Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (4 page)

Salwa's face showed contrasting expressions. Sometimes she would look innocent, and sometimes the
secrets of a well-experienced woman seemed to be hiding behind her honey-colored eyes. She was agile, talkative, and quarrelsome. For unknown reasons, she had
declared herself an enemy of Mother Khadija, although
the latter was in her sixties and this job was her only
source of pleasure. Despite the wrinkles, traces of beauty
were still apparent beneath the sadness on Mother Khadija's face.

In stark contrast to all of these women, though, was
Nadia. She was mostly silent, and everything about her
was uncommon-her figure, her clothing, her behavior. Her eyes lured us with a mysterious attraction, but I
wasn't sure whether we were drawn because of her eyes
or the tone of her calm voice or the way she spoke when
she suddenly became vacant and appeared like a woman
from a bygone age. She didn't take part in discussions
and didn't argue, so she was the only one of us who was
spared Shafiqa's tongue, from which even I couldn't preserve myself in spite of my great caution.

One morning when it was raining and the streets
were muddy, I had trouble getting to the factory. Just
before I sat behind my machine, Shafiqa's authoritarian
voice assaulted me, making it clear to everyone that she
would not permit this breach of discipline. When I told
her that being five minutes late should be understandable
on such a rainy day, she mocked me. She started counting
the damage it would cause to Mr. Fatih, our benefactor, if
it were to happen again. Then she sneered at the graduate
student who ignored the importance of time and didn't
understand the slogan written with sparkling letters and
hanging over our heads. She pointed with her fingers and
spat the words, "To lose a minute of work is to lose an
opportunity for progress." It was hard to remain impassive in front of Shafiqa, but I hid the irony I felt regarding
a slogan often repeated by a president who was in fact the
one who stole our lives and destroyed our hopes.

After Shafiqa rebuked me on that cold morning, she
announced menacingly that because of the recession, Mr.
Fatih had decided to do without a certain number of workers. She said she was going to post a list of the workers who exceeded the factory's need. Obviously, she used this
announcement to make us nervous. It would be logical for
Shafiqa to choose the less productive or the undisciplined
workers, but Salwa pointed out another reason that she
believed would be the main one used for dismissal.

Shafiqa walked out after making the announcement,
leaving us helpless and scared. We were anxious and
wanted to know what was going on. Salwa stood up at
this moment, though, and malignantly announced that
Shafiqa would choose those who might be her rivals for
Mr. Fatih's heart. After Salwa dropped this bomb, she
refused to give more details until the break bell rang.
Aziza immediately asked her what she meant, but Salwa,
fearing that Shafiqa might hear, whispered words that we
couldn't hear. Still, the other women wouldn't let Salwa
possess the secret alone. They threw themselves around
her so that she couldn't escape their curiosity.

"You don't need to be smart to figure it out. Mr. Fatih
has lived alone since his Syrian wife left him a few days
before the war broke out. Since then, she hasn't come
back, perhaps because he is getting fat and she's afraid
she won't be able to breathe under him. Isn't this a good
reason for Shafiqa to hope that she might marry that heap
of flesh? Having already missed the boat, she is jealous
and tightening her control over us so that no one will get
the chance to have him for herself."

Aziza laughed coquettishly, saying, "Just one glance
from me would be enough to drag him to bed, but I don't
want to die suffocated."

Quick glances circulated, and the low laughter was
stifled out of fear that Shafiqa would crush the merriment. Mother Khadija found herself squeezed between Salwa and Aziza, buffeted by their words until she pulled
herself away from them, begging God's forgiveness and
throwing Salwa a glance of recrimination.

Salwa went on, reminding us how difficult it was
even to approach Mr. Fatih, for it was necessary to go
through Shafiqa first if we needed to talk to him. Shafiqa
would enter the room with us for anything of a truly serious nature.

At this point, Mother Khadija asked the others to stop
their nonsense, which might threaten our only source of
income. She looked at Salwa severely. Salwa became so
angry that she damned the day Mother Khadija entered
the factory, forgetting that the older woman had already
been there when Salwa herself had started working.

