2008 - The Consequences of Love.

by Sulaiman Addonia; Prefers to remain anonymous

  I gazed at the bookshelf stacked with books from all over the world. She, like me, was living someone else’s life through what she read; breathing and eating from pages written in a faraway land. We were living an imported life. Why are we here? It felt as if the bookshelves were leaning towards us trying to push us out of the room, as if to say: life is out there. The books were our transport, their covers flapping, ready to fly us away to where we really wanted to be, in a place where we could be together and live our dreams.

  As she shifted on the bed, my veil slid on the floor. I picked it up, thinking, “Ya Allah. I have to wear this abaya and make myself invisible just to be with her, just to see her face, just so that I can touch even only one tip of her finger. I have to schedule my caressing her breasts at a time when her father is praying at the mosque or out with his friends: even her moans have to fit a man’s timetable.”

  I was angry, I knew that now. I wanted to tear down the thick curtains, and break her window; then I would strip off her clothes, kiss her body all over and we would make love so freely that the whole world would hear our cries of pleasure, and the men of Jeddah would know that my woman was not a mute.

  I turned back to the book and tried to read the introduction, but no matter how much I tried to quieten my thoughts, they quickly stormed into mutiny. I looked across at Fiore. She was immersed in Salih’s Season of Migration to the North. She wasn’t yet ready to face up to the truth.

  And that was the tragedy, I thought. When she went out her beauty was covered by a piece of cloth, and at home her intelligence and knowledge were shrouded by the walls of her room. All her great qualities were concealed.

  I knew we were alone at home because her father was out in the shopping mall, so I shouted, “What is the point of your life?”

  “What?” she asked. She sat up and stared at me. I looked away.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I am sorry.”

  She stood up and said in a soft voice, “I think you better leave. I need to be alone.” She got up and walked to her window and pulled back the curtain to let some light in.

  “Why?” I asked her. “I said I was sorry. It was a slip of the tongue, that’s all.”

  “I am not feeling well.”

  “I want to be with you. I don’t want to leave,” I said firmly. “Why are you upset by what I said?”

  “Sometimes you can be so nai’ve,” she replied. Her voice was calm, but it had a tone that was unfamiliar to me; slightly mean. “Please, leave me alone now.”

  But I was adamant. “Why am I naive?”

  Without saying anything, she shook her head as if to imply that I couldn’t understand anything. For a moment I thought of leaving her in her own closed world. But then I did exactly the opposite.

  “What about me?” I hurled the question at her. I was not sure if it was meant for her, but I asked it anyway. Instead of waiting for an answer, I went on: “I am tired of my life in this country. I am tired because I feel we are all trapped in a prison.” I lowered my head as if I was ashamed to ask, “Fiore, what about you? Are you not tired of this life?”

  Nothing. I turned my head towards her. She was standing by her window gazing out on to the street. She was frowning, and her expression was slightly comical, as if she was thinking of a quiz question which she wanted to answer but didn’t know how.

  Then, finally, she moved. She walked to the desk opposite the bed and stood there in silence. This was the first time since our early encounters that I had felt this tension between us. Had I gone too far? Maybe I was mistaken in thinking that she and I could talk about anything and that there would be nothing out of reach for us. Maybe she preferred to deal with some issues privately; maybe I should have listened to her when she asked me to leave her alone.

  But instead of storming out, I found myself sitting back on her bed and saying in a clear voice, “Fiore, I need to know what you’re thinking. After all, we are sharing this moment together, even though we have been on a separate path all our lives. Now that our paths have crossed and we have managed to find each other, I need you to talk to me. You are my love and it is important for me to know what is on your mind.”

  She looked at me with piercing eyes. She sat on her chair at the study table. I pressed on, over her silence, “You must have something to say.”

  Nothing.

  Her failure to respond convinced me it was time to go. I put on my veil. As I stood up to leave, I caught Fiore looking at me. No emotion was visible on her face. Her elegant lashes did not show a hint of the sadness I was convinced she must be feeling, her lips did not quiver in the face of my emotional onslaught, and even her shoulders refused to slump—she sat up straight and tall.

