Sulha

by Malka Marom

  “Yes you are. Your seeing is in the picture,” decreed the Badu visitor. Then he demanded I toss into the fire all the photos Tammam had snapped.

  “How can it be forbidden to show the camera-work—the seeing—of a Badawia woman, but not her beadwork—like in the necklace Azzizah presented to me?” I ask Abu Salim. “It would be a shame to destroy the only photos I have of me with you, with little Salimeh, with your grandsons, and with your guests. I’d like to show them to my husband, my son . . .”

  Silence. Abu Salim has no idea what to tell me, it seems. There is too much newness here: never before he invited me to enter his forbidden tents had a mountain Badawia woman seen a stranger, or a camera, let alone having her seeing displayed in a photo. He coughed, spat and covered his spit with sand. Then he spewed a few curses under his breath, sighed, and told me, “You need not destroy the pictures. But if anyone asks you who did the camera work, your reply must be the same as when someone asks you who presented you with the Badu jewels, the silver and beadwork you are wearing.”

  “Your camera Polaroid is all used up now, spent, worth not more than fifty dollars now, but I will give you one hundred for her,” said the visiting Badu Abu Hassan, addressing me.

  “Return the camera Polaroid back to her owner,” Abu Salim ordered his nephew, his wild streak glistening red in anger, his bloodshot eyes narrowed in disdain. Then, like a king, he pulled off the ancient seal ring, a scarab set in gold, from his finger and presented it to me, as if to impress on his nephew and me that gifts are bestowed in his compound, not bartered for.

  “But this ancient gem is too precious a gift to accept,” I protest.

  “Aywa, the gem is ancient and rare, but covered in dust, and does not sparkle like a new gem, or even like fool’s gold,” said Abu Salim. “You say it is too precious to accept because you are too polite to say you do not like it.”

  “On the contrary, I am too polite to tell you how much I like it.”

  “In that case, I wish you to accept it, for I presented it to you because it pleased me to do so. Mabrouka—may you always be blessed.” He congratulated me, sort of like someone would say: “Use it well.”

  “Mabrouka . . . Mabrouka . . .” everyone congratulates me, even the mountains.

  “I like my picture more than all the precious gifts in the world,” exclaims Hasan, the retarded child-boy, jumping in joy and kissing his photo.

  “Nothing wrong with this child-boy,” mutters Azzizah. “Nothing wrong . . . except that he cannot grow from child to boy . . .”

  The visiting Badu brought no presents for their host, as far as I could see, but they did bring their own “kitchen” and their own food provisions. They ate separately, around their cooking fire-circle, and didn’t invite Abu Salim, his wives, his grandsons, or his stranger-guest to partake.

  “Listen to how quietly they beat their coffee beans, as if afraid we will hear and come to drink,” Tammam mutters, and for once Abu Salim doesn’t berate her. Like one and all around this fire-circle, he muffles his laughter, so that the wind won’t carry it to the fire-circle of his Badu visitors.

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  Like a shadow, the visiting Badawia, Abu Hasan’s wife, first followed me to the ditch and then to the shade of this huge outcropping of granite boulders where I sometimes write-to-remember. Here she folds her legs on the cool granite polished by the wind, bends almost to the ground to spare her veil when she lights her cigarette, takes a puff, and says, “I heard your name is Nura. Mine is A’ida.”

  “A’ida?” I couldn’t believe my ears. She pronounced it almost like the opera title.

  “Yes. Aywa—my mother named me A’ida, for she birthed me on the holy day Id el Adha,” she replied, then heaped on me a bounty of blessings for opening my heart to her retarded son, then went on to say that many Badu children are afflicted in the same way. “I heard you strangers think it is because we Badu have married our first cousins generation after generation, ever since time remembered. But I think so very many Badu children are afflicted by this very same ailment, which is but lack of discretion, because the times now are indiscreet. My son is but a child of the times.”

