The Jealous

by Laury Silvers

  Ammar turned his attention to Tansholpan, kneeling beside her. Her cap was gone. Where’s her cap? I need her cap! People stood back in a circle, watching him warily. He begged one of them, “Where’s her cap?” Only then did he remember that he had dragged her to jail without it days ago. Turning back to her, he bent over her, and tugged at the sleeve of his robe, using the edge of it to wipe the dung from her face, but only smeared it.

  Someone tapped him on the back, then he heard the words, “Sir, I have the cart for her.” Ammar stood. Two more watchmen had arrived and stood on either side of her. They started to lift her, but her head fell back, her wound exposed, her face broken.

  “Stop!”

  They put her back down at his command. Ammar took his turban off his head, unravelling the long black cloth. “Help me. Put this under her head as I lift it and put the pieces back.” The watchmen took the cloth from him. If the man felt disgust in the moment, he said nothing. Ammar only heard him whispering in shock, “Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar,” with every exhalation. Ammar lifted her head gently with one hand, and found pieces of her skull with the fingers of the other. He cradled what was there, while the watchman pulled the unwound turban underneath and then up and around her head. The watchman was now openly weeping as they enclosed her wound and laid her head back down. Ammar nodded to them both. They lifted her again, this time with Ammar carrying her head and lay her down within the cart.

  Ammar said, “Take her to the corpse washers at the Barmakid Hospital.”

  The men looked at him, questioning.

  “I know how far it is. Take her there.”

  As the watchmen left with the cart, Ammar felt another tap on his arm. A young woman, her wrap edge clutched in her teeth, held a jug of water in one hand and a clean cloth in the other. “You need to wash your hands.” He opened his hands and saw the blood and dirt, then kneeled and she kneeled with him. Holding his hands out as she poured the water over them, he rubbed them together. The water now stained with Tansholpan’s blood ran onto the dirt of the road splashing the toes of his boots. Seeing it, he cried out within himself, I was too late! When the water ran clear, the young woman put the jug down and handed him the cloth. He dried his hands and gave it back to her. She pointed to his face and he reached up to touch it, finding it wet. “I’ll need more water to wash the blood off.”

  She shook her head and looked down, blushing. “No, sir, you are weeping for the poor woman. God bless you.”

  “Do not bless me.” He shook his head. “I just as good as killed her myself.”

  He stood, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, but the tears kept coming. Walking slowly, bareheaded, he paraded himself in self-recrimination and shame back to court to find Zaytuna. All he could think was that the women who knew her should wash her. Every bit of this was because of his inaction, his refusal to investigate. His pace picked up faster and faster, until he broke out in a run, trying to pound the pain of it out of him.

  He threw open the mosque door in the alleyway, stormed through the corridor, then the door to the mosque itself. Court has resumed, and a new case was being heard. Ibn al-Zayzafuni, his chamberlain and secretaries, everyone watching the proceedings turned around and looked at him, stunned into silence. He looked down and saw the blood stains on his cuirass and pushed past the guard, through the women’s section. Women hissed at him, one slapped his leg as he ran past them toward the front of the mosque searching for Zaytuna, hoping she might still be there. Then he saw her, kneeling in prayer not far from the door. The old Turkmen woman she came with was nearby watching her. He fell to the floor.

  Zaytuna stared at him, startled out of her prayer. “My God, is it Tein?”

  The Turkmen woman drew close, “What is it?”

  “Tansholpan has been killed. Killed in the street.”

  Zaytuna demanded, “What happened! Tell us.”

  “A man who had been in the library alerted us that the court guard was taking her away and it didn’t look right to him. I checked the alley but they were gone. I found a few watchmen and we spread out to find them. By the time I got to her, I was too late. They shame-paraded her on a donkey. She fell from it and died.”

  Zaytuna’s voice was cold. “The guard who did it?”

  “He’ll be in a police holding cell soon.”

  “Was there anyone else?”

  “Yes. They got away.”

  He lifted his head and looked at Yulduz, avoiding Zaytuna’s eyes. The old woman’s arms were slack in her lap as she shuddered in tears.

  Zaytuna said to him, “Look at me.”

