Badawi

by Mohed Altrad

  They were showing a romantic film that evening. The girl had followed Maïouf all the way to his friend’s apartment without saying a word. Now sitting with her on one side and his friend on the other, Maïouf was a jumble of emotions. It was a pleasure feeling the girl’s warmth beside him, but the pleasure was tempered with fear. He felt so awkward! Of course, on the inside, he was incredibly proud to have brought an actual girl to his friend’s place. But at the same time, as is often the case in these situations, he desperately wanted to be somewhere else. So much so that he felt impatient, even anxious, for the film to start just so he’d have something to do.

  With the very opening shots of the film he completely surrendered to it. All through the screening he had eyes only for the heroine, forgetting the girl he’d brought with him. She was interested only in what was happening on-screen, anyway. When the screen finally fell dark and people stood up to leave, Maïouf sat up. He noticed that the girl had mimicked this move, as if they were in unison. After drinking the cup of mint tea made by his friend’s mother, and thanking his friend for his hospitality, he took the young girl back to her house, which, for this year, was his home too. He did it without thinking of the implications because he was lost in his thoughts, haunted by images from the film. He walked her home in silence, and left her with a simple nod of his head which could have meant thank you or good night. When he was working away at his books as usual the following day, Maïouf felt rather than saw the canvas across his doorway sway and then move slowly aside.

  The girl came in, let the canvas drop back gently, and leaned against the wall without a word. Maïouf sat there paralyzed with fear and emotion. Their outing the previous evening had calmed his longing, and he may have pictured others in the future, but hadn’t envisaged going beyond that. He hadn’t anticipated that she might … His head was bombarded by the most incongruous ideas. He thought of one of his friends’ brothers who was in bed with bronchitis because he’d hidden in a vat full of water when the father of the girl he was with came home unexpectedly. He thought of the tragedy that had happened a few days earlier when a young girl from a neighboring house had died at the hands of an abortionist. He also remembered the strict rules that govern relations between girls and boys, the intransigent pride of his people, and the tragic tales of love he’d heard. And it all paralyzed him.

  After an interminable silence, the girl lifted the canvas once more and was gone.

  13

  Maïouf had now been living in Raqqa for two years, and over that time while he’d been completely devoted to his studies, he felt he’d changed families, changed worlds. He’d been back to the village very little; what did it have to offer him? If he wanted to get the full flavor of the desert, he need only get outside the city and walk a few steps. But as time went by he’d felt this need less and less. He wasn’t really a city boy, but neither was he entirely a desert dweller as his “brothers” were when they headed off into the dunes to tend to their flocks. Neither one nor the other, he felt that his only anchor, besides school, was the house where he slept. One Thursday as he walked through the front door of this house, he was greeted by an unusual buzz of activity. His host’s wife wouldn’t tell him anything, but an hour later, when he was finishing some homework, he heard the sputtering roar of a big vehicle stopping outside the house. It was his father’s truck, he’d have recognized it just from the sound of its engine. The dust swirling around it seeped in through the shutters to confirm the fact, if there was any doubt. What was it doing here? Maïouf hardly had time to grab a few things. The driver waiting for him was showing signs of impatience, and Maïouf had barely climbed in beside him before the man threw the truck back into gear.

  They drove along the main road for a long time. After crossing a desert landscape whose uneven road surface added to the truck’s lurching and forced Maïouf to cling to the dilapidated seat, they came to a halt in the yard of his father’s house. But it wasn’t his father who came to greet him when he jumped from the running board, his body still thrumming with the vibrations of the journey. It was his stepmother, followed by his sister and a young woman—a rather pretty young woman—hanging back behind the other two women.

  Maïouf rubbed his face as his stepmother came and stood squarely before him. No two ways about it, she was a good-looking woman. Her smooth skin, the clean lines of her face, and her long dark hair exuded a powerful energy. He’d always found her striking but he didn’t like her. Wasn’t she responsible for his mother’s repudiation, with her scheming, the pressure she’d put on everyone around her, and her spiteful jealousy which had eventually won the day? Here she was now, dressed, as usual, in bright colors, her eyes edged with kohl and her hair hennaed, an imposing figure standing imperiously in front of his father’s house.

  “You’re over fourteen now,” she announced, without even saying hello. “It’s high time you thought of finding yourself a wife. You need to become a man. Boys your age are already married here. Just because you live in Raqqa you don’t have to be an exception. If you stay unmarried you’ll bring shame on the family.”

  Maïouf was so surprised by her tirade he stood rooted to the spot. Thinking she’d finished, he opened his mouth to speak but didn’t have time to say a word. His stepmother had already turned to the girl waiting meekly behind her and, waving a hand in her direction, added, “Here’s the girl you’re going to marry. She’s my niece. Your father’s agreed to it.”

  The sun scorched Maïouf’s face and he’d have been more comfortable quenching his thirst and washing his mouth, his eyes, and the back of his neck after his journey, rather than being confronted with the prospect of marriage.