  A’ida takes a long puff, butts her cigarette out, and says, “Azzizah told me you came to visit-stay here for to gain Badu knowledge. I will give you all the Badu knowledge you wish to gain if you give me your camera Polaroid, which you do not need anyway. For you have another camera, and with this one you already took pictures and pictures of everybody, alone and together, and with this one and that one, sitting and standing, from head to toe and only the face, yaa-Rabb. I do not mean to offend you but, if it were not for your Yahodi tribesmen, my husband would have been able to feed and clothe his children like a man noble and daring. Aywa, like a man noble and daring, my husband would have been a border-crossing camel-rider—smuggler—had your tribesmen not imprisoned every border-crossing Badu they catch. And prison, Wallah, no fate is worse than prison.

  “Therefore it is even better to work taking pictures of tourists riding camels, yaa-Rabb. My husband needs your camera Polaroid for to feed and clothe his children, yaa-okhti—my sister. If you give me your camera Polaroid I will give you all the Badu knowledge you wish to gain. I have more Badu knowledge to give than both Azzizah and Tammam. For I know, not only the knowledge of the mountain Badu, but also the knowledge of us Badu who dwell close to the Gates of the Wadi leading to these mountains.

  “You tell me what Badu knowledge you wish to gain, and I shall impart it to you,” she adds, reverting to temptation, the Snake in the Garden.

  Impart to me the knowledge of the rumour, I want to tell her, but instead I say: “Can you impart to me the knowledge of Badu dreams and nightmares?”

  “Aywa—yes,” A’ida replies.

  “And the knowledge of the heart of a Badawia woman who shares her husband with another wife.”

  “Aywa—yes.”

  “And the knowledge of the blemished bride—how she is blemished and why would Abu Salim purchase a blemished bride for his son?”

  “Hush . . . yaa-Rabb . . . yaa-Allah . . .” In a whisper she hushes me up, saying that the soiling of a reputation is cause for spilling blood.

  “But you and I have heard your husband telling Abu Salim that the bride is blemished,” I remind her. And again she whispers, upset, saying that her husband couldn’t have said that.

  “The father of the bride would have cause to kill my husband if he were to say that his daughter is blemished. Yaa-Rabb, do you want my husband killed? His children orphaned? Me widowed? Breathe not a disparaging word about any Badawia woman or man, else you be killed, your son be orphaned. Wallah, this is the best, most valuable Badu knowledge I can give you—worth more than ten, more than one hundred, camera Polaroid. But . . . for one camera Polaroid I give you this Badu knowledge:

  “A Badu’s nightmare of nightmares is to be imprisoned.

  “A Badawia’s nightmare of nightmares is to be divorced for she must leave her children with her husband. But . . .

  “A Badawia’s dream of dreams, and her husband’s dream of dreams as well, is rainfall, green pastures, and a tent held by ten ropes spread wide, and power that’s given by sons who are brave; and cover for daughters to shield them from shame, lest talk at a gathering stain; and black goats and camel herds that will need many shepherds; and paradise when you die, not hell, yaa-Rabb . . .

  “For your camera Polaroid I give you also this Badu knowledge:

  “Sharing a husband with another wife is not good, for two wives receive only half of what a man can give—ya’ani—meaning: half his love, half his food for their children, half the clothes. And if he marries three wives, each wife receives only one-third of what he can give. Four wives receive only one-fourth. A man cannot marry more than four wives at one time. And if he does not satisfy his wife’s need for love, for shelter and protection, food and clothing, he will give her c
ause to divorce him. Therein lies the secret of how to keep your husband from taking another wife . . .” She chuckles under her veil, an impish glint in her eyes. “I wrap my thighs around my husband and I draw him into me for more and more love. And when he tells me, ‘Bas—enough, yaa-woman, I am tired, my loin sacks are empty, how many times a night can you do love?’ I tell him, ‘Wallah, how can you take a second wife when you cannot even satisfy one?’”

  “You mean, you tire him out with love-making to keep him from marrying another wife?”

  “Laa—no. But, truth be told, I am more afraid of sharing my husband with another wife than of my husband divorcing me, yaa-Rabb. Sleepless would be my nights if my husband were to marry another wife. Sleepless I would lie during the nights he lies with her, thinking the nights are not long enough for their play. Fearful, Wallah, fearful I would tremble day and night, yaa-Rabb, if for a second wife my husband were to marry a darwisha—medicine woman. Day and night I would wonder what spells and potions she concocts for me.”

  “Do you think Tammam lives in fear of the spells and potions Azzizah might be concocting for her?”

