“Write all this down, will you?” said Amira.
“We need to leave it behind,” I said. “We need to leave everything where it is. That’s what you said, right? Life is happening here and now.”
“Huh?”
“I can live now that I have died.”
“What are you on about?”
“I’m not going to write anything… I think Maryam’s really sick. She might have cancer or something like that.”
“What?”
“That’s what I think. And do you know that Madam Lilla speaks Turkish?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing. Anyway … I think Maryam’s sick. Did she say anything to you?”
“No … where did you come up with that idea anyway? Wait a second. Yes … yes, you might be right.”
“She’s trying to kill herself. That’s why she agreed to take the trip.”
Amira stopped to think, trying to remember something.
“She won’t say anything about it. Let’s ask but if she doesn’t say anything… She’s writing something, in a notebook. I saw her put it under her bed in the hotel room. She must have it with her.”
We looked at each other. Of course we were going to rifle through Maryam’s personal belongings.
When night fell Saida came back and we walked back to her house together. Again the desert looked like a purple lake. Madam Lilla took me by the arm, encircling the two of us in silence. The pebbles crunching under our feet seemed that much louder. Only her breathing broke the silence that underscored the importance of what she had to say. She looked out at the hills in the distance and at the drifting clouds ringed in dark blue and purple that were incredibly beautiful.
“I learned the languages I know from men but everything I have just told you I learned from women. It is no coincidence we now find ourselves here together. You need to know that. You are someone who will always challenge fate. People who write stories about people need to know this: you are writing fate. And with that comes loneliness. A great loneliness.”
With the deepest compassion I had ever felt, she looked at me to see if I had grasped the bitterness of her words. I felt like crying and my throat contracted. Satisfied that I was speechless, she went on.
“To set out on a journey with a woman like me – and I’m not talking about you alone – you must have been kicked out of your own world. It seems you don’t have a place there anymore. Neither do I for that matter. Ah, my dear … the world, your country, people and family that you have feared for so long and worked so hard to make a part of your life, well, it will take years until you accept the fact that they fear you. It takes even more time indeed until you understand that you cannot change them. So there is no other hope for you but to trust your breath. We must breath to create the world and the men who live in it. But for now the three of you must now be out of breath. You must be tired.”
She stopped. And recited the Bismillah prayer in praise of God. Then she recited a prayer in Arabic. Smiling: “Neffasati fil’ u’gad!” Do you know the Koran?”
If I could have spoken I knew that I would cry so I simply shook my head.
“It’s from the Fellak verse… The verse begins with a decree, Neffasati fil’ u’gad, ‘Keep away from the inauspicious women who blow on knots.’ Keep away from the inauspicious enchantresses…. For God knows just what we are capable of. Both for good and evil. But we have forgotten. But now that we have crossed the border … I will help you remember. And you will help me. You will stay with me until I find the man who destroyed the world I brought to life with my breath.”
With a trembling hand she squeezed my arm. A man who destroyed the world of a woman who’d destroyed so many men with the flick of her skirt? Surely she was lying. There couldn’t be such a man. And even if there was, how would we find him? She was concocting a vast, multilayered story around us with no possible way for us to get to the heart of it. By then the two of us had become a single purple shadow among the houses. It wasn’t Madam Lilla, prophetess of weariness and loneliness, that got to me but the depth of compassion in her words that stuck in my throat like a grenade of tears, and that stayed with me until I saw Maryam. Once we were back in our bedroom Amira and I went to work straightaway – it was time to investigate. Whatever this secret was it was going to come to light. But in fact the fate of our trio would turn out to be far funnier than either of us expected.
12
We are in front of a mirror. Our cheeks are tired from laughing but we can’t stop. “The Women Who Blow on Knots Dance School! Yes, now that’s got to be the name!” said Amira, bursting with laughter. “Yes! We’ll have the opening right here in the Libyan desert! Ladies and gentlemen, come and dance with us like we’re all out of our minds! BOOM-chick BOOM-chick!” In front of the mirror Maryam lustily tries to belly dance with a belly she doesn’t even have, her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth. I strike ironic femme fatale dance poses. Like a prima donna, Amira thrusts herself in front of us, bows and blows kisses at the mirror. We salute our audience of three women dressed in white night gowns. We’re back in our white night gowns. Afraid we might be making too much noise, we struggle to hold back the laughter. But every now and then one of us explodes and we double over and come back up with grave faces only to start dancing again until we collapse on each other’s shoulders. Pulling up her shoulder strap, Amira says to the mirror, “Oh come on, sweetie, forget about it already! What was it saintly Albert Camus said!?”
I look at these two in the mirror. I watch the rosy hue take over their olive-skinned bodies. Maryam has forgotten all about her lack of hair … beads of sweat have clustered on Amira’s skin like mother of pearl… If Madam Lilla was right and women really are the sum of their breath then surely something happens to women during mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. And just when they are about to die. There was simply no other way we could have ended up like this at this moment. We hadn’t come to this room in Saida’s home so full of joy….
*
Striding into Maryam’s bedroom, Amira put her hand on her hip and cried out: “Maryam!”
