was already in full swing. How cheerful Fahd was that evening! He beamed at everything in the diwaniya. He looked different with his shaven chin and his long mustache, low at the corners of his lips, which he had stubbornly kept—going against the popular trend of removing it entirely. His egal was tilted just like Abdulkareem’s. He sat very still on the couch in the lounge, so as not to wrinkle his dishdasha. He stopped us from smoking so that the smoke wouldn’t pollute the fragrance of incense and oud cologne in his clothes. He didn’t budge from his perch, except to go to the corner of the diwaniya to drench himself further in the scented cloud spewing from th
e censer and the Arab colognes that my mother had put there for this occasion. Even when the time for evening prayers came, he remained still, worried about his dishdasha. “I’ll pray later.” His mother called him and joked that the dinner buffet at the Sheraton had mutabbaq samak, so he had better hurry up. “Meoowww!” he responded in delight.

  Soon after we finished our evening prayers, led by Dhari, Fahd straightened up, carrying his bisht and posing in front of the mirror to make sure that he was looking sharp before we departed. He jabbed Ayub, then pointed to the corner of the diwaniya. “Bring the oud.” Dhari’s eyebrows arched in surprise. Fahd winked at him. “I mean the oud cologne, man!”

  My cousin slipped his hand into his pocket and handed Fahd a small bottle. “Oud cologne from Mecca . . . Never in your dreams would you get something like it!” Fahd laughed as he spread the cologne on the back of his hands and his neck. He held out the bottle to Dhari, who refused to take it back, insisting it was a wedding gift.

  We left the diwaniya. I was even more nervous because Fahd had insisted that Sadiq and I ride with him. “I want you with me.” I waved to him with my camera, letting him know that I’d be following them instead so that I could take photos of the mini procession that we were going to have on the street. He said there was no need for photos because his mother was already waiting with photographers at the hotel. “Or he should take the photos,” he said, gesturing at Dhari. Dhari looked at me but said nothing. I opened my car door. Fahd repeated, his face pallid, “You and Sadiq, come with me!”

  I shut the door and turned on the engine. I gestured to my watch. I knew why he was acting this way. I mean, who wouldn’t if his father had insisted on going on umrah on the day of his son’s wedding? Sadiq took off in his car with Fahd as his passenger, while Dhari and Ayub followed them in Dhari’s car. I trailed the two cars, my camera forgotten on the seat behind me. Damascus Street was alive with the honks of our cars and the flashing of our lights as we led Fahd’s procession. Dhari showed off by driving doughnuts. Soon enough, our celebratory mood was shared by the rest of the cars on the street, at the intersection between Rawda and Adailiya. We passed by the entrance to Surra: Tariq Bin Ziyad Road, or Mahzouza and Mabrouka’s street. Sadiq’s car turned right toward the Sheikhan Al Farsi wedding hall. Dhari’s car followed, skidding on the asphalt, half a disheveled Ayub appearing through the window, masked by his ghutra. I followed Damascus Street, heading back to Rawda.

  9:27 p.m.

  Present Day

  The officer runs to his car. He turns on the lights. I follow him, asking him to wait until I confirm that Ayub has reached the Surra bank. He looks at his watch. He refuses. Three minutes later the helicopters start combing the area.

  “But . . .”

  “No exceptions.”

  “I’m begging you.”

  “Not happening.”

  I make a dash for my car, following him. Images of Ayub in the river envelop me. Has the fire consumed Dhari and the river swallowed Ayub? Some houses on the street are burning. Fire laps them up, with no fire trucks nearby. For a while now, I’ve been familiar with how fear feels. What overcomes me now is more than fear. I turn to Hissa in the seat behind me. There’s a smile on her lips but worry in her eyes. Her presence pushes me to play the father figure, gathering all my strength. I open the lid of the compartment under my elbow to grab a bottle of cologne. Hissa sticks her head out between the front seats.

  “Um Bint cologne?” she asks excitedly. She stretches out an open palm, then pulls it back. She gives me her other palm instead, the one without the mouse drawing. I pour a little of the golden liquid into it. I don’t ask how she knows about this old-fashioned perfume. She inhales the scent in one deep breath. “My father loves this cologne!” She then cuts through my silence in a low voice. “And I love my father.” The rumble of the search-and-rescue helicopters approaches from afar. I drive even closer to the officer’s car. I turn the radio dial. Kuwait National Radio seems to regret having not buried the truth a little while earlier, broadcasting “Long live Kuwait, long live the motherland.”

  “I know this song . . . Abdulkareem . . . my father loves him.”

  I swallow my answer: And you love your father. It seems that you and your father love each other very much, Hissa. An old face comes back to me, accompanying the voice on the radio, and I don’t tell Hissa that Fahd loves Abdulkareem, too. I look around. My eyes take in the destruction. My ears hear the “long live.” I turn the radio dial, shame eating me alive. It’s the same thing with Fuada’s Kids. At the peak of everything’s downfall, we sang, “This Country Demands Glory.” We lied. Don’t look for truth on the lips of liars. We only hoped that we were telling the truth just this once.