  “Allah aref—God knows,” replies A’ida. “But for your camera Polaroid I will give you this knowledge:

  “I think Tammam likes to believe that Azzizah protects her like a mother. For Tammam’s mother died of the evil eye soon after birthing her. The poor woman died from one of the Badawias who came to visit-bless her new born girl-child, Tammam. Or so I had heard. No one knows who this Badawia was, for many Badawias came to bless her that day. But Tammam’s father, he had four wives the day Tammam was born, and maybe one of these other wives caused her to die by coming to visit her when she was menstruating.”

  “You mean to say you believe that a menstruating woman can kill a woman giving birth? How?” I ask her.

  “By not wearing gold when she is menstruating and seeing that again her womb did not conceive. Envious, such a woman can cause a mother who just gave birth to die, or to become barren, or even to cause the newborn child to die. That is why we Badawias are careful to always wear gold for to blind the evil-eye of envy . . . Wallah, I would be afraid to invite you to my tent if I did not see you wearing gold around your neck.”

  “You don’t think Azzizah protects Tammam like a mother, do you?”

  “Allah aref—God knows,” replies A’ida. “No matter how a guest offends you, treat her like a friend—even if her prattle brings your patience to an end,” she mutters to herself, then, addressing me, she adds: “Now I shall give you Badu knowledge worth five camera Polaroids. But before I start let me caution you, Wallah, remember these five, remember them well.

  “First: if to a strange land you go, get the lay of the land though the learning be slow . . .

  “Second: If one balks at your questions, query him not; be as if on a peak far from winds that are hot . . .

  “Three: If nothing of note should oblige you to leave, stay home your own guests to greet and receive . . .

  “Four: The passer of gossip from your camp keep away, and don’t ever, ever take to heart what he says; he conveys to you gossip, then brings it to me, not caring if truth or a lie it may be . . .

  “Five: Throw no stone on a path where you are taking a trip; it will make either you or a friend of yours slip . . .”

  “Wallah, how well put, yaa-A’ida.”

  “Aywa, it is from my father that I had learned these words, which he had pressed into verse,” A’ida says, jingle-jangle, as she flicks away flies. “My father was highly regarded for his gift with words, but a woman—a woman’s value is measured by her reputation, yaa-Nura. A woman’s reputation is held in much higher value than her gift for words, beauty, or gift of wisdom, or her working strength, or even her strength to deliver sons . . . that is why it is prudent never, ever, to say or do anything that might tarnish a woman’s reputation. This is the best, most valuable Badu knowledge I can give you, worth more than ten, more than one hundred camera Polaroids.” A’ida knows that I know that she knows . . .

  She rolls a cigarette and hands it to me. “This is baksheesh—meaning for free. I learned this word, not from my father, but from the Arayshiyyah—meaning the marketplace that comes to our Gates on a big, big truck, all the way from Al-Arish; therefore, we call it ‘the A’rashiyya’ . . . You know, our men cannot purchase provisions for us, for they are away from home all too many days, weeks, months, doing camera-work or construction work. But they leave us women money so that we will be able to purchase from the Arayshiyyah food supplies, and clothing, and the latest things in everything, and even love curtains . . .”

  “Love curtains?”

  “Yes, aywa. Come, I will show you baksheesh,” she responds, inviting me to her tent.

  From the outside, her tent doesn’t look much different from Azzizah’s and Tammam’s. Three years she spent as well weaving her tent, using the black hair of the goats she and her mother had raised and sheared, spinning it, rolling it onto their runners, and stringing it onto their looms. Inside, it was as dark and stifling as Azzizah’s tent and Tammam’s until A’ida pinned up the flaps like Azzizah and Tammam do, with twigs. And then she untied the strings that hold the white cotton “love curtain” to the “ceiling” of her tent and it drops down like a heavy mosquito net. Next she crawled inside, tucking the hem under a thin foam mattress, made in Taiwan to be used on patio loungers.

  “Night time, the children cannot see us making love here. Even now you can barely see through, can you?”

  “Wallah, I barely can,” I reply.

