Nabawiyya turned to her and said, “You wouldn’t have come here except in the direst need. What’s happened to you?”
Aisha glanced up in confusion. She didn’t know whether to stay or make a run for it. She spoke. “I’m so frightened,” she said, “and I don’t know where to go. My belly is heavy, and every morning I feel nauseated, and . . .”
Once more Nabawiyya’s hand flew to her chest. “Heaven help you,” she cried, “did Master Mukhtar do this?” She remembered that Mukhtar had gone away months ago, and she stared bewildered at Aisha, who fell once more to weeping. Nabawiyya patted her shoulder and said, “No, of course it wasn’t Mukhtar. Unthinkable that it should have been Mukhtar, and even more unthinkable that it can have been anyone else. Who was it?”
“It doesn’t matter who it was,” said Aisha. “It was done against my will and without my consent, that’s all. First of all I want confirmation. This has never happened to me before, and I don’t know what to do. I couldn’t go to Umm Abbas. I came to you, because you would keep my secret.”
Nabawiyya looked at her in perplexity. What had become of this innocent girl? Who was it that had so violently assaulted her? She said, “Of course I’d like to help you, but first we must get the Madam to agree.”
“The Madam?”
“She’s the head of this house—I’m just one of the working girls in her establishment. We must seek her permission before we do anything.”
Aisha stared, at a loss. She was terrified matters might get out of hand, but Nabawiyya pushed her gently toward the bed. “Everyone is asleep now,” she said. “No one in this house wakes until afternoon. We all take breakfast together at sunset, same as in Ramadan. Rest a little—the bed is big enough for both of us.”
Aisha hesitated a moment, then lay down upon the bed. She could never have imagined that this proximity to Nabawiyya would give her such a sense of security. She removed the black shawl from her head, loosening her soft tresses, which were matted with bits of mud. Nabawiyya reached out and removed them with her fingers. “Don’t you want to unburden your heart,” she asked, “and tell me about what happened to you?”
Aisha closed her eyes. She had no desire to relive the anguish she had suffered. “It wasn’t to me that this happened,” she said. “It happened to another body that has nothing to do with me, and it’s for this reason that I’ve come to you, to restore my body’s purity.”
Nabawiyya stroked her hair, and whispered, “Sleep then, and be at ease. You’ve come to the right place.” Aisha closed her eyes once more and fell into the deep slumber of a child who has not slept for a long time.
She woke a few hours later to see the faces of several women all around her. They all knew of the young girl’s dilemma, and had come to get a look at her. It was an old and well-known story that had brought her to this house. She sat up in alarm and retreated on the bed until she was against the wall. She cast her eyes about for Nabawiyya, but couldn’t find her, and her fear rose. Yet the faces were not hostile. They were young, not much older than she was, eyes puffy from sleep and with traces of yesterday’s cosmetics still clinging to them. Their features were fresh, still unaffected by life. They didn’t try to approach her; they were all looking sadly at her, knowing that she was only a few steps away from becoming one of them.
There was a commotion behind them, the sound of footsteps and the clinking of jewelry, the tinkling of anklets. The line of girls gave way, separating to either side of the room, and an enormous woman came in, the only one not in a state of deshabille: a mask of different hues concealed the wrinkles in her face, her head was covered by a colorful kerchief sewn with gold coins, and her arms were encircled by a great many bracelets, which jingled with her every movement. Her presence amid the silent crowd was distinctive. Behind her stood Nabawiyya al-Mustahiya—waiting and watching like the rest. This is surely the Madam, said Aisha to herself uneasily.
The woman approached, and said imperiously, “Get up.” Aisha wound her fingers in the bedclothes, but Nabawiyya, in the background, inclined her head, indicating that she should obey the woman’s orders. She straightened up and tried to climb out of the bed, but the woman gestured for her to stay where she was, then said, “Turn around.” Once more Aisha obeyed her and turned all the way about. She retreated again until she was against the wall, and the woman spoke again, harshly. “Show me your legs,” she said. “Pull up your dress.” Aisha closed her eyes, wishing all of them would vanish from the room. She was certain it had been a mistake to come here. But the Madam was speaking again. “At any rate,” she said, “this type pleases no one but the English.”
