by Joelle Stolz
I do not recognize myself. A strange girl peers at me from the clouded depths of the mirror, a girl whose eyes are ringed with bluish kohl, whose forehead is laden with gold, and who wears coral drops that quiver against her cheeks.
“See how lovely you are,” my mother whispers.
She gently wipes a shiny teardrop from my cheek with the tip of her finger.
“Mama,” I ask in a timid voice, “don't you miss going for walks in the palm grove? Aren't you tired of the red garden painted on the walls of the house?”
I see her smile slowly in the mirror, her eyes on my reflected image.
“No. For me, the red garden is more beautiful than the real one.”
ife is taking its course, with its countless household tasks — weaving, cooking, cleaning — and its little distractions. The wounded man is recovering his strength and I am spending more and more time in the pantry with him. Often he seems to forget that I am just a girl and he speaks to me as though I were a sensible grown-up worthy of interest. On these occasions I think of my father and wonder if he would like Abdelkarim.
Then I remember that my father is never ever supposed to find out that we have given shelter to a man in his absence.
One evening when I bring Abdelkarim his dinner, my mother starts singing and accompanying herself on the oud, the lute my father brought her from Tripoli.
My heart feels crushed like a pomegranate
My heart is trembling like a reed,
My heart is green like new grass …
She interrupts herself, leaving the poem unfinished. The young man waits, but the next part never comes. The last rays of the sun shine through the half-open skylight and shed a golden light on his face.
“That's a beautiful song,” he says regretfully. “It's the ‘Song of the Husband's Return.' Don't you know it?”
“I haven't been married. No one has sung it for me.” He falls silent for a moment. The sun must have descended below the rooftops, for everything darkens. Then, in an undertone, in a deep, low voice that isn't his usual timbre, he declaims in Arabic:
I am seeking a refuge
with the lord of the nascent dawn,
Against the evil of the dark night
when it descends on us,
And against the evil of the women who
blow on the knots,
And the evil of the envious man who
spreads envy.
“That's very beautiful,” I say. “But I do not understand everything. I don't know Arabic very well.”
“It's the sura of the nascent dawn, a chapter of the Koran. Don't you know the Koran?”
“A bit,” I answer. “I don't know how to read.” I feel I should explain. “I'd like to learn, but my mother says that women shouldn't know the same things as men, for men and women belong to two different worlds that hardly ever meet, like the sun and the moon.”
“Oh, is that what your mother says? Yet the Koran is for everyone. It's the word of God,” Abdelkarim says.
“Tell me, what does that mean, ‘the women who blow on the knots'?” I ask.
“I think it's a reference to evil women who cast spells.” I shudder, thinking of Aïshatou. Is she one of those evil women? I pick up the empty dish at my feet. It is now almost impossible to see anything in the little room.
“Thank you for taking care of me, Malika. You're very kind, you know.”
I look at him. I can make out his bright smile in the dark. For the first time, he no longer seems angry.
The following day, Aïshatou stops by to see him. To ward off any suspicions from our neighbors, with their dreaded eagle eyes, the tall black woman has come to read my mother's fortune in her coffee cup. Healer, witch, seer, midwife, she has the reputation of being all these things; and because of her varied talents, there are many reasons why she is in demand on the rooftops. For one woman, she'll predict whether she'll have a girl or a boy; for another, she'll prescribe a potion to reawaken the love of her apathetic husband. She can console a woman who has lost a very young child; help put a new mother back on her feet or increase her flow of milk. She knows all about bodily sufferings, and even more about those of the mind.
The reason all the women trust Aïshatou is because of her discretion. She never betrays a secret. She has buried many sorrows, and occasional passions as well, in the folds of her large black dress— between the worn leather pouches where she keeps her talismans and her medicinal powders.
My mother has prepared the coffee with great care. She has ground it very fine and mixed in some sugar, letting it boil very briefly in a brass pot with a long handle. Then you have to wait for the black foam to settle, pour the burning hot beverage into tiny cups, and add a drop of cold water to make the dregs sink to the bottom faster. Coffee should be savored with your eyes shut, so that its subtle perfume spreads in your mouth and rises up to your nostrils.
I'll only be allowed to taste a tiny bit. Coffee is a luxury for us; it comes from very far away, from the mountains of Yemen and Arabia. Part of our pleasure in drinking it derives from the long journey the caravans must make to bring it here. They cross landscapes so different from ours, and bivouac for weeks under the stars, the men sleeping on top of the sand-covered embers of the campfire to protect themselves against the cold desert nights. All these aspects of the journey are contained in those few black drops.
Aïshatou bends down and looks into my mother's empty cup. She turns it slowly between her fingers, taking care not to move the muddy black deposits on the bottom. This is because the barely visible mountains, the minuscule valleys, and the miniature rivers shimmering in the coffee dregs are all signs that foretell the future.
Aïshatou sets the cup down.
“There, you see,” she whispers to my mother, who is now bending down too. “The stranger … your daughter … the jinn … your husband …” I can only catch bits and pieces of what she says. My mother's eyelids are half-closed. And what if all this were a lullaby, or like a nursery rhyme for children? Aïshatou stands up finally, makes sure no one is watching her from the surrounding rooftops, and steps calmly into the pantry signaling for me to follow.