  The police car crosses the roundabout. I follow him. Another station broadcasts a Quranic verse about how when the day of resurrection arrives, it cannot be denied. My ears are with the radio. My eyes roam the vicinity. The thunder of a great explosion pierces the calmness of the night. The street shudders under the car wheels. The voice on the radio continues, “Some will be brought to their knees, and others will be exalted. When the earth will tremble terribly and the mountains will be ground to dust.” Hissa’s scream as she cowers in the back seat mirrors the explosion. The gas station behind us bursts into flames as tall as a building. “And they will be floating like particles of dust,” the radio ends. The distance grows between my car and the policeman’s. I speed up to follow him. We cross the streets in Jabriya toward the highway. At a final turn near the Tareq Rajab Museum, the officer parks his car in front of some trees shading a metal fence that overlooks the main road. He flicks off his headlights. A voice comes through the static of his walkie-talkie as he approaches. I can’t make out what it says, except the area names of Qurtuba and Adailiya. The officer points toward a dark pedestrian tunnel leading to Rumaithiya. I white-knuckle the steering wheel.

  “And my car?”

  “It’s too risky,” he warns.

  “God is my protector.”

  He pauses before pointing me to what’s behind the woods, next to the tunnel. There’s a gap in the metal fence wide enough for a car to pass through, leading to the outside of Jabriya. He asks me to hold on. He makes for his car and returns with a pair of bolt cutters that he hands to me. “Piles of burning tires might be blocking the Surra entrance.” I stare into his eyes. I ask him to come with us. Jabriya is on fire. “Gas stations in Jabriya, Qurtuba, Rawda, and Adailiya . . . everywhere has been eaten up by flames. Where can I possibly go now?” he says, seemingly resigned to his fate.

  He gestures to the road with his chin. His eyes crease from behind his mask. He puts out his hand to shake mine.

  “Protect yourselves from the plague . . .”

  THE THIRD MOUSE: EMBERS THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE

  THE NOVEL

  Chapter 9

  Fahd didn’t reproach me for not going to the male wedding festivities; he understood my unspoken excuse. He forgave me with a hug when he found me at the Sheraton entrance before midnight, waiting to hurriedly usher him to his bride. Dhari was content to simply shake Fahd’s hand at the hotel entrance, congratulating him before leaving with the claim that he had another engagement. We didn’t try to force him to stay, understanding his aversion to the band that awaited our entrance. I don’t know which of our two hearts was beating faster, mine or the groom’s, while we cut across the hallway to the wedding hall on our way to the bride and groom’s stage.

  The closer we got, the louder the beating of the drums grew. We reached Aisha at the end of the hallway, her face full of makeup. She clutched the edge of her hijab under her chin, smelling like a cocktail of perfumes, while the rest of her hijab was loose, hardly covering her bushy hair. She quickly explained to us how to enter and at what pace we should approach the stage. All at once the ululations erupted as soon as we entered behind Fahd. He walked ahead with slow, deliberate steps to the beat of the drums. The entire wedding hall was dark except for the spotligh
t on him, leading us slowly toward our destination; the women could see us, although we couldn’t see them. Fatouma’s voice boomed on the microphone. “Bride and groom, may God watch over you, the moon and the stars walk behind you.” My head tilted back involuntarily and I scrutinized the ceiling, trying to find . . . I’m not sure what.

  Against Aisha’s advice, Fahd turned and moved out of the spotlight, confusing us, and made his way in the dark to the audience on the side. The whole hall lit up. Fahd bent over Bibi Zaynab’s head and kissed it. He kissed her hand. The cries of joy swelled. Sadiq, Ayub, and I all followed suit. Bibi Zaynab was resting her hand on her cane, unable to hold back her tears of happiness. She had come dressed in her best despite the visible fatigue on her face. She entrusted Fahd with her granddaughter, warning him, “God is watching you!”

  Sadiq brought his face close to his grandmother’s. “Get up and dance, Mama Zaynab!”

  She laughed, gesturing to him to bring his ear closer: “There’s no Iraqi music!” she replied. Sadiq’s ears went red. He looked around and then plastered a smile on his face, at a time when melancholy mingled with my laughter.

  Relatives circled around the bride and groom, taking photos. Aisha orchestrated the photographers like a seasoned director. All I saw of Hawraa was the train of her dress. She was ensconced in a pearly garment reaching from her head to her shoulders. I forgot the tension of the past months as soon as Fahd planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead. She was as still as a statue, not responding to the chorus of well-wishers. Her black eyes were radiating joy, however, and her cheeks were flushed behind her veil.

  I carried on, leaving Sadiq and Ayub to congratulate Fadhila. At that moment, Fatouma took a break, passing the microphone to the DJ to congratulate the groom with an Abdulkareem song chosen by Hawraa. I became aware of Fawzia and her jet-black hair, sitting motionless in her seat. Her eyes were on me. I looked to the door, perplexed. I turned back to her. Her eyes were cold, fixed on the ground. I secretly cursed her for just how enchanting she looked in her pink robe. Here was the child who once danced in the national operetta. A pink butterfly fluttering in gardens of songs. In spite of the music, there was no joy on her face. It was the same expression. The same foil-like nose. The same hair that went past the middle of her back, wiping out the memory of Saleh’s razor, and the same toffee skin that I adored. She was as she had always been. Except for her body, touched by the years. I averted my gaze, hoping to temper my fantasies. But something awoke within me; Abdulkareem’s voice faded away and the drums in my head fell silent. I started to hear her old song pulsing from my depths: “We’re telling you, we’ve got a story for you . . . and for all the listeners . . . the best story ever.” I left the wedding hall, turning my back on Fawzia, Bibi Zaynab, the married couple, and the best story of all.