The room was silent. No one knew whether this meant affirmation or refusal.
The Madam spoke again. “She can be our good deed, then. Send the ‘attendant’ to her.”
Jingling and clinking, she left. In silence, the girls all followed her. Only Nabawiyya stayed behind. She smiled wanly at Aisha, who said in a strangled voice, “You’ve disgraced me.”
“The walls of this house are not strong enough to hide secrets, and there are no locks on any of the doors. During the night you’ll hear all the women’s moans as they work. You’re not at school in Asyout anymore, love—you’re in the red-light district.”
Once more the door opened and a woman came in, a black-skinned giantess with blunt features, her cheeks divided by long and ancient scars, her lips engorged and darker in color than the rest of her. In her long ears were ivory earrings. At the sight of her, Aisha’s fear redoubled—even Nabawiyya herself seemed frightened. Attempting a fond smile, she said, “This is Umm Zaghloul, the ‘attendant.’ She always rescues us when we find ourselves in difficulties.”
The woman paid no attention to Nabawiyya. She raised her hand and said firmly, “Leave us.”
Nabawiyya stood up at once and went out, closing the door behind her. The woman turned and studied Aisha for a moment, trying to pinpoint her age. She pursed her lips and fluttered her long, thin, black fingers in the air. “Open up and let me see what you’ve got between your legs,” she said. Aisha shrank away from her, clamping her legs together and drawing them up to her chest. The woman approached the bed, still waving her fingers.
Tears sprang from Aisha’s eyes. “Please,” she begged, “be gentle with me.”
The woman opened her mouth and began speaking rapidly, in the accent of the south. Her teeth showed, as did her gums, tainted dark blue with zinc. “I’ve been a slave for many years,” she said. “The slavers drove me from Atra and took me on the Forty Days Road. I’ve worked in all the great houses, and I’ve had my fingers in the private flesh of all the princesses and ladies and serving girls. Yes, these fingers saved all of them from scandal: the princesses who liked being bedded by seducers, the ladies who fell in with stable grooms, the servant girls who yielded when their masters lusted after them—I emptied all their wombs. I kept all their secrets hidden, and gave their husbands the gift of blissful ignorance. These fingers will save you, too.”
Such words were not reassuring to Aisha, but it would be of no use to resist. There was no hiding that part of her body now that it had been truly defiled. It was only that she was frightened of enduring still more pain, and further disgrace. She looked pleadingly at the woman, but the scarred face remained impassive. Whatever those fingers might do to her, it couldn’t be worse than what had happened to her already. The woman removed Aisha’s pants and examined them as if looking for telltale stains. Then she tossed them aside and turned to Aisha, who trembled as she felt the fingers creeping about on her skin and penetrating the depths of her flesh, exploring the viscid wetness of those interior surfaces. Aisha gasped and tears streamed from her eyes. She felt degraded, defenseless against this humiliation. The woman made no attempt to make matters any easier for her, even by speaking to her. The fingers probed, and she remembered the pain of that first violation. Umm Zaghloul spoke then as if reading her mind: “It’s your first time, I think,” she said. “Before that you were
a virgin—your muscles in there are still strong.”
“Have pity on me, I beg you,” Aisha implored her in a strangled voice, but the woman went on digging with her fingers until the pain was unbearable.
Suddenly the woman exclaimed, “Your cervix is hard as a rock, girl. You are pregnant—no doubt about it.” She pulled her fingers out, studied the sticky wetness clinging to them, and then wiped them on a towel. Aisha closed her legs and pulled away, huddling against the wall. Her worst fears had been confirmed: the disgrace was attached to her body. Mortified, she hid her face from Umm Zaghloul. Had this happened in the moment when her body relented and grew responsive in spite of her? Had her cells seized upon that ephemeral moment of pleasure and stored it in her viscera?
“It’s still early,” said Umm Zaghloul. “May God help you unburden your womb.”
