Love in the Kingdom of Oil (12 page)

‘In spite of everything you deserve my thanks.’ She said this in a voice laden with sincerity. Her body appeared more powerful. She inhaled and exhaled more easily. He had been able to rid her of that lump in the throat.

He appeared not to hear her. He was watching the movement of the paper inside her. Never before had he intended to deceive her in this way. He would watch her comings and goings from the toilet. That bit of paper would not escape him.

‘Let’s assume that it is a marriage contract. Then who’s the man? And if it is not a marriage contract, what is it? A love letter?’

In his eyes love appeared less dangerous than marriage, for love was not binding. He took a cigarette out of his pocket. He flicked his fingers as he lit the match. He was sitting on a full jar. Circles of smoke spread around him. Then he raised his eyes to the horizon. The hawk had landed at the edge of the lake, and had begun to eat something small that twisted between its teeth like a caterpillar.

‘If, when it comes down to it, it is simply a matter of love, then what sort of love is it?’ This was the question he asked himself as he puffed out the smoke. He only knew one type of love. That for which you pay nothing.

The woman became tired of standing so she sat down on the chair. Behind the door he was watching her through the keyhole. Perhaps the paper had been totally digested or perhaps the words had disappeared as the ink ran. He saw her pressing on her stomach with her hands as if she was imprinting the words on the paper, protecting them from disappearing. Could one love to this degree!?

He heard her humming in a loud voice. She began to sing a song that she had sung in her childhood. She raised her voice and drowned the other voices in silence. Her song flowed out through the door. She had rescued the paper and the letters that were on it. The thought had come to her as she was sitting down. The night of the Feast would be the best night to flee. The man was going to the celebration. The invitation was from His Majesty and he could not absent himself. They would wear brilliant cloaks and new shoes and sit hour after hour behind locked doors. He could not go out even if he had indigestion. He would curl up in his chair hour after hour, and he might even piss a little before His Majesty arrived. One of them would feel the seat under him, and then stealthily put his finger to his nose. His eyes would widen in fright. It was not the smell of urine. On his finger he would see a layer of black, neither liquid nor solid. It had the smell of oil. But nobody could say anything. Each of them would wipe his finger surreptitiously on his
sarwal
and remain in his seat waiting for the doors to open.

‘Perhaps she could cross the boundary before he returned from the celebration.’

The man remained transfixed behind the keyhole. He did not know exactly when he could swoop. The woman appeared to be sleeping as she sat. Her head dangled above her chest, and her eyes were closed. He was wondering which was more dangerous. If it was a love letter or a marriage contract. Perhaps he could uncover the two dangers at the same time, if the two men were in fact one and the same.

At that moment the storm rose and the keyhole became blocked. The way ahead of him appeared completely blocked and he could see nothing apart from darkness. He heard the woman as if she was laughing behind the door. Could there be a relationship between love and oil? The thought filled him with terror, and he stepped backwards, and found himself flat on his back.

The woman did not see him when he fell. She imagined he was still behind the door. Pain was tearing her insides apart. She was gulping down air. It was not a laugh or a broken sob. She wanted to cry out for help but remembered that he was behind the door and could attack her if he heard her voice.

‘How can you pull the chain without making a noise?’

But of course there was no water there, and nothing to remove the traces. She did not want to open the door and go out brazenly. What disturbed her most was the smell. A mixture of sweat, oil, and remains of sardines and pickles. Was it a repulsive smell? Of course not. It was so familiar that she had feelings of love towards it. However, the man placed his hand over his nose and cried as if for help. She seized the opportunity and leapt out of the door.

The sun was just going down below the horizon. In the twilight she began to orientate herself on the ground. She found the patch of ground specified on the map. She raised her arm and hit the ground with the chisel time after time. Suddenly she felt it hitting against something solid. It was a small bronze statue. The breast was clear and did not brook any doubt. The bottom also confirmed that it was a woman. On her head she carried the disc of the sun and the horns tilted forwards. There was no doubt that it was the goddess Hathur. Who else could it be? There was a hole in her head and the skin was eaten away because of the oil and the underground sewage. However, the face was round; there was a smile on the lips and the chin and the nose were very delicate. There was a belt around the dainty waist and a snake wrapped and tied around the forehead. On her chest there was only one breast; perhaps the oil had eaten away the other one. However, the letters were carved on the rock and the name was set in a frame: the one-breasted god. Her eyes widened and she looked more carefully. She realised that one of the breasts had been removed by somebody. He had intended to remove the other but there had not been enough time. He had also tried to wipe off the smile, or to draw lines around the mouth to complete a frown, but the body remained as it had been, with a plump bottom and the spirit hovering around the one breast as if it was the breast of a mother.

