Badawi
Page 15
When she reached the hill, the woman opened the bag and looked inside. She saw the two black stones. She couldn’t denounce the trick; that would have meant denouncing herself. So she took one of the stones and threw it as far as she could. When she returned she pretended to look everywhere for the stone she’d brought back. She couldn’t find it so it was clear that she’d lost it.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You need only check the color of the stone left in the bag, then you’ll know what color the stone I took was …”
After what’s happened, I’m worried you’ll interpret that as a parable about the wiliness of women. That’s not how I understand it. By telling you this story, I simply wanted to praise women’s ability to get out of difficult situations without harming anyone. The Bedouin have learned that wisdom. I’m not a woman and I’ve forgotten that I was a Bedouin. But you … Well, I hope you’ll be able to throw away the black stone of our relationship.
Ever since I left for France, we’ve lived with misunderstandings. But here I am sending you this last message to tell you how much meeting you turned my life upside down. Our reunions haven’t given us enough time to relearn each other. I know I was in the wrong. I know you waited for me in Muscat. I could explain why I didn’t come, why I couldn’t warn you I wouldn’t be there. I could, but it’s too late. Fadia, you’re the only woman I’ve loved, you’re the woman whose absence devastates me—and that absence is now definitive through my own fault. But you were asking too much of me, or too soon. I mean that as a boyfriend, your only boyfriend. Your life is still yours for the taking. Even without me, particularly without me.
When I was with you I often felt you were looking through me. It wasn’t me you saw, you saw someone better than me. Perhaps I came into your life too soon. You talked in terms of something absolute, of faithful commitments. We were still children when we made those commitments. The gravity of what we were taking on frightened me, it felt inhuman. I was wrong. I confess, I’ve sacrificed too much to tolerate failure, the very idea of failure. No man can cope with the inhuman. I wanted to tear down the dream. And I was wrong.
The desert that I once rejected has gotten under my skin now. I breathe its wild perfume. This huge expanse is empty of you and it’s now empty of the possibility of you, of being loved by you; it’s deprived of the child we could have had, the one you longed for, and expected to have; and this huge expanse is my fate suffocating me.
I so wish we could have brought back a bag filled with white stones. Forgive me, Fadia. I’m leaving with your image in my heart, with you by my side. I’m leaving and I’m releasing you from the oath that bound us. Be free, Fadia. And be happy. Be happy, Fadia, if you ever loved me.
48
Fadia put the letter down. Her throat was dry from talking, recounting her story. It had grown dark outside. She hadn’t seen the night fall, stealing through the city’s streets. Electric lights and oil lamps and the strong-smelling lamps in which mutton fat crackled—lamps that only had to be mentioned to bring back painful memories—were all mingling to light up Aleppo. The citadel was brightly lit this evening, as it was every evening, making it the pride of every local.
On that Friday, at that time of day, men would be coming home from prayer, and women waiting for them. But Fadia was alone, she was waiting for no one, and it was dark in the room where she sat.
She’d come home after work, but this day of the week was different. It was a day of prayer for everyone, and for her too. Except she had her own prayer, a prayer which asked nothing, a prayer with no praising or lamenting, a commemoration, without sadness or nostalgia. She’d sat down on finely woven cushions and started telling her story.
It was still daytime when she began, but it was a long story and now that night was falling, the room was steeped in shadows. Fadia didn’t want to put on any lights, though. Feeling her way, she found the little glass of mint tea that she’d made and then forgotten, and she drank the now cold tea thirstily. She carefully put the glass with its gold ornamentation down on a copper tray.
The years hadn’t hardened her but they hadn’t brought her much joy either. She glanced briefly out of the window she’d left open. From where she was sitting she could see only the sky, a clear night sky. What did that poet say, the one Maïouf had introduced her to when he was still with her? That the pure ended up among the stars.
She gave a half smile, the smile he so loved when they were young. But had she smiled since those days? Then she scanned the sky. It was a game. She’d known for a long time, she’d found his star. Its shy, surreptitious glow shone among the others. You had to know it to find it. But once you’d found it, it was the only one you saw.
Fadia heaved a melancholy sigh. She had to perform this rite to the very end. The shadow she was talking to, the shadow listening to her, was waiting for the end. So she continued in a sad voice, emphasizing some of the words.
“There, my son, the son I never had, that’s the story of the father you should have had.”