by Rajia Hassib
“Do you have a lot of work to do?”
“Nothing that can’t wait.”
He sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette, but when the light breeze carried the smoke her way, he got up, walked to the corner of the balcony, and leaned out, looking onto the fields. Gameela bit one last piece of honey-dipped feteer before wiping her hands on a napkin and joining him. In the distance, rows of palm trees bordered the rest of the farm, and a man was climbing one of them, using a rope tied in a loop that encompassed him and the tree trunk, reminding Gameela of the Hula hoop she used to play with as a child. He leaned back, his bare feet planted on the trunk as he held on to the looped rope with both hands, one on each side of his torso. Swinging closer to the trunk, he would then ease the rope’s tension just enough for him to fling it upward in a jolting motion and then climb a step, striding the trunk with feline nimbleness. Once he reached the top, he would prune the tree, sending brown, dried-up leaves raining down.
“Every time I see one of the climbers going up a palm tree, I’m afraid he will fall. It’s crazy how high they go.”
“At least he is going somewhere,” Fouad replied.
Silently, they watched the man until he made it all the way to the top. He did not fall.
* * *
—
BEFORE HEADING OUT, Gameela changed into wide-legged, flowy pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, tying a scarf around her head but leaving her neck bare, an indulgence she allowed herself only while on the farm. She looked at her reflection in the tall mirror attached to the armoire’s door, admiring the way her floral head scarf sat on her head, a turban-shaped crown of light blue and white flowers. Only three years ago, she would never have worn a head scarf that did not cover her neck, just as she would never have shown her hair to any foreign man. But she had done so when Mark visited last, deliberately choosing to leave her head bare at her parents’ home, even in his presence. She had noticed his startled look when he first saw her, but said nothing. How was she to explain to him that her religiousness had followed a curve that reminded her of the sensation of jumping into a pool feetfirst: a deep and speedy plunge in, followed by a slower, gentler journey up, until she finally reached the surface and, gasping for air, trod water with unexpected comfort. Her dive into the hijab followed a similar curve: rapid, at first, rigid in her eagerness to be fully submerged in obeying God, followed by a gentler bobbing up, not away from God but toward a more lenient devotion to His commands. She would never, ever abandon her head cover; but she had grown to see her hijab more as a sign of her acquiescence to a loving God than as a measure of avoiding His wrath. As such, it became a symbol of religiousness similar to a nun’s habit or to an Orthodox Jew’s yarmulke. As such, showing a bit of her neck or even allowing her brother-in-law to see her hair seemed like an offense too minor to worry about.
Besides, if a woman’s dress needed to be modest by the standards of her society, then baring her neck was perfectly acceptable at the farm, since all the peasant women did just that, covering their heads with a scarf that they tied at the nape of their necks, leaving their throats exposed. That’s how Maymouna wore her head scarf. She was the wife of Nasr, the servant who had been running the house for the previous thirty-five years, since Fouad moved to the farm. Now, with the house gaining a mistress, Nasr sent Maymouna to clean up and cook while the woman was there.
On her way out of the bedroom, Gameela stopped and looked in on Maymouna, who stood in the kitchen washing dishes.
“We’re heading out, Maymouna.”
“Belsalamah,” Maymouna said, wishing them a safe outing.
“What are you cooking for dinner tonight?”
“I have a pair of fresh hens that I was going to grill for you,” Maymouna said. She placed the plates on a plastic rack and turned around to face Gameela, drying her hands on a dishrag.
“That sounds good. And some of that pasta you made last time on the side?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Good. And no need to bake dessert. We’ll have some fresh fruit today.”
“Yes, madam.”
With a quick nod, Gameela walked out of the kitchen, feeling the woman’s eyes on her back. On the front porch, she found Fouad talking to the estate manager. They were sitting on the bench on the left side of the porch, so she sat on the one on the right side, acknowledging the tradition of separation of the sexes that she knew prevailed in the countryside, watching her husband examine a set of invoices the manager was presenting to him. He was sitting with his left side facing her, just as he had that first day she saw him five years ago, when she walked into Marwa’s parents’ apartment and found him sitting slouched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, listening with intent concentration as Marwa’s father told him what they had witnessed in the previous three days since the start of the revolution: the tens of thousands flooding Cairo’s streets, demanding the end of then President Mubarak’s thirty-year rule; the antiriot forces trying, and failing, to hold protesters back, teargas canisters flying in the air everywhere; that one antiriot van that got toppled over by the sheer force of the protesters’ hands. She had stood in place, the excitement of having just emerged from among thousands of marching, chanting revolutionaries dampened by the sight of a stranger sitting in her best friend’s living room, but then he had looked at her and she had realized he was older and had relaxed a bit, taking him for one of Marwa’s father’s friends. She smiled now, remembering her instant dismissal of Fouad based on his age. To think that she had once considered him old.
