The Locust and the Bird (11 page)

‘That yoghurt’s only for cooking,’ he said, wagging a finger at me. ‘I forbid anyone to touch it for any other reason.’

I swallowed the insult, pretended I didn’t care, and busied myself with something else. But as soon as he left the room, I got up on the chair, took down the pail, helped myself to another drink and poured it over my head so that it dripped down on my face and clothes. Then I rushed out into the lounge, licking my hand like a cat. Everyone in the family gathered around laughing. The sight of my husband’s mournful expression as the yoghurt dripped off me on to the floor made me laugh so hard I almost wet myself.

He mumbled over and over again, ‘There is no strength except in God.’

He looked so miserable that I felt guilty and promised myself not to make fun of him any more. And yet he didn’t realise that I was taking revenge on him; instead he blamed himself for not making sure that the pail was out of reach.

Snake Pit

T
HE NUMBER OF
people living with us grew by the day, until our house resembled a snake pit. Everyone was crammed in, head to tail; each person skulked in their own domain. Everyone foraged for food or went to war to gain access to the only toilet, or hunted for kerosene to light the primus stove and warm up some water so they might take a bath – after which they’d need to track down a towel. By this time Ibrahim had brought Raoufa’s two daughters, Maryam and Inaam, to live with us. The two brothers stayed with their father the gambler, while the third, the one with the wooden leg, became estranged from the family. He developed a cocaine habit and started consorting with lowlifes.

Once he boarded the tram Ibrahim was driving and asked him for money.

His uncle pushed him away as though he were any other scrounger.

‘Go on,’ he said, ‘get lost!’

When Mother heard what had happened, she burst into tears.

‘Why didn’t he give the poor boy even a piastre?’ she demanded. ‘A mere piastre won’t buy you much!’

With the arrival of my two nieces, my life changed for the better. Maryam, the elder of the two, was just a couple of years younger than me, but much taller, fine-featured and extremely calm. She was so grateful to Abu-Hussein for
giving them refuge that she obeyed him without question and worked hard: cooking, washing and ironing. My husband nicknamed her Sultana, or Princess, and she called him Uncle. I felt as though heaven had sent me an angel who would laugh alongside me; someone who would love me as I loved her.

With so many mouths to feed, my husband brought home a large black box in which to keep provisions. It looked just like the Kaaba
¹²
in Mecca. He locked it with a large key and opened it twice a day. Before he went to work he would take out enough sugar, soap, oil, rice and lard to last us for the day. In the evening he would stand before the box again and, reciting the phrase, ‘In the name of God,’ he would call each of us by name and hand out dates, dried apricots, biscuits, Turkish delight, and occasionally baklava.

Sometimes I would take my rations and then go to the back of the queue as though I were lining up for the first time. When my husband insisted that he had already given me baklava, I would deny it vehemently. I wanted him to see that I was, after all, his wife and not just another member of the household. I demanded this privilege, but I would not allow intimacy between us. Respect and fear; that is what I had in my heart for my husband.

If he called for me in the night, I recoiled in disgust at the very thought of going near him. I would stay huddled on the mattress next to Mother, curled up like a frightened worm. I tried to forget what had happened on my wedding night and even managed to convince myself that the nightmare was over and would never return. Things between us were better during the day, although we seldom went out together. He didn’t leave the house on Sundays, his one day off; he didn’t like strolling like everyone else along the seafront or in the
Beirut pine forest. When I watched him pray, stretching his hands up to God, eyes closed, I was sure that his prayers would immediately reach his creator and that God would guarantee his wishes. But no matter how many times I told myself I must not tease him or I might incur the wrath of God, I couldn’t help myself. I was especially bad when we went to Damascus.

Because we so seldom travelled, I was utterly astonished when Abu-Hussein agreed that we could go to Damascus. He did so because he saw it as a religious pilgrimage. I didn’t mind this; I was simply delighted to be leaving Beirut. The plan was to visit the shrine of Sitt Zaynab,
¹³
the sister of Imam al-Hussein and the granddaughter of the Prophet.