  He took a step back so he could gather his wits but also to shelter in the shade of the truck. The strong smell of grease and diesel from the hot engine was somehow reassuring, tangible, a protest against the ethereal image of his stepmother shimmering in the heat haze that rose from the ground. It was an unpleasant, awkward situation. No one had asked how he felt. It hadn’t even occurred to anyone that he might refuse to cooperate.

  If he did refuse, if he expressed an opinion, a response, things could get nasty. His mother’s fate was proof enough of his father’s violent reactions and his stepmother’s frighteningly vindictive nature. But agreeing to this meant abandoning his independence and his studies, and submitting to the will of this woman he loathed. The girl was pretty, yes, but she was at least ten years older than Maïouf. She was probably not responsible for what was happening, but he couldn’t imagine spending his life with her. How could he control a woman ten years older than himself?

  He made his own decision very swiftly: without explicitly saying no, he would do everything he could to stop this marriage. So he politely expressed his thanks for the offer that had been made to him and said he would think about it but he had work that needed finishing and wondered whether the truck could take him back to Raqqa. Once back in the city, he hoped he’d find other ways of deferring this arrangement.

  This ambiguous reaction provoked a distinct chill. His stepmother seemed to want to say something else, perhaps to keep him there, but decided against it and simply nodded at the driver, who climbed back into the truck. Maïouf didn’t say another word but he too jumped up onto the front seat and looked determinedly out toward the desert. The truck rumbled to life, reversed around the yard, and set off, much to Maïouf’s relief.

  Maïouf was lucky in this business: sometime after he returned to Raqqa, when he was still waiting anxiously to hear how his father had reacted, he gathered that his intended bride had herself shown signs of resistance. She was ambitious and knew he would be entitled to only a paltry share of the inheritance. And, anyway, he was a student, not something she viewed as an honorable activity, or at least not an activity for a man, a true man, the sort who drives sheep, or trucks. Then there was the fact that Maïouf had asked for time to consider the question … and she’d decided to interpret this as a no, and—to his great relief—she’d told
him that, as he renounced his promise to marry her, she accepted his decision. Now all that remained was to undo what the stepmother had arranged, in other words to release both parties from their promises.

  In desert villages, marriages are usually decided by the mukhtar, the head of the village. He concludes arrangements, whether confirming or revoking promises. He is the supreme judge and no one dares contest the decisions he makes in the privacy of his tent, in the presence of all the parents. But Maïouf lived in Raqqa, the big city, and things worked differently there: you had to appear before a state judge, and the stepmother would have absolutely no influence over him.

  A hearing was set up before the judge. Maïouf arrived alone; his mother was dead and there was no requirement for his father to be there, which was a relief. The young woman, though, came with her father. The judge attending to the case was a jowly man who couldn’t have been less interested in Bedouin affairs.

  He received them in his office and didn’t make any fuss about releasing the two young people from their promise. Maïouf emerged, struggling to disguise his pride.

  He’d won! He was free and, by the same token, he was no longer trapped by his stepmother’s scheming. After what had just happened, now he’d inflicted this retraction on her, she wouldn’t risk trying to impose her will on him again. There was still an enigma, though, a concern that sometimes stirred in Maïouf’s heart of hearts: his father, the fact that his father had been oddly absent throughout these proceedings. Was the woman’s power so all-encompassing, Maïouf wondered, that she not only had managed to supplant his mother, to reduce her to nothing, but also could arrogantly decide other people’s fates to suit her jealous whims? She made all the decisions, that much was sure, and the power she exerted over Maïouf’s father meant she could have whatever she wanted.

  14

  Maïouf, who was used to the rigors of desert life, didn’t need much. Hardened by his years at school, he’d learned to tolerate the other pupils’ jeers, which luckily grew rarer as he achieved increasingly good results. That didn’t stop him from feeling sensitive about his poverty. Ever since he arrived he’d been wearing the same old djellaba. He wasn’t the only one to dress like this, but more and more of his classmates wore European clothes. In fact, his old djellaba now betrayed his origins a little more blatantly every day.

  It was a clear morning, the heat wasn’t yet oppressive, and he had schoolwork to do—nothing unusual. But while he was sitting down at the small table that served as his desk a strange noise stopped him halfway. Defeated by the years of wear, his djellaba had just torn across the hip. He reached down for the strip of loose fabric, examined the tear, and soon realized it would be impossible to mend. He wasn’t surprised. Truth be told, he’d been dreading this moment for a long time. He knew it would come eventually despite his precautions. It was hardly the time to make a fuss. He didn’t have a choice: he’d have to change his clothes. The family who put a roof over his head had already given him so much; it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask them for a new djellaba. But neither could he go to school in this drab, threadbare thing fraying in every direction and now literally falling to pieces. Changing clothes without borrowing … What choice did he have but to buy?

  It was market day. Maïouf knew that his father would be coming to Raqqa, and he decided to go and find him. He was his father but, more important, he was the only person Maïouf could ask for money. The bottom line was that a djellaba wouldn’t be a huge expense to him. Of course there’d been the business with the marriage which Maïouf had contested in his own way and caused to fail—and this amounted to an offense of sorts. But his father hadn’t said anything. Maybe he didn’t care about all that. Maybe his father’s feelings toward him weren’t actually contempt or loathing so much as indifference.

