“Yes,” says Amira, positioning herself to dish out more baloney. Who knew where she might take this. Mustering all her talents she adopts a new voice for the role.
“We are a family of informants. Yes… Our father served as a commander for the Free Libya Resistance in the north. After all this is about our country beyond all else and so we had to step away for a while. This is the way of our clan, sacrificing our lives for the country. Yes…”
Amira pauses for a moment and Madam Lilla picks up on the reference to the father and to buy time she says, “Yes, my husband was a brave commander. Yes, Şerife, do tell this young writer all about him.”
With a confidence that only comes with a well-prepared lie, Amira barrels forward.
“Gaddafi slaughtered our brothers and sisters. Our esteemed father sent us here to be safe. We were going to travel to England but it is time for freedom! It is time for revenge!”
Sensing this outburst was going to last the girl’s eyes bounced between the four of us like ping-pong balls. For the love of God, she only wanted someone to tell her where Saif al-Islam was hiding. Amira didn’t draw it out for too long.
“Esteemed Lady, we have been told that Saif al-Islam will be here in just five or six days. But now it’s no longer safe for us to stay. We have no choice but to leave.”
The girl’s eyes opened so wide there was hardly any room left for her nose and her mouth. Straightaway she fished her phone out of a pocket in her cargo pants. Maryam finished with a double-check.
“Esteemed writer, only Fatima Hanım, the oldest of the innkeepers here, knows this. We implore you not to let anyone else know. But Saif will indeed be meeting with traitors in this place to arrange for his escape.”
“Of course, of course,” said Allison who was dying to give the good news to her editor. Now she only needed to get rid of us as soon as possible.
And with that our theatre-in-the-round came to an end, a comedy in which a journalist’s greed is more than her knowledge could buy. Before the curtain had even touched the stage Miss Een-ter-nash-inal was gone with both hands glued to her phone. Madam Lilla went inside first and she started to laugh. Clutching our sides we threw ourselves down on our beds, our throats aching from holding back the laughter. Madam Lilla announced, “Good morning, ladies! It’s going to be a wonderful day!”
“It already is,” said Maryam.
Any sadness from the night before seemed washed away in the waters of the Nile. Now and then Madam Lilla flashed me a look, wondering if I was going to ask her about what I’d seen in the pavilion. I avoided her gaze, trying not to make her feel uneasy. When she settled down she clapped her hands. “OK then. Put on your necklaces. They’re coming to pick us up.”
*
It seemed like the sun was beating down on just that point in the world, its light shimmering off the sliver necklace that hung between Amira’s breasts. Given to her by the old, blue-faced man as if it were some kind of key, it seemed made for Amira’s olive-colored skin, sparkling like a mirror as it slid over the smooth, moist, mother-of-pearl surface of her chest that rose and fell with her breathing.
The silver chain that ran between Maryam’s strong collarbone would get twisted when she craned her neck to one side. Part of it would stick to her skin. When the sweat dries the weight of the charm pulls the chain from her skin and the charm falls back down between her collarbone – I am watching how it happens.
Madam Lilla never lets go of her necklace. When she touches the silver charm her forefinger is tucked under her other fingers. She places the charm directly over her sternum, searching for the centre with her fingers. There is the slightest, graceful, trembling worry in her hands…
We were behind Dido’s house. After we had said goodbye to everyone and told Samira that she should keep Allison busy in the house until we had left, we went out to wait. Madam Lilla said, “How lucky you all are…”
Still holding her necklace, she went on when she was sure that Maryam and Amira were listening, “You’re the heroes of a story. No one can take you prisoner. No one can tell you to stay. You’re not obliged to make a decision. How lucky…”
The words went straight to Amira’s heart. Her voice was like a half-open tin of preserves, the sharp, jagged metal peeling back.
“Yes.”
That was all she said, nothing more. Madam Lilla smiled, looking away, and with sadness in her voice she said, “And in the middle of a desert of a country whose every nook and cranny is observed from space but not really seen.”