  He did as he was told.

  “Where did you take her?”

  “She’s going to the Barmakid Hospital. Can you go?”

  “We’ll go. You leave.” She stood, then suddenly remembered she had been praying when he rushed up to her. She turned her head to the right and the left, closing her prayer, then looked down at him. He was still slumped at her feet. “Send a watchman quickly, by skiff if you have to, to bring Saliha there to meet us. She’ll need someone to walk with her.”

  Zaytuna leaned down and pulled on Yulduz, “Come Auntie, Tansholpan is waiting for us.”

  Yulduz looked up at her but didn’t move.

  Zaytuna leaned down and wiped the old woman’s face with the pad of her thumb on one side, and the back of her fingers on the other, “Come now.”

  Yulduz pushed herself off the ground and Zaytuna took her arm. They left without looking back at Ammar. She checked her pocket, finding only a chink of one fals. Not enough to get them in a skiff down the Tigris to the Isa Canal. They’d have to walk. Once in the street, she said to Yulduz, “It’s a long walk to her.”

  Yulduz nodded, then said in a whispered hiss, “Damn him…”

  Zaytuna cut her off, “Don’t curse the man. He’s in hell as it is.”

  Yulduz shook her head, “May he eat his hell for every meal.”

  They walked in silence. The city alive around them, but they saw none of it. Every building, every person, every animal and cart was nothing but sharp lines and hard contrasts to Zaytuna’s eye. She winced at the sunlight. She recited the verses slowly with each breath, one word for each exhalation. When she finished, she began again,

  By the morning hours,

  by the night when it is still,

  your Lord has not abandoned you,

  and does not hate you.

  What is after will be better

  than what came before.

  To you, your Lord will be giving.

  You will be content.

  Little by little, her heart began to calm and the world around her softened, the light no longer pricking at her eyes. She felt a sweet expansiveness settle within her, filling her limbs to each toe and through to her fingertips. She felt as if something were pushing her, lightly, carrying her along and if she would only lift her feet, she and Yulduz would fly. They stopped twice for Yulduz to rest. When the old woman’s face would begin to crumble, she would curse Ammar under her breath. Zaytuna couldn’t hear how he was to be damned, but if God were one to take instructions, Ammar would most surely become one of the people of the Fire. Zaytuna prayed for Yulduz’s pain to be eased. Then, she prayed for God to forgive him.

  They walked straight through the main entrance of the hospital and through to the courtyard. An orderly tried to stop them, but Zaytuna explained that they were going to wash a friend’s body. He stepped aside and lifted his hands to pray for the woman’s soul. They walked through the hallway with its long bench where the family would wait. No one was there. They opened the door.

  Saliha, cradling her arm against her chest, stood next to the body. She turned to Shatha and said, “My friends are here. They’ll help.”

  Tansholpan was covered head to toe in white muslin sheeting, a brown stain mottling the sheet where it covered her head. Zaytuna took firmer hold of Yulduz and let out a sigh, saying, “Allah.”

  Saliha gestured to Zaytuna t
o go to Shatha, then held her good hand out to Yulduz, “Come, Auntie, whisper the shahada in her ear. She can hear you.”

  Yulduz straightened her back and came closer. She squeezed Saliha’s hand, then let it go. She turned to face her friend, bending down and whispering in her ear in a language Zaytuna couldn’t understand. Yulduz lifted the cloth exposing her unbroken cheek and kissed it, then covered her again and stood.

  “What did you say?”

  Tears streamed down her ruddy cheeks, “I sang an old Turkmen song to her. We don’t come from the same people but grew up singing the same songs. We would sing together sometimes. I wish Marta were here, we even taught them to her.” She looked at Zaytuna, distraught, “How will Marta say goodbye?”

  “Will you tell us what you sang to her, in Arabic, so we know, too, so we can say good-bye with one of your songs?”

  Yulduz stood beside her friend, touching her arm lightly over the cloth, and sang,

  I feel helpless I cannot reach you,

  separated, separated, separated.

  Worse than any pain,

  is the pain of separation.