The procedure commenced at once. The household was always ready for such occasions, and to hesitate or delay would only complicate the pregnancy. They moved her to a room well separated from the areas in which the women worked. Umm Zaghloul brought a stove and a pot for boiling potions, in which she placed a special mixture of wild herbs—delivered regularly to her by the boats that crossed the cataract at the border of Sudan, they were reasonably fresh. To these she added dried tree leaves and some oddly tinted powders. She stayed patiently seated before the pot as it bubbled and boiled, and strange odors pervaded the room. The herbs became a dark concoction, which she poured into a clay vessel and offered to Aisha. Aisha found the smell nauseating, but she swallowed it. Umm Zaghloul produced a long scrap of fabric and wound it so tightly around Aisha’s belly that it felt as though her abdomen and her back were jammed against each other. Then Umm Zaghloul left Aisha in the darkened room.
She didn’t know how long she was there alone, but at some point the pains started. Her stomach convulsed as if it were being torn apart from within. She shouted for help, but no one heard her. The house was ablaze with its nighttime activity, and everyone was too busy for her. The sounds of drumming and singing, along with drunken shouts, rose up all around. The binding cloth was still taut around Aisha’s midsection, constricting her breath. She tried to loosen it, without success. She got up and groped her way around the four walls of the room; then she began vomiting uncontrollably.
The girls came late, carrying candles and gas lamps. Their faces were liberally smeared with cosmetics, and their clothes barely covered them. They crowded into the narrow room, despite the stench, and knelt upon the floor, searching carefully for traces of blood amid the puddles of vomit. They shook their heads sorrowfully, and swiftly cleaned up all the mess. They settled Aisha’s head upon the pillow, and left. Nabawiyya Mustahiya stayed briefly, stroked Aisha’s cheek, and gazed at her with sadness in her eyes.
The business was repeated the following day: a dose of the herbal concoction, pain, vomiting. “That’s how it is with bastard children,” said Umm Zaghloul, “they hang on. The only way they come out of hiding is when spirit and flesh part company.” Aisha writhed and gagged, and her thighs were stained with fluid, but there was not a drop of blood in it. Umm Zaghloul turned Aisha over onto her stomach and sat upon her back until she was nearly strangled, but still the fetus clung to the wall of her womb. Her face grew pale, her skin dry, and the dark-skinned woman said, “There’s nothing for it but the rod. It’s a whole other kind of pain, and more dangerous than anyone can know, but there’s no other way.” A thin iron rod, bearing traces of dried blood: the only way to open the cervix and “knock the pea loose from its pod,” as Umm Zaghloul put it. Aisha lay unresisting; she had lost all hope of deliverance.
Nabawiyya brought Aisha a small flask. “This is cognac,” she said. “Real cognac—not some cheap imitation. Drink all of it—it will dull your pain and warm you up.” It tasted like firewater, and made Aisha’s stomach hurt all the more but, to her surprise, she relaxed a little once the intoxicant spread through her veins. The room filled with strange faces: Mukhtar was gazing at her in vexation, pain, and sorrow; there, too, was Omran’s face, with its bloodstains and teeth marks. The music of singing and dancing seeped in from somewhere; she was dizzy, floating in a place of infinite shadows. She did not sense the women as they entered the room all in a group, but she felt them descend upon her. She tried feebly to resist them, but the black woman warned her not to make any sudden movements, lest the rod puncture her womb. She was assailed all at once by violent pain—she felt as though her head would explode with it. She cried out, and then everything faded away, and she was engulfed by the limitless dark.
She woke from a darkness that was like death to find herself lying beneath many blankets, in spite of which all her limbs felt cold. Unable to summon the strength to move, she watched the chilly light creeping in upon her from the window. Strange that she was still alive, in this room, which was like a grave, surrounded by such a ghastly stench. She felt thirsty—dehydrated—but she couldn’t move. She sank once again beneath a wave of recurring nightmares.
At last Nabawiyya al-Mustahiya came, along with the other girls—she heard their voices filling up the room, and a draft of fresh air entered with them. They approached her, fear stamped upon their pale faces, and drew aside the blankets that covered her. A quantity of blood stained her belly and thighs, as well as the bed in which she lay. With a collective gasp, they drew back and gathered in a knot against the wall. One of them, near tears, cried, “Another child lost!”
