Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (14 page)

I looked at him. His face was quiet, as if in another
world.

I asked, "Are you with me?"

He answered, "Of course. I'm meditating on the
poem."

I wanted to ask how he "saw" things around him: the
people, the trees, the colors, but I was afraid of offending
him. Then he said, "How sorry I feel for what is happening in Iraq."

I didn't comment, and a thick silence fell between us.
The lute was still in his hands, but he put it aside, saying,
"I have no desire to play."

I guess he didn't want to increase my sorrow. He
started talking about a man he had heard about on television who was living with 25o poisonous vipers and
another man who was sleeping with six tigers. I asked
myself what this had to do with me.

I said, "How can a person do that?"

He attributed it to man's ambition to know the hidden secrets of the human soul and said that as long as
there is a will, man will be able to domesticate the most
savage animals.

"But the instinct of fear often dominates man," I
objected.

He said, "Sometimes fear is acquired, but, regardless,
if man overcomes the fear inside him, he will be able to
accomplish marvels. Fear is the first stumbling block, and
if man dominates it, the route becomes easier, however
difficult it might look."

He took his own case as an example, as if to answer
the question I had wanted to ask.

"I was born blind. I do not know the details of faces
or colors. What's red, and what does 'blue' mean? How
is the day or the night? What do the sea, the sky, and the
stars look like? I see them with my heart. You see with
sunlight during daytime, and lamps illuminate your
nights; I see things through my own inner light, which is
difficult to explain to you."

While he was talking, I was wondering how and in
what colors he dreamed. But, as before, I left the question
unasked; perhaps he would talk about it.

He leaned back and continued. "Smells play an
important role in knowing things around me, as well as
sounds and touch. These senses are stronger for blind people than they are for the rest of you, who are really
occupied with colors, masses, and things you see. This
occupation weakens the senses because those with sight
focus only on the exterior and neglect the inside, which
requires contemplation and a desire to discover. You, for
example..."

I had been gazing at a flock of birds soaring and dipping, but I listened closer to him as he said, "I sense that
you are a beautiful woman. I don't know what you look
like, but I see you with my 'insight! Your depths speak to
me. This is not flattery. Before I met you, I had encountered more than one woman at work and social occasions.
My music professor a few years ago didn't make me feel
she was beautiful, but I could feel the beauty of the professor of musical aesthetics."

He clapped his hands as though putting an end to
the conversation. "I hope that what I said is clear; I hope
that you'll give yourself the opportunity to rid your
voice of its sadness and that you'll discover the beauty
inside you."

BY THIS TIME, I should have reached a clear decision
about my relationship with Moosa. If my refugee appeal
was rejected, there would be no other options available.
But what Moosa offered was not to be taken lightly. It was
an engagement in an adopted country to someone whose
character I couldn't even guess at. What unknown ramifications would there be? I hadn't discussed these details
with him or even with myself. I also didnt know if my
marriage with him would be a formality that would end
as soon as its purpose was served. Or had I moved something inside Moosa that made him propose?

What could I do with my shaking heart every time
I remembered Youssef? What about my feelings for this
man with whom my life had blossomed? Despite his
absence, his eyes accused me, looking at me suspiciously
every time I got closer to Moosa. Did I love Moosa, or
did I just like in him the man I was missing? Which man
did I want? Every time I came close to decision, I would
get confused again. My memories of Youssef covered a
stretch of long years, but where was he now? My view
of Moosa was unclear and agitated. I was connected to
Youssef by a painful past full of waiting, love, and hopeframed completely by a time of bitter war. But there was
nothing connecting me to Moosa. If only someone would
answer the phone in Baghdad; if only I knew what had
happened to Youssef.

Six months had passed since I had last talked to him.
Even Youssef's friend Hani didnt know anything about
him; he said he had sent Youssef a letter desperately trying to get in touch with him but hadn't received any reply.
My life was poised on a delicate balance; I didn't know
when I would be tipped off or where I would be when I
fell. My head was spinning, and my body surrendered to
torpor. It was past midnight, and I was snatching at foggy
visions but eventually fell asleep.

Nadia entered my room, alighting like an angel with
two blue wings. She stood at the door and looked into
every corner. She seemed wretched and annoyed. She
extended a hand with golden fingers, grabbed her notebook off the table, and started tearing it into pieces. In
seconds, it became floating particles, falling like dusty
snow on a freezing day. Then she disappeared behind a
thick fog-I didn't know how it had entered the room. When I woke up, I wondered what this dream meant.
Why had she torn her memories? And why had she been
so sad and vexed? I then remembered that I hadn't read
her notebook for a long time. The morning light crept into
the room, and Nadia's annoyed face pursued me all day
long, but it didn't prevent me from making my way into
those letters filled with impossible love.