  The Seventh Day

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Zaytuna did what she did not want to do and walked to Imam Ibrahim’s house to ask after Layla. She hoped Maryam had got some sense into the girl. But she hoped, too, that Layla wouldn’t be angry with her. Hammering at the gate with the knocker, she steeled herself should Maryam open it instead of Layla. It opened a crack, then a bit wider, but not fully so. There she was, little Layla dressed like a proper working woman, her wrap wound under her arms, her hair tied up in a scarf at the nape of her neck, she noticed, a little like her own, and her face uncovered. Zaytuna wanted to remark on it, but held her tongue. She put a hand against the gate, leaning on it, and bent toward her, smiling. “I was hoping you would answer! Assalamu alaykum.”

  Layla laughed. “Oh Auntie Zaytuna, I can tell you feel sorry for being so mean to me! I forgive you!”

  Zaytuna stood up straight, her eyes sharpening with defensiveness. She pulled exactly the wrong words out of her gut, You forgive me? They nearly made it out of her mouth, but she tightened her lips and her objection settled back down, lying in wait. She despaired. Why is this so hard? Closing her eyes, she took another breath, then replied, this time pulling the words from her heart, “I shouldn’t have said one word of what I did to you. I was wrong.”

  Looking at her in all seriousness from behind the gate, Layla said, “You were only telling me the truth. Except for the part about me not coming back to learn to write. That was mean.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t believe it anyway.”

  Zaytuna nodded, feeling every bit of the sickening pain of having to admit it, “There are kind ways to tell the truth and I don’t know them. I was mean, all of it was mean, not just when I said, ‘No’, to you.”

  The girl smiled, reached out and took her hand, shaking it lightly, then glanced behind her in the direction of the well and kitchen. “Can you wait outside here for me?” Then she said, “Oh…”

  It was Maryam. “Who is it, girl? What’s taking so long?”

  She braced herself, while Layla looked at her in apology.

  The old housekeeper swung the gate open wide. “It’s you.” She said the required words as if they were required, “It’s been too long. Why haven’t you come to visit?”

  “I’m sorry, Auntie. Assalamu alaykum.”

  “Wa alaykum assalam. Come in, I have some of that apple and ginger juice you liked so much.”

  Zaytuna protested, as she should, hoping she wouldn’t have to come in, “No, I couldn’t possibly. I only came by to speak briefly with Layla. I don’t want to bother you.”

  “It’s no bother.” She stood to the side. Zaytuna knew she had no choice and followed her past the fruit trees, long picked clean. Long lines of pomegranate skins were laying out on a bench to dry next to the wall leading to the kitchen entrance. Maryam opened its door. The room was warm from the cooking fire. Zaytuna saw eggs on to boil. A tray was laid out with breakfast for the Imam and his daughter, Zaynab. Soft cheese, fresh bread made from fine white flour, apricot jam, and small bowls for those boiled eggs when they were done. The sight of the food hit her hard, her stomach growling. Maryam pointed to the same stool Zaytuna had sat on when she came here several months ago trying to find out the truth about Zayd’s death. Layla stood in the doorway looking at her feet.

  Maryam poured a bit of syrup out of a long-nosed copper pitcher into a glass, then water from another pitcher beside it. There had been such magic and sparkle as the light played off the glass when she held it the first time, months ago. She had tasted the sugar and ginger in the apple cider like it was a revelation from God. Maryam handed her a glass. It did not catch the light and she did not bother bringing it to her lips.

  The old woman sat down in her place beside the stove. “I need to talk to you. I wondered how I would arrange that. God knows I have no time to come looking for you. Now God brings you to my doorstep.” She gave Zaytuna an appraising look. “You’ve put on some weight. Drink that with health.”

  “And may God give you good health,” Zaytuna replied, but without any heart in it, waiting for whatever was to come.

  “This girl here wants to leave our home. I think she has in mind to work with you. I believe she thinks she’ll live with you.”

  Zaytuna looked up sharply at Layla, who still had her eyes on the ground.

  Maryam continued, “I want her to stay here. She could run a house someday. I’ll teach her all she needs to know. And the Imam will find her a suitable husband when the time comes.” She looked hard at Zaytuna to press home the point. “She’s safe here. I don’t think you’ll watch over her like I can. I can’t imagine who’ll she meet, the trouble she’ll get into.” She shot a look at Layla and said calmly, although the anger underneath was unmistakable, “You have her out doing police investigations, putting her life at risk.”

