Madam Lilla lit a cigarette. She didn’t say a word until she’d finished and invited us to her room. She was like someone getting ready to take the plunge, but on the brink of suicide.
Melika was still shouting, “I found my swordfish. I found it!”
18
Now perhaps it was the dizzying pace of the journey or the fleeting desires that flared up in our hearts that made us look different on the surface, but deep down the three of us respected, admired and of course felt pity for a Judas tree that bloomed in the middle of a desert. Maryam, Amira and I knew the value of things. We couldn’t mock fate nor underestimate profound love. And we didn’t have it in our hearts to bring down Madam Lilla in a place whose climate was as inhospitable for her as it was for the Judas Trees. Madam Lilla was a rare blend of magic that we found infuriating and which tried our patience but which we could never wholeheartedly despise.
The world that Madam Lilla had built was vast enough to contain and indeed surpass the world they say existed. But her magic didn’t come from glory but from weakness. Once you recognized the burnt matchsticks upon which her world was standing (and we saw them when Madam Lilla began to tell us the real story) you wanted to give a helping hand. Madam Lilla aroused in us the desire to protect, and the feeling was the same as the care that a fragile and purely joyful little girl would arouse in your heart. Madam Lilla was the oldest woman-child I knew. A purple butterfly one would not deign to take into the palm of your hand and look at too closely in case her wings fell off – and with a purple butterfly like this one it’s better to keep your distance.
All three of us were scrupulous women. And yes we were the kind of women prepared to cross a desert to kill a man who had devastated a woman’s heart. In the end what more was there to life? What is it about? And we were women who knew without a shadow of a doubt that Madam Lilla was a daredevil. We could give a piece of our lives to Judas trees for nothing in return, considering to whom and what pieces of our lives we had already given. Which is why that night we went up onto the roof of Dido’s home. We wouldn’t have gone if we didn’t value love and matters of the heart and we certainly weren’t women to make petty calculations. As Amira, Maryam and I climbed the stairs to the rooftop we didn’t talk about of any of this – there was no need. We simply slipped into our white nightgowns again and went up to see Madam Lilla.
She was sitting in one of those white plastic chairs. Shrunken, she looked like a bird. Wisps of hair that had fallen from her bun and her gauzy silks were fluttering and in the swirling motion her body seemed to ebb and flow in a wave of powder. Her eyes were fixed on a distant point so far away. She was like a cicada that had chirped away its flesh until there was nothing left but a shell. She was doubled over. After Maryam had said, ‘tell us the truth and no more tales of adventure,’ she revealed to us her true face and now she was stuck with it. And our sadness was like the sadness of a slave with a love for astronomy watching the plundering of the library of Alexandria. We had asked for the truth and that truth had ruined our stories. So now we would labour to attach wings to that plane that had suddenly crashed into a white plastic chair. Just like that first night when we were on a dark square shielded from the outside world. Now we knew what could happen on those dark squares. We had to crack our own puzzle in this black square that was ours alone.
Maryam walked over to her and we followed noiselessly behind her. We sat down on the low wall before her. There was no way she would forgive us. We had done nothing wrong; we had simply done the worst we could have done to her. Now she was nothing but the poor old woman she didn’t want to be; from the inside we had succeeded in bringing down all her years of glorious revolt; she had no more interest in the world and she wouldn’t forgive us. Her heart was withering before our very eyes, and there was nothing left of Madam Lilla in her face. And what’s more… Ah! I suppose this was what hurt the most: her purple nightgown buttons were out of order. No longer billowing, her silk gown stuttered in the wind like an angel’s wing in barbed wire.
Amira took her cell phone out of her pocket. There was no other way for us to show remorse: She started to play Warda’s ‘So Many Years Without Love’. The same song she had played for us on that first night. As much as our pride permitted we were imploring her to come back to the fairytale she had invited us to join in the beginning. Without even blinking she only let out a pained sigh, a hook of a smile on the corner of her lips far worse than tears.
I poured four glasses of date liquor. Maryam was the bravest among us because she was the most fearful. Slowly she leaned over to Madam Lilla, her hands trembling. Gracefully, she tended to the buttons on her gown: slowly she undid each one then began carefully buttoning them again. Maryam was just barely grazing Madam Lilla’s skin, the kiss of a fish. When Maryam and Amira sat back down on the low wall, Warda’s voice was echoing over the desert.
I swear to time … all these years there has been no love!
As I handed out glasses, I hesitated when I came to Madam Lilla. She still wasn’t looking at us. Slowly she put her hand in her pocket, took something in the palm of her hand then passed it to the other hand. She waited a little. Then without showing us she placed the ring on her finger. This was the red-stoned ring we saw from above on our first night. She reached out her hand with the ring and took the glass. She still wasn’t looking at us but she must have felt us, and from the way her mouth crinkled, her brow softened and her nose lifted, it was clear – she was coming back. When Warda reached the most beautiful moment in the song Madam Lilla began to tap her ring on the glass to the rhythm of the song, just like that first night and, toc … toc … toc … time started running again. In silence we were extremely happy. We waited motionless like children who didn’t want their mother to stop fussing over them. Warda was singing to this desert that had given these Judas trees the rare chance to grow.
