Mother Khadija looked around her angrily, "Aren't we the descendants of al-Hajjaj?"13
Umm Hashim disagreed, "Al-Hajjaj is not from Iraq! You old folks!"
Before the debate could get too heated, I excused myself. It was time to meet Moosa.
Mother Khadija squeezed my palm and said, "We should keep in touch. You can always find me here, and if we have to move, I'll be near Restaurant al-Quds."
As I stood up, I said, "We'll see each other a lot, I promise."
She replied, "I hope that's not mere talk."
HE HAD ARRIVED in the cafe before me; from far away I could see him reading some papers. As I drew closer, he pushed his papers aside, saying, "This time my intuition betrayed me; I thought you wouldn't come."
I put my bag on the table's right side, asking, "What made you think that?"
"Frankly, yesterday you didn't look enthusiastic."
"Here I am."
"Your behavior confuses me."
Pulling the pages of his story from my bag, I said, "I was saddened by what you wrote. After all that has happened to you, I wonder how you've managed to preserve your soul."
I suddenly jumped with alarm when he grabbed my fingers. I turned my head but didn't withdraw my hands. I let them absorb the warmth of his feelings; I was in need of a mans caress. Pearls of sweat shone on his forehead. I wondered where this abundant flow of love that immersed my senses came from. The waiter interrupted this unplanned moment in a time of exile.
We ordered juice, and he read to me what he had written during his days in exile. Then we went to a fast-food place. He didn't ask me about my feelings toward him. Then he said, "Time is short. Should I add your name to my file? If you have reached a decision, give me a call after tomorrow, but if I don't hear from you, I'll consider the matter over with."
I was about to bypass the two-day waiting period and accept immediately, but for some reason I just kept silent.
MY SHIP WAS SAFE from being tossed over. A strength I had lacked for a long time flowed back into my body. I had received the refugee certificate.
I began scanning the lines. I couldn't believe it. "The Office for Refugee Affairs of the United Nations in the Jordanian Kingdom attests that Mrs. Huda Abdel Baqi, Iraqi citizen, is granted the status of Refugee..."
I wanted to shout in the streets, "Farewell to the nightmare of homelessness!" I wanted to tell the whole universe about it, to go back home and wait for Samih, or to fly to the Roman Theater and enter the Hashemite Square to announce it to the Iraqis there, but instead I walked to see Mother Khadija. I spotted Umm Hashim sitting in front of her merchandise in her usual place. As I bought incense from her, she told me that Mother Khadija was sick. I asked for directions to her place.
From Saqf al-Sayl, I walked to Mosque al-Husain in the northern part of the city, up to Talat al-Misdaar, then turned left as Umm Hashim had indicated. An iron door opened up to a relatively long corridor that eventually led to a circular basin that collected water, which was so scarce in that region. Mother Khadija was living in one of the three rooms that overlooked the sandy yard. I looked for her door. When a woman came out, I asked for Mother Khadija.
She pointed, saying, "The last room."
Mother Khadija couldn't believe it when she saw me. "What brought you here? By God, you are great."
She had wrapped herself in a blanket and sat close to the fireplace. She looked very pale.
"It's the cold," she said. "My bones can't tolerate it."
The room she shared with Umm Hashim was wide, with a corridor leading to the kitchen. Near the fire was a carafe with chamomile tea. She asked me to pour her a little bit to moisten her throat. She was dehydrated and had a slight fever. Then she pushed aside the blankets and cursed the time that had brought her to this condition. I didn't know what to say as she assured me that as soon as she felt better, she would return to Baghdad. She was afraid to die on foreign soil.
She sighed and said, "Oh, beloved Baghdad-abundant water, sunny weather, and people united as if they were one tribe. But they destroyed it. God's curse upon them! The idea of dying here frightens me. What do you think-should I die here?"
Patting her shoulders, I said, "God give you long life!"
