Sarab

by Raja Alem

  Their whispers reached her: “If we had left her she would have drowned, genius. She didn’t swim, she didn’t shout, she didn’t say a word. God knows what threw her onto our beach.”

  Sarab lay on the blanket. The smell of seaweed pierced her heart and made it beat faster. She didn’t want to sleep. Her body urged her to continue with her escape, but where to? She didn’t know. She lay there, ready. What if she got up and left? Would they stop her? She hadn’t reached a decision when the sleep of the exhausted seized her body and put an end to the struggle.

  The three brothers spent the night chopping meat and packing it in boxes. In the dead of night they heard the roar of a lorry and went outside to greet it. Instinct made them protect the flotsam the sea had flung onto their shore, so they made sure to carry the boxes of turtle meat to the lorry themselves, offering no opportunity to the driver and his helper to enter the hut and discover her presence. However, the helper, who had grown suspicious, distracted the brothers and rushed into the hut on the pretext of needing some water. From a distance he spotted the head crowned with black locks, and he didn’t mistake its feminine features. He emerged wearing a malicious smile.

  When the lorry left for the market with its cargo, the brothers went to bed, lying on the platforms ranged along the opposite side of the hut.

  Nothing was left of the night apart from a sliver of blackness, soon broken by the dawn. The sea carried intoxicating gusts, and the waves reached higher and plumbed the depths of her dreams. From the depths, she was washed in this rumble, which rocked her to and fro, and she returned to being the child she had been in the arms of her mother, Bunduqa Tafla.

  When she woke up, the fragrance of tea filled the place and she was buoyant from the saltiness of her body, which still bore traces of the sea. She didn’t know how long she had been sleeping there, whether it had been hours or days.

  When she came forward they were waiting for her, sprawled on the ground in a circle around a large tray on a low table.

  “Sit and eat with us.” She sat at the fourth side of the table that had been prepared for her. There was an earthenware cup of tea, and the fragrance of the mint floating on the surface sent a ripple of bliss through her. An unusual transparency had overtaken her senses; they had been sharpened by her fear of what was to come, her craving for escape, and the death lurking in every choice before her.

  She sat down calmly, not bothering to cover her hair which dangled to her shoulders. It was no longer important whether she was male or female, covered or uncovered. There was nothing but perfect peace encircling this haven. Warm disks of bread were piled in front of the oldest brother. He took one and handed it to Sarab.

  “It’s poor food, bread and honey and tea.”

  Sarab stayed absolutely silent, although she thought that honey was far from being the food of the poor.

  The shortest brother handed her a jar brimming with honey. “Don’t worry. Stick your finger in and take a lick.”

  Cautiously she dipped her index finger into the thick honey.

  “Deeper!” They encouraged her to push all the way to the bottom. Her whole abdomen contracted with unfamiliar pleasure. Suddenly she noticed the three faces were watching her in amazement. To them, her ecstasy was a miracle, and none of them cared about where she came from. Those three brothers were the first people in her life to receive her without stopping to wonder who or what she was. They welcomed her as they would a piece of driftwood borne to them on the sea, and they allocated her a spot in their nook.

  “The honey’s free, from the mountain bees.” The few sips of tea along with the honey and the bread were the sweetest Sarab had ever tasted. The authentic taste of a virgin land restored her to her village. For a moment she thought she was in an earthly paradise, with the sound of the sea surging a few meters away from where the table lay. She thought she would relax there for hours, perhaps days, and then would seize the first opportunity to continue with her escape. It didn’t matter where; perhaps toward the sea.

  “We’re in Aden, maybe twenty kilometers away from the Black Land. . . .” one of the men told her.

  Sarab didn’t know what the Black Land was; perhaps it was just the place she needed to hide away in and forget about the gunpowder and soot she had left behind.

  “We hunt turtles and sell the meat in the suq. Don’t be afraid; it doesn’t taste different from any other meat.”

