Cinnamon (16 page)

‘I can't!' she sobbed.

In a rare moment of tenderness, Hanan's mother put her arms around her shoulders and began playing with her daughter's hair.

‘Don't be scared,' she whispered. ‘Nothing's going to change. All you have to do is move into Anwar's room. We'll still be together, and the family will be complete again. You'll become a whole woman. It won't be difficult.'

How could it not be difficult?
Hanan stared unfalteringly at her mother. Her mind strayed to thoughts of Anwar and his wife, who had departed the family's life a few months before. Hanan had been happy in her own little world, the one within the walls of her bedroom. She hadn't asked why her cousin had returned. In the evenings, as she sat embroidering her white cloth with pictures of birds, windows and daisies, she heard them talking. The family would disintegrate if Anwar didn't marry again, and their lives would change if he did, with his insistence that his wife was not at fault. None of this had meant a thing to Hanan before, but that was different now. She couldn't possibly accept that the man who had been a brother to her would become her husband. Her body shuddered at the word, and her skin crawled. Exhausted, Hanan sat on the bed, the pores of her trembling skin filling with soft pimples. She watched the lips as they opened and closed, a loud drone ringing in her ears, followed by silence. Hanan could no longer hear what her mother was saying. Her head was on fire. She closed her eyes and became submerged in slumber.

Hanan wasn't sure what had happened after that. Anwar disappeared without her even seeing him. Everything was arranged as she lay in her bed greeting developments with languid gestures of approval. In the run-up to the wedding Anwar persistently entered her thoughts with the one unforgettable image she held of him: Anwar the big brother she'd always dreamt of. His soft hands stroked her hair. He and his wife gave her morsels of food, treating her like their daughter. Hanan remembered too the wonderful trips they had taken to Bloudan and Zabadani, how the couple had spoilt her like a puppy dog. She had never recalled those details before, so why now? It must be God's way of torturing her for having revolted against her mother, and for hating her so. That must be the reason.

Hanan asked her mother to stay with her constantly, to fend off the memories which returned like nightmares. The family interpreted her distress as a bride's fear of her big night. There were only a few days to go until the wedding, which they had arranged to be very special: the celebrations would pervade the whole district of Muhajireen, and would last several days. Hanan saw little of the party, however. Through the closed window, she heard the dances and
dabkeh
parties going on in the nearby street. The window had stayed shut since she had closed it, at noon on that day when she had watched the flock of pigeons playing in the busy sky, amongst the branches of the quinine trees.

Hanan refused to go to the women's bathhouse. It was the one form of resistance she could muster before her family, a clear message that she wanted to throw herself from Mount Qasyoun and tumble down between the white stone houses. She would rather burn in hell than have to touch that man, whom she loathed now more than anyone. The mere recollection of the bathhouse, of the fluttering shiver she had enjoyed as a child sitting in the neighbour's lap, was enough to make her feel all the more wretched. Instead, Hanan chose to wash as if it were an ordinary day. Then, she left her room to watch the servants moving her clothes and other possessions into Anwar's new quarters. She and her mother entered the room. Her white dress was pulled tight around her waist, her face covered with a soft white veil, embellished with lace and sparkling white pearls. Hanan hadn't thought about the imminent pain; the usual fear of a girl approaching her wedding night did not even enter her mind. She knew that women had been created to bear pain, as her mother had told her. The best thing to do was to endure it silently, to resist it with stoicism, equanimity and composure.

Hanan closed her eyes and turned off the lights. She sat on the edge of the bed, like an actress in an Egyptian film. She waited. And waited. Anwar too was hoping it wouldn't have to happen. Yet he had surrendered, along with his cousin, feeling an inescapable sense of loyalty to his family with the painful recognition that he was the last remaining male. This sense of allegiance made the situation easier for him. Anwar entered his wife's room without turning on the lights. He stopped and waited, gazing at what he could make out of her white dress beneath the faint streaks of light coming in through the window. In the darkness, there was a sense of collusion between Anwar and Hanan, and until Anwar took hold of his bride's hand to kiss it everything was fine. Once he had pulled her close and sensed her shaking Anwar could no longer contain himself. He patted her forehead, just as he had always done when she was a little girl, when she would sit in his lap twirling his moustache and playing with his cheeks. There was a familiar scent; the scent of infants, he realised. Anwar drew away from his cousin and pulled back the curtains to dispel the last of the shadows, so that her image would vanish from before him.

That evening Hanan came of age. She said goodbye to her old world and slipped skilfully and silently into the responsibilities of her new routine. Whenever her mother asked how her husband was treating her – whether he was kind and cordial – Hanan made no response. Her mother interpreted this as shyness, dropping the subject until much later when Hanan began asking for advice on how to gain her husband's affections in the bedroom. Her daughter's exclamation that her husband wanted to bite her lips and nibble at her breasts frightened her. The girl was incomplete, she felt. These were the signs of corners cut in her training to becoming a good wife, of an over-emphasis on decorum. Hanan's instruction was of no use to her in dealing with her fear of the evenings, which increased as the years passed and she did not become pregnant. Anwar had started to keep his distance, not just from her but from the house altogether. He hadn't noticed how she had engrossed herself in completing her studies, in keeping up with her mother and the neighbours, going to her parties and fulfilling her other duties. She continued with her studies because it was what her mother wanted; it was for her sake that she stayed at home. To Hanan, it didn't matter; there was no life running through her veins. It was as if she'd been born dead, as if she'd been created simply to march towards death. Hanan had a destructive urge to slip into a coma and be relieved of the burdens of her world, as if she had never existed. As if she had never been her mother's daughter.