Deadpan, Maryam said, “We even made it past CNN eenteernashunal…”
There is a flurry of dust in the distance. It’s the same car that came with our necklaces. It comes closer then stops beside us. Heat shimmering off the hood, our faces crinkling in the bright light and the heat. Out steps the same dashing young man from the Lavazza commercial. Amira leans forward and her necklace unpeels from her breast; Maryam’s chain quivers as she cranes her neck; Madam Lilla’s necklace sits calmly in her sternum. Without saying a word we get into the car. Madam Lilla rides shotgun and the three of us, following the usual stage directions, sit in the back. Silently the young man steps on the gas – he might have said good morning but I wasn’t even paying attention. After driving for a few minutes we come to a fork in the road. The young man stops and looks at a hill across from us. There is a horse on the peak. Its tasselled harness creates an undulating shadow. On top of the horse sits a man. Madam Lilla sees him. She takes off her necklace, holds it in the sunlight, levelling the glimmer on the man. He raises his hand. From the way he moves it’s clear he’s the blue-faced man. He’s wearing a Prussian blue scarf, fluttering in the wind. Self-possessed, Madam Lilla puts her necklace back on. “Man, oh man,” says Amira, astonished.
Her eyes fixed on the road and one arm draped out of the open window, Madam Lilla slowly nods her head. The old man, who has fallen to unrequited love, sends us off into the desert. And that’s how we left.
The young man’s cologne fills the car. It smells something like adventure. Like a dove in heat, Amira is moving, eager. Maryam looks frustrated with Amira’s fixation on the man. Madam Lilla is steeped in a grave silence. Looking at the man, Amira says to Madam Lilla, “We could have at least stopped and said hello. The poor guy has come all the way out here for us.”
As if angry with Amira for imposing her concerns Madam Lilla suddenly explodes:
“For a man, mademoiselle, I have taken off my faerie shirt. But if all the men in the world went up on all the mountaintops in the world and waited for me on horseback, if they all kissed my feet, not one of them would give back a single button from that shirt.”
What had just happened? Why was she so angry? Maryam was looking out of the window with seemingly no interest in the exchange. Amira was still obsessed with the young man. I couldn’t be sure if she was paying any attention to Madam Lilla either. I wondered if Nana Fatima had been referring to the blue-faced man when she held the broomstick over Lilla’s stomach and said, ‘Go back to him, Thirina, give yourself back to him?’ Maybe women who chose to disregard the praise of princes and degrade themselves were like this: a display of love only reminded them of a broken device in their hearts. Amira’s eyes are fixed on the young man as her cheeks flush bright red. She goes on, “But the poor man has been so gracious to us.”
Spinning angrily around, Madam Lilla looks Amira in the eye. But she doesn’t even notice – she’s that focused on the young man. Maryam and I are watching them. The man is checking Amira out in the rear-view mirror. This is really happening in the middle of the desert, and so early in the morning. With a glance Madam Lilla’s understands what’s happening and for a moment she seems to delight in the hormones fluttering through the car. Flirtatiously she asks the man, “No music? Amy Winehouse or something like that?”
We smile.
Stirring up the love that was rising in the car and spilling out of the windows, Madam Lilla starts up a new little game.
&nbs
p; “That’s just what I was saying, dear Amira, you can never trust them. You must never give in. What’s a man anyway? The dirt on our hands. A creature that knows nothing of humility. If you are not an elusive deer they will turn you into one of those doleful looking cows.”
Turning her head back to the window, Maryam quietly smiled and I did too. Teasing through dramatic pauses, Lilla carries on with her speech.
“Take this young man for example … please give us your name Apollo.”
The young man throws back his head, his white teeth glimmering in the sunlight, dramatically shifts into a higher gear and opens his mouth as if he might actually give us his name.
“We have immense respect for you, Tin Abutut. As for my father’s love for you … well you already know. Everyone does.”
That was it. He didn’t give us his name and he didn’t say any more than that. She flashed a sugary smile that suggested she was wondering whether she should dance with this young fox, mulling it over for a split second, and then Madam Lilla went on, “And we have great respect for your father. So you have been warned about speaking to us. Wonderful! Well then, tell me what he said about me?”