‘This statue will attract many tourists, wave after wave of them, and hard currency will pour in.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Don’t you understand my words? What’s happened to you? Are you ill?’

‘No, but I asked for leave.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘A simple request.’

‘Are you out of your mind!?’

Her boss at work had not grasped what she was saying. She had discovered signs of forgery, of goddesses being changed into gods. She could not talk to her husband about her boss at work. Her husband couldn’t bear such conversation. Her boss could not bear to hear the name of her husband, and she could not bear to hear about either of the men. All that she wanted was a paper to write the request on, for there was no leave without a written paper specifying the date of departure, the date of return, and the destination. You could not leave the date of return unspecified. A man could absent himself for seven years and then return to find his wife waiting for him, by order of the law. However, the only leave the woman received was on the day of her funeral. How precarious was the distinction between leave and death.

The light over the oil dunes disappeared. The outline of the track was lost in the darkness. She stopped walking. The wind was whistling but she could not hear anything. The ear canal was completely blocked and she lacked her sense of hearing. Could she run away without making any noise? She looked at the watch on her wrist. The hour hand pointed to seven, the minute hand had stopped, and the second hand was totally decrepit. If only she could cross the boundary before sunrise. She would not try to hold on to oil like she had held on to love. The track ahead of her appeared slippery. The slope was steep and the dunes high. There was no difference between going up and going down. She abandoned her body to the movement as she had abandoned herself to it as a child. Her head beat against the darkness and her legs sank in above the knees.

Night came. The oil extended without end. Wave upon wave. There was no trace of the lights of the village. There were no houses and no bridge. She closed her eyes. She imagined her husband waking up from sleep and not finding her. He would crane his neck towards the door of the toilet. If it was closed, he would believe that she was in there, and if it was open he would think that she was in the bathroom, or perhaps in the kitchen. He could determine where she was without opening his eyes. If he opened his eyes, he could not see her except by going the other side of the door.

It had not occurred to him even in a dream that he could lose her. It was not permitted for a woman to be lost. She had no other place to lose herself in, and if there was another place, there was not another man, and if there was another man, there was no piece of paper. And a woman had no existence without a piece of paper.

‘And he never doubted her existence, did he?’

When her husband stretched out his arm, he could catch hold of her, even when he was asleep. And when he was awake he could stretch out his leg and kick her. The place was so cramped, and it became even more cramped as time passed, the size of the body increased, the amount of fat increased and the amount of movement decreased. On the night of the Festival, he would carry her on his back, as if she was a lamb, and place her on the scales, and with the price he received he would buy that new machine.

‘What is that machine?’

‘That one that she taps on with her fingers and it writes without learning how to write.’

Yes, the dream was quite legitimate. The machine did not have a mouth like a woman to eat, nor a tongue to talk with. Moreover, it wrote in a clear hand. And if it was not writing, it stayed in its place without moving. If it became decrepit with time, it could be exchanged, and it would be possible for him to do without the woman entirely.

‘It’s a new type of machine, with buttons for writing and buttons for reading, buttons for brushing and buttons for wiping . . .’

‘And who will cook for you?’

‘There’s a white button which you press on and ask for any food you want. It’ll give you a piping hot meal, along with salads, pickles and everything else.’

‘And sex, I mean love?’

‘It has another button for that, coloured red.’

The woman strained her ears, and voices came to her across time-consuming distances. She had been astute enough to be able to go on leave. Yes indeed, for the tame ox could go on leave for a day, and the machine could stop working for a day, and nobody could accuse either of them of immorality. But unfortunately she was a woman, and she could not be innocent. ‘If a woman leaves her husband’s bed for one night, she shall be hung by her hair on the Day of Resurrection and burnt in the fire.’

It was the voice of her husband in their days of love. He could not bear for her to be absent for a single night. But that was before those machines were discovered. And before oil became a power like electricity. She had been a placid girl, totally obedient to the orders of her husband and her boss at work. A respected and first-rate researcher. Her name was in the register with the picture of a mummy. Everybody had been pleased with her and she had had no enemies. Nor did she have any friends, because there is nothing that dirties the reputation of a woman as much as friends. Above all that, the only thing she was interested in was the exploration of archaeological sites.

