Love in the Kingdom of Oil (8 page)

She woke up to the sound of regular snoring. The man was sound asleep in the doorway. He was breathing loudly as usual. He was inhaling the air, his lips quivering. He was lying on his back with his right calf over his left, shaking his foot in the air. The sun had risen to its zenith. The heat had reached that temperature that destroys everything, even the last remaining vestiges of shame. She saw him pull his
sarwal
off as well. He became naked as the day he was born. But shame quickly returned to him when the sun set, so he put on his
sarwal
while his upper half remained naked.

Her eyes were not following the movement of the sun. His gaze was fixed on the picture in the newspaper. Under the Roman nose, her mouth was clamped shut. One corner of each eye was swollen, and her full name was missing. There was no police report. Perhaps the man had stopped sending information.

The relaxation she experienced diffused a sort of energy through her body. She jumped up from her place and stamped on the congealed oil. She was only wearing a baggy
sarwal
, which billowed up around her. Her torso was totally bare. The wind, little though it was, somehow found its way under her armpits. She raised her arms upwards, conscious of a certain repose. The oil had piled up around her waist where it held the strap firm. She wanted to scratch the corner of both her eyes, when suddenly she remembered the thirst that burnt her stomach.

She turned round to look for the bottle. As she turned the sun shone directly into her eyes. She could not take a step towards the house. The world around her appeared to burn with a red flame. There was no sign of the man. That was natural, for he used to disappear when he wished, and return when he wished. He could absent himself for seven years, and she would have to wait for him, by order of the law.

The disappearance of the man appeared normal. With the flood of oil, it was possible for anything to vanish in the twinkling of an eye. Immediately outside the doorway, the waterfall was gushing as if the storm was beginning once more.

When she went to cross over the threshold, she saw the chisel lying there. Around its head, the strap was wrapped in a knot. There arose in her body a feeling of familiarity. As if she was seeing the absent man, who had returned disguised as a chisel.

Perhaps something had happened. The iron chisel began to have a human aura, which dispersed the gloom. She stretched out her hand to it, and cuddled it at her breast. Like a mother finding her lost child. As if the chisel was moving by itself. She slipped to the ground, digging with its little pointed head with an amazing determination. It kept digging with a stubborn determination. As if it was a child looking for its mother and knowing for certain that she was there, lying in that hole in the bowels of the earth.

‘Won’t you ever stop looking?’

His voice startled her. She froze in her position. The chisel fell from her hand. The blue veins stood out on her chapped hands. She realised as he looked at her that her breasts were bare. She enclosed her chest with the bed sheet, her eyes half asleep. She was not properly awake and she did not know if he was her husband or a stranger. If he were her husband, it would be better if she screamed. For she did not remember that she had married a man with this appearance. If the man were a stranger he would pass on his way without any need for her to scream.

When she screamed, her voice was alien to the world of men. She probably did not open her mouth for fear that it would be filled with particles of oil. Nevertheless, she saw the women gathering around her, with jars on their heads. She realised that she was under observation, that their ears could hear her voice even if it had not emerged from her mouth, and that their eyes were staring at her with a sort of anger.

‘You’re a woman like us. Why don’t you carry a jar?’

She wanted to prove that she was not like them and that she could not live and die like an animal. ‘I have another goal.’

‘What’s that, sister?’

She remembered everything all at once. She began to tell story after story. She began with her aunt, and Lady Zaynab, and the Virgin Mary, and that she wanted to be a prophetess so that she could heal people from illnesses like the goddess Sekhmet.

The name Sekhmet rang in the air, which was swimming with particles of oil. The ‘t’ became velarised and the women no sooner heard the name than they tied their black scarves around their heads and began to strike their cheeks and cry all together, ‘Sakhmutt!’

It is not strange that everything was turning out like this. It was as if she had returned to her childhood, when her aunt used to tie a scarf around her head, and pour invective on anybody who came near her. If the women of this village were like her aunt, then the black flood would inevitably be considered a natural event. Her heart filled with despair and her eyes darted around looking for a way out.