Raising his chin, the young man only smiles to show he’s not going to fall for it and he is silent.
After a brief pause Madam Lilla shared with us her theories about men, which lasted the whole four-and-a-half hour journey, her sarcasm making everybody laugh except Amira. Each story was more outrageous than the next. And each one started the same way: ‘my dear Amira’. The young man was like stone, and, to give him credit, he didn’t once open his mouth to protest. Was it his Tuareg upbringing or something else, Madam Lilla couldn’t get a word out of him. But for her the pleasure comes from the difficulty in the challenge. Meanwhile Amira kept waiting for the young man to say something but not so much as a peep.
Finally Madam Lilla reached a new height.
“Of course the most important thing, my dear Amira, is this: if a man says nothing don’t be fooled into thinking anything is actually going on up there and that he has simply chosen not to speak. If he doesn’t speak it’s because he’s got nothing to say. Especially with smart women because that’s their strongest weapon against them. They know that silence can bring women to their knees. The young man here is playing just that card. He also needs his roots to be ripped out altogether. Do you see what I am saying, my dear Amira?”
In the back seat we all laugh and shrink in shame. Madam Lilla, however, will not stop before she twists the knife in his stomach and smiling all the while. With love she has devastated this young man’s father but now she’s not going to let his son live.
Finally we stop in the middle of a sea of sand. In all directions nothing but an endless shimmering yellow sea. Standing there are seven camels and three men. The young man steps out of the car first and we follow. From Lilla’s movements we understand that we should collect our things and head for the camels. Amira lingers behind. Turning around I look. The young man is sitting on the sand. Amira is standing over him. Their shadows are shimmering in the rising heat. The man says nothing, he only looks up. He reaches out and holds her ankle. She seems about to lose balance and I hear: “Don’t hold anything else. Hold me.”
Slowly he leans over and kisses her ankle. In that moment she seems prepared to give to this stranger (or the fantasy she has built around him) not only herself, but every remaining second of her life. I know this is exactly how she feels. Amira looks at me intently, as if her brow is begging for mercy and understanding. She wants to stay. Leave us and stay behind…Which is why in that moment I think Madam Lilla is bringing us to a war we declared by default. Another war that is lost for all the women who are the victims of men as well as their fantasies about women. And with that we set out into the desert. Maybe there we will find the strength we’re looking for. As Nana Fatima said, ‘if nobody sees you maybe you will see yourself.’ Walking ahead Madam Lilla calls out to us over her shoulder, “Oh, you’re so lucky…”
20
Muhammed’s Fourth Letter
Now that you are reading these letters, well then… you have come back to Tunisia! Hurray! Do you know what this is like? Dawn is breaking in the forest and all is well!
I couldn’t imagine you in another city. It was strange. And now you have come to Tunis, and I can see you there with my own eyes. You’re wandering through the street market and I’m watching you, because I’m following you. You can’t escape me even when I’m gone. You walk and walk and walk and suddenly spin around and… Hey! A piece of baklava for all the kids out on the street. It’s on me!
You are looking right at me…
And add a soda to go with the baklava!
Now I wish I could be there with you in Tunis. I could have been the light that now falls from eyelashes that flutter over these letters, the cool ceramic tiles under your bare feet. You know that I’m not all that bad with those kinds of things. I would give you an armful of those little orange flowers on the noses of those peppers on the branch. Without thinking twice I would promise that when your hair fell over your face I would tuck the fallen strands in place with admiration. So I would always win with the first good morning and every good night lost in the honey slumber that would be mine. And no one could ask more from you. We would sleep and wake up together. What more is there than that? Our branches bending under the weight of our roses, we would break. We would pray with pure and peaceful minds. The pebbles we would gather from the sea would never dry and fade and all the cheerful fisherman and rosy-faced green grocers would take care of all the orphans in the world. So you see my love, if we could do that then we could have faith in one another. The God I know would forgive us for that. Day and night I would bask in the breath he gave to you. I would give thanks to God. What more could there be…
Fine then, yes, all this can never really happen. All because of me and my flaws. More than anything else I wanted to be a more capable person for you. But this defeat does not mean that we have broken our backs in the long jump of love. We are among the ones who leap up and vanish into thin air. You and I share a love in a league all its own. We are unrivalled – we are both going to win in the end. Indeed we are the only referees. And that means we are at such a high level it’s impossible to describe. And so I have no doubt in my mind that we will hold up that cup together.