  It struck Sarab that she could spend her life on this beach, free from responsibilities, free from guilt, where no one expected anything of her. She had never felt such complete and absolute freedom, not even in Paris with Raphael, where the sense of sin followed her like a shadow. Here no one pushed her to repudiate her past; here there was no past and no future and no tomorrow, just moments of silence throughout her whole being. No one was interrogating her or asking her to subject her mind to their judgment, whether for their rejection or their acceptance. Here there was no need for any of that; just these moments of utter silence within her and the sound of the sea all around.

  That morning, despite her all-consuming longing to do so, Sarab didn’t dare to leave the shelter and approach the sea. Through the door, she watched as the brothers’ bodies were carried away by the water. She felt a profound envy and wished she was also there. After the bodies disappeared, Sarab began to wander and explore the hut. All of a sudden, the door burst open and two men ran inside with daggers drawn. It was the lorry driver and his helper, their faces torn with lust. They surrounded Sarab and savagery cloaked the driver’s face.

  The military uniform seemed to rouse his curiosity. “Let’s see what this shell is hiding.”

  Without warning, he gripped Sarab’s neck and his friend lunged at her legs, and together they threw her to the floor. The driver tore the uniform with the same violence he used to split the turtle’s shells; buttons flew in every direction and the shirt tore open over Sarab’s breast. The suddenness of the attack left her no chance to fight back. She didn’t even realize what was happening until the man turned her on her back and pulled at the shirt, leaving her breasts bare to his helper’s hungry stare.

  “Fresh meat for dinner tonight!” They cackled loudly at Sarab’s attempts to shield her breasts from their lewd gaze. The helper reached out to pull her arms away, and she surprised with him a slap. In reaction, he drew his dagger out of his belt and advanced toward her. She was ready to die when all three were taken by surprise: the door burst open again, and this time men with machine guns ran in. Instinctively, and suicidally, the driver and his helper charged their attackers, who came from the Mahdi’s camp. They hadn’t noticed their guns; apparently the Mahdi’s followers had refrained from using them so as not to advertise their presence to the beach’s inhabitants.

  While the men were fighting, Sarab turned around, looking for something to cover herself with. There wasn’t a trace of the shirt. Immediately she took one of the empty shells piled up in the corner and held it to her chest like armor as she hurtled outside. She ran toward the sea, driven by an irrational feeling that reaching the water would guarantee her survival. Any thoughts of swimming and drowning were beyond her and played no part in her reckonings. The mad voice assured her that the shell, which weighed down her running, would carry her on the water just as it had carried those enormous creatures. Her legs might have been too short to run fast enough to save her, but this shell was a raft. When she reached the water, it would float. The smell of the brine and dried blood embedded in the shell penetrated her bare chest and she turned into a turtle.

  Suddenly she sensed running feet behind her, and despite the heavy shell she sped up. Then the feet were tangled between hers. She stumbled and flew through the air, landing a meter away from the water. The edges of the shell pierced her shoulder blades, the sand’s moisture penetrated her entire nervous system. She was like an overturned turtle, lying on her face as the barrel of an automatic rifle prodded her skull. Death by water seemed soft, peaceful. Her body didn’t care about the
bullets and began to crawl toward the water, separated from that blessing by such a short distance. The two men pounced on her, keeping her from the wave rushing to meet her. Apparently they were trying to avoid firing their guns. One of them threw the jacket she had lost over her body. She had forgotten she was naked, but suddenly this fact became more obvious. She stopped resisting and slipped her arms inside the jacket, ignoring the men’s glances at her breasts, the nipples made erect by the chill from the water. She had to hold it closed with her arms because of the lost buttons. She allowed herself to be herded submissively as they blindfolded her, utterly shutting off the sea and the horizon, and dragged her back to the camp.

  When they removed the blindfold she was once again in that bare room with the single chair, and the Mahdi was regarding her with cold fury. At a wave of his hand, the two men left the room. He stood up, walked toward her, took a handful of her hair in his fist, and wrenched her off the ground.

  “Do you really expect to be able to leave like that and wander around looking for help? Are you fleeing our safe haven? To go where? Don’t you know what can happen to a woman in a country like this? If we had left you to them, they would have eaten you alive.” He contemplated her scornfully as brine and frustration stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth.