I swear to time…
Then warplanes roared overhead, jets…. We looked up. But the only thing we heard was the sound of Lilla’s ring tapping against her glass.
Tic tic tic… we had finally come to ourselves on the square of a dark crossword puzzle. Life and war was still was barrelling forward on the white squares.
And that was how our most difficult day came to an end. We were exhausted. Once you fire a gun the bullets never come back.
“We want the truth,” Maryam had announced that morning, “and no more tales of adventure.”
And that was then Madam Lilla had asked for a cigarette and took a drag as she scrunched up her brow without saying a word.
*
After Madam Lilla had told us her “true” story, we found ourselves in the kitchen of the house of Dido, like three empty sacks. Similar to links on a chain and bound to one another like them, we were three women and a young girl. When all the women of a family (providing their hearts are pure) come together they smell something like butter, like bread toasting in a kitchen. It seeps into every corner and you could sit there for a lifetime, speak, fall silent, tells stories and listen; such a cornucopia of life. A supple space composed of their touching, holding, turning, cutting and cleaning. Passing things to one another, turning round to pass again and then placing it on a stovetop, stirring, taking it away, and always something boiling. If there were a divan in the kitchen and you drifted off to sleep all your troubles would disappear and you would wake with a shining “spotless mind”.
We sit down, being careful not to disturb all the turning wheels. Our chins are cupped in our hands, elbows pinned on a wooden table to carry the weight of our heads. They were acting as if Madam Lilla hadn’t only a short while ago fired off a round and then called us to our room for a long meeting, pretending that our expressions weren’t drained of life. Or maybe they had long since known what we had just come to learn.
“Shall I pour you some coffee?” says Samira, thin drops of water on the tips of her fingers. Sweat on her brow. As if she is full of gusto and ready to take on all the work in the world. We nod
our heads. She pours the coffee as her mother dices tomatoes. Red mother-of-pearl stains her fingers. She speaks to us over her shoulder.
“Years ago Thirina sent us a machine that allows you to grow Judas trees here, keeps them alive. This device that breathes out little drops of water. We were able to run it on petrol. When she gave this house to my mother there was only one condition: Keep the Judas Trees alive.”
Laughing either at the beans she was shucking or how funny her life must have seemed, the old woman went on as if reciting something out of the holy book:
“No man can blight this beautiful flower that Dido brought us. Because we can always give it the season it desires.”
“Why did you believe her?” asked Maryam. She didn’t mean to say that she was silly to believe in such a thing but rather she was pleading to be converted. With every new bean that slid out of its shell the old woman looked down in wonder and spoke to those strips of green.
“Three books were not enough to bring the evil ones to reason. Those prophets were sent to wish patience upon the good.”
Samira caressed Nana Fatima’s hair and sat down at the head of the table, a tired hand on her hip.
“Because we believe in our garden. Not so that we can show it to anyone, but for ourselves. Only the Judas Trees…”
The old woman finished her thought.
“We protect them so that we can raise our girls to be strong and graceful. Like our Melika.”
The three of them looked at Melika as if she were an ever-unfolding miracle. Melika opened her eyes and pulled her hair up in the air. Then she made a few silly gestures that children make when they are ashamed of being watched. We looked at her and laughed. She was our hope. Melika snatched a wooden sword off the ground and raised it up into the air with two hands and babbled as if she were shouting alone.
“For the fighters of al-Kahina! Advaaance!”
Samira laughed over her shoulder; she kept on mixing something in a bowl while she said, ‘That’s just the way we are. In the middle of a war … with the Judas Trees…”
Samira could make light of the situation because she did not doubt her belief. She expected neither understanding nor respect from us. She must have truly believed.
“There are these two women in Lebanon,” I said. “In southern Lebanon. On the border with Israel they work to protect the sea turtles. They also have a garden. Right between Hezbollah and the Israeli army. Like you, they’re…”
Turning round for the salt on the table, Samira’s mother said, “Someone should look after their gardens, too.”
Samira laughed to herself.
“Judas Trees and beans.”
Still reverently shucking beans the old woman spoke as if listing holy commands.
“Do not let the undeserving into your garden… Do not betray your daughter… Do not show the Judas Trees to those who cannot see them… Learn how to hold a sword… Do not covet, only admire… Never surrender to anyone… Keep walking… Trust your sister…”
She paused and repeated two of the laws:
“Don’t betray your daughter. Trust your sister.”
Melika suddenly darted out from under the table, brandishing her sword, shouting as she scurried outside.
“Do not betray Dido!”
Nana Fatima laughed again and we didn’t know if it was the beans again or the hundred years of life behind her.
Maryam was keeping her cool, unlike me and Amira, and said, “Alright then what about the war? What are you going to do here?”
Samira turned to us, water running from the tap: “Nana Fatima missed the most important part. Never leave the garden!”
Nana Fatima repeated again, “Never leave the garden!”
And the women of the household returned to their work. I asked Maryam and Amira, “What’s going to happen now?”
