2008 - The Consequences of Love.

by Sulaiman Addonia; Prefers to remain anonymous

  “How would you know?” he snapped.

  “I grew up surrounded by women.”

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the woman said to us. “I’m Nahid. My husband and I are just moving in.” She pointed to the building behind her.

  I recognised the accent. She was Egyptian.

  “A woman is speaking to us? Oh ya Allah!” Hani cried, as he turned to her and fell down to his knees. “Oh please don’t ever wear the abaya”.

  Fahd shook his head and barked at Hani, “Look at you; I have never ever seen you pray. Not even once. Don’t you know that only to Allah we bow and submit ourselves? Get up.”

  She laughed and said, smiling, “Maybe I’ll see you soon, guys.” Fahd and Hani looked at each other and Hani said, “Maybe you will see us but we won’t see you. Next time, you will be covered.” They shook their heads.

  She walked away. Our eyes rolled with her hips, as she walked back to the entrance of her new home. The door slammed shut, and we were denied another moment’s sight of her hair, her jeans, her swaying hips, her long neck. We were back in the blind world of men.

  I got into the front seat of Hani’s car, with Fahd in the back. “Hold this,” Hani said, giving me the Pepsi can, and he put on a tape of an Egyptian singer. “Let’s be silent. I want to dedicate this song to the Egyptian woman,” he said. “I can still see her walk with her high heels, throwing her hips to the mercy of the wind.”

  Fahd laughed and said, “Just drive. You will die from frustration. Miracles stopped happening here.”

  He was just about to pull out, when I glanced in the side mirror and noticed a pair of shoes. My hand shook and I dropped the Pepsi can.

  I opened the door and looked again at the shoes. The Pink Shoes. I almost lost my balance as I left the seat.

  “Naser, what’s wrong?” asked Hani.

  “I am fine,” I stuttered. “Wait for me at the Pleasure Palace, I’ll catch up with you there.”

  “Oh come on. Where are you going now?” Hani asked me.

  “I’ll see you in a minute,” I said firmly.

  They drove off. My eyes were still on the shoes. Was this really Fiore? The woman who had deserted me? Or was this some sort of trick? I looked up and her gloved hand was beckoning me. I hurried towards her. She turned back and went down a side street. We took a long walk down Helm Street. We passed the grocery shop, a restaurant, the Afghan bakery and the Pakistani electricity shop. She crossed the street to avoid a small café where men were congregating outside. She turned right into a narrow street, and as I followed her I let out a cry of recognition. We were back in Ba’da Al-Nuzla. She had taken a different route to the one I made in the days when I used to pick up her notes by the rubbish bin. But surely this had to be Fiore?

  There were a few boys playing football. This was the place where the street turned narrower; we were reaching the dead end. She ducked into an old doorway, set back from the street. I caught up with her.

  There was no one around. I had to speak.

  “Habibati? It is you, right? How are you? Where have you been? Why didn’t you explain? Just one note would have been enough for me.”

  She stood motionless.

  “Fiore, I missed you so much,” I whispered. “All I want is a small touch, all you need to do is walk out of here and bump into me by mistake. We are human, we all make mistakes. I want to smell you and touch you. I want to hear your voice. I want to know that you’re real.”

  She stepped out of the doorway. Her silky abaya brushed my hand, electrifying the nerves of my whole body.

  She turned her back and walked away fast, disappearing down the dark street. I stood watching her go. I couldn’t move. There was a piece of crumpled paper at my feet.

  I bent down and opened the note.

  Then I buried my face in my hands and wept.

  Habibi,

  One day, a year ago, our Arabic literature teacher asked us to write the story of our life. She said it had to be five pages. I wrote: “I am the daughter of a second-generation Eritrean man and a fifth-generation Egyptian woman.”

  The teacher called me aside and said, “My dear, you are the best student in this college. I was expecting more than this. I wanted five pages, not ten words. Is everything OK with you? ”

  I replied, “I have no problems, but this is my life story. That’s all I have to say.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

  “I will not write my life story until I have a life that I have made,” I answered.