Before I even could tell Amira to calm down for a minute, the question had already been dropped like a bomb.
“Look, do you have cancer? If you do then you’re going to tell me! I won’t stand for this any more.”
The expression on Maryam’s face was far too composed for someone who’d just been caught concealing the fact that she had cancer. Lying on her bed, she was writing in a notebook. She hesitated and Amira became even more impatient.
“On top of that we know you keep writing in that notebook. Which means if you aren’t going to tell us now we are going to have a look anyway. That’s right! We’re listening.”
With her arms crossed like that she looked more frightening than the grim reaper himself. I sort of thought we were going a bit too far with someone who might actually have cancer but then again I was convinced that keeping a secret like that from us for all this time was worse. In the end we had all set out on this trip together. So yes, we were listening!
Maryam’s belly began to lightly shake before laughter rolled off her lips.
“And just what are you going to do about it?’ she said laughing. “Will you beat me up if I do?”
“Yes,” said Amira, clear as a bell. She went on like a plump little mother.
“So what’s this all about then? You weren’t going to tell us? You were just going to roll over and die in the middle of the desert? Leave us to bury you? Was that your plan? Wonderful! Brava! You complete moron! You were going to leave me alone on this adventure?”
Amira was angry at the idea of a loved one dying but it was an anger born of compassion. While Maryam was still laughing at the idea of a friend who cared so much that she wanted to beat her up because she had cancer. When Amira’s face twisted into the face of tearful little girl left alone with her foul temper, Maryam finally stopped. Smiling, she rose and took Amira’s a
rm and shook it… “So you’re going to read my notebook, eh?”
Still angry and unwilling to back down, Amira said, “Stop it. Are you dying?”
Maryam gave her a bear hug. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have anything like cancer. For the love of God where did you come up with that idea? If I did, would the treatment be a good thrashing? At least I’ve learned something.”
“So what then?” said Amira. “What aren’t you telling us?”
“Yes,” I said. And trying to wiggle out of my embarrassing diagnosis by bombarding Maryam with questions, I went on. “Why did you decide to come with us in the first place?”
That mysterious dark-skinned woman, who never seemed exposed no matter how many layers were peeled away, was gone altogether: she now had a lightness of being we had never seen before.
“I thought you’d never ask!”
Pausing for a moment, she went on, “But Madam Lilla should never know. I don’t trust that woman one bit. Where is she now?”
Madam Lilla was busy with Saida. And with something we should have been busy with too: namely our itinerary. But here we were fretting over a disease Maryam didn’t even have. The only thing we knew was that we would be travelling further into southern Libya. Thanks to Saida we learned that much; Madam Lilla was hardly sharing very much with us. When Maryam heard that our trip would take us deep into the deserts of Libya, she said: “OK, enough. We’ll talk to Madam Lilla tomorrow and put an end to this nonsense. What is all this, yani? Alright, so we got swept away but really, just where are we headed? What’s really going on?”
“You know the guy who ruined her life, we’re going to find him,” said Amira, with the grave expression of a child.
“Hah, hah, hah… Madam Lilla’s life? She’s lying,” Maryam replied
“I agree,” I said wholeheartedly.
Maryam continued, “There isn’t a man alive who could wreck that woman’s world! Now if we are setting out on a road trip, and clearly that’s what we are doing, she needs to tell us the truth. Enough is enough.”
“Forget about tomorrow,” said Amira, “you need to talk to us, lady. What is your story?”
“Hmm,” said Maryam, sitting down on her bed. For a split second she flashed Amira a different kind of look. It was as if she were thinking about the way Amira had asked her all these questions with a mixture of intense curiosity, compassion and fragility all masked as obstinacy. I suppose this alone was why she decided to talk.
“I … I mean, I suppose you already know … it’s not easy to talk about it. I can’t describe it like you. But this notebook you’re so interested in…”
“We are not interested in your notebook, mademoiselle. But we were under the impression you had cancer and…”
“Alright, alright, I get it,” said Maryam. “I can read it to you if you want. Because…” She stopped and made an abracadabra type gesture in the air directed at Amira and she said, “Because my big secret is here in this notebook!”
I got the feeling she had already decided to share this secret with us before we had even come into the room.
“On one condition. Every night I’ll read you one part from this notebook. And this friend of ours will…”
She pointed at me.
“She is going tell us her problem. Why is she running away from her country? Is she a spy? A terrorist? A fugitive? We don’t know.”
She was both pulling my leg and deadly serious. “Azizi, I swear there’s no such secret,” I said.
“Allah, Allah!” cried Maryam. Both of them had picked up this ironic doubling of ‘Allah’ from me. They really liked it.
“I swear that’s the way it is. I’m just tired and the country’s a mess. Nothing more than that. I’ve lost my faith in writing. And I probably won’t write again. That’s it.”
When I saw the strained expressions on their faces I understood just how much mine had fallen. So Maryam didn’t push. She reached out for a cigarette and lit up to blow away any bad vibe and with a smile she asked:.
“Well then out with it, what are you going to do (again those abracadabra gestures) in return for my big secret?”