Things would have stopped there had not Aziza
winked at Salwa, saying, "Male underwear seems to have
its effect."

Before the laughter had completely died down, Salwa
glared at Mother Khadija and yelled, "If you don't like this
conversation, don't push yourself into it! You are an elderly
woman, and it is not suitable for you, so don't interfere!"

All the while, Nadia and I had been observing, not
participating. After a short time, Nadia chose to move to
the corner farthest away, and Mother Khadija withdrew
from Salwa and Aziza, hissing to Salwa, "You are the last
person to talk about people's honor!"

Salwa became even angrier, and all the women held
their breath out of fear of an unexpected explosion, as
sometimes happened. But Aziza took hold of Salwa and
moved her away from Mother Khadija. All we could hear
then were muttered insults.

Mother Khadija and Salwa had never liked each other
and never agreed on anything. The clash between them,
however, would go only so far. There was a certain point
beyond which neither was willing to step. Years later
the hidden nuances of their relationship were disclosed
to me when I encountered Mother Khadija once again
in Amman. Both she and Salwa had originated from alShawaka, a forgotten quarter in Baghdad, with cracked
houses and overflowing sewers in wintertime. Even
today the houses' walls are half washed away by humidity during the rainy season, and termites build nests in
their pillars and wooden roofs. Bogs and ponds find their
way to its alleys, which sink below street level during the
rainy season. It is a quarter falling into oblivion for everyone but the rats, the scorpions, and poverty.

After the break, all the women returned to their
machines except Salwa, who stood again in the front part
of the room. Looking upset, she announced, "If Shafiqa
dismisses me, I will dishonor her."

Mumbles and questions circulated in the room.
Aziza exploded in support, but the other women asked
what Salwa meant.

Feeling she had said enough, Salwa simply returned
to her place, adding, "All of you are self-serving. You'll
compete in flattering Shafiqa so that she spares you. Don't
rush things; I for one will wait for the list, and then we'll
see what happens."

The machines' rising clamor interfered with our
questions and laughter, drowning out everything but
Shafiqa's sharp command to get back to work. At four
o'clock we brushed off our hands and ran to the coat rack. A WEEK LATER Mr. Fatih fired five women. None of them
made any objection, for there was no law to protect employees in the private factories. Contrary to our expectations,
Salwa was not among the fired women. One month later,
however, she announced that she was leaving to marry
someone who was employed at the Ministry of Commerce.
Mother Khadija was one of the first to congratulate her; she
took Salwa in her arms and wished her a happy life.

Aziza lowered her eyes and embarked on a long daydream before saying to Salwa, "You are the first; we are next."

At that time, the market was in its worst economic recession, although underwear wasn't as greatly affected as other merchandise. Nevertheless, Mr. Fatih reduced the number of workers again. Shafiqa informed us of the cuts, but the news didnt have the same impact on us as it had the first time. The whole country was in turmoil; major atrocities were broadcast by the channel of the president's son. They were crimes reminiscent of the days of Abu Tabar in the 197os before we found out that Abu Tabar, who robbed people's tranquillity and security, was nothing more than a creature of the regime.'

A FEW WORDS, fragments of jokes, complaints, and vexations-this was our life in the Factory of Hope. Over time, we had become weaker parts of the machines. Sometimes we forced a laugh, but it vanished immediately, or we voiced our complaints but never received a response. The floating flannel particles clung to our clothes and our
eyelashes, dulling the shine in our eyes. And whenever
Shafiqa wanted to punish one of us, she would assign that
woman to the storage room to find the damaged pieces
and repair what could be repaired.

The storage room was just seven by five feet, with no
other opening than the door. The ventilation was very
bad, the light scarce, and the humidity suffocating. We
used to call it the "prison cell." Shafiqa, who had much
experience in the market, never missed an opportunity
to benefit from small pieces of fabric. She asked us to collect these pieces in bags after the selection process. Then
she would sell them to the Dushma factories on her own
initiative, not Mr. Fatih's, because he never thought about
taking such measures. The system was lifeless, rigorous,
numbing.