  I shook my head in exasperation. “What is the matter with you, Fiore? Can’t you even cry?”

  “What will tears bring me?” she said in her calm voice.

  “I have cried so many that it’s a wonder I haven’t drowned. Tears never changed anything.”

  I looked at her and shook my head again. If I could only make her know what I thought of her. If I lived to be a thousand years old, I would never meet anyone like this again. She was the one who was giving me the courage to experience a life I never thought possible.- She had transferred her strength to me with her notes, drop by drop.

  I decided to provoke her just as she had provoked me. “You have been silent long enough,” I said, “you have no voice in the street but you are like a shadow indoors now too. For how long?”

  Her eyes suddenly welled up but she was too stubborn to let a single tear fall. I approached the chair and tried to take her hand.

  She stood up, and raged: “Do you want to liberate me? Do you want to open the door to the cage and set me free like a canary?”

  “No. I want you on the street because our streets lack colour without you. Because our days lack meaning without you. Now that you are talking about liberation, let me tell you what I think. Everything I do in this world that makes me happy is tied to you. So yes, my darling, your freedom is my freedom.”

  I stopped. She pulled away from me and walked to the window.

  There was a long pause before she began to speak.

  “This window is my way into the world,” she said. “When I was young, I am sure I had the same dreams as you. Why shouldn’t I, since I was your equal until a certain age. After that, I was directed towards a different life. But I didn’t want to leave my childhood. I stretched out my fingers, like claws, trying to hold on to those early freedoms. I had already made dreams, I even had ideas of what I thought would make me happy. But I was leaving whether I liked it or not. Something was pulling hard at my feet, while my bleeding fingers were trying to hold on to the edge of life. I was forced to enter this new world, where I have to wear all black as if I am the widow of life itself.”

  I sank down on to the bed.

  “Naser, what is it about me that entices a man to pursue evil desires? Why should I worry about their destiny in hell or heaven, why should I suffer because of their weakness? I am just a woman who wants to live freely.”

  She stopped. I stood up and walked over to her. She leaned against the window frame.

  “Habibi, whenever I argue with my father about how he runs my life, he throws at me that I need to do all this because it is what Allah wants me to do and I will be rewarded for it in the afterlife. A long time ago I believed him, even though I had doubts about some of the things he said. But later, my doubts started growing so huge that I had to find answers. But the books we had at school supported what he said. I decided to ask one of my teachers about my role in life, and she gave me a tape of the blind imam’s teachings. It was called ‘The role of a good Muslim woman in our society’. After I listened to his tape, I was scared for having dared to even ask a question, because the imam promised that those who question the rules of Allah will meet with Allah’s vengeance. But I found myself waking up the next morning with the same doubts and questions. I couldn’
t be deterred.”

  Fiore paused, smiling softly as if she remembered the moment, and said, “Then a new Arabic literature teacher, who I told you about before, came to our college. She was from Mecca and was in her late thirties. Over time, I grew attached to her because in her face I saw kindness, courage and intelligence. And one day, after her class, I gathered enough courage to ask her what was on my mind. She took me aside and whispered, “It’s wonderful to ask questions.” Then the next day, she gave me three books. They were the first of her many gifts. They were fiction and poetry books by different Egyptian writers. But my favourite book she gave me only days before she was moved to another college in Mecca almost a year ago, and that was Mahfouz’s novel.”

  Fiore paused, sighed and as she wiped her tears, she tensed her jaw, adding, “My teacher wrote me a note inside the novel, saying, “Life is beautiful. Don’t give it up for anyone.” And from this window, hidden behind these curtains, I watch the kind of life I dream about. I have often tried to imagine the life of a man. It must be full of challenges. Just the idea of being able to chase a dream is enough to make me envy you.”

