by Malka Marom
“Yaa-Rabb . . . Yaa-Rabb,” the mountains mimic. “People pay money for honour? For keif—sheer pleasure?”
“Aywa,” says Salim. “Nothing is free except a bathing beach or two, and beautiful green places called ‘woods’ or ‘forests,’ and oases full of shrubs, bushes, flowers, and trees, called ‘parks.’ But people have no time to enjoy the beautiful free ‘parks’ and free ‘woods.’ Time escapes in their cities and towns. For they work all the time, like fellahin, else they battle like Badu warriors of old . . . Aywa, they are not lovers of joy, but I wish you could see how they made the Negev desert green, and rain did not fall there for six-seven years, just like here. Aywa, that is why I purchased there in the Negev-desert-city called Bir Sab’a—Beersheba— a generator and a drill, and also a pump, so that our well also will yield water in years of drought.”
The mountains echo Abu Salim as he coughs and coughs . . .
Mutt and Jeff followed their grandfather, Abu Salim; their father, El-Hajj; and their uncle, Salim, to Azzizah’s tent. They will all sleep there tonight, I assume. A’ida, her husband, and children had retired to their tent. The other Badu guests went to sleep in their compounds or maq’ads. Only Tammam’s brother, Akram, stays here with Tammam, her infant, the goats, and me.
“I was told you were gone to greet Salim, to escort him home. Did you happen to see my father when you went to escort Salim?” Tammam asks her brother.
“Yes,” replies Akram, wrapping himself with one of her welcome-carpet-blankets.
“Did he, my father, send anything for me?” Tammam whispers to her brother.
“Go to sleep, yaa-Tammam,” her brother whispers back.
“Did my father send nothing for me, not even a greeting-blessing?” whispers Tammam.
Akram replies with silence. And the mountains respond.
CHAPTER 29
“Salim refused to fetch his bride, therefore Abu Salim had dispatched five men, my husband among them, to fetch her instead,” A’ida tells me, whispering, though her infant and I are her only audience here in the cool shade beside her tent. All day she has been embroidering a cape she plans to wear at the wedding, which, according to her, “is all too fast approaching now.”
You wouldn’t know it from Azzizah and Tammam. Neither one is preparing anything for the wedding. Ever since Salim arrived, Azzizah has been sticking close to Tammam, almost like a guard, a protector, a warden.
The wedding is the last thing on Salim’s mind as well, it seems. From first light till dusk, he has been working at the waterhole, trying to assemble the generator, the drill and pump, from rusty, second-hand parts. His clansmen helped for a couple of days, then they lost heart, saying, “Someone sold a story to Salim. A waterhole dried-up by drought is a waterhole dried up by drought—no machine will ever change that.”
Only Tammam’s brother, Akram, worked side by side with Salim. Like Salim, he had changed out of his finery and wore now a faded jalabeeya and a tattered white kaffiyye wrapped around his head. He and Salim are obviously close friends: both slept down at the maq’ad after Salim’s first night home and both ate by the waterhole.
And whenever Tammam came to draw water or to deliver a bundle of pitas to them, or to build a cooking fire for them and brew tea and cook rice, both Akram and Salim would frown with worry, seeing Tammam wilting by the day. And even when Salim and Tammam caressed each other with their eyes, they exchanged sorrow for sorrow, or so it seemed.
“Why did Salim refuse to fetch his bride?” I ask A’ida, a fountain of information now that I have presented her with my camera Polaroid. “Does he want to finish his waterhole project before he gets married?”
“Laa—no. Salim didn’t want to fetch her so soon after their betrothal ceremony,” A’ida replies.
“Their betrothal ceremony? When and where was it held?”
“Two-three days, or maybe it was four-five days before Salim came home, that he had been summoned to appear before the father of the bride,” A’ida whispers. “But Salim, like most bridegrooms, was shy to go there alone. That is why his father, Abu Salim, dispatched Tammam’s brother, Akram, to flank Salim on his right, and on the left rode Salim’s brother-in-law, El-Hajj . . .
“It was from him, from El-Hajj, that my husband had learned how the father of the bride had handed Salim the gasala, meaning ‘the green sprig that he had cut off, for to reap,’ just as in the marriage covenant he was cutting off his daughter from himself, for Salim to reap . . .