  The day I finally had the courage to approach you, I felt as if I was just starting to build my own life. But that was also the day everything began to fall apart. My father brought home a friend of his and I was introduced to him as his future wife. What happened after that is a long story. Ever since I wrote you my last letter via the imam, I have been battling against my father and this proposed marriage. I have starved myself these past few weeks and I have made myself a nuisance, I have said things that are not expected of a polite woman so that the proposed man and his family are scared of me. I have told them I have plenty of ambitions of my own, that I want to go to a university and work and make money for myself. My father is furious but I think I may have won the battle. I swear to you no man will lay his hands on me except you. I swore this a long time ago and I am not the type of woman who breaks her oath. And I want to be close to you. I have now reached the point of no return and I need you to take the next step with me. I am ready to face the consequences of love. Are you?

  PART NINE

  THE CONSEQUENCES OF LOVE

  Habibi, you will be wearing Saudi clothes, and ive will meet in the central Jeddah shopping mall by the fountain on the ground floor, and from there, we will leave as husband and wife to go to your secret place. You know how a married couple is expected to behave, I hope. We must not make a mistake. Even a small slip and that’s it. So a reminder: always walk a yard or so ahead of me, don’t even think about touching me, be calm, confident, and hold a string of Islamic prayer beads. I’ll be wearing my Pink Shoes. Sorry about the shaky handwriting.

  I got off the bus at the last stop, just five minutes from the shopping mall.

  It was early evening and there was a soft breeze. I could see the mall up ahead, imposing and dressed with long lines of blinking light bulbs. Cars were queuing up behind one another on both sides of the road. I slid between two white Mercedes. But the traffic on the far side had started to move and a Jeep was speeding towards me. I instinctively pulled back and bumped into a pedestrian behind me. “It’s OK, son,” said the man, repositioning the ogal I had knocked out of place.

  On a second try, I made it across the road.

  I passed Punishment Square. Although I tried to stop myself looking, my gaze wandered over to the shiny white tiles where the executions took place. I remembered the story once told to me by Majid, a Saudi classmate in school. Before the start of our first class, the boy had whispered that he wanted to tell us a story about Abu Faisal and the innocent man. In the lunch break, we all, including Faisal himself, gathered around him. The boy warned Faisal that the story reflected badly on his father. Faisal said it was OK, so the boy told his story. His brother and his friends had watched their Pakistani neighbour beheaded on the previous Friday for a murder he didn’t commit. When Abu Faisal had cut off the man’s head, and the guards had snatched the sword away from his hands, our friend told us that the blood dripping from the tip of the sword marked the words ‘I am innocent’ on the white floor tiles. At that point, our classmate’s brother and all his friends were yelling: “Look. He is innocent!” while the rest of the crowd screamed, “Allah wa Akbar, Allah iva Akbar.” Majid’s brother and his friends had renamed their street’I Am Innocent Street’ because of what they had seen.

  After Majid told the story, I found Faisal weeping in a corner. He cried because his father had killed an innocent man. He cried throughout the break and didn’t stop even when the Arabic literature lesson starte
d. Faisal was lucky it was the Arabic literature teacher who found him crying, because he was the nicest teacher in school. When we told him why the tears on Faisal’s face wouldn’t stop, he held his hand and said that it was good that Faisal was different from his father.

  I pushed on and walked into the shopping mall. Everything glowed. The reflection of the lights on the gold in the jewellery shop windows became a stark yellow light in the corridor. Voices beamed out too, even though it was less crowded than outside the mall.

  I walked to the centre of the mall, sat by the fountain and waited.

  A woman walked towards me. I stood up immediately. But I sat down as soon as I realised she was following a man wearing a thobe without a headscarf. Boys holding hands strode past; they were laughing loudly, chewing gum, and looking confident.

  Men and women were coming and going. A woman was standing to my left and another to my right. “Which one is Fiore?” I asked myself.

