Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (20 page)

"Did Mr. Fatih really flee with millions of dollars?" I
asked Mother Khadija. She poured some chamomile tea,
took some sips, and went on, "God alone knows; there
are no definite answers. I heard that he had entered the
market. His rival was one of the president's cousins, so
they asked him to back down from the deal, but he was
too stubborn. He lost the deal and set the factory on fire.
Rumors circulated that he took millions with him. But
others said that he was arrested and perhaps put to death
in prison."

Just one month before these events, I had left the factory and Nadia had moved to Basra.

"All this doesn't mean much to poor women. The
world ignores us, while they are disgustingly rich. God
curse them all!"

Mother Khadija's energy flowed as she discovered
an unexpected desire to talk about those miserable days
when our pay had barely supported our needs.

She sighed again and said, "Oh, my God, poor girls
fighting for their bread. In our day, that wasn't the case.
Every girl used to dream about marriage and motherhood. Fie on the bad times when women abandon their
femininity for practices that degrade their dignity!" She
looked at me and asked, "Have you heard anything about
the other girls? What became of them?"

All this time, I'd wondered about the tense relationship between her and Salwa but couldn't find a way to
broach the subject. Then I found myself asking the question from another angle. "I think they married; even the
widowed and divorced among them would have looked
for husbands."

She laughed mockingly. "Where from? The wars have
eaten half of the men and left the other half handicapped
or insane."

"They marry old men, although every one of them
deserves to fulfill her dreams. Take, for example, Salwa."

Mother Khadija picked up the ball. "Salwa? Oh, hers
is another story. I swear by God, I liked her."

"It didn't seem as if you liked each other."

"It wasn't my fault. She was ungrateful."

I tried to provoke her. "I think you were tough on
her."

She looked embarrassed and said, "If it hadnt been
for me, she would have died of shame."

I gave her a little shove and said, "No, no, Mother
Khadija, what you're saying here isnt nice."

She readjusted her seat and looked ready to speak,
as though stirred to answer a question that had lingered
for many years. "Oh, you are taking me back to memories
inscribed on the walls of al-Shawaka. Poor Salwa was one
of the victims of Aliwi al-Attar. If you want to know her
story, you should know what type of fox this man was
who never had enough of women's bodies even though
he had four wives. The fourth one refused to succumb to
his desires. She was deaf and dumb.

"He used to claim that he was equally connected to
angels and devils and attained his desires by using his
knowledge of popular medicine. Sterile women, unmarried girls, and women left by their husbands used to
resort to him. He was always ready to provide financial
help, claiming to draw hearts closer to fearing God by
chasing away the ghost of poverty and need. Aliwi alAttar was pious in front of the people and always in the
mosques, but no one knew his real intentions. He had a
split personality, and people didnt want to believe that
he was a beast under the surface. Rumor had it that he
used to strip women of their clothes and massage their
bodies with scented oils, claiming that he would deliver
them from evil souls. Some women visited him for this
purpose, either out of ignorance or out of feigned ignorance just to assuage their lust.

"How many times he chased me lasciviously I don't
know-but he was unsuccessful. Before I turned forty, I
was already a widow. My body was still fresh, and my skin was as soft as when I was in my twenties, but despite my
wretched life I remained unaffected by him and resisted.
I was a midwife, the only midwife in al-Shawaka. Most
of that place's sons were born at my hands, among them
three of Aliwi al-Attar's sons. Can you believe it? I used
to pull a baby from his mother's womb without any problem, even during difficult births. But I left the profession
after one of the women almost died at my hands because
of her thinness and young age."

Mother Khadija had strayed from my question, but I
didn't want to interrupt her.

"I warned the women about al-Attar's ruses and the
traps he would set, so his desperation for me turned into
hate. His grocery store was just in front of my house-I
couldn't miss it. At that time, Salwa was only fifteen years
old, soft and beautiful, her breasts getting round. She'd
lost her mother; her father was taking care of her and her
younger brother. One day she came to me and threw herself on my lap as though I were her mother; she was wailing as she said, 'If you don1 help me, I will commit suicide.'