‘Gods? His Majesty? Didn’t she have any interest in them?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, didn’t she have any interest in politics?’

‘Did you say ‘polities’. Don’t you know that it is forbidden for women to engage in politics?’

‘Didn’t she use to read the newspapers at least?’

‘She couldn’t read or write?’

‘She was beautiful then.’

The conversation appeared strange to her, even though it was completely natural. However, the matter was not easy. A woman could not be beautiful apart from a very good make of mirror. And mirrors used to deteriorate with time. Black particles crept into them, borne on the gusts of wind. Her face would appear full of blemishes, and these blemishes would increase with the passing of time. They would spread over the nose and the cheeks, and climb to cover the forehead. They would blot out all her features, even the eyes. Nothing would be left apart from one or perhaps half an eye.

She froze, standing in her place. She saw her picture reflected on the ceiling. Was it her face? She could only see half an eye, and on her head a jar. Her neck was bent sideways. Could it be one of the neighbours and not her? She hit the mirror with her hand and broke it. Yes, what was the point of a mirror for a woman who no longer looked at her face?

‘There must be a reason that forces a woman to conceal her face from the world.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘This is an indication of the immorality of women.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, then do you have any new information?’

‘Not at all. They haven’t found any trace of her yet.’

‘What’s this machine? It appears that you’ve bought a new typewriter.’

‘Yes, it writes, sweeps, wipes, washes and cooks, and everything else.’

‘Then you can travel and enjoy your leave. I have a rest house far away in the open country.’

‘Do you mean Jar Sunira?’

‘It now has a new name. Didn’t you know that?’

‘Yes, the Rest House, that’s a better name, and I can pay you some rent, a nominal one at least.’

‘I have no objection, if you insist. Prices have risen, as the price of a jar has risen.’

‘Of course. This is also due to the immorality of women. Haven’t you heard about that latest heresy?’

‘Yes, women have begun to ask for wages.’

‘That’ll lead to an insane rise in prices.’

‘Don’t worry. There are new machines to take over the woman’s role. They carry jars on four rubber feet, and walk by oil power.’

‘This is God’s favour upon us. Don’t you see that God is always with us?’

* * *

She continued eavesdropping on the interrogation over the long distance. She stopped to wipe the sweat with her sleeve. Would it be better for her to return? She turned around, taking one step forward and then a step back. She stopped on the edge of the lake. Her eyes looked towards the sky, watching as the lights appeared. Perhaps her childhood was the cause. She was unable to forget her childhood. At sunset she used to climb up onto the bridge and wait. Fields of crops stretched beside the river. At the bottom of the slope lay houses that were stuck together and leaning against each other. On the roofs were discs of dung, firewood, dovecotes and dusty ground, from which rose dust and the smells of mallow and dung. Flies and mosquitoes flew around them, and flying black cockroaches. Children were playing in the big lake behind the mosque. From it there rose the croaking of frogs and the sounds of crying and laughter. From the country track rose the voices of those returning from the fields. Their feet stirred up the dust, as did the pads of the buffalo and the oxen. The breath of the animals mixed with the breath of the human population. She was sitting on the bridge waiting. She followed with her eyes the quivering of the stars above her head. At the bottom of the slope, wisps of light quivered in the houses. The sound of neighing rang out freely in the darkness of the night, and the sad singing of women as they sat in the gloom with their backs against the wall. Her aunt had tied her head with a scarf, and was sitting on the bridge not wanting to return. She was wearing a
jallaba
whose bottom edge was spattered with mud. She wore it every day as she walked from the house to the field carrying on her head the sacks of vegetables. In the evening she would not play with the children, for playing was only for boys. For her there was nothing to equal sitting on the bridge with her eyes fixed on the horizon, her heart pulsing vigorously and the lights shining in the sky overhead. Lamps trembled in the windows, hung on poles surmounted by hooks, around which buzzed green moths with splayed feet. The clay benches were filling with men emerging from their houses and coming from the neighbouring villages, drinking tea and smoking, and passing on news from the newspapers. She closed her eyes and saw herself entering school and learning to read and write, and becoming a researcher in some branch of knowledge, or a secretary of the type whose pictures you see in the newspapers. The arteries in her neck were pulsing vigorously, as if thoughts of genius were pulsing into her head. Her aunt and all the women neighbours were raising their chapped palms upwards, beseeching the Lady of Purity to protect her from envy and evil spirits. She could hear their voices whispering with a sound like the rustling of wind, ‘This girl has a world-class mind.’