“O, how sorrowful was the father of the bride, sorrowful and solemn as he handed Salim the gasala, and loud for all to hear he said, ‘This is the gasala of my daughter. All wrong-doing, offences, or sins committed against her, and all responsibility to fulfil her needs, feed and water and clothe her, cross over from now on from my neck to your neck . . .’
“Salim was shy like every groom, but his hand did not tremble when he accepted the gasala, placed it under his headband—his agal, then, loud and clear for all to hear, he pledged: ‘I, Salim, receive your daughter in the tradition of Allah and his prophet Muhammad.’
“The bride was present also—tall and graceful as a palm. Salim was wise to glance not at her, only at her kinsmen. For a woman’s sons possess the character of her kinsmen. Aywa, I often heard my father say, ‘Link your son, oh, link him with well-founded kin, for nobility stems from woman’s thighs, as fire stems from tinder.’
“Salim has reason to rejoice, Wallah. For her kinsmen’s reputation exceed even the powerful and the noble reputation of his own father, Abu Salim. But Salim had admonished all in his party not to rejoice, for that was sure to offend the bride’s kin, all of whom were sorrowful, for they were losing a beautiful, noble daughter, giving her away to another family . . . giving away the best of her, the promise of her womb, the nobility bred in her bones.
“Yet, for as long as time will be remembered, it is they and their blood-kin, not her husband and his blood-kin, who forever will be held responsible for her conduct . . . daimann—forever and ever, long after she dies, for generations and generations, till the end of time, it is they who are bound to uphold her honour and avenge her blood . . .
“Aywa, so aggrieved are a daughter’s parents when they marry her off, neither one can suffer her wedding, nor can any of her kinsfolk . . . O, all too alone a bride follows her groom. Her sons will forever belong to her husband, not to her, not even if he were to divorce her. Forever—daimann, her sons will serve to strengthen her husband’s kin, not her own.
“Aywa—stay here for the wedding and with your own eyes you will see. Not even one of the bride’s kinsfolk will come to celebrate her wedding.” A’ida helps herself to one of my few remaining cigarettes, lights it under her veil, and takes a break from her embroidering. It seems to be done in the same tribal pattern and tribal colours used on Azzizah’s cape and Tammam’s, as well as on the dusty cape A’ida is wearing now. A closer look reveals that, by choice or by chance, for variety or because she ran out of red thread, A’ida has embroidered a section in purple, and has changed the pattern, or the pattern changed while her mind wandered. Regardless, you can’t fail to notice that her embroidery is as different as she is from Azzizah and Tammam, even from herself a day or two ago.
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From dawn to dusk, the mountains replay the clamour of hammer on steel and iron at the waterhole. Day in, day out, the banging and clanging go on and on, even in my sleep. Then, suddenly, it stopped, and the mountains echoed children’s joyful voices: “She is here! The bride is here!”
“The bride is on her way,” A’ida cried out, gliding off to the lookout point.
It was the most beautiful time of day at the compound, the time when the low slanting rays reveal the hues of the ancient wealth embedded in the granite surround—the best time of day to see from the lookout point in all directions.
From the direction of the waterhole, Azzizah rushed to the compou
nd. Her son, Salim, ran into her tent, then out, lugging black and white bundles. He dumped them into his camel’s saddlebags, and then he rode off, raising a lot of dust—and chuckles from A’ida.
“Look at how eager Salim is to take possession of his bride—the very bride he had refused to fetch,” she muttered under her veil. “Look at how fast he gallops now to possess her.”
“To possess her with a gasala—a green sprig, or with his zubi?” I ask her, and she cracks up.
“Really, like a ram in heat—a ram whose zubi is as erect as his horn, Salim is galloping to posses his bride,” A’ida says, between laughs.
Abruptly, as soon as the shifting wind brought us the jingle-jangle of Azzizah’s jewels, A’ida falls silent.
“I asked my son, Salim, to take possession of his bride at this bend of the wadi, below our lookout point, so that we woman could see,” Azzizah says, then darts to the edge of the escarpment to catch a closer look.