  “What do you want, woman? We honored you and elevated you, and the only thanks we receive is this flight to impurity.” He circled her, inhaling the scent of her hair. “Gunpowder smells sweeter than musk and amber.”

  Every mechanism of feeling and reflection had stalled inside her. A trivial thought was lodged in her head: she wondered whether her hair still reeked of dynamite or whether it smelled of salt.

  The stupor in her eyes made his fist relax its grip on her hair. He stepped away from her, looking at the jacket with its torn-off buttons, where damp patches revealed the swell of her chest. Its ambiguous outlines clearly interested him.

  “Do you only have to look at men’s clothes to jump inside them? This is a disease we must cure you of! Didn’t Paris feminize you?” He seemed to be angrier with himself than with her. “You have a fire inside you.” He gazed at her intently. “Do not disguise and deny the fighter in you. If you were committed to your savage side, you would be the greatest of our fighters. Or . . .” After some thought, his features twisted into a lascivious smile. “There is one treatment that would leave you in no doubt of the woman in you.”

  The look in his eyes sent a shudder through her; there was no mistaking his intention.

  “Remember that I was merciful to you. I didn’t denounce you with stories of fornication or depravity.”

  Sarab cried out furiously, “Fear God! I swear I’m untouched.”

  The ring of desperation in her voice made him suspicious.

  “You dare to swear that you’re a virgin?”

  After some thought, his face warped into a smile whose significance she couldn’t miss. “This is an easy enough matter to verify.” After a silence loaded with meaning, he mused, “I could take you prisoner.” He let the words sink in. “But I am resolved to settle my debt.”

  An obscure feeling of danger paralyzed her; something beyond the dangers of the siege. She implored him: “If you are really in my debt, I beg you—return me to Wajir. There is no place for me here.”

  He ignored her. “We will surpass your modest wishes. You will be the wife of the Mahdi.”

  She shuddered at the term.

  He went on: “Here I am—I have forgiven you, and so you have been purified. I have been patient for a long time in the hope of taming you, but it seems you are more desirable as a savage. My patience runs out here.” His laughter sent a tremor through her veins. “According to the Sunna of God and his Prophet, I will marry you myself.”

  He took her head roughly in his hands and raised her face to his, crushing her lips in a kiss that robbed her of all sensation. She felt his body crushing hers. The taste of salt penetrated her, and his voice came out as a hiss: “Your life is in my hands. With one movement I could crush you. I could crush you.”

  When he pushed her away the two female guards appeared, draped as usual in black. They blindfolded her and led her through the underground passage, where they threw her on the floor of a room. The salty taste on her lips increased, making her wonder whether the passage led all the way to the sea she had been deprived of, where she wished she was buried. She felt the two guards winding a thick rope around her ankles and between her feet and hoisting them into the air. Without warning a whip lashed the soles of her feet, already tender from running barefoot. Dozens of blows rained indiscriminately on her ankles and legs. When they untied her, her bloodied feet could hardly bear to touch the ground, but they mercilessly drove her in front of them barefoot, still blindfolded, back to her comrades in the dormitory.

  “From tomorrow, you will prepare for the marriage.” Clear instructions had been issued, excusing her from working in the factory. A cloak of envy rippled around her, especially from the Egyptian and the Kuwaiti, who stoked the fire around her although they didn’t dare to attack her again openly. From a distance, Latifa threw her reproachful glances for having ruined her fiancé’s uniform.

  It was left unspecified how long Sarab was to lie back and wait for her wedding to the Mahdi, which might be held on any evening. For three days, Sarab was terrified as night fell, expecting a marriage contract to swoop down on her and convey her to the Mahdi’s bed.

  And here she was again, alienated and exiled; like her alienation from her mother, then the house in Medina, then in the siege, and afterward the exile of Paris, and now here in this land surrounded by water. Grief washed over her at this perpetual estrangement. More than once she was tempted to slip into the factory, put on one of those suicide belts, and light the fuse so her torment would be ended. But even martyrdom was a land of exile for her; she was frightened of embarking on that rash venture.

