“Ok tell me then,” Maryam said turning to me.
Picking up from where I left off I said, “So like I was saying … that morning we left Yafran Nana Fatima said something to Lilla like, ‘Go back to him, give yourself up to him,’ obviously referring to somebody and now look, Firdevs is saying the same thing, ‘Go back to him.’ So who it is?”
With both hands on her hips and her eyes wide as saucers like a child at a circus for the first time, Amira says, “Who knows which lover she’s talking about. Forget about it … but wasn’t that strange? Maryam do you know anything about all this stuff? So these kinds of things are going on in Egypt? A cult of women. That’s amazing!”
Maryam laughed. As usual it wasn’t what Amira had said but the way she had said it. Maryam said, “Who do you think am I, sweetie? An Egyptian ambassador? You think I’d keep tabs on some group of strange women? These women have their own mission. What do I know about them? People in the revolution and the academy don’t go for this sort of thing.”
Her eyes spinning like pinwheels, Amira said, “But in the morning we’re definitely going to see Firdevs, mademoiselle!”
She stopped for a second then went on like a comic book superhero:
“And they’ll probably sacrifice us to the gods on some altar!”
Was this the same woman in the desert just a day ago? This little girl? Indeed she wore the expression of a little girl who has just hopped off a swing but the night before she was a sorrowful woman who lamented having rashly given herself to a man only to feel her heart flutter. Biting down on her lower lip, Maryam must have been thinking the same thing because she went over to Amira as if she were her child. Taking her little face in her hands, she squeezed,
“Sweetie we were actually thinking of handing you over to them and making a quick getaway!”
Looking at these two made you think long and hard about how two women could mean so much to each other. In turns they become each other’s mother, sister, husband, brother, daughter … her face in Maryam’s hands, Amira crinkled her brow:
“Oh!”
“What’s wrong my little sweetie pie?” said Maryam still squeezing as if practising how she might love the daughter she left behind. And without admitting so much to herself Amira was practising how to be a young girl loved by her mother.
Placing her hand on her stomach, Amira said, “I’m on my period.”
A strange expression fell over Maryam’s face and she said, “How strange,” and went quiet. “Me too. Just now.”
I thought about how men can never change each other’s physical chemistry, no matter how close they might be. But when women start to really talk, even their eggs get in on the conversation.
We spent half the night looking for sanitary pads. In the end they wrapped gauze they had found in the medicine cabinet around the little hotel towels and stuffed them between their legs and we all went to bed. I looked over at them. Playing the part of young girls I could see how they relished the well-needed break from the burdens of being grown women. They were incredibly beautiful. I thought of Muhammed’s letters and Dido’s tablets … Maryam and Amira were the kind of women who could write the ends to the stories that others had started for them. And like all truly strong women they didn’t show it. With softened hearts they fell asleep. Dreaming, their hands and their feet were twitching but what was to come the next morning had to be far more interesting than their dreams.
24
“If someone has a scar on her face and you don’t ask her about it she won’t think you’re being kind, she’ll just think you didn’t see her face.”
That was the line Firdevs Hanım dropped like a bomb when she overheard our conversation as we were getting out of her limo that morning. Maryam was having a go at me: “If you’re that curious you should’ve just asked. I can’t ask those sorts of questions.”
I snapped back in response, “We’re in your country now, azizi, aren’t we? Why can’t you just ask? Or will you lose face if you come out and say, ‘hey driver, how did you end up like this?’ You just mention the scar and take it from there.”
Amira butted in, “She’s going to know you’re talking about her.”
I was curious to know why this woman driver looked so much like a man. I was sure it had something to do with the slits in her ear lobes. It looked like her earrings had been ripped right out, leaving ear lobes dangling in two pieces. But Maryam was worried about her street cred and Amira didn’t want to ask such an intimate question in Tunisian Arabic and look like the typical overly curious tourist. But they had hit that time of the month at the same time and so we tumbled out of the limo like a crackling ball of nervous energy. Firdevs Hanım’s sudden intervention caught us off guard, which is why we were even less prepared for the sudden intimacy she’d forced on us.