“Azzizah is not proper. She should be honouring her son’s bride—running down to accompany her, not standing here, watching like a guest,” A’ida whispers. Next breath she goes on to ululate ear-piercing trills that bounce from mountain to mountain.
Azzizah rushed over to A’ida and demanded she stop ululating—“rejoicing, when the bride is agonizing.” But A’ida trills on. A healthy pair of lungs she’s got. And now Azzizah utters her own long, high-pitched trill—a signal to Tammam to stay away? Confusing as hell to Tammam, these mixed messages, I imagine, but a fitting overture to what is to come.
Tammam is only sixteen-seventeen years old—eighteen at most. And even if there is not a grain of truth in the rumour, all eyes will be watching her at Salim’s wedding. If, as custom dictates, the bride moves here, day in, day out, Tammam will have to face her. And in the night, the sound from the tent of Salim and his bride will wash over her, like tears.
“Look . . . look how eager is Salim, arriving before his bride.” A’ida points to the bend of the wadi below, as two camel-riders come into view. It is impossible to see their faces from the lookout point, but one is holding the black and white bundles, so I assume he must be Salim. The other, wearing blue, must be Tammam’s brother, Akram, dressed in his new Prince of Saudia outfit.
“Salim was wise to ask Tammam’s brother, Akram, to help him take possession of the bride,” A’ida whispers to me.
“Help him take possession? How?” I ask her, but she just lets out a trill that shakes the mountains, as, down in the bend of the wadi, six camels decorated with red carpets and white flags appear.
“That is the bridal procession,” A’ida then explains. “The one wearing black is the bride. All the others are Abu Salim’s men.” She and Azzizah ululate my ears off while Salim and Akram ride toward the bridal procession; like a raiding bandit, Salim throws the black bundle over the bride’s head, then the white one. And then Salim rides on her right, and Akram on her left, until, a minute or two later, they all disappear around the wadi’s bend.
“I guess Salim did not wish us to see him taking possession of his bride,” I say to A’ida.
“But he did,” she tells me. “Salim took possession of his bride by throwing his black abaiah—cloak—over her head. And Akram helped him by being his tongue, telling Salim’s bride, ‘This is Salim’s abaiah—cloak—a cover for you, for your honour, from this day onward.’ And after Salim threw the white cloth over his bride, Akram, speaking for him, told her, ‘Rejoice in Salim and do not reject him.’ And she did not reject him—not yet.”
“You mean the bride can still reject Salim?”
“Wallah, she can,” replies A’ida. “And if Salim will not be wise, the bride might yet reject him. For he has rewarded Tammam all too much by asking her brother, Akram, to be his tongue. . . Aywa, by doing that Salim has elevated Tammam’s brother to great success, for only successful men are ever asked to do favours. Now others will ask Tammam’s brother for favours and help, and the more favours Akram will do, the more people he will help, the more successful he will become. Salim was wise to give Tammam such a present for his wedding. For Tammam loves her brother, and his success and happiness are bound to gladden her . . .”
On our way to the tents, A’ida offered to help Azzizah pitch the bridal tent, before the procession reaches the compound. “A tent should always stand out for the bride,” says A’ida.
“The bride will stay in my tent,” Azzizah tells her. “Come to welcome the bride in my tent,” Azzizah invites A’ida and me, ignoring A’ida’s “not proper,” like a true aristocrat.
In honour of the bride, Azzizah has spread on the gravel ground of her tent her most beautiful and colourful hand-woven welcome-carpets. Now that all was dusted and cleaned, the grinding stones Azzizah keeps at one side of her tent and the battered old trunk that stands in the opposite corner, looked like precious antiques. And outside, near the entrance, next to the scorched fire-circle, her scorched coffee bakraj was gleaming in spots, like ancient brass polished and re-polished. So did the round bronze tray upon which sparkled the newly clean porcelain demi-tasse coffee-honour cups. And next to it another bronze tray, this one holding the tea glasses as well as a blue enamel teakettle, chipped as ever. And that’s it—Azzizah’s possessions.
“Where is the blemished bride? Where is she? I wish to see her blemish!” The retarded child-boy yells, storming into Azzizah’s tent, his dusty feet messing up the carpets.
“Allah, o Allah, the djinn-demon is controlling the child’s tongue,” his mother mutters to Azzizah.