  The mall was filled with mirrors, and the number of black abayas was multiplying as more people came inside the shopping mall and their shapes were reflected back at me.

  After a while, a woman came and sat down next to me. Sweat stood out on my forehead. I couldn’t move. My hands were stuck to my prayer beads. I wanted to turn my head towards her but I hesitated. Was she supposed to make the first move? Or was I? I couldn’t remember. Just then a man came out of the shop opposite to where I was sitting and came towards me hurling insults: “What kind of a man are you sitting next to my wife? Don’t you have any shame? Didn’t they teach you to get up when a woman sits next to you? Move, and may Allah guide you to his straight path.”

  I stood up and went to look in the window of a jewellery shop. I looked back to see if there was any space at the fountain. Nothing. As I turned back to look at the gold necklaces on the display busts, and the diamond earrings next to them, I caught a glimpse of two religious policemen reflected in the window. They walked with their hands behind their backs, their sticks tucked under their arms and their heads turning from side to side as if they were machines.

  When I looked back I saw that there was now enough empty space in the seats by the fountain. I hurried to recover my place and sat facing the mall entrance. There were the Pink Shoes. Fiore was walking at ease, so slow that I started to think that the distance between us was growing with each step rather than lessening. My eyes took her in, from her shoes right up to her head. For the first time, I felt that she was my girl and I was her boy. “Ya Allah” I whispered as she sat to my right.

  I couldn’t turn and look at her. My wide eyes stared stubbornly at the space in front of me.

  “Naser?”

  No, I thought, you didn’t hear that.

  “Naser?”

  I had lived in this country for ten years and I couldn’t remember the last time a woman had spoken my name. Her voice was soft and low, with every sound so clear, so melodious.

  “Habibi, please keep calm. It’s me. Concentrate.”

  Silence.

  “Naser, habibi, stop shaking. I am here now. Where I want to be, where you want me to be. Next to you.”

  She breathed in. I heard it. Then she exhaled. I felt her breath pass over my face. I drew the deepest breath I had ever taken and held on to it.

  “Naser, wipe your face or you will attract attention and this will all be over before it has even begun.”

  A tissue landed on my lap.

  “Habibi, please, I beg you, hurry, I want to be with you for ever, not for a few seconds. Wipe away your sweat. Yallah.”

  I picked up the tissue and for the first time I could smell her scent. “Habibi.”

  Again, “Habibi ”

  And again, impatiently, “Habibi ”

  I folded the tissue and put it in my pocket. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my thobe.

  “Listen to me, Naser, if you calm down, we will be all right. Let’s go, my love. But remember we have to play the couple.”

  I didn’t react. She quickly pinched me on my thigh. “See, I am real, now get up and let’s go. Where do we go to get the bus?”

  I got up. She remained seated by the fountain. I sat back down.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  “Waiting for you.”

  “Sweetheart, you should know by now. The religious policemen are around, so I need to walk behind you. You think I like this? When we get to the Corniche, we can walk side by side. Now, go, go, I will follow you.”

  As I pulled open the exit door another pair of religious policemen were coming through. I gave way to them.

  I walked a few yards in front of her. I looked back twice, but each time she frantically waved her hand, making it clear that I shouldn’t. We passed Punishment Square, and then walked between the sports shops. A crowd of young men were coming towards us. They were followed by an equally large number of women dressed in black. Fiore and I lost each other momentarily. I looked down for the Pink Shoes. They were there.

  We reached the bus stop. I went and stood at the front of the line, she stayed at the back. The bus came minutes later. I got on at the men’s section and she went in the women’s entrance.

  I sat as close to the back of the section as I could. We were separated by the full-length panel. I looked through the tiny window and saw four women standing. I wished I could have seen their shoes. I leaned back and took out the tissue she had given me and covered my face with it.

  39

  HOW COULD LIFE suddenly be this beautiful? Fiore was now just in front of me, leaving a trail of pink steps along Jeddah’s Corniche. “When a woman walks,” the Eritrean poet in the camp once said, “the earth walks with her.” Only now did I understand what he meant. It was as if she had walked away with the earth, leaving me floating without gravity. I watched where she put her feet and trod on exactly the same stones that her shoes stepped on.