The wounded man gazes at her with a worried look while she expertly removes his bandage and feels his pulse.
“The wound is healing well,” Aïshatou says. “But you still need a few days' rest.”
Abdelkarim sighs. “I am beginning to feel cramped, locked up in this cupboard like a goat in a pen,” he complains.
“But it's your only hope of escaping your pursuers. Be patient. Within ten days, we will get you safely out of this house and out of the city.”
“I don't want to leave this city,” Abdelkarim says sullenly. “I've been given an important mission that must be successfully completed!”
“Haven't you ever heard the proverb, ‘No man is a prophet in his own country'? Words of wisdom. Someone else will come to Ghadames to preach for the brotherhood that sent you. I have soothsaying powers, and that's what I read in the coffee dregs.”
Abdelkarim sniffs contemptuously.
“I am not like you and your sort,” he says. “You think you can see the future in the bottom of a coffee cup. Perhaps those predictions apply to women and their small, narrow world. God owns our destiny, but he leaves men free to shape it. He is the master of the future, but he also gives us the strength to spell out our own. Contrary to what you think, we are not his puppets.”
Aïshatou looks down on him scornfully from her great height.
“No doubt you are right,” she says. “But are women free? You'll soon have the opportunity to learn about their small, narrow world. Tomorrow, the women's market will take place on this and the neighbor's rooftop. The Ghadames houses take turns welcoming the market. We won't change what was planned, because we don't want anyone to think that Meriem has something to hide.”
“But the women might see me!” Abdelkarim exclaims, suddenly alarmed.
“We will lock the door,” Aïshatou an
nounces with an ironic smile. “That way you will be condemned to hear us. That's a privilege very few men will ever have.”
The women's market is one of the most entertaining daily events in Ghadames. It takes place on the rooftops in the morning, before it gets too hot. It's a treat for little children. They are fastened to their mothers' backs or skirts and stare at everything wide-eyed as their mothers move around the stalls—really just mats spread out on the ground.
The brouhaha is unbelievable, each saleswoman trying to attract attention to her merchandise, and every one exchanging the most varied news in a loud voice. I feel like laughing at the thought that this morning, Abdelkarim, hidden in the pantry, can hear what they are saying. At times, I even blush …
“Here are earrings shaped like crescent moons. Who will have them? Come and look at this beautiful coral necklace! Look at the color! Drops of dawn from the bottom of the sea. If only you knew what the sea is like, you desert girls.”
“Soap made with the best olive oil, from Gharyā.n, the mountains in the north! Soap that will make your skin nice and soft, ladies!”
“Do you know that my cousin Nejma had a baby last night?”
“I heard the cries announcing a birth early this morning, but I was too far away to understand the message. Girl or boy?”
“A fourth girl. May God protect her from her husband's wrath! But Aïshatou predicted that her next child would be a boy. Let's hope she's not just saying that to cheer her up.”
“Taste these lovely dried figs. They're like honey.”
“Alas, you know, I don't have very much money since my husband died, nor do I have anything to give you in exchange.”
“It doesn't matter. Take half of them for your children, you'll pay me when you can. Who knows what the future will bring?”
“Fatima! Why don't you keep an eye on your son? He just spilled a whole box of kohl, the little devil!”
“Doesn't anyone want to buy this fresh milk before it turns sour? I milked the goat myself at dawn.”
“Meriem, your daughter is becoming very pretty. It looks like her breasts are growing. And what eyes! Soon it will be time to plan her wedding, won't it? I have a nephew who is looking for a wife, I'll speak to him discreetly.”
“Don't be in such a rush. She still has to mature—”
“Like a lovely little fig on the branch—ha, ha!”
“Here, Zohr, take this portion of flour, I am in debt to you for the favor you did me the last time.”
“What favor?”
“You don't remember? I know times are hard when one is disowned and one must return to one's parents' house. You're still young, you'll find another husband, God willing!”
Each woman gives whatever she can today, generously and taking care not to humiliate, but also as a precaution. Who knows if she herself won't experience poverty tomorrow? Who knows what tragedies life has in store for her? Ever since I was little, I've seen our women stock up on solidarity, like ants that tirelessly carry on their backs what they'll need to survive the bad season.
Protecting themselves from misfortune, that is their prime concern. Our women's bodies are covered with tattoos, guarding them like an armor against mysterious enemies. At the market, I watch them closely and with curiosity. Knowing that no men are looking at them, they throw their veils back so that they can be freer in their movements; they uncover their arms, necks and ankles, adorned with geometrically shaped bluish marks. They have other marks, hidden in secret places and visible only at the baths. Women's bodies are like books; you have to know how to decipher them.
For the first time I dare to question my mother.
“Mama, what's that broken line you all have above the ankle?”
My mother hesitates. But she must have decided that now I am old enough to know.
“We call it the sickle. It's meant to give us many children and good harvests.”
“And the little strokes on a line?” I press. “The comb, because women must take good care of their hair. This one, which looks similar but has a kind of handle underneath it, is the comb for weaving, because every self-respecting woman knows the art of weaving.”