Then they got to work. They brought a basin, cold water, some oily soap, and black palm husks for scrubbing. They set to removing all the blood—still fresh and rank-smelling. They took off all of Aisha’s clothes and washed her all over, then dried her, sprinkled talcum powder on her, and wrapped her in white terrycloth toweling. They wrapped her in dry cotton garments, like a creature lately reborn. They changed the bedsheets, cleaned the floor, and took away the soiled clothes and blankets. They performed all these tasks in silence and in harmony—as if carrying out a ritual to which they were habituated—without complaint or resentment, but also without any delight in the conclusion of events: they knew that what they were doing was eradicating the traces of a life that had been terminated.
They brought her a hot meal, of which she ate little—the empty space in her belly still pained her. Umm Zaghloul made no further appearance, knowing that after performing such an operation she would encounter only hard glances, and that the bitterness always continued to stare out from the girls’ eyes for some while, even though she had delivered them from scandal and shame. At last Aisha slept calmly beneath the warm blankets, until the pain and the nightmares caught up with her. Then she dreamed of Mukhtar for the first time—he was far, far away, and yet she felt that it was possible for her to reclaim some part of the life she had lost.
Gradually she recovered. With Nabawiyya’s assistance she left her bed. No one asked how long she would stay. Perhaps it was invariably the case that whoever came to that house in such straits did not leave it. She got into the habit of walking by herself in the morning, when the house was quiet and still, and empty of strangers. She meandered through the capacious halls and interconnected corridors, past windows of fitted glass and rooms in which the girls slept alone, exhausted. She could hear the sound of their deep breathing, and smell their perfume mixed with men’s sweat. A wearisome profession, truly—how could these women endure those creatures, who were so brutish? This place was a maze that was like a seduction, pervaded by invisible particles of lust. She walked on until she came to the main hall of the house, where the girls would seat the customers who came to this establishment: one way or another, all the corridors in the building led to this hall, whose walls were high and encircled by windows covered with fine latticework. In the ceiling was a squared-off dome, through whose stained-glass panes soft, clear light penetrated. Tucked into the corners of the hall were couches and cushions; great mirrors hung upon the walls, each one reflecting the opposite side of the hall, so that everyone present could see everyone el
se, all at the same time. Here were leftover bits of food, empty bottles, and pieces of the girls’ underclothes, colorful and flimsy, scattered carelessly about like dead butterflies. The vastness of the hall, with the light shining directly into it, made her feel afraid, and she always preferred to return to the dimness of the corridors. On rare occasions she went down into the cellar, which was very dark, its air stagnant. She would walk among the larders, the strings of onions and garlic, the shelves stacked with bottles of drink and vials of aphrodisiac that came from India and Malay. She would walk until she tired of walking, when she would find herself suddenly before the door to her room—it was the house itself that had directed her steps. It opened its arteries for her, then closed them again at the right moment.
On a certain night, although the house was not hers to wander, Aisha could not bear to confine herself for long in her room. Barefoot, she went and hid behind one of the latticed windows, through which she breathlessly watched the goings-on below. The main hall was brilliantly lit up with candles—hundreds of them, distributed throughout the room, in a blaze of light and warmth whose intensity felt to Aisha like hot exhalations. A small group of instrumentalists was seated there, continuously playing music to which it seemed no one was listening. She observed the interplay of colors: the girls’ shimmering garments; the flushed faces of the men; a dancing girl with an immense candelabrum on her head, loaded with lit candles, under which she moved in the midst of the cheering throng. She was being accompanied by a skinny young man who wore a jilbaab made of silk and a belt around his waist. He moved with more agility than the girl weighed down by the candelabrum, striking the cymbals he held in his hands.
The clientele, scattered all about the room, never left off cheering. They shouted drunkenly, smoking their hubble-bubbles and gulping their glasses of drink, while tendrils of smoke rose from the heat of the candles and enveloped everything and everyone, making them all resemble colorful ghosts, on the border between fantasy and reality. An extraordinary night, laden with desires freely expressed, and with insatiable lusts.
A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Page 31