‘Where have you hidden the bottle?’ said she, waking up suddenly from sleep. Her throat was chapped with thirst and there was a burning fever in her stomach. The man was lying down with his face to the wall. She slipped her hand under his head. All there was there was the stub of a burnt cigarette. She crept away on tiptoe. She opened the door and went out. The wind no longer felt like wind. When she stretched out her hand in front of her, it bumped into something solid. She retreated step by step until she re-entered the door backwards. It was a movement that her body had not been accustomed to perform since childhood. She used to walk forward with her face looking backwards, or go out of the door backwards. Her aunt would be standing in front of her, gazing at her with eyes that made her body tremble. And all because she had asked her, ‘Is it true, Auntie, that Satan walks on the bridge?’
Her eyes would dilate. The storm was at its worst. The rain was pelting down and all the lights had been extinguished. All she could hear was the whistle of the wind. Her aunt’s voice resonated in the darkness of the night, ‘The only devils are the children of men.’
Before dawn she heard the dogs barking, and the creaking of wheels combined with the whistling of the wind. The men pounced on her aunt and carried her to the cart. She jumped up and ran behind them. She stretched out her arm as far as it would go in order to hold her hand. Her legs sank up to the knees in the lake. The wheels cut through the black water and disappeared in the darkness. The dogs swam behind it. All that was visible of them were their oblong heads like a swarm of frogs. She plunged into the lake. Her ears filled with black mud and voices came from the bowels of the earth, ‘A woman who does not believe in the existence of Satan . . . She is mad, Your Majesty . . . An unbeliever . . . Yes, Your Majesty, unbelief and madness are the same thing.’
By that time she was completely submerged. All that was visible of her in the twilight was an outstretched arm, all five fingers contracted, clinging on to a piece of congealed mud.
Arms stretched out to her to pull her out. As they had pulled her out of the womb. Women’s faces surrounded her, brown and wizened. The wind pushed in to her chest with a high-pitched noise like a cry and she opened her eyelids, which had stuck together. She saw the man stretched out with eyes closed, his arm gushing with blood. She was by his side, naked, and the colour of the blood was black. Some drops of the blood had congealed while others remained gelatinous. She stretched out her arm to take hold of the railing. There was a strange smell, like gas gone bad.
‘Get the tea ready!’
She heard his voice as he pulled up his sarwal. His upper half was naked. He was sitting in front of the doorway of the house. Around him were four men. They were all absorbed in some game or other. Thick square cards. He was sitting in the middle, dealing the cards to them. His body was at ease on the seat. The place of honour suited his body completely, and harmonized with his features. His fingers gathered the cards, then spread them out and then gathered them again. The eyes of the others were fixed eagerly on his hand.
‘Tea!’
His voice had a commanding tone. As if he were her husband. She looked at him through a veil. Perhaps they had exchanged her husband for another man. The cards rustled as they were dealt. The men’s faces were tense. Their eyes were fixed on the cards. Inside each eye the pupil swivelled. They had to be five not four. The head of the fifth was hidden behind the newspaper. Was he her husband? His legs were stretched out in front of him. His feet were large and his toes were stuck together by a black membrane between each toe.
The sun had begun to fall below the horizon. A pale light fell on the first page. Black particles swam in the slanting rays. At the top of the page she read the date: Tuesday the 16th. She looked at her watch. It was two o’clock and the minute hand was moving. Of course, time was passing as usual. She read the big banner headline:
His Majesty declares war on Satan.
The playing cards were not ordinary ones. Rather they were something like chess pieces. The bodies of the pawns were made of wood, standing in their places unable to move. Big fingers enclosed them and moved them from place to place.
‘Check!’
It was definitely not her husband’s voice. He was no longer asking for tea. He was absorbed in the game. It appeared that the king did not want to be in check. He raised his voice repeatedly. ‘Check!’ His tone began to be dominated by anger, and uproar ensued.
‘These are the rules of the game, brother!’
‘You’re cheating!’
‘I’m more truthful than you are!’
‘You’re ignorant!’
‘You’re as thick as a donkey!’
They left the king and became involved in hand to hand fighting. Dust rose in the air, the drizzle of their saliva was sprayed all around, and they began to pant. None of them paid attention to the newspaper. The wind rolled it away, turning over page after page. Suddenly she saw a picture that looked like her: ‘A woman went on leave and did not return. She must be found dead or alive. It is forbidden to give her shelter or protection.’
She did not have the nose they showed in the picture. Could it be the nose of another woman who went on leave? Her boss at work said that she had a Roman nose. At first she imagined that he was teasing her somehow. In her eyes, the Romans were meat eaters.
On the same page she saw the picture of the interrogator. He was sitting swivelling his chair. His back came to the wall and his face was towards her husband.
‘Is this your wife’s picture?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘A hundred per cent?’
‘Nothing is a hundred per cent sure.’
‘Then you’re not sure.’
‘Yes and no.’
‘What do you mean by yes and no? Is that an answer?’
‘What is the answer?’
‘Either yes or no.’