She explains the complicated motifs that crisscross on the back of her hands, from the top of her wrists to her nails: the saber, the saw, the reed leaves. But I get mixed up very quickly. What I am most interested in are the animals. Their shapes are so simplified that I couldn't possibly identify them if Mama did not show them to me, whispering as though the designs themselves are actually dangerous.
“Look, here's the snake that brings fertility, the scorpion that bites evildoers. And those four intersecting straight lines there are the paws of the tarantula, a spider that will inflict a painful bite on our rivals.”
Examining these tattoos on smooth skin or skin wrinkled with age—tattoos whose meanings have long been concealed from me—makes me pensive. I no longer know what to think. So women can be kind and help one another. But they can also be the worst enemies, jealous rivals in secret, with a wish to harm one another. Do they sometimes ask Aïshatou for potions to take revenge? For poisons that kill?
When all the women are gone, we go to free Abdelkarim, who is still locked up in the pantry. Bilkisu opens the door. Abdelkarim looks at us reproachfully and takes the cake I hand him without saying a word.
“Have you stopped speaking to us?” asks Bilkisu. “Why are you in such a foul mood?”
Since he doesn't deign to answer, Bilkisu shrugs and heads toward the door.
“Wait,” he says. “Since I have to spend another nine days here, there is one thing that would amuse me.”
“Your wish is our command,” Bilkisu says ironically. “State your wish.”
“I'd like to teach Malika how to read. Would her father take offense?”
Bilkisu seems surprised. She drops her ironic tone and becomes very serious.
“No, he wouldn't. He wanted his daughter to learn Arabic, and he taught it to me. Meriem is the one you have to persuade.”
“Then I would like to talk to her about it.”
As soon as Bilkisu has turned on her heels to warn my mother, I question Abdelkarim anxiously. I want to be sure I understood correctly. Does he really want to give me lessons —me, even though I am just a girl?
For the first time today, he allows himself to smile. He is handsome when he smiles.
“Girls deserve to be taught just as much as boys. It's because they aren't taught anything that they wallow in all that foolish nonsense, all that magic stuff and coffee dregs.”
My mother comes in, tightly wrapped in an austere veil baring only her face. She stops at the threshold, as though afraid of something, then gestures to me to sit farther off on the rooftop, but facing the cupboard door, which remains open. I understand that she wants a witness to this meeting, that she needs eyes steadily on her, to testify nothing improper has happened between the two of them.
Abdelkarim has backed into the room as much as possible. He is sitting under one of the small skylights. An oblique ray of afternoon sunlight is shining down from it. If my mother occupies the place he has made for her, her face will be lit up while his features will blend into the darkness. She hesitates, but finally steps forward.
I now see both of them in profile. My mother is staring at him with no fear or shame, her eyes wide open. I am trembling, for I know what my mother's gaze is like—a burning black ray of light beamed from under eyebrows that are almost joined together. I predict that he— not she— will lower his eyes.
I can't hear what Abdelkarim is saying, but now and again he turns his face my way. My mother doesn't move. She looks at him steadily. From time to time, he tilts his head while she is speaking. Her voice is very gentle and she never speaks for long. Her gaze is sufficiently eloquent. I watch their duel from a distance but I can't guess who the winner will be.
Oh, if only he could convince her! But she is so strong, so inflexible. I have a powerful urge to finally see her weak and d
efeated; I wish she were an ordinary woman made of clay instead of pure metal. I immediately blame myself for this sacrilegious thought. If she knew, she wouldn't love me anymore. I bury this desire deep within me and keep it well hidden. In the end, I don't dare breathe or even think. I clench my teeth for fear that if my breath escapes from my lips, it might tilt the scales against me.
Abdelkarim has still not lowered his eyes. Suddenly, from the way my mother bows her neck slightly, and draws in her shoulders, I know she has surrendered and acquiesced. She opens the palms of her hands, looks at them pensively, and raises them toward the sky in acceptance of God's will. My heart is filled with joy, almost painfully so. He has won.
That night, in the little room above the stairway, I find it hard to fall asleep. I feel my father's books around me, like a living presence pursuing me even in my dreams.
The following day, as soon as my brother has left for our uncle's store, I start studying the alphabet with Abdelkarim. Early in the morning it is still cool in the pantry, and that first lesson will always be associated in my mind with the smell of honey and the dust of dry figs—figs strung up on cords and piled up in a large straw basket at the far end of the room.
Abdelkarim is surprised that I brought a board and stylus with me. I explain how I won them in my race with Jasim on the rooftops. As I tell him about it, I experience everything all over again: the vertigo paralyzing my legs, the joy of daring to challenge my brother, and the satisfaction of triumphing over fear.
He looks at me, even more surprised. “You must truly have wanted to learn to read and write, risking your life like that,” he says.
“At the time, I did not even think about it,” I answer. “I just wanted to annoy Jasim. He had made me mad.”
“This means you'll be a good student,” Abdelkarim says, smiling. “People who remain indifferent or too submissive never learn much. Whatever they're taught is like water off a duck's back. Their brains never really absorb anything. Sometimes it's good to get mad.”