“I thought you said you didn’t have much work to do today,” she said when he finally approached her. “Everything okay?”
“Just had a couple of peasant issues to take care of.” He held his hand out to her and she took it, rising from the bench.
“Farm business?”
“Personal. Mahmoud’s youngest is sick. We’re sending him to Cairo to see a pediatric surgeon.”
They walked down the dirt road that connected the farm’s deeper acres to the main avenue up front, heading toward the watering stream stocked with tilapia. Gameela inhaled deeply, taking in Rasheed’s mildly humid air, the scent of the Mediterranean close by faintly detectable, tingeing the air with a salty iodine undertone that she never experienced in Cairo.
“Now I understand what they mean by the old saying: Air so fresh it prolongs one’s life span.”
Fouad laughed. He walked with his hands in the pocket of his utility shorts, the sleeves of his crisp, white shirt rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular arms. Gameela liked to think he paid more attention to the way he dressed when she was around. “If this were true, all the farmers here would live to be a hundred. But the fresh air doesn’t stand a chance against the lack of medical care, I’m afraid.”
“I thought Rasheed had plenty of doctors.”
He nodded. “It does. It’s a big enough town. People here are just not educated enough to take any preventative steps. By the time they go see a doctor, it’s often too late.”
They passed by a solitary guava tree standing in a rare patch of open land. Gameela hopped to the tree, touched its trunk, and Fouad laughed. She knew it was his favorite tree, knew he sat under its shade in the afternoons to drink his tea, knew that he would bring her here later, when Nasr would have spread a clean kilim for them to sit on and brought the tray of tea and sugar, and all this knowledge thrilled her, the result of years of slowly progressing intimacy that had accelerated exponentially during these last three months since she became his wife, his closest companion. Now, in early July, the tree was bursting with flowers, its halo of green leaves sprinkled with white blossoms and, in some spots, small green fruits that would not ripen for months. Gameela had never seen the tree bear fruit before, and she was looking forward to September, imagining herself reaching up and picking the sweet, yellow treats she loved and which she knew would have to taste heavenly, when pic
ked fresh. For now, she jumped up and plucked a flower, sniffing it as they walked on. She could feel Fouad’s smile as he trailed behind her, watching her, but she didn’t look back.
* * *
—
BY THE STREAM, the fishing rods were ready and waiting, a woven basket filled with miniature bait shrimp placed in the shade of an umbrella between the two folding chairs. Fouad picked her fishing rod up, checked the line and the float, baited it, and handed it to her. She let him do all of that, not because she was incapable of baiting her own hook, but because she knew he liked to do it, just as he liked to walk right next to her with one arm spread behind her when they marched the streets during the 2011 protests, protecting her from the masses around them, or when he chose the seat next to her everywhere they went, not bothering to answer the inquisitive look in Marwa’s eyes. Gameela cast her line and watched the red float. Perhaps if they had not gone through those weeks of the revolution together, she might never have understood the allure of this life he chose, of days spent fishing and walking through rows of trees, inspecting leaves for disease, pulling weeds. If she had not seen that one protester lose an eye to a rubber bullet, she would not have so relished the sun reflected on the stream’s surface, causing her to squint as she looked at the bobbing float. She glanced at Fouad and saw him slouched in his chair, looking at the water’s surface.
“When is Mahmoud taking his son to see the doctor?”
“He has an appointment on Wednesday.”
She knew Fouad made the appointment for his farmhand’s son, knew he was paying the doctor’s fee, but suspected he would not want to admit it. Still, she could not help but make one remark.
“You know it’s a lot of thawab to help the sick,” she pointed out, reminding him of the religious merits of coming to the aid of those in need, of the multitude of blessings Allah would doubtless bestow on him in return.
“It’s the right thing to do,” he said.
She went back to watching her fishing line, edging her seat to the side to position herself more fully in the shade. Years ago, when she embarked on the religious education that her parents neglected to provide for her, she had learned that the intention, al-neyyah, was the most important part of any deed, that all good deeds needed to be done with the intention of pleasing God for them to count as steps toward grace. Fouad’s good deeds, she had learned in the five years she had known him, were countless, but his intention still needed some tweaking. She pulled her line out of the water, checked for the bait—still intact—and threw it back in. She did not push the matter any further, but she knew that if she persisted in giving him subtle hints, she would be able to realign him, adjust his intentions to make them match his capacity for good, get him to see that good deeds are best done with the aim of pleasing God, not simply out of a desire to follow a code of ethics laid down by mortals. She would need to work on this. And on his prayer habits. Get him to pray five times a day, as he should. She believed that, deep down, he was a very good Muslim, even if he didn’t quite know it yet.
Next to her, he lurched, and she watched him pull his line out, a fair-sized fish dangling from it.
“Dinner!” he said, a bit too excitedly, childishly.