On the days the machine technician visited the factory, the lonely souls were stirred and the usual order
was shaken. Emad was a tall young man with a clear
complexion and an elegant appearance. He used to come
every Saturday to examine and repair the damaged
machines because under the endless embargo Mr. Fatih
couldn't import new ones. Emad also came on other occasions, for an hour or two when necessary.

Every Saturday the women prettied themselves as
though they were going to a party; they would wear lipstick and sparkling eye shadow. As soon as they saw the
handsome technician, their faces drained of color and
their eyes attacked him with improper looks. Aziza would
claim that her machine was too heavy, and Salwa would
complain about the quality of the needles that pulled at
and damaged the fabric. A third woman would ask him, although she knew the answer already, whether Mr. Fatih
would buy new machines. Another woman would call
out: "Please, Mr. Emad, have a look at my machine! It's
getting tired." No matter how long he stayed, they always
had questions and requests the entire time. He spent his
visit observing the machines, taking notes, recording
requests, and promising every woman that he would take
care of her demand. Infatuated eyes and lascivious glances
would always follow him as he departed.

Shafiqa often noticed those eyes and glances, though.
She realized that unless she set things straight, she would
lose control of the situation. One day she said to Mr. Fatih,
"How can you set a fire near gasoline?" So one Saturday
another engineer stepped in. He was short and pushing
toward his sixties, with only a little white hair left on his
scalp. And so Emad appeared and quickly disappeared,
like a dream, as Aziza kept saying. Still, he wasn't a
dream because we had a collective feeling about him. But
so it was that the status quo was reasserted.

WE SANK TO THE PAVEMENT, devastated, our fingers
intertwined while silently we wept.

"How long have you been here?" I asked her.

She replied with a dry voice, as if it came from the
heart of the desert. "A year and a half. Only a few days
more, though, before I move to Canada. I live very poorly
on a small wage from the Refugee Office and what I earn
at the boutique selling children's clothes. And you?"

"I just arrived. I applied for asylum, and I'm still waiting for the interview."

We sank into silence again. We looked at each other
as if trying to discover our inmost secrets or as if looking for things lost: the remaining traces of our humanity
crushed under the wheels of chaos.

She finally broke the silence, seeming to talk to herself. "Will anyone believe what happened to us? The children of a wealthy country scattered all over the world?"

I didn't answer. The sidewalk couldn't absorb the
overflow of our emotions, so I suggested that we go to my
"house," meaning my room, which was perched on top of
a carpentry workshop on Mount al-Hussein. On our way,
we held hands and exchanged glances, not believing in
this meeting.

I prepared tea. She wanted Iraqi tea.

"Don't put any sage or mint in it."

"As you like."

While we were drinking tea, I looked at her face carefully. It had lost its shining light. I also noticed her weakened body. I couldn't help asking, "What happened after
we went our separate ways?"

She stared at me, the shadow of a pale smile flowing
into her eyes, so I felt it was inappropriate to ask her about
her circumstances. I wanted to rephrase my question to
fill the gap that had opened between us, but she went on,
as if she realized that in exile we had nothing but words
to express our tragedy.

"You know the ruin that befell the country soon after
you left it. But if you are asking specifically about me, I
have lost everything. They killed my brother, Nadir. My
mother died of grief and sadness just two months after
him. And the man I loved disappeared somewhere in this
world."

Words froze on my lips for a few seconds. Nadir had
been a strong man, with light-brown skin, wide eyes, a light mustache, and curly hair. When I first visited Nadia's family, he had been standing at the door. I'd smiled at him as though I'd known him for many years and said, "You are Nadir. Nadia has told me about you."

He'd said jokingly, "And how do you find me? Do I really look like Alessandro?"'

I'd said confidently, "Of course not. You are better looking. You have Sumerian features."

Nadia looked into the distance, reminding me of those days at the Factory of Hope when she used to roam far away. Then she said intensely, "Death flourishes in our country. It has become like any growing trade and has found supporters and allies possessing the ugliest technologies of torture."