What would have happened if she had refused Anwar point blank? She wondered now.

 

The telephone rang once more and stirred Hanan from her daydreams. She went back inside and shut the curtains, as if to hide from it. The room was bathed in darkness. Hanan felt calmer. She pulled the telephone cord out from the wall and, with trembling hands, switched off her mobile, throwing it to the ground. As Hanan lay on her bed exhausted, Nazek's face appeared before her. She had tortured Nazek so badly, she thought. Nazek had done so much to please her and to win her back from that pock-marked maid, the maid who, when all was said and done, was her little lover.

Hanan's little lover gave up all hope of the rubbish truck coming, or of spotting anyone walking through the place, which was silent even though the sun had now risen towards the domed roof of the sky. Aliyah's mind was in another place – the place where she belonged, where she could remove her veneers and return to her mother's embrace, to be just as she was created. She wouldn't let life pass her by anymore, Aliyah reassured herself. She would do all sorts of things.

The heel of her shoe snapped instantly as Aliyah stamped in anger, assuring herself that she was going to be ok. She fell. She turned her head to look back. Why she felt a sharp twinge in her chest as she imagined her old world had disappeared, as though it had never existed, she did not know.

Taking off her shoes, Aliyah found the source of her troubles. A small tack had come loose. This was a problem she could resolve. She put her bag aside, picked up a stone and bashed the tack back into the heel. Putting on the shoes, which fastened around her ankles, she cautiously set off once more. Why hadn't she brought any other shoes? Pausing, Aliyah realised something: they weren't her shoes! They were Hanan's.

Aliyah tried to recollect what shoes she had worn in Hanan's house and laughed; she realised she'd never had a pair to leave the house in. The only shoes she had were special ones for the house – footwear for service. Even on the rare occasions when she was obliged to go out, Aliyah wore the same shoes. The thought hadn't entered Hanan's mind to buy her any, even though she had showered her with presents and even taught her how to smoke. Aliyah was a prisoner; a slave to the whims of her mistress, who wanted her never to go beyond the villa walls.

She carried on her way, dreaming of her mother's room. Things would be better once she got to al-Raml, she tried to reassure herself. Suddenly, a figure appeared in the distance. Her heart jumped and she ran towards it. A moment later, she realised she was hallucinating; her discovery was nothing but a disappointing trick causing her to take off again. Remembering Anwar lying naked in his room, Aliyah felt pity. She frowned. He had been so happy waiting for her to come to him on those long nights. She could sense his longing, the joy he felt when she skirted by him while cleaning, when he pretended to be sleeping or when seemed to be afraid as she undressed in his room, all the while ignoring his servile glances. Anwar's image drew closer. That final image. His body's odour. Aliyah felt nauseous and started to wretch once more.

The mistress's scent allowed Aliyah to flourish – to open out and grow taller, while the master's made her feel the need to wash at the end of the evening.
Why do it with him then? Why destroy your life with your own hands?
Aliyah shrugged and carried on along the road, away from Hanan.

Hanan awoke from her brief doze and looked towards the window. It was as if a mountain were weighing over her head. For a second she forgot who she was. She groped at her chest, finding no additional breasts. Ants were crawling beneath her skin; she could feel them nibbling away at her heart. But when she looked at her hands there was no sign of the insects. Hanan burst into tears.

She opened her window out onto the green plain and the little palaces with their rendered facades. Thinking of Aliyah – of her startled little face – Hanan felt her love was stronger than ever before. She pictured Aliyah's tall frame as the girl walked alone. Fire sparked in her chest as she recalled the look of Aliyah's teary eyes.

Hanan ran out without putting on her headscarf, paying no attention to the gardener cutting back the trees. It wasn't until she felt the sharp pebbles below that she noticed her feet were bare. Heading straight for the car, Hanan realised she wasn't carrying her keys and ran back even wilder this time, panting as she made her way up to the top floor. Quickly, she emptied her leather bag, grabbed hold of the keys, descended the stairs and got into the car.

Bewildered, the gardener ran to open the great iron gate, yet to his surprise it was already unlocked. Strange; he was sure he'd pulled the bolt over before going to bed, but the mistress was driving at such speed there was little time for him to think. He ran towards the house, sure that something must have happened for her to be going out barefoot in her thin nightdress, with untamed hair and bloodshot eyes. The master must be dead. The gardener dashed to Anwar's room, surprised to find him standing behind the window, barely able to support himself. Leaning on his ivory cane, Anwar's emotionless gaze followed Hanan. He paid not the slightest attention as the gardener greeted him. Anwar remained so still that for a second the gardener imagined his master had turned to stone; his eyelashes made not the slightest flutter as he stared with eyes startlingly wide.