The Locust and the Bird (9 page)

10
The fifth Abbasid Caliph. He was a great patron of art and learning, and is best known for the unsurpassed splendour of his court in Baghdad. Some of the stories of
The Thousand and One Nights
were inspired by his opulent lifestyle, and King Shahryar (whose wife Scheherazade tells the tales) may have been based on Harun himself.

A Single Drop of Blood

M
UHAMMAD BECAME AS
important to me as eating bread. When he gave me a bunch of violets, my mind went aflutter and my heart pounded. Was the bunch of violets really for me? I’d ask, and he’d reply that it was. I began to pirouette like a butterfly.

Then the day arrived when a single drop of blood on my underwear sent me crying in a panic to Fatme, convinced I was about to die.

It would seem that, when I spotted blood on my underwear and assumed it meant I was going to die, I was not too far off. It was as if that single drop of blood was an alarm bell, one that could cancel time – by days, months and years.

My family tricked me into letting someone take my measurements, by pretending I was the same size as Khadija’s cousin, who couldn’t be there for a fitting. But then I found, quite by chance, a white wedding dress and realised I was about to be married. I burst into tears and began to tear at my hair, holding my hands up to Mother and Khadija to show them I really had pulled out a clump of it.

‘Don’t do this to me,’ I screamed, beating my chest. ‘God have pity, God have pity!’

I ran to Fatme to tell her what was happening. She confessed that my brother-in-law had only let me learn how to sew so I could become a carbon copy of his former wife, Manifa.

‘Even you, Fatme,’ I sobbed. ‘Why didn’t you warn me, why didn’t you scream at my brother-in-law and shame him?’

How on earth could I have believed that my family wanted me to learn to sew so I’d have a profession?

‘How could you do this to me?’ I asked Mother through my tears.

She cried too and so did Khadija. But they had tricked me and now they were trying to talk me into the marriage. The hearts of three children lay in my hands, I was told. If I married their father, they would be able to bounce back and live normal lives. If I refused, then a cruel stepmother would let their hearts slowly fade and eventually cease beating.

Everything about my nephews made people sad. If they laughed, people began to cry because their mother would never get to hear their laughter. Even their religious names were a source of grief: Hussein was named after the Prophet’s grandson, who was martyred and beheaded; his brother Hasan was poisoned; and Imam Ali, the Prophet’s son-in-law, was murdered before his two sons.

I went to see my music-loving, easy-going brother Hasan, who had by now married the woman he loved. In tears I begged him to come to my rescue. Mother and Ibrahim were forcing me into marriage when I was only thirteen years old.

‘Aren’t you the eldest brother?’ I asked. ‘He’s younger than you. He has to listen to you.’

‘Be patient,’ he replied, stroking my shoulder.

I dried my eyes and blew my nose and waited for him to finish his sentence. But as soon as I’d calmed down a bit, he seized his lute and asked if I’d like to hear him sing ‘Oh rose of purest love’.

‘Keep them on the run,’ was Fatme’s suggestion. In other words: make a series of impossible requests in return for agreeing to be married. ‘That’ll win you more time,’ she said, ‘especially since Abu-Hussein’s such a skinflint!’

Back in Nabatiyeh, I had heard fairy tales in which this type of bargaining was crucial. I remembered the story of Clever Hasan: ‘I want a peck of wheat from the stomach of a sparrow, but only if the bird has a blue feather in its wing. The right wing, never the left.’ I also remembered the tale of the tall black genie who appeared from the magic bottle and said, ‘Hey ho! Greetings. I’m here to do your bidding!’ The hag said, ‘Put me on your back and fly me to a land where there are shoes that can talk, stamp and clap.’

It always worked in the stories, so I decided to try. My first demand was for roast chicken, but it had to be from a restaurant. Otherwise I knew they’d bring me a chicken, keep it in the bathroom for several days, fatten it up a bit and then slaughter it and cook it for the entire family. I was convinced that no one in our household would set foot in a restaurant; such places were for rich, sophisticated people. To my great disappointment, the roast chicken duly arrived, purchased reluctantly by my brother-in-law. I pounced on it voraciously and began to swallow the flesh in chunks, sucking on the bones, even crunching on some of them, ignoring Ibrahim’s disapproving glare.

