Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (12 page)

All day long I felt an emptiness inside me. I looked at
Nadia's books on the table. They were inviting me to read them, but my head had become like a balloon, and I was
so deprived of all energy because I forgot to have lunch.

After a while, Umm Ayman came back and gave me
Samiha's address. I didnt miss the opportunity to see her
the next day.

ON THE RIDE from Mount al-Hussein to Mount Amman,
the bus passed through streets I hadn't seen before, filled
with grocery shops, restaurants, and clothing boutiques.
I didn't notice the din of the bus passengers; my head was
still feeling empty. I got out at the last stop. I read the
address that Umm Ayman had given me and soon found
myself standing at Madam Samiha's door. When I rang
the bell, a woman of indeterminate age and with severe
features opened the door. She was wearing flowered cotton pajamas and a transparent blue head scarf.

"I'm Huda. Umm Ayman sent me."

She admitted me to a small salon, inviting me to
take a seat as she sat facing me. Between us was a small,
square wooden table with a Formica top. She spoke in
a soft voice. "Welcome. Umm Ayman talked to me and
gave me an idea about you." (I wondered what idea she'd
given her about me.) "I just have one condition."

I looked at her inquiringly. She continued, "I need
someone to help me at home, and in return I will waive
the rent and will add ten dinars monthly."

I felt humiliated; I hadn't left my country to be a maid.
I was going to say that I was a university graduate, but as
though she read my mind, she explained with a smile,
"I don't need someone to clean the house or to wash the
dishes, as you might have thought; I already have a maid. I need someone to look after my blind brother because
my job takes a lot of my time."

I felt better, and I accepted immediately. How could
I miss this opportunity when I was about to find myself
penniless?

"Come, I'll show you your room."

From the kitchen door, we walked out to a small garden. "My name is Samiha, and my brother is Samih,"
she said, leading me down a narrow stone staircase. We
walked past small budding plants and others from the
Indian fig family and under a grape tree whose entangled
branches reached out to iron trellises. After two or three
yards, we came up to a green iron door.

"You'll feel comfortable with us, and I'll provide you
with what you need. This is the room."

I followed her in. The room was wider than the one
on Mount al-Hussein, with a large window overlooking
the small garden. It was furnished with a wardrobe, a
bedside table with two drawers, and a wooden bed covered by a faded but clean blanket. On the floor was a
wine-colored carpet. In a corner, there was a small stove,
and a hallway led to the bathroom. "This is a gift," I said
to myself, for I had never lived in a better place than this.

"I forgot to mention that Friday is your day off," she
added.

I didn't wait until the end of the month, the time
limit that Umm Ayman had given me. I went ahead
and gathered all my belongings in a big box and put my
unfolded clothes in a bag. As I was packing, a leather wallet that was among Nadia's belongings fell out. I wanted
to browse through it but refrained. "I have no time," I thought. "I'll look at it later on," and I buried it in the
folds of my clothes.

The next day I was sleeping in another bed, tossing
and turning, smelling the odors of other people who had
slept there before me, the bed creaking at every move. I
needed a few more nights to become used to the place.

HE WAS PERHAPS THIRTY-FIVE, elegant and pale
skinned. His eyes didn't seem like those of a blind person; when you talked to him, you felt as though he were
looking at you. He had been born with only four senses,
and when he was six, his mother had placed him in a
school for the blind. There he grew up, studied, and
developed a fine taste for music, specializing in playing
the lute. He had graduated with honors from the conservatory and taught at the same institute. He spoke quietly,
but when he laughed, his laughter resounded through
the air. He asked many questions whenever he couldn't
understand something or when he wanted to know more
about something. He knew the layout of his room, and
he could walk to the living room without stumbling over
the furniture. His clothes were always clean and elegant.
That was Samih.

