by Peter Hobbs
There were so many people inside. Lit by small fires, the courtyard had corners of dark, patches of brightness. At the front, a group of musicians played, the drums pattering like rain, the strings and pipes weaving among the beat like birds.
I sat on the floor with my father. I do not think he enjoyed these events. He smiled warmly to everyone, but I recognised how uncomfortable he was beneath it, as though he did not feel entitled to be there. He seemed to feel the weight of an obligation to his hosts. I had no such reservations. I was excited, intoxicated by the atmosphere. I saw a group of my friends from the mosque, and went to sit with them and watch the celebrations. When my eyes had accustomed themselves to the lit darkness, I looked for you on the roof that ran around the border of the courtyard, where the women were sitting, gathered around the bride. After a while I saw you, dressed in green and gold.
I looked up at you often, but you were careful not to look at me. Still, I had the sense that each time I turned to you, you had only just looked away. Despite the crowd, I was aware of no one else. It seemed to me that we were the only two people at the gathering, and the party – the noise of laughter and talking, even the music – faded away. An emotion pressing on my whole body. I could hardly breathe.
In the courtyard, the men were taking turns to dance in a space at the front, spinning and leaping as the musicians played, twirling and stomping to the rhythms. The crowd gave money to the best dancers – a show of both wealth and generosity – and the dancers, when they were finished, presented the money in turn to the musicians.
As I sat with my friends and watched, my father leaned forwards and tapped me on my shoulder.
‘It is time for you to go to bed,’ he said.
It felt as though we had barely arrived. I looked around, and saw no one else leaving.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘A little longer. It is too early. My friends are still here, and they have much further to go than us.’
He relented. ‘A little longer,’ he said. ‘But be ready to leave when I ask you.’
Disappointed, I looked for you, but I had lost sight of you. There was another woman in the place where you had been sitting. I stood up to look around, to see if I could see your mother or your father, but I had begun to feel a sense of panic in my chest, and I saw only a blur of people in the shadows.
I got up from my friends, and went to find my father.
‘I am going home,’ I said, and he nodded at me. How painful it is to remember. It was the first lie I ever told him, and they were the last words I spoke to him.
I slipped easily through the crowd to the edge of the courtyard. Away from the fires and the press of people the night was cool.
I went as slowly as I could, to increase my chances of finding you. I followed the wall of the courtyard until I came to the foot of a staircase to the roof. I knew I could not go up, and should not be seen lingering there, and when I heard footsteps on the stairs I began to turn away. But I stole a glance as I did so and saw – it felt like a miracle – that it was you, stepping calmly down the steps, your scarf across your face, but dipping low, so that I could see the outlines of your nose and cheeks. I have wanted to ask – was it fate, that you were there? Or had you seen me leave, and come to look for me? I do not think that either answer could be a disappointment. It was so wonderful to see you. All that I had hoped for from the night.
I must have grinned like a fool, but I was not ashamed. Already I knew that love makes fools of us all, and I was satisfied to be as much of a fool as was required.
‘As-salaam alaykum.’
‘Wa-alaykum asalaam.’
I knew we should not be seen together, that we did not have much time.
‘Will you come with me?’ I asked.
‘Why?’ you said.
I thought my heart would break. If you needed to ask why I wanted you to come, then you could not possibly feel as I did. There were no longer any reasons, merely an emotion like an imperative in my chest. Could you not feel it too?
‘I must speak with you urgently,’ I said.
‘Oh, is it urgent?’ you said.
By now I was quite frantic, and did not know what to say, but you could not keep your face straight, and a smile broke across it, your eyes flashed, and I felt a burst of joy and triumph. I thought, even then, that I would have to work hard to be worthy of you.
But you looked over your shoulder into the darkness, your expression suddenly worried, and then I too heard someone coming through the dark towards us, and I saw you begin to move away.
‘Meet me,’ I said, pointing the way across the field. ‘Meet me in the orchard.’
The Orchard
I was certain that you would come, and yet fearful that you would not. I remember the fidgeting of my heart. I could not sit still. I leaned for a few moments against a tree, only to jump up as though it were too hot to lean against and had burned me. I walked backwards and forwards along the low wall, balancing on the stones, but then considered that you should not catch me playing a childhood game, and so I skipped down, peering each way into the pre-dawn gloom, my ears pricking at the slightest sound.
It was a child’s excitement. My heart is slower now, and waits more patiently.
And then I saw you, approaching tentatively. The night was past its darkest point, but you did not know the path as well as I.
‘Saba,’ I called, quietly, and you paused a moment. I saw you tilt your head to one side. ‘This way,’ I said, and you stepped forwards with renewed confidence.
I thought for a moment that you looked uncertain, even embarrassed to be there, but it was quickly covered.
‘So this is your famous orchard,’ you said. You gestured into the darkness. ‘It is everything you promised.’
‘You cannot see it now, but it is beautiful in the day.’
‘And you expect me to wait?’