  The Corniche was brimming with life. We walked down the pavement past the amusement park, which also had separate sections for men and women. There were people picnicking, kids running around, and at the edge of the pavement next to a big bench there was a group of men sitting in a circle playing cards. I took the steps down from the pavement to the sand. A young boy riding a pony was speeding towards me. I stepped aside. Fiore was only now making her way down the steps. Three camels hobbled past, bearing children as their passengers.

  The light was getting dim when we arrived at my private rock. But we couldn’t sit there. It would have aroused too much suspicion. Fiore stood still and took a quick look around before walking up the stairs and back to the pavement.

  I stayed behind for a bit. I looked over the water and blew a kiss to my mother before I made my way up the stairs.

  I looked in both directions and found the Pink Shoes. I went towards Fiore, who was sitting by herself. Suddenly I stopped. The place where the ‘oud player usually sat was empty. I knelt by the bench and touched it to see if I could feel his warmth. I looked towards the sea and whispered, crying silently, “My dear singer, I am now here with my love. I will miss you but I hope your heart will never stop beating, even if you are now under the sea on its colourful bed.”

  40

  SHE WAS THE first to say something.

  “Habibi, I wish I could take you in my arms.” She paused. We sat for a moment in silence. Then: “Tell me, my sweetheart, why did you fall in love with me? For me, at least, it was love at first sight, but it is strange that you could fall in love with me.”

  I didn’t answer. The reality had struck me, as if up to that point I was dreaming. I was sitting next to a woman. Even after she had asked me her question and she was silent, her soft voice was echoing around me, filling my ears with beautiful sounds.

  I looked out to the sea. I could hear the waves making their rolling noise, almost like singing; then a loud roar, as the waves climbed one on top of the other. A blackbird landed on the tip of a light post in front of us. It sat with opened wings, like a plane ready for departure ready to
fly into the sky and pierce through the clouds.

  One of Fiore’s Pink Shoes nudged my right foot. I took my sandal off, I shut my eyes, and I caressed her Pink Shoe with my foot, my toes kissing the leather.

  “Naser?”

  I didn’t respond.

  Again, she called me, “Habibi? ”

  This time, I answered, “Yes, darling.”

  “Please tell me why is it that you fell in love with me without seeing me?”

  I looked at the sea ahead of me and imagined myself saying: “Fiore, I read about people falling in love, the kind of love at first sight you talk about. I assume people feel this when they see their lovers’ faces, look into their eyes, have seen the shape of their bodies, and heard their sweet words: their hearts make the decision there and then that this is it, this is love. But my feeling for you was love before first sight. I’ve wondered, at times, why this was. How was I falling in love with someone whose face I hadn’t seen, whose words I hadn’t heard, and whom I hadn’t walked alongside? How come, I asked myself, I allowed a simple handwritten note to take control of my mind? I have no idea if you, Fiore, have the beauty I have read about in smuggled romantic novels, the type of gorgeousness that makes the heart bleed before you can find the right words to express its desire. I can’t tell if your body, concealed underneath your abaya, is of the kind that would make even the greatest painters spend an eternity trying to capture its curves. And I didn’t even hear you speak at first, there were no sounds to sink deep inside me. True, I sometimes thought you were just an illusion, the work of a hungry heart that forced me to fall in love with an imaginary person. But whenever I felt these doubts, I would take a look at your notes; your beautiful letters gave me courage.”

  But I didn’t say it. I wasn’t sure whether it was the right thing to start talking about what was under her abaya just yet. So instead, I said to her: “Fiore, my love for you is a love built on faith. The type of faith a believer shows to his Creator, the type of faith Prophets demanded that we show to our God. After all, when Prophet Muhammad came with the Qur’an, we had only his words to believe him, and we did. You dropped note after note and I read word after word, that is how it is. Words, my darling, are powerful. I answered your call and chose to become your lover.”