Who will convey my letters to you? I'm getting ready
to travel. They say that the world has become a village;
how then can I explain this burning feeling of separation? And why does the world oppress my heartbeat and
cast it outside its borders? I shouldn't believe that the
world is within my hands' reach. It is huge, suspicious,
and ambiguous, and it never stops separating me from
you. Why should irrelevant faces repeat themselves to
me, while yours remains scarce? No one conveys my
letters to you, but I strive to write them anyway; perhaps by chance they will find their way to you. Despite
this distance, your features are still pure and clear to me.
Thinking of you makes you wholly present to me, as
though we had never separated. Am I also present to
you even though I am absent? There are many things I
want to confess, my prince. Things are weighing on my
chest and growing heavier, but they can't extinguish the
passion of my flame. It still glows even as other burning candles of my life go out, dripping and flaring. You
are mine. I'm sure about this. But I'm afraid I won't be
yours after all this separation. What will I do with my
heart then? I'm no longer a queen, as you used to call
me. I'm only a wandering soul that doesn't know when
it will find its way back to you.

And in another letter:

My Emir ... Despair crept into my soul during my
feverish search for you. In a cursed irrational moment,
I thought about giving you up. Imagine! I gathered
your letters and decided to burn them. That was
before I left the country. I stood next to my mother's
oven, which hadn't been heated since her death. I put
in a heap of wood, poured a little oil on it, and lit it so
that it glowed. I extended my hands to grab the pile of
letters, but before I threw it into the blue flames, something pulled me back. Was it you standing behind me?
I'm completely in love with you, my prince.

When I first set foot in Amman, for a while I
breathed in a strange scent. I immediately told myself
that it was the smell of freedom and deliverance, but
after a few moments I discovered it was your scent.
Perhaps I was deluding myself. Anyway, I convinced
myself that I was going to find you here. Basra had
separated us, but Amman would bring us together.
What a false hope! Days, months, and years have
passed by; only a few days until I leave for Canada.
Right now I feel overcome by despair. Amman hasn't
been kind to me, but Canada will be the same. Despair
transforms me into pieces of ember and ashes, but I
will stay strong. I have to resist until I see you.

Suddenly, I felt as though something had touched me,
and I was shaken. I looked around, sweeping the corners
of the room, and remembered my dream. It was as though
a ghost were sharing the place with me. I set the notebook
aside and sought refuge in God. I began thinking about
many things-meeting Moosa, calling Baghdad, the Iraqi crowds at the Refugee Office. I saw Abou al-Abd calling
out file numbers and Youssef's face. But I was having difficulty picturing him, as if he didnt want to be evoked.
Youssef? Have you forgotten me, or do you prefer the hell
inside our country? Are you satisfied with what you did
when you got me the passport? Are you still waiting for
new wars to come? When does your war start, my dear?
What will you do if they find out that you played a role
in getting me the false passport? Our last meeting was
confused, and now I see you in my confused imagination. What's happening inside this room? Breathing and
whispering. A heavy weight fell onto my chest, and fear
pushed me outside.

It was a lovely day. White clouds with golden edges
embroidered the sky. The clean streets were lively with
movement. I dialed the number at a nearby phone booth,
but, as before, no one answered. I walked to the newsstands and read the newspaper headlines, thought about
Amman's bookstore, but I already had reading materials in Samih's library-and Nadia's books still locked in
their secrets. I headed to the vegetable market and bought
bread, cucumbers, and red radishes. As I was crossing
Saladin Avenue to Shabsugh Street, I came face-to-face
with Hani. We looked at each other for a while as though
searching for names.

"Hani, I'm Huda, a relative of Youssef. Do you
remember me?"

"Of course I do. How are you? We haven't heard from
you."

"I was busy. I've asked about you twice and was told
you had returned to Naplouse."

"But I returned two months ago."

"Tell me, have you heard from Youssef?"

"No. I tried to call him twice, but with no luck."

"I've tried many times. I don't know what's happened. I'm very worried."

"Don't be. Tomorrow morning I'm heading to Baghdad to deliver my brother Hussam's application so he can
study medicine there. Do you need anything from there?"

"Thank God I met you today then! I'd like to put my
mind at ease about my family and their situation. Tell Youssef to write a very detailed letter. Ask him why he's delayed his arrival in Amman. How long will you be there?"

"A week or ten days."

Those ten days took forever, as though the clock had
stopped. But then it also seemed as if a flood of days came
and went ... day and night... night and day. My throat
was bitter, and so was my bread. The hours were like rocks.
Stories upon stories sprang from my head ... shining memories ... different faces, streets, and roads ... houses and
markets ... A vehement longing would sweep me away as
though I were floating into the air, passing over the checkpoints and then falling from the sky into Baghdad, crying
with a full voice, "I'm back! Open the doors!"