Abu-Hussein, who never even rode in a tram, bus or car, took us on a train away from his daily routine of house, shop and the mosque. We were accompanied by his female cousins and one of their husbands. In the women’s carriage of the train I told Abu-Hussein’s cousins the story of
The White Rose
. I was the heroine, riding the train as it raced against the wind. I leaned my arms and head out of the window and, when the train lunged into a tunnel and everything went dark, I cried out to scare the women. They laughed among themselves, whispering, ‘She’s still a child, a mere girl.’

At the shrine to Sitt Zaynab we had to push our way through the crowd. I went straight to the shrine itself. I wanted to beseech Sitt Zaynab to intercede on Mother’s behalf and
ensure she wouldn’t have to face any more disasters after the deaths of my two sisters. But what took my breath away, and made me gaze in wonder, was the gleam of the jewellery and bracelets thrown into the golden shrine as offerings. Would she arise one day, I asked myself, and put on all these jewels? I closed my eyes and prayed to Sitt Zaynab, weeping as I told her how Mother, Father, and Ibrahim had married me off to Abu-Hussein; she would understand, I thought, as she had experienced great tragedy in her lifetime. Drying my eyes, I opened my purse and took out the coin our neighbour had given me to make my devotion to Sitt Zaynab. But just as I was about to throw it in, I hesitated.

‘Forgive me, Sitt Zaynab,’ I entreated her. ‘You’ve so many jewels here. Let me keep this coin. Let’s pretend I’ve put the coin inside the enclosure.’

After leaving the shrine we headed to a nearby park to eat lunch. On the way we passed through the famous Hamidiyya Market. I desperately wanted a gold bracelet in the form of a snake, its head encrusted with two diamonds for the eyes. I begged Abu-Hussein to buy it for me, but he only quickened his pace. So I asked him instead for a golden Quran, dangling from a gold chain, thinking he might buy me something connected with religion. Running behind him, I promised I would say all the obligatory prayers, but he only walked faster. And then the gold market was behind us.

Before the sheer disappointment of it all could hit me, we reached another market, where everything gleamed and glistened: embroidered scarves, black silk fabric printed with silver polka dots, colourful clogs, nightdresses of smooth pink, blue or ivory silk.

‘Good heavens,’ I cried, ‘look how gorgeous they are! Oh please buy me one.’

But he refused, saying he could buy one in Beirut from a fellow merchant for half the price.

‘But,’ I protested, crying, ‘the merchant might not have exactly the same.’

My husband stared at the ground. As we came to the end of the market I redoubled my efforts.

‘Please, please!’ I begged, though by now I’d almost forgotten what I was begging him for.

I kept it up until he turned and shouted, ‘What’s the matter with you? I wish something would freeze the tongue in your head!’

We passed a little beggar boy, who stretched out his hand and asked us to spare a coin. Realising I was no different from him, I burst into tears.

Finally we reached the famous park near the shrine. People were picnicking on the grass under the trees, barbecuing meat and
Kafta.
¹⁴
The wonderful smell lessened my misery a little, until I remembered that all we had to eat was boiled eggs and potatoes that my husband had brought along in a bag. We stood under the trees opposite the stream with its waterwheel, while I longed to sit down like all the other people who were smoking hookahs, cracking jokes and singing.

By now I was used to the way my husband would say, ‘Oh God, Your prayers be upon the Prophet Muhammad and his family,’ if he smelled something really nice. If ever I expressed delight at a bar of scented soap, he scolded me and made me repeat the correct invocation.

Now, looking at the stream and the waterwheel, I exclaimed, ‘God, see how beautiful it is – just like the River Litani!’

He rounded on me, telling me I must say instead, ‘God is powerful over all things. He is the Creator of the heavens and the earth.’ I was angry. Now I couldn’t even remark on the beauty of something without being told off.

Abu-Hussein huddled with his cousin’s husband, ‘consulting the prayer beads’ to determine whether we women might sit down beside the waterwheel, or whether we’d have to move further away from the stream where no one could see or hear us. I was bitter and resentful when the bead consultation came to an end. ‘Ask for God’s will’ indeed! It worked out very nicely for the men, who got to sit close to the waterwheel, while we women had to retreat to the very edge of the park and eat our dreary lunch of boiled eggs and potatoes.