  Fiore turned and faced me. “Naser, I had already convinced myself that the kind of life I want lies elsewhere. I want to leave for Egypt or Lebanon. Life is too short to spend much more time reading in this room. I wish I knew how to get away. I would even go back to my father’s country, even though there is a war out there.”

  I listened to her soft breathing, and watched as more tears welled up in her eyes.

  48

  “LET’S GO OUT,” I said to her a few hours later, as I pulled her on to my lap. “I am going to introduce you to my friends.”

  She wrapped her hands around my neck and sighed, “Naser, you know I would love to meet your friends, shake their hands, laugh, and talk with them. But…”

  “Isn’t it normal to introduce the woman I love and respect so much to my friends?” I asked.

  “You know that’s impossible.”

  “Don’t worry. I will wear my veil and come with you to introduce them to you from afar. At least you should know who my friends are. You are my love, for Allah’s sake.”

  “Naser, you’re crazy.” A smile broke through her sombre face.

  “The first person you should meet is Yahya,” I said to Fiore as we walked down Al-Nuzla Street arm in arm, dressed in our abayas.

  “Why?” she asked, holding my gloved hand.

  “Because he always drives around to show off his boys.”

  She laughed. Even though I couldn’t see her face, I knew her well enough to know that her laughter would be accompanied by a gentle smile.

  We walked all the way to the supermarket on Al-Nuzla, just past Jasim’s café. But Yahya wasn’t around.

  On our way back, I spotted him coming out of the bakery. “There, there he is,” I said to Fiore, pointing at him.

  “Please, habibi, put your hand down.”

  He was with a boy I hadn’t seen before, they were holding hands. Yahya’s free arm was wrapped around two bags of Lebanese bread. He was wearing a T·shirt. He walked with his chest thrust forward, tensing his biceps with every step.

  “Nice to meet you. Yahya,” she whispered, as he walked past us.

  We stood outside the shop, opposite Jasim’s café. I had told her how, when I needed help, Jasim had taken me in and given me a job as a waiter, but I hadn’t told her what had gone on in that back room with the mirrored ceiling. I was too worried what she would think of me. But I hoped that one day I would be able to tell her, perhaps when we both found peace of mind and were not continuously watching over our shoulder to protect our secret.

  I pointed Jasim out to her, he was sitting outside the café with his friend Omar, and she told me how much she wished she could go and thank him for looking after me after my uncle left me homeless.

  She chuckled when she noticed how Omar was talking non-stop.

  I gently squeezed her hand, saying, “Let’s find Hani.”

  “I can’t wait to see him,” she said. “Is he really the strongest man in Al-Nuzla?”

  “No,Yahya is the strongest. But Hani is the most romantic. He is a poet. With a bit of practice, he would defeat even Antara Ibn Shaddad. But the great thing-about him—” I interrupted myself and pointed across the street.

  “Look, there he is, eating shawarma outside the Lebanese restaurant.”

  “Stop pointing, Naser. You’ll get us into trouble,” she whispered. “He looks nice,” she said, “but who is the boy next to him in the bright colours?”

  “That’s Fahd, Hani’s cousin. He is from Riyadh. He is only here for a few months. Wait, I have an idea.”

  “Naser, don’t be mad. What do you want to do?”

  “Just wait and see. It’s just a joke. I have some paper in my pocket. Have you got a pen?”

  She gave me her pen. I looked around and when I was confident no one was looking, I took a piece of paper from the pocket under my veil, and quickly wrote a one-sentence note to Fahd: “What lovely colours you are wearing, handsome boy.”

  I crumpled the note and we walked towards them.

  “You are mad,” whispered Fiore. “Poor boy, he is going to think a real girl is after him.”

  As we approached, we started walking a bit slower. Fahd was wiping the dust from his sunglasses.

  As soon as I dropped the note, both Hani and Fahd scrambled for it like two hungry pigeons being given a grain of maize, like I used to do with her notes. Fiore pinched me and hissed, “Look what you have done now.”

  Hani won the battle for the note, but I could see him quickly passing it to Fahd. “Fahd has a beautiful smile, look,” I said.