‘It will not be long. Here, I have brought something to sit on.’
We sat together and talked, shyer than we had been. We talked about things we had not been able to, in moments stolen in the market. You talked about your family and your friends. You told me your favourite colours, your favourite smells.
I felt tired, after the long night, and began to think we could not, after all, wait until dawn. I should not keep you there until then. We would both be in trouble for staying. But I could not bring myself to leave, and you did not ask.
Between the cold of the night and our drowsiness, we drew closer together. And in one moment, which lasted for just a second or two in time, but will live for a lifetime in my memory, you leaned forwards. You pressed your forehead against mine. You rested your cheek by my cheek. And just as you withdrew it, you moved back towards me and kissed me there, your lips pausing a moment, then kissing me again on my jawbone. Truly, I could not imagine that there was a sensation any more wonderful in all of creation.
I kissed your hand, your cheek, and I told you how beautiful you were. It was just for a moment, before you turned your head away. Your hand still tight in mine. I thought my tiredness was gone from me. But when you rested your head on my shoulder, I closed my eyes for a moment, and was somehow asleep.
We woke, later, and watched the dawn arrive. The smudges of grey polished into colour. The sandy path to the village yellowing, and houses emerging from the gloom, their dull mud bricks beginning to warm. The mountains materialising, immense against the skyline, clean-capped with ice, then furrowed and brown beneath the snowline. The cold air somehow lifting, as though the whole valley took in a breath and held it, silent for a moment. It might as well have all been ours to own.
And then the swallows were awake, hunting insects among the trees. They arrowed past in a glide, and then turned with a neat flutter. They dipped overhead, bestowing with their wings a blessing on us.
At my side you were a perfect warmth, a perfect fit.
‘There,’ I said. ‘Is it not as beautiful as I promised?’
And for once, you did not tease
me, did not protest, and for a while we watched the dawn together.
Your Father
Saba – we were just children then, and knew nothing of the boundaries that contour the world of adults. We did not know that the world is formed by walls and bars, that peoples are divided from one another. The mountains were porous. How could anyone draw a border there? And if even nations could not be divided, then why should any two people? No, we were children, and knew nothing of this; perhaps we will never be so wise again.
Your father knew those borders. He was a politician, he understood their power. He knew that they could not be crossed without putting the order of the world at risk.
He knew nothing of love, which holds no regard for that order.
When your mother, ready to leave, could not find you at the wedding, he sent one of his servants to fetch you. The man looked for you at the party, but was told you had gone. Someone, certainly, had seen the direction you had left in, and the servant came through the fields and into the orchard to search for you.
Ignorant of this, we slept. The first I knew of it was your cry as you were hauled upwards by one arm. The warmth of you gone from my side in an instant. I stood up to protest, but the man pushed me back down and cursed at me, and dragged you away. A stream of words flowed from his mouth, castigating you for your indecency. He hurried you along, and I began to follow behind, but he turned to shout at me again and I stopped.
Your father would say that we had no business being together, that we belonged to different worlds. But we come from the same earth, you and I, the same people. We speak the same language, drink from the same water tap. We know the same sun, the same sky. So if even we must be divided from one another, what hope is there for the rest of the world?
I Am a Fool
I walked among the trees in a daze. I stopped outside my house, but could not enter. From across the orchard I could still hear the musicians playing, the last of the wedding party determined to see their way through to the next day. My father would have gone home long ago, and have seen that I was not there before him. I would be in trouble for staying out alone, yet I barely thought of it. I turned away and began to walk into town. It was a long way for me then – much longer than my morning walk here – and I had never done it alone.
What was my plan? Did I imagine I would ask you to marry me? I think perhaps I did. Or at least, that I would tell your father I loved you, as though the explanation would make everything well.
I know, of course, how foolish I was. I would like to pretend that I was also being brave, but it would be a lie. Let me explain it this way: I felt, simply, as though I had no choice. That life had spoken and I had but one response to it. I smile, though it is bitter, remembering the certainty of youth.
The gate of your garden was open, as though someone had just entered, leaving it ajar behind them. The door too was open, and a young woman was sweeping the steps. She looked up from her work, startled, when I greeted her. I spoke your name, asking for you.
She looked at me suspiciously, and I stood tall, pushing out my chest, even though my face burned. Without acknowledging me, she put her broom aside, and went into the house, closing the door so that I would not follow.
My certainty faltered a little, as I stood there. I felt uncomfortably warm, as though my body knew, long before I did, that I should not be there. I tried to plan what I would say, but my mind whirled and would not settle.
From the house I heard the vibrations of speech, deep and quick, and then he appeared suddenly, your father, with a speed that frightened me, causing me to step backwards. He had been woken from sleep – his hair was oily and flattened and his eyes were wide. I opened my mouth to speak, but only a stutter came out. He raised his hand and I felt a bright, sharp pain on my shoulder. It was only then I saw the switch in his hands. A thin cane, the wood pale and slender. I had not seen him holding it. The sting shocked me, and brought tears to my eyes. I was struck dumb by the violence, and could not even protest. Then, when a blow cut a line of blood in my cheek, I screamed. He hit me again, and I fell to the floor, and though I curled up the blows continued to fall on my legs, my hip, my back.