As for my job, I started at four o'clock in the afternoon
after Samih returned from the school and took a small
rest. My job was to read the newspapers for him, do some
of his correspondence, and look after his library, which
consisted of literature and art books and some cassettes
and tapes. Samih was fond of poetry and interested in
contemporary poets. Every day I would read more than
one poem for him. I had needed some time to get used
to the way of reading that he felt most comfortable with.
More than once he would stop me, asking me to give him some time to think so that he could absorb the meaning and capture the image in his mind. He would repeat to me that slow reading helps to charge the words with feeling and that poetry is more about feelings than about mere words. He recited many poems from memory for me, and I was amazed at his control of the language. He had a profound stillness in his voice, as though it came from the depths of history. Words flowed from between his lips as if they were living creatures. He was fond of poems by al-Sayyab, and his lute never left his sideio

One day Samih played for me the poem "A Stranger by the Gulf" with a melody different from the one sung by Sa'doun Jaber. While he played, I imagined al-Sayyab's pain in his exile. My tears flowed silently, hot and burning. After Samih finished playing, he said that he had never found a poem that depicted exile as al-Sayyab did in this poem. I didn't say anything for fear of betraying my emotions, but he sensed the state I had fallen into.

"You're crying."

"I remembered my family."

He put the lute aside and began talking about beautiful things hidden in our souls and how we fail to see them. "These feelings are like buried ore. We only need patience and a little drilling to find them, like those who toil for gold in the mines."

While he was talking, I was wondering about the limits of his knowledge of archaeology and relics-he who never saw the outer face of life. Despite these limits,
I felt as if he were trying to open a window for me to
a world that I wasn't able to approach, the world of the
innermost feelings that we usually ignore or lose sight of
in life's clamor. But those feelings soon vanished at night,
when my sorrows flourished and I realized that time
was slipping away. Every night I tried to recollect my
soul as if to reconnect it to its original womb. But anxiety
roamed through my body, squeezing me and snapping
at my flesh until I felt I was shrinking. Alone at night, I
murmured, while memory, like a naughty child, dug up
the past, uncovering the details I had buried. I lay in wait
for obscure voices-voices infused with the darkness that
crept under the blankets and clothes to reach my bones.

Samiha turned out to be a very kind woman. In my
mind, her severe features smoothed into calmness and
softness. In the mornings, she would drop Samih off at
the conservatory and then go to work at one of the banking companies. She would insist that I eat breakfast with
them, and on holidays she would invite me to lunch.
From time to time, she would ask me about my situation in Amman and about my family back in Baghdad.
We would often find ourselves drawn into conversations
about politics, and I found out her bold and frank opinions about the miserable reality of the Arab world. Within
a short period, she was able to break through my psychological reserve toward strangers; I felt so comfortable that
I confessed my problems. She was very sympathetic and
told me, "The place is yours; you're safe here-and don't
hesitate to ask for anything." I was almost in tears from
the emotions that this fine woman stirred in me. Later on
I would learn that she'd dedicated her life to her brother and had never married. On another occasion, she would
confess to me that she'd had a single love affair and that
at the end of it she had closed the door on her feelings.

WE GATHERED EARLY in front of the Refugee Office.
As usual, some women sat on the sidewalk. Through
the bars, we stared at the courtyard. I was looking at the
newcomers, but I was also looking for a black-eyed young
man with a dark complexion and a well-proportioned
body. I didn't find him.

A cold wind played with the branches, and the rain
drizzled onto faces and sidewalks. The officer appeared
with a bundle of papers, and everybody stretched their
hands out and clung to the bars, getting ready to go in.
He handed out a few small numbered cards, letting in
those with numbers up to fifty. Since it was the consulting day, I asked about my case.

"Nothing for you for now," he said. "Give us a call if
you cannot come."

I began scanning the faces again, looking for the
brown-faced man. Something told me he wasn't coming
that day, but his shadow walked with me to the bus stop,
accompanied me on the ride home, and bade me farewell
at my door. I couldn't breathe as I sat alone, thinking about
my status. It occurred to me to contact him. I looked for
his phone number in my purse pocket and walked out to
the closest phone booth.

I think he had been asleep, for his voice was soft and
hoarse. "Yes? Who is it?"

"It's me. Sorry. I'm the girl that you met at the Refugee Office."

I imagined him getting up from his bed.

"I'm glad you called. Where are you?"