Two days after getting the chicken, I let it be known that I still had no wish to marry my brother-in-law. Although we were living in the same apartment, I made myself scarce. When I heard him, I’d disappear. When they asked me why I was so scared of him (in fact, he made my skin crawl) I shouted at them that I was too young to be married.

When my aunt arrived from Nabatiyeh for a consultation about the snake in her stomach, she listened to my protests and then joined my family’s campaign. She scolded me for being so selfish and not thinking about my sister’s three children.

My next demand was that Mother and my aunt take me to the cinema.

Mother let out a shriek and asked for God’s forgiveness.

‘Good grief!’ she said. ‘I’ve lost two daughters in their prime, withering like basil leaves on the stem, and you expect me to go to the cinema?’

I reassured her that the film I had in mind was a comedy, without love scenes or singing.

‘So you want to make me laugh, is that it? Why do you think I need to laugh?’

My aunt, however, urged her to take me so I’d agree to get married.

‘Now tell me,’ Mother asked. ‘Will you agree to marry your brother-in-law, or are you just playing games with us, you genie of the fields?’

I swore by the Prophet, Imam Ali and the memory of my two dead sisters that this time I wouldn’t change my mind. I went straight over to the mirror to fix my hair, feeling overjoyed that, for the first time ever, I could go to the cinema without feeling guilty or afraid that Ibrahim might catch me.

On our way there we passed a striptease cabaret. My heart was in my mouth for fear Mother would look up and her eyes fall on the scandalous pictures posted outside. To my relief I saw she was lowering her headscarf over her eyes, which were weak in any case.

But then the cabaret man at the door shouted, ‘Just a quarter, that’s all! A quarter-lira! Dancing, shimmying, jiggling breasts, arse-swaying, all for a quarter!’

Mother heard every word.

‘Get away, you son of a bitch!’ she screeched at him.

I seized her by the hand and dragged her away. We went into the cinema and found our seats. I watched again as the rays of light and dust hit the screen.

But the lights had only just gone down when people in the back seats started to shout, ‘Tell that tall one to move further back. Get her to sit in the back row.’

I realised my aunt was perched on the top of her seat.

‘Just stand up a moment and I’ll adjust your seat,’ I offered, but she shouted back, ‘May God bury the people alive who turned off the lights. We are in Beirut, aren’t we? There is no need to economise! Tell them to put the lights on so I can see what’s in front of me.’

First we watched a newsreel about the war in Europe. I’d learnt the faces of the leaders from stickers that were sold everywhere in Beirut: an Italian with a square head; a German with a trimmed moustache, who was extremely upset and annoyed; and a fat Englishman with an equally fat black cigarette in his hand. I thought he held a black cigarette because he was in mourning for the start of war. There were scenes of tanks racing each other across the countryside. A tank approached the camera and its image filled the screen, bringing my aunt to her feet once more.

‘Where on earth have you brought us?’ she yelled.

I tugged my aunt’s hand, trying to get her to sit down, to the accompaniment of jeers and catcalls. The newsreel came to an end and the film began. It was Laurel and Hardy, who reminded me of Abu-Hussein and Ibrahim. Laurel, the thin, short one with little to say, was my brother-in-law; Hardy, who was fat and big with a tiny moustache and a short temper, was gloomy Ibrahim. I was soon laughing so hard I had to keep slapping my cheeks.

Mother fidgeted in her seat.

‘In the name of heaven,’ she shouted finally, jumping up. ‘Enough’s enough. Tell them to calm down and stop making such a fuss! They keep running back and forth like the shuttle on a sewing machine. My eyes can’t take it any more!’

‘Oh for pity’s sake, why don’t you just sit down?’ a man shouted at Mother.

With that, my aunt turned round.

‘Pipe down, you good-for-nothings!’ she yelled. ‘How dare you talk to us without even being introduced.’

Proud of myself and my tactics, I went to Fatme’s house to tell her how I was stalling the marriage with my demands.

‘What makes you think you’re such a hot shot,’ she said, ‘asking for roast chicken and a trip to the cinema? It’s a gold watch and coiled gold bracelets you should be asking for.’