She saw one of the neighbour women carrying a jar on her head. Her face was completely hidden behind a heavy black veil, and all she could see of it was half an eye, and something like a volcano exploded inside her, ‘You’re not a blind ox going round and round driving a water wheel. You must have the right to see what’s around you, mustn’t you? Or have you committed a crime in secret so that you’re no longer able to appear among the people of the village with your face uncovered?’

‘I don’t want to uncover my face.’

‘Is there a reason why you conceal yourself so much?’

‘There’s no reason why I should uncover my face.’

‘You could at least see the world.’

‘See what?’

‘The world. Isn’t it sufficient to see the world? Don’t you feel a desire to see the world around you?’

‘I used to have such a desire, then I became weary with everything.’

‘Listen, sister! Even the ox tears the bandage off its eyes, and animals in cages kick.’

‘I used to kick a great deal until I became weary with kicking as well.’

The neighbour suddenly changed her tone and said tenderly, ‘We heard you crying. Was he beating you?’

‘Beating me?’

Astonishment showed in her question. Was the man beating her with the head of the chisel? Anger overwhelmed her. She didn’t want anybody to know. But it appeared that nothing was hidden in this village. The surveillance was masterly. She wanted to hide her face. Would she never confess that he had been beating her? What if the people of the village found out that she was like other women? A shudder ran through her body. Her skin was marked all over from the beatings. And the dryness in her throat. She wanted to let her body fall to the ground. But eyes were open around her, waiting for her to fall, and if she fell once, anybody could do anything to her. It was better for her to confess. She was not capable of fleeing.

The man had returned. She saw him approaching her from behind. He pressed his right knee in her back, then enclosed her with one arm. A smell of stagnant oil came from under his armpit. He passed his chapped fingers up and down her spine. She remained transfixed in her place, then she called out in pain when he pressed roughly on the last section of her spine.

‘Do you feel any pleasure?’

‘No.’

The man laughed and it appeared that he was caressing her in preparation for something. Although his movement was sudden, it appeared natural, or perhaps as if his fingers had slipped by themselves in an innocent way.

She turned round to confront him. There was no innocence, and there was no instinct for sexual love. He was pushing her to kneel, and after she had knelt down, anything would become possible. She saw that sleep was her one refuge. Perhaps she was in fact sleeping, because her breathing was loud. Her calves and her arms were trembling. Was she angry? Perhaps, because this man was always trying to spoil her sleep, and he succeeded in doing so whenever he pleased. By contrast, he was able to go off into a sound sleep without anything disturbing him.

When she turned over in her sleep, particles of oil stuck to her cheeks. Around her eyes, a particle would stick in a corner and she would wipe it away with a fingertip. She stretched a hand out in the darkness looking for the bottle. It was not there. The man was lying with his face to the wall and his back to her. His back appeared less well banqueted than his face. The matter came within the realms of possibility. But the night was long, and did not want to end, and sleeplessness like a hammer was beating in her head. She tied her scarf and fastened it above her forehead as she used to see her aunt doing. She closed her eyes and gained control of her breathing. She bent her knees and curled up in a ball like a foetus. She tried to remember the face of her mother before she gave birth to her. She followed the path that she walked along every day from the house to the school. There was a tree and a long river. She saw her usual place on the bridge where she used to sit at sunset, waiting for the lights to appear. She began to recite the names of the stars. She began with Saturn and Jupiter and ended with Venus and the whole galaxy. She tried to count on her fingers the names of the ancient goddesses, beginning with Nun and Namu and ending with Nut and Sekhmet.

However, sleeplessness did not leave her. It continued to beat her head like a hammer. She moved her eyes towards the man. She saw him covering his face with the newspaper. He was still sleeping or perhaps he had been reading and then gone to sleep while he was reading. His breathing was regular, like snoring. The rustling of papers at the mercy of the wind. Dogs barking from afar and women gasping, their necks cracking under the jars. However, the roar of the gushing waterfall overwhelmed all other sounds. Sleeplessness like a hammer beat her head, and the watch on her wrist ticked, and the pounding of her heart under her ribs, and her breathing, all these sounds beat in her ears.