Amira was suddenly bright as a child again.
“I’ve got it,” she said, laughing at the idea that had sprung to mind. Then she said, “She’ll dance!”
“OK. Make her dance!”
If I didn’t accept this invitation to a good time I knew the moment would pass. I forced a smile.
“Ok,” I said. “In any case I’ve always wanted to be a belly dancer. This might give my life some meaning.”
“Really?” said Amira, seriously asking and seriously surprised. If only I could have taken a photograph of that startled expression: those wide-open eyes that were proof she would be fooled by life a thousand times more. If only we could document that look of surprise that remained, despite everything she had experienced, we might succeed in setting up a Museum of Unappreciated Moments. There is no way this woman could have killed anyone. Whenever I saw Amira like this my heart would melt at the sheer beauty. And Maryam would become proud as a warrior ready to protect her helpless child. That was how they completed one another. Like apples and cinnamon, Amira always called out for Maryam. And I am the dough that brings the two together.
“Just a minute!” says Maryam, cutting her off. “This friend of ours…”
“What? What?” says Amira. How could a person be so full of enthusiasm for a life she doesn’t even have?
“Now as for you, my dear, these letters…”
“How do you know about those?” I said.
“Eh… You aren’t the only one without any shame around here. Maybe I thought Amira had cancer and… I actually did my own little bit of investigative research. Seems the mademoiselle here is hiding letters from us.”
“You read them?” said Amira, flustered.
Maryam shook her head. “You are going to tell us about those letters and the person who wrote them. What was his name?”
I quickly whispered: “Muhammed”.
And that’s how we came to our agreement. Like solemn children with pure hearts making a castle out of cookies…
“You first,” said Amira to Maryam. “Read us something from that notebook.”
“Strip!” Maryam said and she laughed. We put on our white nightgowns. Maryam took out her notebook. We lay down on our beds. “I already told her (meaning me) the story but you (she meant Amira),” she said, “you must know Dido.” Amira nodded and said, “Our friend the queen who came from Phoenicia to Tunisia and founded Carthage. I know her.”
Enjoying Amira’s increasingly childlike air, Maryam drew out the introduction.
“But you know the whole story, right? She founds Carthage and that godforsaken man Aeneas comes from Troy and she falls in love with him and then…”
“I know, I know, and she kills herself out of love…”
“No, the story doesn’t end that way,” said Maryam and she went on.
“The ending you know is the one written by men or let’s say the ending they take to be true. The real ending is totally different. And my secret lies in Dido’s unknown story. Yani (and she slipped into an imitation of Lilla, adopting the air of a prophetess, her hands open wide). You need to read Dido’s full story to learn my secret. There are seven tablets here. And the secret lies in the last one.”
Unable to hold myself back, I said, “Azizi, now look, no matter how you look at it, I’m still a journalist. So for the love of God tell us the end of the story first and then go back and give us the details.”
Slipping out from under the Madam Lilla mask, Maryam looked serious and she smiled.
“You, my friend, the moment you crossed that border you stopped being a journalist. Now you’re just an ordinary human being.”
Restless, Amira said, “Oh, now you’re just rambling! Just read whatever it is you’re going to read.”
And with that Maryam began to read Dido’s first tablet.
*
Dido’s First Tablet
That ship will come and I am waiting. Waiting among the marble columns of my victories with a heart that does not know the shadow of a doubt.
I know that even gods need seven days and seven nights. So then that ship will spend six more days and nights on the horizon of the sea where the sun is born. Gathering courage. Courage for a new life. Everything that has happened will be forgotten to open space for everything to come.
That ship will bring to me a bold warrior, a weary conqueror and a hungry lover.
I will cry out to him: O brave warrior! My name is Dido. The sun and the stars have brought you to this country of mine. O proud sailor! Welcome to these compassionate lands, to the most beautiful country in all the Mediterranean: Carthage! My home is your home!”
When I return to my palace dressed in light purple silks from Phoenicia, my ladies with warm, gentle hands will present jasmine sweets, rose-scented candies and of course full-bodied wines to our guests. They will lay cool cotton beds on the purple-white terrace. Draw the silk nettings around them. Sprinkle orange essences over the dream-laden pillows. Goats and camels will be sacrificed in your honour. The nimble hands of my ladies will peel the meat from the bone. They will feed you the most succulent pieces by hand, piece by piece. Our generosity will astound the stranger. He will grow curious. His solemn airs will melt under the spell of wine. The weary conqueror will ask: “Who is your master? Tell me! Is she some kind of sorceress? Or an angel? Who is your mistress? Who shames us with this unrivalled elegance?”
The denizens will say to him: “Her name is Dido. She came from afar. From the shores of Lebanon to us. When she arrived she was a young and miserable widow. We said that she would fall prey to us in the end. We expected her to marry one of our own; we wanted her to give herself to the village. In the end we said that she would be one of us. We expected her to be as mortal and as cowardly as we were. Finally she would fall into our trap, bow her head and her face would resemble ours. “Dido will submit,” we said. Dido will no doubt be defeated!”
Women Who Blow on Knots Page 14
