Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (10 page)

There on the bank women had carried votive offerings, their wishes wandering on their lips and their
hearts full of faith. The shrine of Elias had been full of
visitors and guests carrying platters filled with gifts.
Boats loaded with women and children had glided along
the river. The bank had swarmed with fishermen, salesmen, and visitors. Lighted candles attached to palm-tree
trunks had been floating in the Tigris.

I had said to Youssef, "Let's ask the saint for what we
want; the doors of the sky are open today."

With difficulty we had walked down to the carnival. We had grabbed a myrtle branch and a candle and
made our way through the crowd, walking hand in
hand until we arrived at the Cafe of the Captain, looking for peace and exhorting our hearts to joy. Youssef
had looked at me and asked about the wish buried in my
heart, although we both knew one another's wish. It was
a wish that we renewed each year, but that would not
come true, for the war would suck the sap of love from
Youssef's heart, stealing many years of his life. Sometimes I would hardly recognize him when he became
violent for little, if any, reason. His mother would remain
silent until he had returned to his peaceful nature and
asked her pardon.

"It is the war, Mother. I'm not the same man."

"My son, why don't you get married? You and Huda
love each other."

He had raised his hand toward her. "Do you want me
to beget fodder for the next wars?"

He often said that he didnt know how he had carried
a gun or pressed the trigger, and he sometimes fell into a
depression merely thinking of the soldiers he might have killed. Once, while watching a program about the war, I
had tried to pull him out of the abyss into which he had
fallen upon seeing the constantly broadcast scenes. He
had yelled at me: "You didn't experience what the soldiers
did! How difficult it is to see a human laughing, singing,
sobbing, remembering, complaining, and dreaming and
then suddenly scattered into burned pieces! The head is
no longer a head, and the heart is no longer a heart-just
spattered blood or a charred body or severed limbs that
we cannot gather. Unfortunate is the one who does not
die instantly!"

His appearance had changed when he was talking
about the war, and his eyes had flared red. I had said to
him, "Let us not repeat these stories that have become a
mere memory, a thing from the past," but he had continued, his voice dripping with pain.

"Life's sweetest years are lost in wars. We fought
with fear, but with courage too. We were afraid during
the fierce battles, but we were also filled with courage
because we had to be. But it was a courage devoid of will.
To kill a man-a man like you, directing his weapon to
preserve his own life, just as you do-means that you are
reducing your own humanity. When the two of you are
good at shooting, you are just prolonging the regimes
that drive the nations children to the fires."

While he was talking, I remained silent and sad. But
his violent moments quickly disappeared. Youssef had
excused himself and returned to normal. He had looked
at me and said, "What did you do to your hair? I like it as
it is, untidy, not styled."

I said, "When I don't do my hair, I look like an idiot,
and this pleases you?"

He had laughed and replied with a loving malice,
"Who said you are not?"

I'd pretended to be upset, so he'd made peace with
me, caressing my hand and fondling my fingers. I'd felt at
that moment a strange feeling of joy. Then he'd added, "In
this world, madness is the only way to freedom."

I hadn't wanted to argue with him because he was
visibly sad, which I attributed to what he was suffering,
given what was happening in the country-the psychological pressure and the difficulty of living a dignified life.
We were talking about things we didn't fully understand
and were unable to express as we wished. He had pressed
my fingers again and said, "I know what you're thinking
in your little head, and I realize how patient you've been.
I love you, and nothing will ever shake that love, but love
is not enough these days. It is important to preserve this
love; as for the rest, let's leave it to the future."

And here were those days, my beloved. They came
and went, stripping everything and crushing hope, pulling it by the roots from the land and casting it out of the
garden of love.

With these verses by the poet Farouk Jouweida, Nadia
started a different chapter in which she talked about
the impossible love affair that we had never discussed in Baghdad and that I hadn t wanted to press her about.
Our most important concern then had been the loss of
our lives under the pressure of the siege, and, later, exile
exhausted what was left of our dreams. She had told me
once, "I'm looking for my 'Emir,' for a speck in a stormy
sea. It is my heart's wound. You will find out about it one
day. Then your curiosity will be satisfied, but now let us
think about a way out of suffering." At the time, we were
sitting in Ammans Hashemite Square, a few days after
we had met in Abdali. She was still as secretive as before.
Neither of us knew that her heart's confessions would
come after her sudden tragic death. I plunged with her
into the furious sea of her confessions.

My prince, my Emir, I write to you from my second
month in exile. I know that my letters haven't reached
you yet, but I write hoping they will find their way to
you one day. My heart tells me that you are still alive
and that you are somewhere in the world. I don't
blame you for your absence-perhaps you are in a pit
where angels have no access, facing a torture more
than humans can bear, or perhaps you are hiding in a
country where no one will recognize you. I can believe
anything except that you are among the dead. Do
you know, since you disappeared, I have been lost in
thought, a prey to distraction? Some people even think
that I have gone mad. That's all right-I'm crazy about
you. I feel we connected and that we'll meet again one
day. Where? I don't know; perhaps on a boat smuggling immigrants or on an expected road. When? I
don't know; it might take some time. And perhaps we'll
forget, or we'll pretend to forget after we get older, or perhaps each of us will have chosen a companion and
been faithful to him or her; then our meeting will be
pale and cold. No, no, I'm just rambling ... Forgive me.
You are my lover and my compass if I get lost. I will
definitely meet you and finish the journey with you.
Wait for me, Prince! I will find you, or our paths will
cross, even if it happens after our bodies are gone.