  One night, as she drifted off to sleep, she became intrigued by the thought of sleep as a lesser death. With all her being, she wished that this lesser death would take her to the greater death. With the Mahdi’s lips still crushing her, she fell asleep resolved not to wake up—to be saved from all the webs that ensnared her. A final thought accompanied her: that she had never been able to choose; that choices had always been imposed on her. She longed for one chance, just one, to choose.

  At midnight Sarab had a nightmare. A towering ghost looked down on her, and she realized it had come to superintend her greater death. From where she lay in her bed on the floor, the ghost seemed tall enough to reach the sky. It bent over her and placed a hand of steel over her mouth, smothering her gasp of terror.

  Her eyes bulged as he removed his mask, and she shouted, “Raphael!” She gulped the name like someone taking their first breath after being resurrected on Judgment Day. Her heart pounded with overwhelming joy, and she didn’t dare to move or breathe in case she dispelled this dream.

  “Shh.” He picked her up out of her bed and buried her in his arms, but suddenly he staggered. The Egyptian giant had leveled a violent blow to his head with her torch. Her mouth was open to let out a warning scream, but Raphael recovered his balance, grabbed the torch and struck back, hitting her head, and she fell to the ground mute and unconscious.

  “Sorry for the rough treatment,” Raphael said lightly, burying Sarab in his arms. The rest of the women woke up terrified, frozen in their beds and unable to move, waiting for this nightmare to disappear.

  Regretfully, he threw the shattered torch down beside the unconscious Egyptian.

  Sarab clung to that dream and surrendered to its force. Their bodies woke up; it was the first time they had been in such close contact since they first met. A tremor shook her while he kept examining her body; he couldn’t believe she was still whole and unharmed, and safe in his arms at last. A sweeping feeling of safety overpowered her after days of starvation and desperation, and she fainted. Her sudden slump frightened him; he gathered her up in his arms and carri
ed her out of the dormitory.

  Outside, the camp was under siege from combined Special Forces. The Mahdi’s guards had raised the alarm and woken the whole camp to face this unexpected attack. They were aghast at the sight of Raphael carrying the Mahdi’s woman, but they hesitated to open fire in case they hit her by mistake. A black Land Rover stood waiting for Raphael and Sarab, and as soon as it set off, shooting broke out around the camp and enclosed everyone who was inside. But a group of the Mahdi’s men managed to break out of the siege, and they rushed in pursuit of Raphael and the Mahdi’s woman. The Land Rover hurtled forward under a stream of bullets, brakes shrieking and machine guns firing on anyone who dared to obstruct its path.

  The short minutes separating Raphael from his pursuers were enough for him to reach Aden Airport, where a black helicopter was waiting. A team of pursuers rushed after him, smashing through the checkpoints to reach the airport runway. They fired wildly, no doubt on explicit orders from the Mahdi: stop that woman whatever the cost.

  Sarab fainted again while Raphael fastened the belt around her and took a seat next to her, directly behind the pilot.

  In a nightmarish stupor, Sarab sensed the black helicopter take off, its rotors roaring over her head. She felt she had been swallowed into the guts of this phenomenal creature, of the same type that had attacked her comrades in the Grand Mosque. It had hunted her down at last, and now she was alone in this vengeful beast, which had started to strew death all around it. She sank into the leather seat, mentally paralyzed, drowning in this hallucination. She watched the ground below where the Land Rovers were racing to keep up with them, shooting volleys of bullets into the night. Fire was returned on the cars from every direction, dispatching one car here and another there; they flew through the air and landed with thunderous explosions, scattering bodies over the ground. It was a feverish scene, but it was taking place in slow motion, right under her feet; she could simply jump out and actually experience it happening all around her. Sarab closed her eyes, shutting out the absurdity of the scene below and her pressing desire to leap into the middle of it. Suddenly the night was plunged into silence, and Sarab couldn’t decide whether she had lost consciousness or whether a bullet had delivered her to the murky heavens where life was extinguished. Even the roaring rotors fell quiet, although they still milled the darkness overhead. They must be on a journey of ascension after death. Sarab waited for the fragrance of sweet basil which, it was promised, would envelop the souls of the righteous as they ascended to the seventh heaven . . . if I am one of the righteous.