She shivered. "No. I just want to reach Baghdad; then I don't care."
I told her about Nadia's death. She remembered her and said, "She was very kind and educated like you. She avoided the bickering that went on in the factory and preserved her purity."
She didn't ask about the circumstances of Nadia's death but continued to grieve and reminisce about the Factory of Hope, the workers, and Shafiqa, whose power had been broken after the factory was burned and Mr. Fatih had run away.
"Did Mr. Fatih really flee with millions of dollars?" I asked Mother Khadija. She poured some chamomile tea, took some sips, and went on, "God alone knows; there are no definite answers. I heard that he had entered the market. His rival was one of the president's cousins, so they asked him to back down from the deal, but he was too stubborn. He lost the deal and set the factory on fire. Rumors circulated that he took millions with him. But others said that he was arrested and perhaps put to death in prison."
Just one month before these events, I had left the factory and Nadia had moved to Basra.
"All this doesn't mean much to poor women. The world ignores us, while they are disgustingly rich. God curse them all!"
Mother Khadija's energy flowed as she discovered an unexpected desire to talk about those miserable days when our pay had barely supported our needs.
She sighed again and said, "Oh, my God, poor girls fighting for their bread. In our day, that wasn't the case. Every girl used to dream about marriage and motherhood. Fie on the bad times when women abandon their femininity for practices that degrade their dignity!" She looked at me and asked, "Have you heard anything about the other girls? What became of them?"
All this time, I'd wondered about the tense relationship between her and Salwa but couldn't find a way to broach the subject. Then I found myself asking the question from another angle. "I think they married; even the widowed and divorced among them would have looked for husbands."
She laughed mockingly. "Where from? The wars have eaten half of the men and left the other half handicapped or insane."
"They marry old men, although every one of them deserves to fulfill her dreams. Take, for example, Salwa."
Mother Khadija picked up the ball. "Salwa? Oh, hers is another story. I swear by God, I liked her."
"It didn't seem as if you liked each other."
"It wasn't my fault. She was ungrateful."
I tried to provoke her. "I think you were tough on her."
She looked embarrassed and said, "If it hadnt been for me, she would have died of shame."
I gave her a little shove and said, "No, no, Mother Khadija, what you're saying here isnt nice."
She readjusted her seat and looked ready to speak, as though stirred to answer a question that had lingered for many years. "Oh, you are taking me back to memories inscribed on the walls of al-Shawaka. Poor Salwa was one of the victims of Aliwi al-Attar. If you want to know her story, you should know what type of fox this man was who never had enough of women's bodies even though he had four wives. The fourth one refused to succumb to his desires. She was deaf and dumb.
"He used to claim that he was equally connected to angels and devils and attained his desires by using his knowledge of popular medicine. Sterile women, unmarried girls, and women left by their husbands used to resort to him. He was always ready to provide financial help, claiming to draw hearts closer to fearing God by chasing away the ghost of poverty and need. Aliwi alAttar was pious in front of the people and always in the mosques, but no one knew his real intentions. He had a split personality, and people didnt want to believe that he was a beast under the surface. Rumor had it that he used to strip women of their clothes and massage their bodies with scented oils, claiming that he would deliver them from evil souls. Some wom
en visited him for this purpose, either out of ignorance or out of feigned ignorance just to assuage their lust.
"How many times he chased me lasciviously I don't know-but he was unsuccessful. Before I turned forty, I was already a widow. My body was still fresh, and my skin was as soft as when I was in my twenties, but despite my wretched life I remained unaffected by him and resisted. I was a midwife, the only midwife in al-Shawaka. Most of that place's sons were born at my hands, among them three of Aliwi al-Attar's sons. Can you believe it? I used to pull a baby from his mother's womb without any problem, even during difficult births. But I left the profession after one of the women almost died at my hands because of her thinness and young age."
Mother Khadija had strayed from my question, but I didn't want to interrupt her.
