Love in the Kingdom of Oil (7 page)

He yawned with a loud voice. She saw him smoking as he sat behind the newspaper. He would puff out the smoke between his lips and go off into raptures.

‘Give me a puff too please!’

‘What are you saying?’

‘One puff of your cigarette.’

‘Women do not smoke, by order of His Majesty.’

She clamped her lips shut and did not reply. She had fed him and washed him. She had treated him like her absent child. She had wiped away his pain. Didn’t she have the right to go into raptures like him?

When he handed her the jar to carry it, she had a desire to pour it over his head. But she had second thoughts. She could obey him today for the sake of a higher goal tomorrow. She could not lose everything for one puff.

Smoke was escaping from his nostrils. The nostrils dilated and the little hairs inside them trembled with the intensity of the rapture. She inhaled one or two deep breaths of the air, and some smoke found its way into her chest. She puffed it out from her mouth and nose. Yes indeed, if life held no rapturous pleasure for her, she at least had a right to take a puff of the smoke in the air. Anger seeped out of her body with the smoke, and the world appeared less depressing, or rather, perhaps, the smoke had gone to her head and she felt she had come across some genius idea that would deliver her from her present life.

She had seen pictures of geniuses in the book. Clouds of smoke surrounded their heads. One of them had his head tilted sideways, leaning his chin on his hands. His eyes were half open, gazing upwards into space. The smoke rose from his dilated nostrils. In the book she also used to see pictures of the prophets. They too could only see God from behind a cloud of smoke.

She drew a deeper breath. Her head filled with smoke. Her mind seemed to pulsate under her skull, and she felt the idea being born. She encircled her head with her hands, afraid that the idea would escape her. The idea might creep out through the holes that opened onto her ears, eyes and nose. She pressed her hands on her skull, but she could not continue long and eventually let her arms fall by her sides.

‘Are you sleeping on your feet?’ She stretched and yawned with a sound resembling the bleating of a goat. She heard the voice, like the whistle of the wind. The storm roared and black particles crept under her clothes, invading the orifices of her body. She closed her eyes completely and wakefulness dissolved in a strange dream. She saw herself riding on the back of the chisel as if it was a horse. It galloped with her over an unknown city. Its buildings were tall, the tops piercing the clouds. Its streets were so narrow that there was only just enough room to pass. The chisel flew with her through the air without wings. It hovered above the roofs and she waved her feet as if she was playing on a swing. The women gazed at her with pleasure mixed with envy. Their hands were raised in the air clapping. Then the hands tried to drag her down, hoping to make her fall. She shook her legs vigorously so that the horse could climb with her again. By now the horse was no longer a horse but a palm frond that she rode on like the village children did.

Hands seized her and she fell. Her body plunged downwards and sank into the fog. Then she saw herself walking on asphalt that melted under her feet because of the extreme heat. A bit of tar stuck to the heel of her shoe, smelling of oil. She quickened her pace, panting, and went into a black building without windows or doors, but with iron pillars. A choking smell filled the building. The chisel was in her bag and she held on firmly to the strap over her shoulder. Her legs climbed the steps, almost slipping. She regained her balance without grasping hold of anything. There were no railings and the staircase was a narrow spiral one, which was not wide enough to permit her body to pass. She was pushed into a narrow door, which opened suddenly, and there she was inside the room, which was bare of furniture apart from a swivel chair and a worktable around which a number of men were sitting. All that was visible of them were their prominent facial features, the foreheads, the cheeks, the jawbones, the noses and the chins.

They did not raise their heads when she entered. They were standing over a book, their minds absorbed. They turned over the pages with knuckly fingers. They began from the cover and continued to the last page. Then they began again. ‘Is this your name?’

The voice sounded like that of her husband, but the black pipe in his mouth indicated that it was her boss from work. He swivelled round, sitting in the chair. He came and stood directly in front of her. She saw his face and realised that he was the police interrogator. Silence fell. She heard the rustle of papers, and a cloud of smoke rose to the ceiling. His finger pointed to the name on the cover of the book. ‘This is your name, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the book!?’

‘It’s about goddesses.’

‘Isn’t that blasphemy against the gods?’