"Given my experience with women, I didn't need
more explanation. I'd heard many similar stories.

"'How many months?'

"'Three.'

"'How did it happen?'

"She didn't answer, but I insisted and asked for the
details before I could proceed with the abortion. She
kissed my hands and cried. I assured her that many in
similar circumstances had asked for my help and that her
secret would be safe.

"Her brother Hassan had failed at school and feared
his father's punishment, so he hid for three days. People were looking for him in neighboring places, among relatives, and in the hospitals. Her father had informed
the police. Before sunset on the third day of his disappearance, as Salwa was making her way home from the
search, Aliwi had met her on the street, claiming to know
where Hassan was.

"'Where?' she had asked him, shaking as he put his
hand on her shoulder.

"'At the haunted house.'

"She'd shivered, but Aliwi assured her with a confident voice, 'Don't worry, he's safe.'

"One house had been abandoned for years, and
strange stories would circulate about it. Every time a family would live there, one of them would go mad or die
at the new moon, until the house had turned into ruins,
haunted by devils and ghosts."

Mother Khadija fell silent. She was tired, but I urged
her to tell me the story of Salwa and Aliwi al-Attar.

"'We have to save Hassan before he loses his mind,'
Salwa said.

"He was fingering his beads, mumbling, 'Wait for me
here, in this corner.'

"He climbed the fence of the haunted house and
asked her to come closer. She climbed the wall, and they
found themselves in a yard filled with junk. As Salwa
explained it to me, she hadn't been afraid. Like many,
she had thought that al-Attar enjoyed a favored position
with angels and devils. The two went inside, al-Attar
first, then Salwa, leaning on his arm. They walked along
a narrow corridor. Then he stopped her and asked her to
keep silent.

"'Stay here.'

"He walked to the end of the corridor and disappeared behind one of the doors."

Mother Khadija interrupted her story to ask me if I
wanted some tea or if I was hungry. "Let me know. Don't
be shy. I'm like your mother. I have lentil soup and cooked
cheese."

"Mother Khadija, I'm eager to know the rest of the
story."

"Come every day, and you'll hear a more horrible
story. I'm at the last station. Why should the stories die
with me?"

"So what happened to Salwa after that?"

"She was agitated, both fearing the unknown and
trusting at the same time. As she was torn between these
feelings, Aliwi al-Attar appeared and asked her to come
closer.

"Salwa then told me, 'I followed him, as he asked me,
to the room he had just come out of. The floor was covered with a long carpet, on which there was a blanket
and a woolen pillow, and there were magazine pictures
of naked women on the walls. A few moments later he
took me by surprise, out of breath like a bull. I couldn't
run away or free myself from his arms.'

"It seemed that he had prepared the weapons of the
hunt and chosen a prey that was unaware of his plans.
The devil in him came out from under his clothes and
raped her. I had to save her from the scandal. As for her
brother Hassan, it turned out that he had taken refuge
at a friend's place. After that incident, I didn't see Salwa
for a while. Her family moved to the banking neighborhood, and six years passed before we met again in
the Factory of Hope. She was upset to see me, perhaps because I was the only one who could remind her of
that scandal. As for Aliwi al-Attar, he took his secrets
to his tomb and died pierced by an uncountable number
of knives. No one knew who had killed him, and none
of his acquaintances was suspected of anything. The
incident was reported as an unsolved case. From what I
understood, a woman killed him to get rid of shame or
to take revenge. The report also said that a police officer
found a notebook where al-Attar had listed the names of
all the women he had slept with, but because the policeman didn't want to see killings in every house, he tore
it up."

THAT EVENING Samih was looking livelier. He slowly
sipped his coffee while saying, "God has given us the
best of senses, but most of the time we misuse them.
Some people might live with good senses, but they don't
come to enjoy life's pleasures, so their senses are beyond
what they need. Some lose one of their senses and try to
develop other senses. As for me, I see the world with what
my fingers can play on its chords."