She clamped her eyelids closed in a last attempt to sleep. However, she had no sooner closed her eyes than she fell into something like a well. All sound stopped. Time froze. The watch on her wrist no longer made its ticking sound. Particles of oil crept under the watch face and covered the hands. The second hand also stopped moving. Nothing moved apart from the pages of the newspaper that moved by themselves at the mercy of the wind. Each page revealed headlines in black and red script.

* * *

His Majesty donates three million dollars to zoo in the north.

Half a million killed in oil war.

His Majesty forbids the distribution of sweets on Children’s Day.

Woman shot at for walking in the street with her face uncovered.

Foreign Ministry to be sold at auction.

Oil Minister receives a bribe larger than the defence budget.

Drugs sold during term time.

AIDS spreads amongst children.

From atheism to faith; from doubt to certainty, by the chief of religious consciousness and the former head of the Communist Party.

Three women die in queue in front of bakery.

Eight men rape little girl in school.

Woman slaughters her children on Mothers’ Day, then commits suicide.

Missing man returns after seven years and does not find his wife.

She is wanted dead or alive. It is forbidden to give her shelter or protection.

New information obtained by police about the missing woman. She was passionate about searching for mummies as a form of recreation.

* * *

Time passed as she gazed at the word ‘recreation’. Sleep must have overcome her, because her brain had stopped working. She did not know the meaning of the word. The sun had begun to rise. Perhaps the man had gone to the company. There was no noise from the jar carriers. She stood up on tiptoe. She slipped her hand under the bed and took out her shoes. They were full to the brim with oil. She emptied them and beat them one against the other. She placed the chisel in the bag, along with the map. She put the strap over her shoulder and made off before any eye could notice her. She closed her eyelids as she ran, as if closing her eyes would conceal her from others’ eyes.

Deliverance appeared imminent, and flight easier if she continued without seeing. However, a new idea came to her mind. She could hide her face completely from people’s view, without anyone seeing her face. It was a woman’s right to conceal her face completely without anybody pursuing her.

However, in her case the situation was different. She was a barefaced woman. The newspaper had published her picture and her full name and address. Her room also appeared in the picture, the wooden bed with its collapsing boards, the dilapidated lamp on the desk covered with dust, and an open book with the head of a mummy peering out, and a desk drawer with some coins in it. A savings account book without any money in it. Then there was that rope hanging from the ceiling, as if prepared to be put around someone’s neck, dead flies sticking to it, and at the end of it a burnt-out light bulb. Then silence. Yes, the silence that whistles in one’s ears like the wind, or the snoring that a man usually makes when he is in deep sleep.

* * *

He had been a model husband, giving her a very peaceful life, and there was every sign that he sincerely wanted the marriage to continue.

‘There is nothing to arouse suspicion apart from this wretched mummy head! Do you know whose head this is?’ said the policeman as he swivelled round in his chair, shaking his hand in the air, holding a long cane in his hand, with which he pointed to the desk.

‘The lady Sphinx’s.’

Her boss at work replied in a confident voice, emphasising the expression ‘the lady Sphinx’ with his jaws and his teeth. Then he puffed out the smoke towards the ceiling, the pipe between his lips. He gazed at the policeman out of the corner of his eye, and confirmed in a loud voice, ‘Yes, the lady Sphinx’s.’

‘The lady Sphinx’s? We’ve never heard of it before.’

‘Not hearing about it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist.’

‘Is she the Sphinx’s wife?’

The policeman was no longer settled in the chair. He swivelled round in it with his cane in his hand. He raised his arm and almost let it fall on the lady Sphinx’s head. However, her boss at work was settled in his chair. He puffed smoke out of his nostrils and mouth. Smoke also came out of his ears. The black pipe was twisted forward at a sharp angle. His neck was also twisted at the same angle. His eyes looked upwards, half open. He gazed at the policeman out of the corner of his eye. ‘After the Sphinx had usurped the throne, he ordered that the breasts be removed from the statue, and that a beard be added.’