“The child is late in growing from child to boy,” Azzizah tells A’ida, “but he is not far wrong. Clearly the bride is blemished, just as you and I are blemished.”
“We are all blemished,” Azzizah says to the child.
“We are?” the child says. “You too?”
“Aywa—yes,” Azzizah chuckles.
“Show me your blemish,” he says, laughing when she shows him her creased face. “You are Azzizah,” he says, embracing her, nearly tears her nose off pulling her nose ring, “I want also a ring in my nose,” he screams, and his mother starts berating her daughter, hiding behind the tent flaps.
“I told you to keep him away, to take him to the waterhole, occupy him there,” she tells her scrawny daughter.
“I tried . . . tried, but . . .” The little girl starts to cry. Her bony hands look like twigs about to snap as she carries her screeching infant brother. He weighs more than her, or so it appears.
“Hand him to me,” A’ida, taking pity on her daughter, says, sighing and pulling out a breast. The infant’s lips grab the nipple and the screeching stops. But still the retarded child-boy continues to scream, kick and punch his scrawny sister. Her arms flail to restrain him from tearing out her hair, nose, eyes . . . The girl-child is sobbing now and yelling that she cannot drag him outside, that he’s stronger than her, and that she wants to welcome the bride, like the women here in the tent . . . A’ida spews a volley of curses, but doesn’t send her daughter away. Instead she fires a look at Azzizah as if it’s Azzizah’s fault that her son cannot grow from child to boy, she nearly tears his arm off dragging him out of the tent, her infant still at her breast.
“Not proper for a guest to do work,” Azzizah tells the girl-child, who is cleaning up after her brother by force of habit. “Not proper for a guest to do work,” Azzizah tells her again. And the overworked girl-child—her face a mess of tears, dust, and flies—grins happily. It’s probably the first moment of peace she has had in days. “Where are all the other children?” Azzizah asks her, busy now building a tea fire.
“They ran out to escort the bride,” replies the girl, as the ground shakes with hooves of goats returning to the compound.
Tammam glides over to Azzizah’s tent. She has obviously tried to put on her best face, and must have stopped at the waterhole to do her hair and makeup; her eyes are kohlled too heavily, betraying
the tension in her. Even her voice is muted with emotions restrained as she recounts how she heard the ululating and drove the herd back home.
Azzizah pours Tammam a glass of sweet tea, unloads Salimeh from her arms, and tells her, “I thought you meant to stay away with the herd three days and three nights.”
Why? What brought her back? . . . A’ida’s trill? Not proper to ask questions . . .
The Badawias are draped—in veils, shawls, full-length thowbs, and capes. All you can see are eyes—eyes showing nothing but deference now that Imsallam Suleman Abu Salim has showed up.
He is majestic in the regalia for his son’s wedding. The silver and gold embroidery that borders the brown abaiah—cloak—Abu Salim has draped over his sand-coloured jalabeeya, cut from heavy wool and custom made by the best of tailors, is museum-worthy. His scowling face is clean-shaven, the scar above his jaw glistening red. He wears the usual scruffy, dusty shoes, missing their laces.
Storming into the tent again, the retarded child-boy stops in his tracks when he sees Abu Salim. “Wallah, you are beautiful,” he tells Abu Salim. “My mother also dressed up beautiful for the wedding,” the child-boy adds.
And really A’ida has returned to the tent, looking beautiful in the new embroidered cape.
Abu Salim rests his hand on the child’s shoulder and tells him, “The bridal tent is no place for a man. Are you a man or a woman? Do you want to sit with Salim and us men, or with the bride and the women?”
“I want to sit with you,” mutters the child. “I will be quiet, quiet good with you.”
Abu Salim orders Azzizah to open her battered old trunk. And, like Santa Claus, he starts dispensing gifts—first, to his senior wife; then, to his girl-wife—festive thowbs, shawls, and capes.
So, that’s why the two Badawia co-wives didn’t bother to bead and to embroider wedding clothes. Despite the joyful squealing, something in their response says the surprise is pro forma, that Azzizah’s trunk has been filled with presents from Abu Salim before—presents to be used as carrot and/or a stick, reward and/or punishment . . .