  Fahd’s face lit up and he shook his head, laughing. Hani and Fahd looked at each other and clapped their hands, laughing loudly.

  “Now we should go and try to find my dear friend Hilal,” I said, beaming with happiness.

  I had told her a lot about Hilal, since he was the one who helped us to go to the Westerners’beach. Without Hilal, we might never have met face to face.

  Fiore laughed when she saw Hilal gesticulating furiously at some men unloading furniture from a van, as he limped around them.

  “Is he moving house?” she asked.

  “No. His wife is arriving from Port Sudan in a few weeks’ time.”

  “I hope I will be able to get to know her,” she said.

  Then: “Habibi, let’s go,” she said. “It looks like it is going to rain. What’s happening to Jeddah this year?”

  “I like walking in the rain,” I said. “Shall we go to Mecca Street? Please?” I dragged her by the hand and we scurried past Hilal and the removal men.

  As we walked towards Mecca Street, I heard the familiar sound of a roaring engine going at full speed. I turned my head and saw the Jeep was now slowing down. I looked at Fiore. We held each other’s hands. “Let’s walk faster,” I urged her.

  “No,” she whispered. “Let’s be calm. Just don’t talk. You don’t want them to hear your voice.”

  We squeezed each other’s hand tightly and sweat was drenching our gloves.

  The Jeep was getting closer, its engine now rumbling more softly. “Why is it slowing down right next to us? Would Basil know it is me under this veil?” I asked myself, recalling that he had seen me coming out of the shop when I bought my veils and women’s shoes. But he couldn’t have seen what was in the bag. I was sure of that. Maybe they had already caught a man wearing a woman’s abayal Maybe the religious police had been ordered to look out for girls holding hands in case one of them was a man in disguise? I let go of Fiore’s hand. But she grabbed my hand once again and clutched it.

  I wanted to tell her not to hold me. I couldn’t talk, fearing they might hear my voice. I released my hand from her grip. This time she didn’t take my hand again.

  Everything under my veil felt so dark. I felt hot and suffocated, as if I was trapped in a dark, airless lift. I wanted to scream for help, tear off the veil
over my face and run for fresh air.

  Suddenly I heard a loud crack. Instinctively I turned my head towards the Jeep. It had run over a bottle and broken it into a thousand pieces. I saw Basil in the passenger seat. I almost slipped on some wet litter. “Naser, for Allah’s sake, pay attention,” Fiore hissed.

  I steadied myself. The Jeep suddenly increased its speed before slowing down again, and then turned off its engine. It parked a few metres ahead. Why are they stopping? Are they waiting for us? Basil got out and stood next to the Jeep, a stick under his armpit.

  “Let’s go back,” I urged Fiore.

  “No. If we go back and if they are suspecting something then that will just confirm it to them. Let’s just go ahead.”

  I mumbled a prayer, “Please ya Allah help us.”

  We walked slowly. We were like deer walking towards a trap set by seasoned hunters. And we couldn’t run back because there might be hungry lions behind us. There was no way out.

  49

  I REGRETTED NOT having given Basil what he wanted from me in the park that first time. Had I done that, he might have gone back to his street life because he wouldn’t have wanted to hang around with the imam after that. And if Basil was gone, I wouldn’t have had a religious policeman breathing down my neck. “But maybe now I have a second chance to get rid of him?” I thought, remembering my promise to see him later that night in the park.

  Hamid joined Basil next to the Jeep, and both stood in our path. Would they notice Fiore’s Pink Shoes? Would they see them as out of keeping with the black and white movie, and pull habibati away from my side for ever?

  We got to where they were standing and Hamid and Basil moved aside to let us through. I held my breath. I was almost side by side with Basil. As he turned, he dropped his stick. It fell in front of me. I wished I could have stamped on it with my foot to break it into pieces. But I stopped short to avoid running into him as he knelt to pick it up. Fiore had already walked ahead. I was trapped.