"I warned the women about al-Attar's ruses and the traps he would set, so his desperation for me turned into hate. His grocery store was just in front of my house-I couldn't miss it. At that time, Salwa was only fifteen years old, soft and beautiful, her breasts getting round. She'd lost her mother; her father was taking care of her and her younger brother. One day she came to me and threw herself on my lap as though I were her mother; she was wailing as she said, 'If you don1 help me, I will commit suicide.'
"Given my experience with women, I didn't need more explanation. I'd heard many similar stories.
"'How many months?'
"'Three.'
"'How did it happen?'
"She didn't answer, but I insisted and asked for the details before I could proceed with the abortion. She kissed my hands and cried. I assured her that many in similar circumstances had asked for my help and that her secret would be safe.
"Her brother Hassan had failed at school and feared his father's punishment, so he hid for three days. People were looking for him in neighboring places, among relatives, and in the hospitals. Her father had informed the police. Before sunset on the third day of his disappearance, as Salwa was making her way home from the search, Aliwi had met her on the street, claiming to know where Hassan was.
"'Where?' she had asked him, shaking as he put his hand on her shoulder.
"'At the haunted house.'
"She'd shivered, but Aliwi assured her with a confident voice, 'Don't worry, he's safe.'
"One house had been abandoned for years, and strange stories would circulate about it. Every time a family would live there, one of them would go mad or die at the new moon, until the house had turned into ruins, haunted by devils and ghosts."
Mother Khadija fell silent. She was tired, but I urged her to tell me the story of Salwa and Aliwi al-Attar.
"'We have to save Hassan before he loses his mind,' Salwa said.
"He was fingering his beads, mumbling, 'Wait for me here, in this corner.'
"He climbed the fence of the haunted house and asked her to come closer. She climbed the wall, and they found themselves in a yard filled with junk. As Salwa explained it to me, she hadn't been afraid. Like many, she had thought that al-Attar enjoyed a favored position with angels and devils. The two went inside, al-Attar first, then Salwa, leaning on his arm. They walked along a narrow corridor. Then he stopped her and asked her to keep silent.
"'Stay here.'
"He walked to the end of the corridor and disappeared behind one of the doors."
Mother Khadija interrupted her story to ask me if I wanted some tea or if I was hungry. "Let me know. Don't be shy. I'm like your mother. I have lentil soup and cooked cheese."
"Mother Khadija, I'm eager to know the rest of the story."
"Come every day, and you'll hear a more horrible story. I'm at the last station. Why should the stories die with me?"
"So what happened to Salwa after that?"
"She was agitated, both fearing the unknown and trusting at the same time. As she was torn between these feelings, Aliwi al-Attar appeared and asked her to come closer.
"Salwa then told me, 'I followed him, as he asked me, to the room he had just come out of. The floor was covered with a long carpet, on which there was a blanket and a woolen pillow, and there were magazine pictures of naked women on the walls. A few moments later he took me by surprise, out of breath like a bull. I couldn't run away or free myself from his arms.'
"It seemed that he had prepared the weapons of the hunt and chosen a prey that was unaware of his plans. The devil in him came out from under his clothes and raped her. I had to save her from the scandal. As for her brother Hassan, it turned out that he had taken refuge at a friend's place. After that incident, I didn't see Salwa for a while. Her family moved to the banking neighborhood, and six years passed before we met again in the Factory of Hope. She was upset to see me, perhaps because I was the only one who could remind her of that scandal. As for Aliwi al-Attar, he took his secrets to his tomb and died pierced by an uncountable number of knives. No one knew who had killed him, and none of his acquaintances was suspected of anything. The incident was reported as an unsolved case. From what I understood, a woman killed him to get rid of shame or to take revenge. The report also said that a police officer found a notebook where al-Attar had listed the names of all the women he had slept with, but because the policeman didn't want to see killings in every house, he tore it up."