"Which sense is most vital?" I asked.

He answered, "All of them are vital, but I feel sorry
for the dumb and deaf. The former can't speak, but he
sees and hears; thus, he loses the pleasure of conversation. The latter is even more miserable because he can t
hear the sounds of nature. Things around him seem like
swimming in the void."

"It is a real problem; the most painful, though, is to
lose the pleasure of life when one has his five senses."

He clapped happily with his hands, as if he just found
something he had lost. "You begin to understand me. That's why you should value what God gave you: you see,
hear, and converse, taste, enjoy touching and smelling."

"You're right. I'm not enjoying life as I should. Exile
plagues me, and the past has me almost in a stranglehold."

"In this case, either you reconcile with your memory,
or you have to create a memory for the future."

"Perhaps memory's weight will lessen with time.
But the creation of a new memory won't be very intimate because our most beautiful and important memories start when we are young and grow with us. They
are shaped over the years by our family, childhood, and
early friendships. And because they are virgin memories, they dig deep and suck the strength of the heart
once in exile."

"One has to create one's happiness or at least feel
contented wherever one finds oneself. That's how we can
protect ourselves against erosion. Satisfaction is a blessing, and self-satisfaction is the highest degree of this
blessing. If you would stop worrying, you would see that
the world is opening its doors to you."

"It is possible to contain my personal worries, but
what can I do with my country's sorrow? Its children are
scattered, and its holy sites brutalized. Fifty years ago we
fought against colonialism; now we begin to regret its
passing because of our leaders' atrocities."

"Countries are bigger and live longer than their leaders. No matter how many destructive means a leader has,
he cannot kill a homeland. You'll remember what I'm saying. The most important thing now is to treat your heart's
wounds and open up to life. Live it without masks. Look
for the beauty around you. I'm sure if I asked you about
the color of your dress, you would not know. The seeing beings, except a few of them, have no visual culture. That's
why they lose the meaning of beauty over the years."

"My circumstances are not too bad; I just find it difficult to adjust to them."

A small silence passed. I felt annoyed with myself
because I always brought sadness whenever I sat with
others. As I was about to excuse myself, Samih's fingers
started hitting the strings of his lute, and my eyes shed
bitter tears. The music flowed, washing my soul and freeing it of all fatigue. It was like a siren who had lived for
ages at the bottom of the sea and then been thrown on a
sandy beach. The playing continued harmoniously, a deaf
instrument telling the most beautiful stories with fingers
and feelings.

I hovered outside time and space, and I felt I was ten
women in the body of one. The first woman fled along the
road of the desert, the second wandered on the streets,
the third was alone and lonely, the fourth whinnied like
an indomitable horse, the fifth bid farewell to a man who
forgot to tell her good-bye, the sixth strung her tears into a
necklace for seasons of love that didn't come, the seventh
hovered above the clouds, the eighth was patching up
the defective garb of exile, the ninth witnessed her death
and walked in her funeral procession, and the tenth was
screaming at the final stroke in the performance, trying
to remember an appointment that had passed more than
a week ago.

I DIDN'T GET IN TOUCH WITH MOOSA-how long had
it been since I last saw him?-but he was on my mind. I
hadn't fallen in love with him, but I was dreaming about
him as a man I could trust. As for the ambiguity in his eyes, I had just invented it. I told myself that women
always look for someone to torture them, and if we don't
find that person in others, he will spring up from under
our skin. Women do not desire certainty; it's boring.

That evening I looked at things without ambiguity.
My head was free of illusions, and I was opening up to
welcome life. The change wasn't merely a mood shift;
I knew it was time for me to settle. I would say yes to
Moosa, and I would say it with complete certitude.

After a sleepless night, I found out that I was really
leaning toward Moosa; my senses were awakening, waiting for his caress. I began to hear his voice-a fresh voice,
whispering that life is an exhausting journey but that I
have to live it fully.