“If someone has a scar on her face and you don’t ask her about it she won’t think you’re being kind, she’ll just think you didn’t see her face.” People like to become partners through their scars. Maybe Maryam Hanım doesn’t want someone else to tell her story because she might end up having to tell her own. Take her hair for example, maybe she doesn’t want to have to explain why she keeps it so short.”
This was certainly a touchy topic for Maryam. And Firdevs had just stuffed her hands and her legs into the metaphorical bell jar that Amira and I had been so careful to avoid, keeping away for days, always waiting for the right moment. Maryam immediately parried the bold attack.
“My personal issues have nothing to do with you, Firdevs Hanım. We’re only making a courtesy call here. You helped us and so we’re here to thank you.”
Flashing a wry smile Firdevs Hanım said, ‘Hah!’ Then she stared at Maryam long enough for things to get uncomfortable. The expression on her face belonged either to an executioner choosing the right sword for the job or an old woman looking at a young version of herself in a family album. Then she simply said, “Don’t be angry, dear”. So softly and suddenly that Maryam was left alone with her bad vibes. And without waiting for an answer she turned and started up the broad white steps leading into the house. Turning around she looked at us with a smile, one thin eyebrow raised.
“Please come in. Let’s go inside where we can politely meet one another before we get too tangled up in our personal issues.”
Firdevs Hanım moved like an enormous stately galleon gliding over the surface of the sea. There was something about this platinum blonde that put you on edge. It was like a powerful electric cloud hovered over her and if you stayed there for too long you might never leave. Your instinct was to run but when you tried to go for it you got this creepy feeling that something terrible might happen. This was a presence so oppressing you could hardly articulate your own anxiety to yourself.
In a broad entrance hall with high ceilings sat a little ornamental pool. In the middle stood the statue of a goddess. At the opposite end of the hall two staircases curved out from each other and up to the second floor, like the ones you see in those old Hollywood pictures. In fact this was so Hollywood you wouldn’t be surprised if Ginger Rogers and Gene Kelly came tap dancing down those steps… As I was mulling the scene over in my head, Firdevs Hanım stopped with a hand on the bannister and said, “I was thinking of champagne. We need to have something to celebrate women who have come back from the dead, don’t you think?”
Her suffocating aura must have had the same brain-numbing effect on Amira because she asked a really ridiculous question: “What a stylish statue! Is that you?” The expression on her face making it clear no cannonball we shot would ever breach her city walls, Firdevs Hanım calmly said, “I am glad you asked. That’s Athena. Every woman has a goddess within. Mine is Athena. Shall we find yours?”
Maryam pouted. Her nervous energy was still getting the better of any wonder or curiosity. But Amira was quickly taken in and quickened her steps. Mayram and I fell behind.
“Which one was Athena?” I asked.
“Azizi, can’t you guess? She’
s the goddess of strength and logic. Born out of Zeus’s head. She just popped out whole.”
“Wow! So a real tough cookie?”
“More like a man-woman, azizi.”
At the top of the stairs we stopped at two open rooms facing each other. Both were filled with young and middle-aged women. On the right were young goths all dressed in black, sitting at computers, and on the left were colourfully dressed middle-aged women. I vaguely recognized the faces of some of them from last night’s ceremony. But some were new. The curly-haired girl from the helicopter sat at a computer in the goth room. I couldn’t find the other one. As I was taking a closer look inside the computer room I didn’t realize that Firdevs Hanım was right behind of me.
“You met my daughter the other day. Now she’s at her computer performing the fine art of hacking, but she’s also an extraordinary Fu Jitsu master!”
“Sorry?” I said.
“I gather you aren’t familiar with the martial arts?”
“No,” I said. “I’m rubbish at that sort of thing.”