  Zaytuna started to defend herself, then shut her mouth. She closed her eyes and made herself admit it. She had encouraged the girl to do it, hadn’t she? Then without warning, she was suddenly angry at Layla for telling Maryam. Her gut stirred with what she’d say to Layla once she had her alone.

  “I can’t stop her from leaving,” Maryam went on, “but I want to know what you plan on doing with her. Her parents gave her over to work with the promise that she’d be cared for. They pushed her through the gate next door and never came back. There’s no sending her back to them.”

  Layla would have to hear it. “I’m not planning on doing anything with her.” After the words were out of her mouth, she suddenly felt sick. My God, did I have to say it like that? She dropped her head in silence.

  “Is that all you have to say?” Maryam spoke to Layla, “Do you hear that is all she has to say?”

  Zaytuna lifted her head, speaking softly now, “The women of my house have become very fond of her.” Looking at Layla, she admitted to herself for the first time in saying it, “I’ve become fond of her, too.” But as she said it she became afraid, as if in saying it she’d committed herself to the girl. Layla looked up and didn’t smile. She seemed scared, too, but her fear looked more like she was afraid Zaytuna would take the words back. Zaytuna nodded to her to say they were true, then said to Maryam, “But being fond doesn’t mean we can care for her like you do. Let me be clear, I don’t think she should leave you.”

  Maryam threw her hand out, gesturing to Layla. “Hear that, girl?”

  “There’s no room of her own with us,” Zaytuna continued. “No bed in one of our rooms. Maybe Yulduz and Qamar would take her in. We haven’t discussed it. Yes, she’s joined me washing clothes, and she’s welcome to do that. I don’t mind the company and I can get more work that way. But,” she spoke directly to Layla, “This means you’ll only earn enough to live rough like we do. You won’t be sleeping on a comfortable bed or getting meals like you do here.” She glanced at the tray, “There’ll be
no eggs and jam for breakfast. We’ve gone hungry at our house. It’s Saliha who pays for the meat now. If she moves out, we’ll be eating broth from a bone boiled too many times again.”

  Layla stood up. “I make my own choices.”

  “You do.” Zaytuna nodded to her.

  “Alright, then.” Maryam stood. “I’ve heard enough. You’ve got no plans to care for her.”

  Zaytuna stood, placing her still-full glass on the tray with the Imam’s food while Layla went out to wait beside the well.

  Maryam said to Zaytuna, “I can see now this is all in the girl’s head. This one is going to have to burn her own hand to know the fire is hot. I can only pray it will heal quickly.” She called out to Layla, forgoing any hint of propriety toward a guest, “Take her to the gate.”

  Zaytuna bowed her head, “Thank you, Auntie.”

  Layla walked ahead of her, not saying a word. When they reached the gate, she put her hand on the latch and turned to Zaytuna, her face mottled with anger and said half in fury, half in tears, “You don’t scare me!”

  “I should.”

  The tears overcame the anger and she pleaded, “Don’t you want to know if I found out about the poison?”

  Zaytuna’s heart leapt at this, but she didn’t know what to do. Encouraging the girl only made things worse. It put her in danger. It made her want to leave a woman who loves her and wants to care for her like her own child. For what? Her? A broken woman with a cruel streak? She forced herself to say, “No, I don’t want to hear it.”

  Layla whimpered.

  “The girl’s case has been dismissed. We don’t need any help.”

  “So you don’t want to know who really did it!”

  Zaytuna shut her eyes for a moment, then said, “Open the gate, Layla.”

  The girl did as she was told. As Zaytuna stepped out into the street, Layla blurted out behind her, “An herbalist said it had to be belladonna. She said it’s easy to have too much of it. Just a little bit could kill a man. But she wouldn’t give it to a woman because it might make her lose her baby.” Layla started to cry, “That’s all I found out. They wouldn’t tell me anyone’s name. No one else would talk to me. I’m not good for anything or anyone.”