She wanted to raise her hand and ask ‘What is blasphemy?’ and ‘Where is the blasphemy?’ But the fog prevented her from seeing. She heard a noise like an explosion coming from papers being torn. Her nose filled with the smell of smoke. The papers were burning. A spark had flown from the mouth of the burning pipe. The fire spread to the jars of oil. They exploded one after another and tongues of flame shot into the sky.

When she opened her eyes, her nose was full of smoke. The man was sitting in his place gazing at her. He imagined that she had stolen a cigarette from his pocket while he was asleep. Before he slept, he used to count his cigarettes, and the coins in his inside pocket. He used to hide the bottle in a place that was unknown to her. But smoke engulfed the place. It had crept over the houses of the village like a black mist.

The newspapers appeared stating that the fire had come about because of the intervention of Satan. The people of the village raised their arms towards heaven, and stoned Satan. But heaven did not listen to their entreaties. Satan used to walk on the bridge. The women’s eyes used to stare at him through the shutters. Their bodies trembled inside their black
jallabas
. They would tie black scarves around their heads. One of them tied her scarf more tightly, twisting it three times. She knotted it above her forehead so that it looked like the head of a snake. She twirled round and kicked the ground with her feet. ‘Our Lady of Purity!’ The voices of the ladies rose, and the beating of the drums, the cries of the children, the cracking of sticks in the hands of the men, the croaking of frogs in the pond, the barking of dogs which came from here and there, and the dust rising into the sky. The universe filled with a black fog, which gushed over the land like a waterfall. It was neither liquid nor smoke, and you could not catch hold of it with your fingers.

‘Where have you hidden the bottle?’ said she, waking up suddenly from sleep. Her throat was chapped with thirst and there was a burning fever in her stomach. The man was lying down with his face to the wall. She slipped her hand under his head. All there was there was the stub of a burnt cigarette. She crept away on tiptoe. She opened the door and went out. The wind no longer felt like wind. When she stretched out her hand in front of her, it bumped into something solid. She retreated step by step until she re-entered the door backwards. It was a movement that her body had not been accustomed to perform since childhood. She used to walk forward with her face looking backwards, or go out of the door backwards. Her aunt would be standing in front of her, gazing at her with eyes that made her body tremble. And all because she had asked her, ‘Is it true, Auntie, that Satan walks on the bridge?’

Her eyes would dilate. The storm was at its worst. The rain was pelting down and all the lights had been extinguished. All she could hear was the whistle of the wind. Her aunt’s voice resonated in the darkness of the night, ‘The only devils are the children of men.’

Before dawn she heard the dogs barking, and the creaking of wheels combined with the whistling of the wind. The men pounced on her aunt and carried her to the cart. She jumped up and ran behind them. She stretched out her arm as far as it would go in order to hold her hand. Her legs sank up to the knees in the lake. The wheels cut through the black water and disappeared in the darkness. The dogs swam behind it. All that was visible of them were their oblong heads like a swarm of frogs. She plunged into the lake. Her ears filled with black mud and voices came from the bowels of the earth, ‘A woman who does not believe in the existence of Satan . . . She is mad, Your Majesty . . . An unbeliever . . . Yes, Your Majesty, unbelief and madness are the same thing.’

By that time she was completely submerged. All that was visible of her in the twilight was an outstretched arm, all five fingers contracted, clinging on to a piece of congealed mud.

Arms stretched out to her to pull her out. As they had pulled her out of the womb. Women’s faces surrounded her, brown and wizened. The wind pushed in to her chest with a high-pitched noise like a cry and she opened her eyelids, which had stuck together. She saw the man stretched out with eyes closed, his arm gushing with blood. She was by his side, naked, and the colour of the blood was black. Some drops of the blood had congealed while others remained gelatinous. She stretched out her arm to take hold of the railing. There was a strange smell, like gas gone bad.

‘Get the tea ready!’

She heard his voice as he pulled up his
sarwal
. His upper half was naked. He was sitting in front of the doorway of the house. Around him were four men. They were all absorbed in some game or other. Thick square cards. He was sitting in the middle, dealing the cards to them. His body was at ease on the seat. The place of honour suited his body completely, and harmonized with his features. His fingers gathered the cards, then spread them out and then gathered them again. The eyes of the others were fixed eagerly on his hand.

‘Tea!’