THAT EVENING Samih was looking livelier. He slowly sipped his coffee while saying, "God has given us the best of senses, but most of the time we misuse them. Some people might live with good senses, but they don't come to enjoy life's pleasures, so their senses are beyond what they need. Some lose one of their senses and try to develop other senses. As for me, I see the world with what my fingers can play on its chords."
"Which sense is most vital?" I asked.
He answered, "All of them are vital, but I feel sorry for the dumb and deaf. The former can't speak, but he sees and hears; thus, he loses the pleasure of conversation. The latter is even more miserable because he can t hear the sounds of nature. Things around him seem like swimming in the void."
"It is a real problem; the most painful, though, is to lose the pleasure of life when one has his five senses."
He clapped happily with his hands, as if he just found something he had lost. "You begin to understand me. That's why you should value what God gave you: you see, hear, and converse, taste, enjoy touching and smelling."
"You're right. I'm not enjoying life as I should. Exile plagues me, and the past has me almost in a stranglehold."
"In this case, either you reconcile with your memory, or you have to create a memory for the future."
"Perhaps memory's weight will lessen with time. But the creation of a new memory won't be very intimate because our most beautiful and important memories start when we are young and grow with us. They are shaped over the years by our family, childhood, and early friendships. And because they are virgin memories, they dig deep and suck the strength of the heart once in exile."
"One has to create one's happiness or at least feel contented wherever one finds oneself. That's how we can protect ourselves against erosion. Satisfaction is a blessing, and self-satisfaction is the highest degree of this blessing. If you would stop worrying, you would see that the world is opening its doors to you."
"It is possible to contain my personal worries, but what can I do with my country's sorrow? Its children are scattered, and its holy sites brutalized. Fifty years ago we fought against colonialism; now we begin to regret its passing because of our leaders' atrocities."
"Countries are bigger and live longer than their leaders. No matter how many destructive means a leader has, he cannot kill a homeland. You'll remember what I'm saying. The most important thing now is to treat your heart's wounds and open up to life. Live it without masks. Look for the beauty around you. I'm sure if I asked you about the color of your dress, you would not know. The seeing beings, except a few of them, have no visual culture. That's why they lose the meaning of beauty over the years."
"My circumstances are not too bad; I just find it difficult to adjust to them."
&nbs
p; A small silence passed. I felt annoyed with myself because I always brought sadness whenever I sat with others. As I was about to excuse myself, Samih's fingers started hitting the strings of his lute, and my eyes shed bitter tears. The music flowed, washing my soul and freeing it of all fatigue. It was like a siren who had lived for ages at the bottom of the sea and then been thrown on a sandy beach. The playing continued harmoniously, a deaf instrument telling the most beautiful stories with fingers and feelings.
I hovered outside time and space, and I felt I was ten women in the body of one. The first woman fled along the road of the desert, the second wandered on the streets, the third was alone and lonely, the fourth whinnied like an indomitable horse, the fifth bid farewell to a man who forgot to tell her good-bye, the sixth strung her tears into a necklace for seasons of love that didn't come, the seventh hovered above the clouds, the eighth was patching up the defective garb of exile, the ninth witnessed her death and walked in her funeral procession, and the tenth was screaming at the final stroke in the performance, trying to remember an appointment that had passed more than a week ago.
I DIDN'T GET IN TOUCH WITH MOOSA-how long had it been since I last saw him?-but he was on my mind. I hadn't fallen in love with him, but I was dreaming about him as a man I could trust. As for the ambiguity in his eyes, I had just invented it. I told myself that women always look for someone to torture them, and if we don't find that person in others, he will spring up from under our skin. Women do not desire certainty; it's boring.
That evening I looked at things without ambiguity. My head was free of illusions, and I was opening up to welcome life. The change wasn't merely a mood shift; I knew it was time for me to settle. I would say yes to Moosa, and I would say it with complete certitude.
Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) Page 14