This letter had no date, and neither did the others. I
read the second letter.

I wonder, my prince, when did my hand slip away from
yours? I don't know the answer. Memory alone leads
me to you. I remember there was a big crowd, and the
world around was filled with noise. We were sitting in
one of the garden corners on Sindibad Island, drinking cocoa and planning our life far from the destruction befalling the people. Perhaps a thousand times
we built the castles of our love while crowds of children jumped, radiant in their feast clothes. I told you,
"Look at them; they are reenacting our childhood,"
and I told you about my childhood and how on the
feast's eve I used to sleep with my palms covered with
henna and wrapped in tissue till the morning. Then
I would get up and wash my hands and get dressed
before anyone got up. I would walk to Nadir's bed and
wake him so that we could get our feast-day presents
and hurry to the carnival rides. We didn't plan for difficult days because life hadn't yet disclosed its ugly
face. We were propelled by our feelings. And when a
cloud appeared, our hands intertwined till it passed
peacefully. No peace after today, though, my prince. Memories of our childhood have faded away, and our
souls are wandering aimlessly, lost, chased by the fear
of the unknown and the search for security. I will have
no peace till I find you. When will I meet you? I know
that the reply to my letters is delayed, but I'm sure one
day you will read them and then read them again. Perhaps you will reply. Will you?

It seems, from what Nadia wrote afterward, that the
prince did not reply.

I have a lump in my throat today. I even choke on
water, although everything went fine. I met the Canadian delegation and obtained the international number. I was hoping you would share this latest exile
with me, or perhaps I will find you there? Nothing is
impossible beyond the limits of reason because we live
in a world that knows no logic. I feel tired. Can I postpone writing? Well, I will go to sleep; maybe I will see
you in my dreams.

The rain gently knocked at the door. Listening to the
harmony of the rain and the whirling wind, I felt as if I
were listening to music coming from very distant times.
But at this instant I was united with Nadia.

My prince, I have finished all the procedures. I don't
know if I will have enough time to write to you from
Amman. I fill my days with wishes. My future encounter with you is what preoccupies me. Sometimes I
get confused and plunge into remembrance. I say to
myself, "Calm down so you won't go mad," and I forget that I'm actually standing on the edge of madness, but then I feel pleasure. Don't be surprised: I feel
pleasure mixed with pain. The news of the homeland
arrives with the new immigrants, but it is so scarce.
Despite its scarcity, it reveals many absent and concealed truths-more death, more killing, more disease,
more militarization, more darkness, and more preparations for the next war. People are falling, and there is no
hope. And between this pain and the pleasure of taking
refuge in you, I understand the scope of the catastrophe. Did you know that my uncle died? I am sorry to
tell you they killed him. When corpses were scattered
during the days of the uprising and the regime took
control, we were confined in our houses for three days.
On the fourth day, we heard my uncle's voice calling
my mother; we didn't know how he had managed to
get there. When my mother opened the door, my uncle
was there looking at a man's body near the threshold;
he just wanted to get it out of the way. They shot him
on the spot (it was forbidden to bury corpses; they said
to let the dogs devour them). When my mother gasped,
one of them aimed his gun at her chest, but for some
reason he didn't shoot; he withdrew, saying, "Scum.
You're all scum, and we'll take revenge on you." I huddled up under the stairs between neglected corpses,
smelling death, and Nadir was in army training and
couldn't take a day off. I don't know why I'm telling
you about atrocities you have experienced yourself. Let
me finish this letter because depression has descended
upon me, and I don't want you to be infected.

The gusts of rain increased, accompanied by thunder
and the lamenting wind, as if the whole sky were weeping and crying. Cold air crept through the gaps in the door
and window. I covered myself with the blanket. I didn't
care anymore about the smells it emitted. My body was
used to it now. I felt warmth, not because of the blankets,
but because of the love letters. This love story was mad-a
madness like standing on the sharp edge of a mountain
with a very steep slope. Two lovers separated by national
events and then reunited on paper, but from one side only.
A woman who dedicated herself to a lost lover-she would
never find him-and a man, indifferent in his absence,
who didn't know about the woman dedicated to his love.

O absent-present prince, I'm putting myself together
to pass into my exile. I'm hungry for you. Your face
will pursue me wherever I go, for I cannot forget you.
My strength to survive comes from you; perhaps I will
finally tap the dregs and after that will stop traveling
with you. Sometimes I feel weak from the weight of
life upon me. The countdown started in Amman, and
when it ends, I'll be going to settle in Canada.

Nadia didn't go to Canada, but to a tomb, without
bothering to gather up her things. She didn't need a passport this time. Not even a ticket. She carried no clothing
bag, no memories, no feeling of regret or satisfaction or
love. Was she desperate for her prince? Did she ever erase
him from her memory? Did she reach the point where she
could bury her past, right before the instant separating
life and death?

I put the notebook away and closed my burning eyes.
The rain let up, and the wind stopped lamenting. I gave
in to drowsiness. A few blurred images passed my mind's
eye, and then I suddenly plunged into sleep.

WE JOSTLED AGAINST THE IRON-GATED DOOR. In
the chaos, no one could hear anyone else. The officer stretched his hand through the bars, holding out
papers-papers of residency, papers for new appointments, incomplete papers to be returned to their owners. From time to time, he protested against the tumult.
"Attention, please! Listen to what I say! Stop all this confusion at once! The people who are here for interviews
will enter first."