My love, please, you should always keep these things in mind. Let’s work for it and if we have no other choice let’s hope for it. And if there is no other way let’s have faith in goodness. Otherwise it will all just weigh us down, sweetie. Compared to what we have, what is this earth? Nothing but a ball of cotton. Even space cannot carry fallen loves. In short the fact that we are finished without falling is the lesser of two evils. Sweetie, this is the after life of our love, we are already in heaven.
Now that we already have one foot in heaven we can push aside some other awkward issues. I suppose I should say a few words about my decision to disappear. What can I say? Ever since you left I just couldn’t stand being around any more, my little sweetheart. Always with the same losers, and always the same old, boring routines. Your absence should take the seat of honour in the corner of grief. But I understand this: what we call a ‘country’ is a fantasy. And when the fantasy falls apart we are nothing but refugees even when we stand in the centre of our capital city. What’s more, when I look around I don’t see the possibility of balanced justice and joyous piety walking hand in hand.
But that’s not important. For time is the concern of unbelievers. Do you know that I was left alone, which hurt me a little. I feel like there’s always this enormous ball of paper in my mouth and when I chew it grows. I said to myself that I should head out to sea to save myself from drowning and if nothing else there is the chance that I will wash up on another shore and be saved.
This is nothing new. This country has always oppressed us. We love it the way we would love an orphan defeated by base injustices. In other words this country is worse off than
you think, as savage as an unloved orphan. We try to tousle his hair and embrace him but he only tears us apart for fear that we might abandon him again. That’s why he threatens our lives. But my life wouldn’t satisfy even a fraction of its needs. More importantly there’s nothing like blood to make people thirsty. They might devour me whole but this would only stoke other appetites.
I suppose I’ve thought about this enough and I’ve made my decision – best not to be anybody. It just seemed like a good idea to board a boat with all those nobodies. Nothing is as crystal clear as fading away and losing yourself. An existence more peaceful than fading away into a flow has not yet been invented. Is there a more essential way of ‘being’ than curling up one night like the Arabic letter vav and becoming whole? In any event God sees you. And then to become the letter mim that shrinks to a dot on the page and disappears. Think about it, is there any better way to be ‘one’? Little one, you know I’d get by if there were just a single ray of hope shining through the leaves of a walnut tree. Hey! Don’t look at me like that. It’s not really that melodramatic. I’m fine. Don’t worry. Like all the others who can’t swim I’m completely comfortable in the sea. Honey, if I am lucky I am about to disappear altogether. I’m simply not here and neither am I there.
I won’t draw this out any more. You are my only unbroken dream. You’re really tough, aren’t you? Even in the hand of a miserable klutz like me you are as nimble as a drop of water. Now I’m thinking about how glorious it would be to disappear with you. We wouldn’t even be nobodies, we would be absence itself. We would complete each other like two curled up vav letters, our tails in each other’s bellies, like that, existing and then dying. Life on this planet isn’t right for anything else. People can only get lost on their own, at least for now. Thank God for that. I mean in the forest everything’s running smoothly. The weather’s balmy. It’s the best way to think about it, don’t mind the rest.
If you’re still upset when you get back to this country, honey, then just take off. All things considered the best is to live large. When you fail to live small this is your best revenge. As for all the different sizes of life… Life should be rich and open to the point where you could feel almost absent, that small. Besides when you dance you add space to space, the air around you expands. All I know is how to get by, and I’ve already told you that. Anyway…
Women Who Blow on Knots Page 26