I made one last effort to get to my feet and escape, scrambling a short way on all fours, looking behind me to see my pursuer.
But I stopped dead. I saw you standing, open-mouthed, in the doorway.
Your father saw you too. He turned from me and grabbed you by one arm, lifting you nearly from the ground, and then began to beat you, there in front of me.
A sudden fury made me strong. The pain of my wounds left me. I leapt up and I grabbed your father’s hand and tore the switch from it. I could not have been stronger than him, but he seemed so surprised that he did not resist, and stood for a moment in disbelief while with all my strength I struck him on the leg. He flinched and cursed me and tried to seize the weapon back from me, but I struck him hard on his wrist and he howled in pain, cringing away from me, collapsing on the floor as I attacked him again, folding his arms around his head to protect himself. I cut lines of blood into his arms.
I would have ceased, I am sure, or else your father’s rage would have overcome his fear and pain and he would have remembered his strength and turned on me. Either way, I would not have killed him, even if you had not stopped me.
You put your hand on my arm. Lightly, but it was enough to restrain me. There was a terror in your voice when you spoke my name.
‘Stop,’ you said. ‘What are you doing?’
You stepped between me and your father. You looked terribly afraid, and I thought you were afraid for your father, worried that I had hurt him, when my own welts still stung.
I became aware of others gathering round us. Our screams had woken the household. Your brothers, bewildered by what was happening, the eldest helping his father from the floor, looking at me in astonishment.
And I was furious at you, that you would choose to protect him, instead of me! I could not contain my anger. I shouted at you. I threw down the cane, and stormed from the house. I walked along the road crying, and the world was blurred by fury and by tears.
I was so young, and so foolish. I am ashamed of my stupidity, and I hope you have forgiven me for it. It did not occur to me that in putting yourself between me and your father, it was me, after all, whom you sought to protect.
The Orchard
As I pick my way uphill my eyes are bent onto the path, and I raise them only occasionally towards my goal. But as I walk home, they are able to roam a little more, and to follow the line of tamarisk bushes along the river far below, a belt of green that leads to where the reed beds open out, their colours brushed alternately with green and yellow as a breeze moves through them. In a distant field a farmer is at work, earlier than usual, walking alongside two oxen, a slow trek back and forth.
Summer is nearly here, and the heat in the middle of the day is brutal. I am cold as I walk in the dawn, but I return in the sun and am vulnerable to it still. I am fortunate the route is all downhill. Yesterday I lay all afternoon in the shade to recover from the exertion.
A few days ago I saw a policeman as I came down from the orchard. He was sitting behind the wheel of a car, parked on the opposite side of the road from me, in the shade at the edge of the village. The car was covered with dust from the roads. It was not a police car, but the man wore his uniform. His sunglasses were mirrors.
I began to shake. My shoulders and arms shook and would not stop. He is waiting for me, I thought. It was so early – what other reason could he have to be there? My legs were weak beneath me, and I thought for a moment I would have to stop. It was like a bad dream in which the body refuses to move. My feet dragged when I tried to lift them.
As I drew closer I almost crossed the street to approach him, drawn by some terrible impulse, but some part of my mind was still clear, and I kept to my path. He paid me not the least bit of attention, but I still looked back several times to see if he was following me through the village, if he
was watching which way I went. My breath was short, and my heart beat rapidly in my chest for a long time afterwards and would not calm. I felt like a child again.
And yet, all those years ago, when the police first took me, I was not afraid. They came for me as I walked home. I was stumbling slowly, still crying. The pain of your father’s blows still burned. I did not understand why you had acted the way you had. I was burning with righteous anger. Had I not tried to protect you?
I was lost in these thoughts, and did not notice the jeep pulling alongside me, or the policemen stepping from it, until one of the men put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. They asked me my name and I told them, and they put me in the vehicle, and we drove to the police station in the town.
At the station they put me in a lock-up, where the warmth of my righteousness was left to cool.
I waited for hours in the cell. It was night before they came. I was taken into a room, bare except for a table and chair. Two policemen were there. I was made to lie on a table, one of the men holding my ankles so that I could not move. The other pulled off my shoes and threw them in a corner. I remember the beginning of my fear. Even after all these years, I remember that this was the moment the fear began. It has not left me since, not entirely. For the first time I thought that the reason my father did not come was that he did not know where I was. Or perhaps he had come there and been turned away, told that he could not see me, or that they knew nothing of me.
They held me down and beat my feet. I had never known such agony – each strike travelling instantly through the entire body, my nerves lit with awful pain. It caused my stomach to seize, and I vomited, almost choking on it before I could turn my head and spit it from my mouth. The policeman swore, and beat me harder. I screamed and screamed. I struggled, but could not move.