Narrowing her eyes, Firdevs Hanım peered into mine as if she was trying to read my mind. I squinted back at her but also kept an eye on the young crowd in the computer room. We stayed like that for a few seconds with our eyes narrowed. Then the absurd moment ended as if nothing had happened and Firdevs Hanım turned to the room filled with young women and computers and began to explain.
“Maryam Hanım must already know this but there have been some very important developments regarding the women in Tahrir.”
Hopping up and down, Amira jumped in. “I swear the most important development we’ve heard has to do with sexual harassment.” Filled with the same national pride, Maryam and Firdevs Hanım glowered at Amira from Tunisia. Firdevs Hanım went on, “The centre of such activity isn’t Tahrir, dear Amira. And if such an unpleasant encounter really must happen the one thing a woman could ask for is for it to happen in Tahrir Square. If nothing else all your brothers and sisters will be there to help.”
Maryam looked at Amira as if to say, ‘Well take that for an answer!’ I saw that she had cooled off and she suddenly moved closer to Firdevs Hanım, who went on, “Maybe you missed this while you were on the road. The police dragged off one of our girls. Almost all her clothes came off in the process. And then there was all this talk about the colour of her bra: it was blue. Now we as women…”
Maryam made a sound but it wasn’t like she was trying to say something. More like she’d choked on saliva and the sound of the pain in her throat had slipped out. Firdevs Hanım caught on immediately:
“Now don’t you dare let yourself feel guilty about being here, Maryam. Considering what Esma told me last night, you have done everything you could for the revolution. And everyone deserves a rest, you have earned the right to catch your breath. We as Egypt are happy to take to care of you. Just relax!”
I had no idea that Maryam felt that way. Listening to Firdevs Hanım we could see Maryam’s face softening and, yes, she was feeling guilty. Firdevs went on with her delivery.
“We have also organized an event. Women from all walks of life went to Tahrir on behalf of our sisters. It wasn’t easy reconciling political differences but it was a beginning. It was a watershed moment for the women of Egypt. Leftists and religious believers came together in support of our sisters, raising their voices in their honour. Now we are in the process of expanding the network. Of course for this…”
Her eyes wide open, Maryam interrupted Firdevs Hanım whose voice was beginning to wane, “Did they come? I mean did everyone come?”
She touched Maryam’s arm and smiled.
“Yes.”
Tears welled up in Maryam’s eyes. And when she smiled a single tear was pushed into the corner of her eye before it streamed down over her cheek. Now squeezing Maryam’s arm, Firdevs Hanım went on, “You saved the girls of Egypt, Maryam. People like you who were the first ones in Tahrir.”
Maryam struggled to wave her hand in the air to downplay her role and as she buried her smiling face in her neck it was as if everything – her daughter whom she she had failed to protect and Amira whom she also failed to safeguard and the flight from her own country – the pain of it all was pressed into a single drop of rose oil that ran down her cheek.
Firdevs Hanım let out a high, heartwarming laugh and said, “Don’t worry Maryam. Even the girls who left the Muslim brotherhood were there.”
“And in that room,” said Firdevs Hanım quickly moving on. Suddenly she let go of Maryam’s arm that hung there in the air for a second. And again there was the fraction of a second of tension. Firdevs Hanım was incapable of staying any longer in the warm glow she had created and if you stayed there too long she would eventually leave you. But in her tense mode it seemed like she could fix her eyes on someone for an eternity. And then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, she would suddenly flip all the feelings in her soul. Strange. And you couldn’t quite be sure if the moment ever really happened. Were you together or did you make up the moment? She was a woman who knew how to pull the strings of her own tension. She was just starting to speak again, gliding to the other door, when five women came out of the room and showed her their T-shirts.
“What do you think?”
On each T-shirt was the face of a woman. Chinese, Asian, Indian faces…
Firdevs Hanım turned to us.
“What do you think? Do you like them?”
“What’s the issue?” asked Amira and Firdevs Hanım eagerly explained.