The coin I hadn’t thrown into Sitt Zaynab’s shrine was still in my pocket and I considered running away. But the idea of revenge was sweeter, so instead I ran up to Abu-Hussein’s cousin’s husband and asked him to consult the beads ‘for God’s will’ on something I had in mind.

‘Of course, right away!’ he replied, closing his eyes. When he opened his eyes and saw the bead indicating good luck, he smiled. ‘The result is fine!’ he declared.

With that I pushed him into the stream. The abrupt movement caught him off balance and he fell into the water. When he stepped back on to dry land his trousers were dripping wet. The women laughed behind their black veils.

‘The girl’s a menace!’ my husband exclaimed.

‘So whose idea was it to bring children along?’ the man muttered.

‘I made a secret vow to push you and God answered my prayer,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t want me to offend God, would you?’

On the train back to Beirut, Abu-Hussein’s cousin and I laughed over the trick I’d played on her husband. I began to sing for her. Just then a tall, handsome army officer walked through our carriage and stopped to stare at me.

I pretended not to notice him as he addressed my companion.

‘Is this your daughter?’ he asked her.

‘Yes, she is,’ she replied, enjoying the joke. ‘She’s the apple of my eye!’

‘You’ve a really pretty daughter!’ he said with disarming candour. ‘My intentions are honourable and I’d like to propose.’ He asked her for our address so he could call and seek my hand.

As she hesitated, I plunged straight in and told him my name and our address. I also give Abu-Hussein’s name as my father. The officer bade us farewell, placing his hand on his heart, and smiled at me. How I wished that my husband really was my father and this officer was someone who could come to seek my hand! I thought of Muhammad. The six months had passed and he must have graduated and heard that I’d got married. I imagined he hated me for not waiting for him as I had promised. I wondered if he would forgive me if he knew what had happened to me after he’d left.

The officer took us at our word. The following evening there was a knock at the door and there he stood with his father. In a moment the entire household, old and young, men and women, had gathered around the prospective groom. Maryam and I hid behind the kitchen door, listening. Abu-Hussein and Ibrahim greeted the visitors. Everyone assumed the officer must have come to ask for Maryam’s hand, but then he gave my name.

Abu-Hussein briskly corrected the officer’s misapprehension.

‘Kamila’s my wife,’ he said. ‘It must be her niece you have in mind.’

‘So who was the girl in the train from Damascus yesterday?’ the officer asked.

‘God damn your treacherous heart!’ my husband swore at him indignantly. ‘That was my wife!’

I hurriedly locked the door and begged Mother to protect me, though she was trembling with fear too, at what Ibrahim
might do. I didn’t wait for a scolding, or even a beating, before I burst into tears. I wept because I would never be engaged to this handsome officer. I clung to the window bars and screamed. When I noticed the handsome boy next door watching me, I screamed even louder.

12
A sacred black stone at the centre of the holiest place of worship in Islam.

13
Known for her lasting sorrow after her brother al-Hussein, her two sons and all the men in her family were massacred at the Battle of Karbala. She took charge of all the women and children when they were in captivity, defying the enemy with fury and courage. She then devoted her life to the memory of Imam al-Hussein and became the narrator of the tragedy of Karbala.

14
Meatballs made from minced beef, lamb or veal and onion, garlic, herbs and spices.

Fatima

S
UDDENLY THE WORLD
turned dark. I’d been skipping with the neighbourhood girls when I began to feel sick. I rubbed my eyes, but the world grew darker still. I collapsed and, as so often when I was frightened, I cried out, ‘Help, please! Some rose water. I’m feeling faint.’

One of our neighbours guessed I was pregnant. She took me by the hand and led me downstairs. Despite the fact that she was a direct descendant of the Prophet Muhammad, her curses and imprecations against our family came bursting out in a steady stream.

‘God damn the beard of the sheikh who married you off!’ she fumed. ‘You’re just a child. What a scandal!’

After that I had to be more careful. I sat and watched the other girls skip. My stomach had not yet started to swell and I found it hard to believe it ever would. As the woman had said, I was still just a girl; surely God must realise it. But God didn’t help me. Instead my stomach grew rounder by the day. I overheard passers-by say, ‘So a mere baby’s going to have another baby!’ It didn’t help that I was so tiny myself.