Rubbing her face, Amira said:
“There’s something I have to tell you. About Muhammed.”
After rubbing a little more she went on, “And about this matter of the Judas Tree.”
Maryam said (and clearly this was something she didn’t want to say), “Me too. There is something I have to show you. And yes, it has to do with the Judas Tree.” She cursed and felt ashamed for saying something like that when Melika was around. She apologized to three generations of women and they flashed forgiving smiles. She went on, “Oh come on, friends, if I’m really going to believe in all these symbols and signs, I’d say…”
Surprised, Amira said, “You, too?”
“Don’t ask,” said Maryam.
The two of them looked at me. Maryam cocked her head to show that we should go. We went to our room with half-filled cups of cold coffee. Maryam opened her notebook and read.
*
Dido’s Third Tablet
I brought the Judas Trees to this country, sun-kissed sailor. Every spring they will bloom. For a short while. Who knows if years later these Phoenician flowers will remain. Now that you have set out on your journey, stranger, you know how people are: they overlook beauty that does not benefit them and they destroy it. The ignorant are that way because they are under the impression they are making intelligent choices between the practical and the beautiful. But you should be like me, stranger: even in war I can see the earth’s sweet alyssum hidden among the weeds.
I don’t want you to fear me, brave warrior. Do not look at me the way they do. Do not leave me for one of the gods. Tell me amusing tales. And laugh with me. Let me see my country through your eyes. Let me bring you to the meadows where the young goats graze. Let’s laugh at the little noses of the little gods. Later we can warmly laugh at our own noses reddened by wine. Oh! Tell me stories I have never heard, of people I have never known and let us laugh at them. We will laugh so heartily that blooming sweet alyssum will blanket the earth. Let us not be forced to spin beauty out of the earth. Let our footsteps not fall upon the anthills.
I am raising daughters, stranger. Like Judas Trees. I warn them to stay away from men who do not see the sweet alyssum and who do not know the value of the Judas Trees. I teach them how to sing, write poetry, make food from flowers and how to be as graceful as the gods as they brandish their swords. Stranger, I am teaching them how to be strong. The pleasure that comes with vanquishing someone, how to run like deer, swim like dolphins and how to dance like Phoenician women. I teach them magic. I teach them to trust the magic they make with their sisters. They do not fear men, stranger, they fear only themselves. I drive the dark gods from their hearts. Oh brave warrior, the gods speak to me in my dreams. One of these girls will rule these lands a long time after I bid farewell to this side of the world. But in my nightmares I see that beautiful girl of mine (the one the gods say will rule the lands after Dido passes) being devastated. I see that she is destroying her own country, setting fires and leaving behind a wasteland. I see a female eagle thrashing herself against the stones to avoid capture. I am crying as if I have died.
I know the kings of the deserts and the mountains of Africa and Arabia will not take to my brave female eagle. I could endure but she will not. The gods will grow angry and send drought and desert storms. Can my girls overcome the trickery and the traps and the darkness? One of my girls will give birth to that woman ruler and when her heart falters will she set herself alight with her own country? What should I tell them, brave soldier? Come to me and tell me how to conquer this world! Give me that dark secret of the men’s world.
Already dear Penelope has begun to worry about me. I wake up in the middle of the night and light all the candles and send out my sailors. They go out far enough to see you but not close enough to be seen by you. Only when they tell me your ship is still there do I fall back asleep. Penelope weeps. As I console her I say that you are there and that for some time you have been mine. Stranger, I tell her that you will not disappoint me. Do not shame me in the eyes of this country: come. I don’t want them to invent foul songs and tell sour stories so that they might destroy Dido. I do not have the str
ength to lose again. I have built you in my mind, stranger. Do not fall short of my dreams, do not shame me. Come.
I am the mother of all the girls to come after me, stranger. Just like those unassailable women of my native lands, I am patient and fruitful. I have bested kings and warriors with my silence, o brave soldier! But I have decided to tell you what I have kept from them. With you I swore to try my love and not my power. Come to me with a heart that knows what is most precious.
No doubt you have been with other women. You have made love to beautiful women. You drank from them and they from you. You mingled with girls and boys, undoubtedly. Come to my country when you have tired of that, stranger. Come to me along the roads of my past to arrive where I have arrived. In the same way that a god might falter at the building of rivers and mountains, come to me with the same noble distress. Because I am here. Because time will pass like this and I will die. Time will pass and storms will not shake, waves will not overwhelm and thunderbolts will not burn, so much I have understood. Come and give meaning to this.
Now I want to look more closely at the Judas Trees. I will continue to rule over these lands and this sea, o brave lover! Just give to me myself. Give hope to my daughters. Make my strong and graceful daughters believe that there can be men who are wise enough to love and show it. Come, stranger, and we will rule together. Come and we will find life in the Judas Tree. Come and we will take strength from sweet alyssum.
Come now brave warrior. Show us the lands and the seas through your eyes. Come. Do not lessen me in their eyes anymore.
*
Amira wasn’t surprised but I was.
Women Who Blow on Knots Page 23