"I didn't see you today at the Refugee Office."

"I was there yesterday and met with the Australian
delegation."

"Congratulations."

"It hasn't been finalized yet. The process is long, and
this interview doesn't mean final acceptance."

"I hope that what happened to me never happens to
you."

"No, I've been officially accepted as a refugee; if Australia refuses me, I'll simply be transferred to another
country. And what did they tell you?"

"They haven't decided yet."

"Listen, I want to see you-that is, if you want to see
me, of course."

I said hastily, "Of course I do. I need some help understanding a few things."

"So let's meet tomorrow morning at ten in front of the
Roman Theatre in Hashemite Square."

We ended our conversation at that point, and we had
still forgotten to ask for each other's name.

WHY WAS I GOING TO SEE THIS OTHER MAN? Did
I need someone to support my soul, inspire patience in
me, and protect me from shattering loss? Or did I need
a stick to guide my steps along the unknown road and
its obscure twists and turns? I repeated these questions
hundreds of times during the night. I was filled with
sorrow. Darkness besieged, ambushed me, wresting me
from sleep, and I felt helplessly off balance. I asked myself
what I was looking for. The wind blew at my door, shaking it violently and filling me with anxiety. Defenseless, I fought off thousands of fingers, peeling them away from
my throat, only to have them grab my neck once again. I
severed them from my neck, only to feel them approaching my heart, playing with its pulse, leading me to the
brink of the precipice.

That will be my constant state in exile, especially if I can't
find anybody to whom I can express my sorrow.

Are you sure?

Not completely.

What do you want exactly?

Perhaps I need a man whose fingers will warm me up and
pull out the roots of my exile.

Which man?

I don't know.

Here you are. You don't know, and in order to know you
have to watch your step.

I was confused and agitated as I went to meet him.
There was nothing tying us together except exile. On
my way to Hashemite Square, I rearranged words in my
mind. I hesitated and stopped halfway. I knew I had to
rein in my horse before it bolted.

You aren't the type whose horse will bolt.

Is this a compliment or an insult?

Choose whichever fits you.

I don't know which one fits me.

I arrived at Hashemite Square, and there he was, waving; I walked toward him with confused feelings. I sat in
front of him in one of the cafes. I felt safe and at the same
time cautious-safe because he was a fellow countryman
carrying the odors of the two muddy rivers, but cautious
because something still unknown was digging into my
soul. Perhaps my confusion came from my natural lack of confidence, thanks to my grandmother's constant advice:
"Beware of men; don't trust them. Take and don't give.
Hold the stick from the middle. Don't lean too far to either
end; otherwise, you'll be lost. Take your time before you
announce anything so that the man doesn't feel as if you
have thrust yourself upon him."

Grandma, I haven't taken anything, and I haven't
given either. I've learned not to trust quickly, as you
advised; my relationship with Youssef took a long time
to form, even though he was my cousin. It grew gradually, with no place for passion; meanwhile, my soul was
longing for an indomitable burning love, a tempestuous love like those I read about in novels. My meetings
with Youssef were unadventurous. They were permitted
because of our kinship and thus had become ordinary.
And although that relationship didn't resemble those in
my dreams, I held on to it, clinging to its threads. It was
falling apart now, while I was thousands of miles away,
as if our time together hadn't tightened our bond as much
as I or we had hoped. Was it the war and the long years
of military service that had carried him to death's threshold? Or was the nation's destruction over the past thirty
years ruining intimate relationships, love, happiness, and
personal contentment? Yet Nadia had also loved at the
same time and under the same circumstances. She had
also been in exile and had suffered perhaps more than I
did, yet here were her love letters despite the fact that she
didn't know what had happened to her lover. What was
the difference? Did I have a heart of stone? I didn't know
how to explain or categorize my feelings. Sometimes it
seemed as if I were waiting for a man I still didn't know
and that he would not come. Sometimes I would long for Youssef, and sometimes I would feel free of any obligation to him. But he still remained the first man in my
life. So why did I walk toward the other one? What type
of relationship would bind me to a man whose name I
didn't even know? Was my story with Youssef over?