‘Then yes.’
‘Then you’re not sure.’
‘Yes.’
‘A hundred per cent?’
‘No.’
The policeman beat the ground with his feet, and the chair swivelled round without stopping. Her husband seized the opportunity to hide his face behind the newspaper. When the chair stopped swivelling, the interrogator was facing the wall. He began typing, then swivelled round. Her boss at work was also sitting there, with his black pipe quivering between his lips, smoke rising from it.
‘I’m not going to extol her nose, for I’m not impressed by Roman noses. I prefer national noses of the snub-nosed type.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘She was always an obedient woman, and there was nothing in her to arouse desire.’
The interrogator was swivelling his chair. The stormy wind was turning over the pages. There was no proof of anything. The newspaper was open before her eyes. Her picture appeared and then disappeared with the movement of the wind. News about lost persons was lower down on the page. It was natural for people to disappear. There was a law concerning men who did. The woman had to wait for her lost husband for seven years, and not take another man. The embryo remains alive in the womb seven years, and it remains the property of the lost man until he returns. The woman is no more than a container. Lost women have no law concerning them. A woman does not have to be lost in order for her husband to take another woman.
She closed her eyes in the face of the wind. The rays of the sun were like a flame. The idea revolved in her head, as painful as a nail. If the interrogation was continuing, then no doubt there were campaigns to find her, and people tracking her down. Perhaps there were pedigree dogs – that imported type that distinguishes the smell of human beings. They train them to pick up the smell from far away, to see stars at midday, to type on typewriters and to use modern instruments. She did not know anything about modernity. All she knew about it was related to the past and to archaeology. The goddesses Hathur or Sekhmet would not protect her from any trained dog. B
ut there were hidden depths to the matter. Perhaps it was due to that other man. Could he have sent the information about her to the police? Or perhaps it was her boss at work? He had hinted covertly at the shape of her nose. This was a clear invitation to her relating to something more than her nose.
She woke up to the sound of regular snoring. The man was sound asleep in the doorway. He was breathing loudly as usual. He was inhaling the air, his lips quivering. He was lying on his back with his right calf over his left, shaking his foot in the air. The sun had risen to its zenith. The heat had reached that temperature that destroys everything, even the last remaining vestiges of shame. She saw him pull his sarwal off as well. He became naked as the day he was born. But shame quickly returned to him when the sun set, so he put on his sarwal while his upper half remained naked.
Her eyes were not following the movement of the sun. His gaze was fixed on the picture in the newspaper. Under the Roman nose, her mouth was clamped shut. One corner of each eye was swollen, and her full name was missing. There was no police report. Perhaps the man had stopped sending information.
The relaxation she experienced diffused a sort of energy through her body. She jumped up from her place and stamped on the congealed oil. She was only wearing a baggy sarwal, which billowed up around her. Her torso was totally bare. The wind, little though it was, somehow found its way under her armpits. She raised her arms upwards, conscious of a certain repose. The oil had piled up around her waist where it held the strap firm. She wanted to scratch the corner of both her eyes, when suddenly she remembered the thirst that burnt her stomach.
She turned round to look for the bottle. As she turned the sun shone directly into her eyes. She could not take a step towards the house. The world around her appeared to burn with a red flame. There was no sign of the man. That was natural, for he used to disappear when he wished, and return when he wished. He could absent himself for seven years, and she would have to wait for him, by order of the law.
The disappearance of the man appeared normal. With the flood of oil, it was possible for anything to vanish in the twinkling of an eye. Immediately outside the doorway, the waterfall was gushing as if the storm was beginning once more.
When she went to cross over the threshold, she saw the chisel lying there. Around its head, the strap was wrapped in a knot. There arose in her body a feeling of familiarity. As if she was seeing the absent man, who had returned disguised as a chisel.
Perhaps something had happened. The iron chisel began to have a human aura, which dispersed the gloom. She stretched out her hand to it, and cuddled it at her breast. Like a mother finding her lost child. As if the chisel was moving by itself. She slipped to the ground, digging with its little pointed head with an amazing determination. It kept digging with a stubborn determination. As if it was a child looking for its mother and knowing for certain that she was there, lying in that hole in the bowels of the earth.
‘Won’t you ever stop looking?’
His voice startled her. She froze in her position. The chisel fell from her hand. The blue veins stood out on her chapped hands. She realised as he looked at her that her breasts were bare. She enclosed her chest with the bed sheet, her eyes half asleep. She was not properly awake and she did not know if he was her husband or a stranger. If he were her husband, it would be better if she screamed. For she did not remember that she had married a man with this appearance. If the man were a stranger he would pass on his way without any need for her to scream.
When she screamed, her voice was alien to the world of men. She probably did not open her mouth for fear that it would be filled with particles of oil. Nevertheless, she saw the women gathering around her, with jars on their heads. She realised that she was under observation, that their ears could hear her voice even if it had not emerged from her mouth, and that their eyes were staring at her with a sort of anger.
‘You’re a woman like us. Why don’t you carry a jar?’