  Maïouf set off toward the large square where all the buying and selling in the city took place, a little anxious at the thought of seeing his father, yes, but strengthened in his resolve by the shred of wool fabric rubbing against him as he clamped it to his hip.

  When he reached his destination, the place was already buzzing with activity and the sun high in the sky. He didn’t waste any time, immediately scouring the noisy, brightly colored crowd for his father. He hoped he’d find him among the middlemen who handled auctions and sales. From a distance he couldn’t see him, and had to press deep into the teeming masses.

  He weaved through some panicking sheep being ineptly herded by children who were hardly more confident than their flock. He slipped between groups of men, through dust and shouts, then walked along a small esplanade where fat, smug, pot-bellied men—unquestionably tradesmen—sat stuffing their faces with sandwiches and swilling them down with arak and Coca-Cola just to show how well they were doing. They’ll be drunk before the end of the day, Maïouf thought as he passed them. He climbed over bolts of cloth, then onto some badly made crates that threatened to collapse; he was scolded, pushed, and jostled but he didn’t back down before finally spotting his father. He gave a hesitant wave.

  If his father saw him, he showed no indication of it. He stayed sitting there in the armchair kept specially for him—because he was an important man—and eyed the crowd as if it belonged to him and him alone. It was mid-morning and the moment came when all the Bedouins had arrived to sell or trade their livestock so the auctioning could start. The man in charge of organizing this great event was in the center of the square, and Maïouf could see him gesticulating and shouting into the crush. His father, though, sat a little way back, watching the scene from his armchair. Of all the buyers he was the only one to be offered a chair, and standing behind him—bolt upright, motionless, and suitably respectful—were his sons.

  The crowd was thinner in places and as Maïouf came closer he was convinced his father had seen him: to prove it, his half brothers were openly watching his approach. True, he was no longer a child shyly coming to visit his father; yes, he’d grown, but his father was a man of status. And, conscious that he was coming to ask him for something, Maïouf felt insignificant before this man he knew to be a powerful figure.

  When he was very close, his father didn’t so much as uncross his arms—and he kept them crossed for the whole exchange—but simply looked away. Maïouf was wearing his torn djellaba. There was a scornful flicker in his father’s eye. Despite the wall of silence greeting him, Maïouf bravely explained his situation, his need, his urgent necessity. He concluded his halting words by asking for a little money to buy a new djellaba, then looked down and waited for a reply. His father’s teeth stayed clenched. The silence continued, excruciatingly. Eventually, still without a word, his father stood up, turned on his heel, and walked right into the crowd, abandoning the humiliated boy behind him. Maïouf’s half brothers followed him. Maïouf didn’t see them, since he’d kept his head down, but he heard their sneering laughter and hated them for it.

  Once alone, Maïouf cried—though he’d never admit it later. He cried with humiliation and rage. Well, if that was how it was he wouldn’t have anything more to do with his family. They no longer existed for him. His only family was his mother, and she was dead. He was an orphan. He drove every connection from his heart, hardened it, made it as cold as this wounding reality. If that was how it was, he wouldn’t ask. He would take.

  He knew his father had credit in a particular shop in Raqqa. He went there full of determination and introduced himself as his father’s son, then chose a djellaba and charged it to his father’s account. The shopkeeper hesitated for a moment: Maïouf had no reference from his father. With his torn clothes he didn’t even look rich enough to be his son. But, despite his disheveled appearance, Maïouf’s attitude must have struck the man as sufficiently dignified—unless he just took pity on him—because he wrote the price of the djellaba at the bottom of a list of numbers scribbled in a ledger. When Maïouf was back out on the street he felt neither pride nor relief. He’d settled the score. But now, he knew, he could never turn to his relatives again. And he di
dn’t care.

  15

  The sun lit up the horizon and as Maïouf reached the sinister whitish building he thought it looked almost cheerful. Several horses were tied up to pillars along one facade, and the entrance was filled with constant comings and goings. Some were coming to collect administrative papers, others picking up driving licenses or seeking planning permission to build a house, and there were employees arriving in nonchalant little groups.

  Even the desert seemed busy this morning as it blasted the perimeter wall with eddies of sand driven down from the nearby hills. And when you stepped inside, sand crunched underfoot all the way up to the top floor. Raqqa’s administrative building included the law courts. It had been built only three years earlier, in the days when Maïouf had his first taste of being in love. It was new but already looked very old, tired, and timeworn.

  The doors swung mournfully in the wind—and those were the ones still on their hinges. Some had simply been removed and never replaced. The elevator no longer worked; perhaps it never had. There was no space set aside for leaving shoes before going up the stairs. People left them where they could, where they wanted, where they hoped they’d find them again on the way out.

  When construction work had started on the building, it had been talked about all over the city. Maïouf had come to observe the site; he’d never seen anyone undertake to erect such a big building. He was soon captivated by the trucks, the noise, the dust, and the battle against the desert. And he’d often come back after school to see the progress, sometimes staying for hours watching bricklayers at work high up on the shaky wooden scaffolding on the fourth floor.