So I went home straight away and asked for the things Fatme had suggested. That night I slept well; I was confident that that sort of money would never leave my brother-in-law’s pocket. He scolded us if the tap was left dripping. When the soap was as thin as a piece of peel, he attached it to a fresh bar. And once, when the cat stole the meat he’d brought home, he stood there aghast, holding the empty wrapping, turning it over in disbelief, and then began to weep. I quickly put the remaining piece of fat on a plate next to his prayer mat as he prayed, hoping that perhaps God would hear him and change that piece of fat back into a piece of meat.

But this time the only miracle was that my brother-in-law did not refuse my requests. Instead he bought me everything I asked for. When I saw the gold in Mother’s and Khadija’s hands, I fainted.

The next thing I heard was, ‘Bring some rose water, quickly, bring rose water!’

The scent must have loosened my tongue because I began begging the two of them.

‘He’s old,’ I kept repeating, while still only half-conscious. ‘He’s an adult and I’m still young, only a child.’ I echoed all that I’d heard Fatme, her uncle, and Muhammad say.

At Fatme’s house early the next morning I found Muhammad waiting for me by the garden gate. Before I could say a word he asked me to get my family to delay things for six months. By then he’d have graduated from his
training to become a member of the government and found a job with the Sécurité Générale, the government interior ministry. As we walked into the garden, again I felt as if we were in a film.

Muhammad placed his hand over his heart and grasped me by the shoulders.

‘Don’t give in, no matter how much they pressure you,’ he said. ‘Just six months, and we’ll be engaged. Don’t be afraid.’ He took a small photograph of himself out of his coat and handed it to me. I put it in my bra with a sigh. ‘Promise me you won’t get married, whatever happens.’

‘I promise,’ I repeated after him. ‘I won’t get married.’

I decided I’d promise the family to get married in six months’ time, when I was fourteen. I would use the extra time to persuade Mother to stand by me and then put pressure on Ibrahim to release me from the engagement. But that night when I heard Abu-Hussein’s footsteps on the stairs and Ibrahim shouting at one of his daughters, I changed my mind. I decided to escape to the south and ask Father to save me and let me stay with him for six months.

Should I set out on foot? No, that was a bad idea. They might catch up with me. Should I make use of the muleteers who travelled south in the early mornings? Or should I creep out at dawn and stow away in the bus for the south, before the driver arrived?

Escape into a Trap

E
ARLY IN THE
morning I crept out, after stealing some cash from Abu-Hussein’s jacket pocket. Before leaving I stood over Kamil, longing to kiss him. He looked so peaceful and young. How I wished he wasn’t dependent upon my brother-in-law and this house; then he could have defended me. I made my way to Burj Square and caught the bus to the south. When the bus passed through Sidon I wanted to scream, ‘Stop! Stop!’ so that I could get out and run to Muhammad’s school. But I swallowed my grief and stayed where I was.

I stepped off the bus at Nabatiyeh an hour and a half later, confident that nobody would follow me from Beirut. But although I felt relief, I also felt sad and alone. I didn’t dare go to see Father and his wife, or my aunt with the snake in her stomach. So I made my way to my uncle the cobbler’s stall and told him why I was back. He didn’t even take the nails out of his mouth or put down his hammer. It was clear he had no intention of helping me.

Next I went to call on my rich older cousin Mira, who divided her time between Nabatiyeh and West Africa, where her husband owned a business. She welcomed me warmly and listened to my sad tale, shaking her head all the while, obviously moved. But she couldn’t come up with a solution, though she thought hard about it; instead she offered me a huge meal of grilled meat and spinach pastries. We sat in the garden and enjoyed the scent of the orange trees. She tried
to get me to stay with her, but I decided I couldn’t wait any longer, so I set off for Father’s house in the neighbouring village. As soon as I saw him I would say, ‘Baba, I want to live with you and your wife. I don’t want to live in Beirut any more.’ If his wife reminded me of how Kamil and I had run away from their home, I’d ask them to forgive me and say that I’d been very young.

I made my way towards Father’s house, thinking of Mother with each step. The red earth reminded me of our days together in the fields. How I longed to be back in those days, when I ran off with my brother, the hot lentils in his djellabah, I was terrified of meeting Ali Atrash. I knew now that there were worse things to fear than him. I averted my eyes from the road to our old home, so I wouldn’t picture Mother waiting for us at the end. How could she marry me off to a man old enough to be my father? I remembered my friend Apple and started to cry. I wanted to see her, but I couldn’t bear the thought of her playing without me. So I kept on running towards Father’s village.