She wanted to prove that she was not like them and that she could not live and die like an animal. ‘I have another goal.’
‘What’s that, sister?’
She remembered everything all at once. She began to tell story after story. She began with her aunt, and Lady Zaynab, and the Virgin Mary, and that she wanted to be a prophetess so that she could heal people from illnesses like the goddess Sekhmet.
The name Sekhmet rang in the air, which was swimming with particles of oil. The ‘t’ became velarised and the women no sooner heard the name than they tied their black scarves around their heads and began to strike their cheeks and cry all together, ‘Sakhmutt!’
It is not strange that everything was turning out like this. It was as if she had returned to her childhood, when her aunt used to tie a scarf around her head, and pour invective on anybody who came near her. If the women of this village were like her aunt, then the black flood would inevitably be considered a natural event. Her heart filled with despair and her eyes darted around looking for a way out.
She saw one of the neighbour women carrying a jar on her head. Her face was completely hidden behind a heavy black veil, and all she could see of it was half an eye, and something like a volcano exploded inside her, ‘You’re not a blind ox going round and round driving a water wheel. You must have the right to see what’s around you, mustn’t you? Or have you committed a crime in secret so that you’re no longer able to appear among the people of the village with your face uncovered?’
‘I don’t want to uncover my face.’
‘Is there a reason why you conceal yourself so much?’
‘There’s no reason why I should uncover my face.’
‘You could at least see the world.’
‘See what?’
‘The world. Isn’t it sufficient to see the world? Don’t you feel a desire to see the world around you?’
‘I used to have such a desire, then I became weary with everything.’
‘Listen, sister! Even the ox tears the bandage off its eyes, and animals in cages kick.’
‘I used to kick a great deal until I became weary with kicking as well.’
The neighbour suddenly changed her tone and said tenderly, ‘We heard you crying. Was he beating you?’
‘Beating me?’
Astonishment showed in her question. Was the man beating her with the head of the chisel? Anger overwhelmed her. She didn’t want anybody to know. But it appeared that nothing was hidden in this village. The surveillance was masterly. She wanted to hide her face. Would she never confess that he had been beating her? What if the people of the village found out that she was like other women? A shudder ran through her body. Her skin was marked all over from the beatings. And the dryness in her throat. She wanted to let her body fall to the ground. But eyes were open around her, waiting for her to fall, and if she fell once, anybody could do anything to her. It was better for her to confess. She was not capable of fleeing.
The man had returned. She saw him approaching her from behind. He pressed his right knee in her back, then enclosed her with one arm. A smell of stagnant oil came from under his armpit. He passed his chapped fingers up and down her spine. She remained transfixed in her place, then she called out in pain when he pressed roughly on the last section of her spine.
‘Do you feel any pleasure?’
‘No.’
The man laughed and it appeared that he was caressing her in preparation for something. Although his movement was sudden, it appeared natural, or perhaps as if his fingers had slipped by themselves in an innocent way.
She turned round to confront him. There was no innocence, and there was no instinct for sexual love. He was pushing her to kneel, and after she had knelt down, anything would become possible. She saw that sleep was her one refuge. Perhaps she was in fact sleeping, because her breathing was loud. Her calves and her arms were trembling. Was she angry? Perhaps, because this man was always trying to spoil her sleep, and he succeeded in doing so whenever he pleased. By contrast, he was able to go o
ff into a sound sleep without anything disturbing him.
When she turned over in her sleep, particles of oil stuck to her cheeks. Around her eyes, a particle would stick in a corner and she would wipe it away with a fingertip. She stretched a hand out in the darkness looking for the bottle. It was not there. The man was lying with his face to the wall and his back to her. His back appeared less well banqueted than his face. The matter came within the realms of possibility. But the night was long, and did not want to end, and sleeplessness like a hammer was beating in her head. She tied her scarf and fastened it above her forehead as she used to see her aunt doing. She closed her eyes and gained control of her breathing. She bent her knees and curled up in a ball like a foetus. She tried to remember the face of her mother before she gave birth to her. She followed the path that she walked along every day from the house to the school. There was a tree and a long river. She saw her usual place on the bridge where she used to sit at sunset, waiting for the lights to appear. She began to recite the names of the stars. She began with Saturn and Jupiter and ended with Venus and the whole galaxy. She tried to count on her fingers the names of the ancient goddesses, beginning with Nun and Namu and ending with Nut and Sekhmet.
However, sleeplessness did not leave her. It continued to beat her head like a hammer. She moved her eyes towards the man. She saw him covering his face with the newspaper. He was still sleeping or perhaps he had been reading and then gone to sleep while he was reading. His breathing was regular, like snoring. The rustling of papers at the mercy of the wind. Dogs barking from afar and women gasping, their necks cracking under the jars. However, the roar of the gushing waterfall overwhelmed all other sounds. Sleeplessness like a hammer beat her head, and the watch on her wrist ticked, and the pounding of her heart under her ribs, and her breathing, all these sounds beat in her ears.
Love in the Kingdom of Oil Page 6