  “Aywa,” she says. “We Badu from the Gates of the Wadi sleep inside out tents, not like in the old days, as the mountain Badu sleep here outside their tents. You are welcome to sleep here in my tent, I will even sew you a curtain all for yourself if you wish . . .” She invites me to crawl into the love-nest. Amazing how cozy and beautiful it is—a tent within a tent, and under the cone-shaped top, A’ida has worked colourful beads and ribbons, and done embroidery.

  “For to please my husband when he rests on his back and I mount him.” She laughs. “My husband will never have the strength to take another wife, but I am also getting tired.” She heaves a sigh, and then asks me if I have pills “to prevent babies . . . My husband heard people say that stranger-women have such pills,” she explains. “Is it true or but a story, as Azzizah says?”

  “There are such pills, but I have none to give,” I reply.

  “What a shame,” she says. “I do not know a day, ever since I married, that I was not pregnant or breast-feeding. I am blessed with good fortune, Azzizah tells me—‘your womb is fertile, your children alive,’ Azzizah says . . . Aywa, I am, but I wish I could rest for a day, a month, a year . . . If only I could get these pills to prevent babies, yaa-Rabb. I have tried Azzizah’s remedies, but they do not help, for my husband plants his seed deep, deep, and my womb draws him in even deeper still.

  “Wallah, I gave you much Badu knowledge, thrown wide and narrow, in verse and plain words, now give me your camera Polaroid,” she says, closing the deal.

  “I will, yaa-A’ida, if you will explain why you did not hesitate to reveal how you and your husband make love yet hold so firm your resolve to cover up the reason that compelled Abu Salim to overrule your husband’s counsel and pay such a high price for the blemished bride for his son.”

  “Hushh . . . You do not know her father,” A’ida whispers. “He is more fearless than Abu Salim, more wealthy and more powerful, perhaps even wiser.”

  “Why, then, would he give his daughter in marriage to his inferior?”

  “Abu Salim’s son is not his inferior,” A’ida replies, then walks away from the bargaining “table,” leaving me alone in her love-room.

  Holding the Polaroid as if it is a glass of water she is afraid to spill, A’ida glides toward me here, at the lookout point. “Better sit down here, for when you stand and look at lookou
t points, people think you are looking for your lover,” she tells me.

  Is that why Tammam stands here for hours every day?

  “The children were playing with your camera Polaroid, with all your belongings. You should lock them safe, away from children and goats,” she advises me, her hunger for the Polaroid so hot in her eyes that I was about to tell her to keep the camera, but just then she says, “Do you promise to give me the camera Polaroid if I promise to tell you of the blemished bride?”

  I couldn’t resist. “I promise.”

  “Swear you will not betray to anyone that you heard it from me.”

  “I swear.”

  She asks me for one of my cigarettes and bends down to light it. “Ana bigul—Now I shall tell,” A’ida states in the manner of Badu story/legend tellers.

  “Ghule—tell on,” I urge her, in keeping with Badu custom.

  “Aywa . . . The bride Abu Salim had purchased for his son is even more beautiful than Tammam, or so I had heard people whisper. Tall and graceful as a palm is this bride, I had heard it told. Her voice is like a flute, her heart like a man’s—daring, wise, and noble, but her manner like a maiden’s—modest. Her presence had filled every tent she entered with light . . .

  “But then . . . One day, she was tending the flock, as maidens often do, a far distance—more than two or three days away from her mother’s tent—and there she happened to see a Badu youth resting his feet in the shade of a tree like this one—a thorn tree. You know it is forbidden to cut down trees like this one, for they provide shade to shepherdesses and firewood for cooking fires. And the fruit provides fodder for the flock. And if you cut down a tree like this one, you will cut down the possibility of ever living here or anywhere trees like this are growing.

  “And so, under such a tree, the Badu youth was brewing tea. And, like a proper Badu, he offered her—the bride that Abu Salim had purchased for his son Salim—a glass of sweet tea.

  “And she was thirsty, Wallah. It was midday and the sun was high and hot. Her water-skin was empty, and the nearest waterhole was a far distance away. But she, being a modest maiden, waited for him to drink, to show her first that his tea was clean. She even waited for him to swear by the life of the tree and our worshipped Lord Allah and his prophet Muhammad that his tea was clean. And only then did she drink to quench her thirst.