“We are thinking of different ways to protest alienation. Everything we wear is made by these women and yet we never see their faces. Especially in the West. They have no idea who made the products they get from Bangladesh and Pakistan and China. So we came up with this idea. We all wrote about it on Facebook. We said we wanted the photographs of women working under slave labour conditions in the textile industry. In the end they sent us their photos and we printed the T-shirts.”
“Wow!” I said. Picking up on my enthusiasm, Firdevs turned to me:
“And now we’re thinking about doing this: we are going to make it possible for those workers to sew secret notes into labels: Information about their working conditions. Let’s see if it works. We’re still in the planning stages. There are a few crucial points we always must keep in mind. One is reaching women in the West. Right now our girls are working to bring down popular women’s sites. In their place we plan to post letters about everything we are going through here. And of course the political situation in Egypt … that’s what we are working for.”
“Where does the money come from?” said Maryam all of a sudden.
“That part is easy, Maryam. My husband and I are both very rich.”
Like a single woman might talk down to a married women, Maryam added, “So your husband gives you permission to do all this?”
“A husband doesn’t need to know everything, Maryam. Besides they don’t really want to know in the first place. So no use pushing it. In the end I have my own money. Now come along. Let’s see if the champagne has chilled. Over a glass on the terrace I can tell you all about the matter of the watermill which I am sure you are all dying to know about. And you can tell me about the goddess in you.”
“I can tell you right now that we don’t have anything like that in us,” I said, laughing. Firdevs Hanım laughed, too.
“That’s what you think.”
We began another trip up a flight of stairs, following Firdevs Hanım’s broad hips. The walls were suddenly covered with all kinds of posters and photographs and we began to understand where Firdevs Hanım got her money. These were enormous, faded black-and-white photographs of a young Firdevs. Her face was now much larger and worn but the colour of her hair and her hairstyle hadn’t changed. Looking at these hyper-polished close-ups of her in her fake eyelashes, full make-up and feather boa and then all the different coloured movie posters, I could see that she was a genuine moviestar. “Ah,” said Maryam, whispering
in my ear. “Now I remember, azizi! She was the classic femme fatale in all the old movies! Of course!”
A few steps ahead of us Firdevs Hanım quietly laughed without turning around. But then she did and made the face of a true femme fatale and said in a tough, stony voice, “The femme fatale, eh? Oh please, my dear Maryam! Coming from you? You should know that any city woman in this culture who knows what she wants is labelled a femme fatale. A pure and chaste village girl is good, but when you have desires, and a cigarette always dangling from your lips, well, then you’re pure evil. Please! How could you say such a thing?”
And gripping the bannister she threw back her head and let out a long theatrical laugh. She looked at Maryam who started to laugh. Clearly Firdevs was imitating her own laugh of years ago when she would play the evil blonde. When she finished her scene, she said, “Ah! Ah!” and she hauled her hips up over the last few steps.
When she had caught her breath, she said, “Esma and I grew up in the same house. She must have told you about Mother Wasma. She raised us. Esma went to Europe and I stayed here. The only thing left for me to do was take the role of femme fatale. And so I did. Sometimes I still play it. I couldn’t care less. My own god loves me.”
When Maryam asked us to describe our own god, Amira was pouring champagne into broad glasses with such joy she looked as if she had been weaned on the drink and denied the taste for all these years.
“Just a minute,” Firdevs Hanım said and she placed three glasses in the shape of a triangle and a single glass on top. “If we are going to do this we should do it right.” Champagne overflowed from the top glass and cascaded into the glasses below. Firdevs Hanım let out another laugh. We joined in as we raised our glasses. As soon as we’d taken that first sip she said, “My dear friends, my god is one that loves me. This is what you need too.”
Holding her glass up to the light, she went on, “Seeing that you’re women who have taken to the road you must have already severed all your bonds. First you cut the deal you made out of love for your father and later you made deals with the people for whom you felt love and compassion. So this means you are one of them. But which god are you?”
Women Who Blow on Knots Page 33