His voice had a commanding tone. As if he were her husband. She looked at him through a veil. Perhaps they had exchanged her husband for another man. The cards rustled as they were dealt. The men’s faces were tense. Their eyes were fixed on the cards. Inside each eye the pupil swivelled. They had to be five not four. The head of the fifth was hidden behind the newspaper. Was he her husband? His legs were stretched out in front of him. His feet were large and his toes were stuck together by a black membrane between each toe.

The sun had begun to fall below the horizon. A pale light fell on the first page. Black particles swam in the slanting rays. At the top of the page she read the date: Tuesday the 16th. She looked at her watch. It was two o’clock and the minute hand was moving. Of course, time was passing as usual. She read the big banner headline:

His Majesty declares war on Satan.

The playing cards were not ordinary ones. Rather they were something like chess pieces. The bodies of the pawns were made of wood, standing in their places unable to move. Big fingers enclosed them and moved them from place to place.

‘Check!’

It was definitely not her husband’s voice. He was no longer asking for tea. He was absorbed in the game. It appeared that the king did not want to be in check. He raised his voice repeatedly. ‘Check!’ His tone began to be dominated by anger, and uproar ensued.

‘These are the rules of the game, brother!’

‘You’re cheating!’

‘I’m more truthful than you are!’

‘You’re ignorant!’

‘You’re as thick as a donkey!’

They left the king and became involved in hand to hand fighting. Dust rose in the air, the drizzle of their saliva was sprayed all around, and they began to pant. None of them paid attention to the newspaper. The wind rolled it away, turning over page after page. Suddenly she saw a picture that looked like her: ‘A woman went on leave and did not return. She must be found dead or alive. It is forbidden to give her shelter or protection.’

She did not have the nose they showed in the picture. Could it be the nose of another woman who went on leave? Her boss at work said that she had a Roman nose. At first she imagined that he was teasing her somehow. In her eyes, the Romans were meat eaters.

On the same page she saw the picture of the interrogator. He was sitting swivelling his chair. His back came to the wall and his face was towards her husband.

‘Is this your wife’s picture?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘A hundred per cent?’

‘Nothing is a hundred per cent sure.’

‘Then you’re not sure.’

‘Yes and no.’

‘What do you mean by yes and no? Is that an answer?’

‘What is the answer?’

‘Either yes or no.’

‘Then yes.’

‘Then you’re not sure.’

‘Yes.’

‘A hundred per cent?’

‘No.’

The policeman beat the ground with his feet, and the chair swivelled round without stopping. Her husband seized the opportunity to hide his face behind the newspaper. When the chair stopped swivelling, the interrogator was facing the wall. He began typing, then swivelled round. Her boss at work was also sitting there, with his black pipe quivering between his lips, smoke rising from it.

‘I’m not going to extol her nose, for I’m not impressed by Roman noses. I prefer national noses of the snub-nosed type.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘She was always an obedient woman, and there was nothing in her to arouse desire.’

The interrogator was swivelling his chair. The stormy wind was turning over the pages. There was no proof of anything. The newspaper was open before her eyes. Her picture appeared and then disappeared with the movement of the wind. News about lost persons was lower down on the page. It was natural for people to disappear. There was a law concerning men who did. The woman had to wait for her lost husband for seven years, and not take another man. The embryo remains alive in the womb seven years, and it remains the property of the lost man until he returns. The woman is no more than a container. Lost women have no law concerning them. A woman does not have to be lost in order for her husband to take another woman.

She closed her eyes in the face of the wind. The rays of the sun were like a flame. The idea revolved in her head, as painful as a nail. If the interrogation was continuing, then no doubt there were campaigns to find her, and people tracking her down. Perhaps there were pedigree dogs – that imported type that distinguishes the smell of human beings. They train them to pick up the smell from far away, to see stars at midday, to type on typewriters and to use modern instruments. She did not know anything about modernity. All she knew about it was related to the past and to archaeology. The goddesses Hathur or Sekhmet would not protect her from any trained dog. But there were hidden depths to the matter. Perhaps it was due to that other man. Could he have sent the information about her to the police? Or perhaps it was her boss at work? He had hinted covertly at the shape of her nose. This was a clear invitation to her relating to something more than her nose.