She laughed. The fish flopped in the air, glistening in silver-green hues in the morning sun.
* * *
—
HIS MOOD MIRRORED the length of her stay, day by day: elated on the first day, less so on the second, even less on the third. On her last morning on the farm, he did not eat breakfast. Sitting across from her on the balcony, he lit up a cigarette, though he had promised to quit.
“You know I can’t help it,” she said.
“Of course you can.”
“I can’t stay away for longer than this without arousing suspicion.”
“You could if you were honest with your parents.” He extinguished his cigarette, crushing it into the ashtray with more force than was necessary. “We are not children, Gameela. I am not a child.” He looked up at her. “We don’t need to hide.”
“We don’t have to go through this every time I come here.”
“Yes, we do. We will.” He slouched forward, closer. “I’m fifty-seven years old. I don’t have to sit here and patiently wait for my own wife to visit me once a week. How long do you think we can keep this up?”
“Only until I get a chance to break this to them gently. I don’t want to hurt them. I just haven’t found a good opportunity yet.”
She knew she had claimed so before. He leaned away from her, watched her with narrowed eyes, then got up and walked into the farmhouse.
* * *
—
IN THE BEDROOM, Gameela packed her laundry, leaving fresh clothes behind for her next visit. Fouad paced the bedroom, and she watched him walk up and down as she folded a pair of pants.
“This situation has to change.”
“Please don’t start a fight now. I’m leaving in half an hour.”
“You shouldn’t leave. Not in half an hour, not ever.” He walked up to her, grabbed her by the wrists, and pulled her down next to him. They sat on the bed facing each other. The sun shining through the bedroom window illuminated his face, and Gameela again had to wonder at the miracle of being here, alone with this man, so close to his curly hair and tanned skin. She reached over and placed one hand on the side of his face. He pulled her hand down, holding it in his.
“Call them now. Say you’ll be late. That you had to stay one more day. Or let me come with you and tell them we’re married.”
“I will tell them myself, habibi, I promise. Just give me a little bit more time, okay? Please?”
He huffed, let go of her, and sat in place, looking at her. “I should never have agreed to this to start with.”
She feigned shock. “You regret marrying me?”
“No, no. Of course not.” He grabbed both her hands, lifted them to his mouth, kissing them. “Of course not.”
When he looked up at her, his eyes were softer, the undertone of anger gone, even though the sadness prevailed. She wanted to pull him closer, to hug him and comfort him, but she did not.
“I can’t be late,” she said instead, getting up and placing the pants in her duffel bag. He reached over from behind her, put both hands on her waist, but she pushed them away.
* * *
—
THE NEW HIGHWAY from Rasheed to Alexandria was smooth and wide. Gameela reached Alexandria in less than an hour, stopped at a McDonald’s for a quick bite, and then continued to Cairo. By the time she arrived at her parents’ apartment three hours later, she had rehearsed what she would tell them: that she was married; that even if they had the right to stop her, they were too late; that she loved them and wished for them to accept her choices; that they had nothing to worry about.
She walked through the front door, her duffel bag hanging off her shoulder, and found them sitting in the living room.
“Gameela is back!” her mother yelled, arms thrown in the air.
Gameela dropped her bag and rushed to her mother, giving her a hug. “I missed you, Mama.”
“I missed you too, habibti.”
“How much longer do you have to travel?” her father asked as she hugged him, too. “Did they tell you anything?”
“Not much longer, I hope.” She lifted one hand and tucked her hair under her head cover, remembered she was already at home, and started taking the scarf off.
“I was just telling your aunt Samya about how hard you work. You know your cousin Osama lost his job again?”
“Again? Why?”
Her mother shrugged. “Who knows? She says his boss didn’t like him, but that’s the third job in two years. He must be doing something wrong.”
“Did you get anything to eat?” her father asked.
“I grabbed something on the way.”
“J
unk food.” Her mother got up and headed to the kitchen. “I saved you some dinner.”
“I’ll eat later, Mama. Just sit down and let me tell you something.”
Her mother turned around. “Whatever it is, it can wait until after you eat.” She walked out of the room.
“I’m not hungry, Mama!” Gameela yelled after her mother.
“Nonsense!” her mother yelled back.
Gameela raised her arms and let them drop again, turning to look at her father.
“Let her fix you some food. She just wants to take care of you. Here,” he patted the sofa next to him, “have a seat. Tell me about your day.”
She sat down, dropping the head scarf by her side. Her hair was limp from being covered all day, and she flipped it down, ran her fingers through it, loosening the strands. Faintly, barely detectable, she could smell the farm air on her hair: a scent of orange and guava blossoms. She inhaled deeply.
“You must be exhausted after this long drive,” her father said.
“Yes, Baba.”
“They should let the company driver take you.”
“I’d rather drive.”
Her father patted her on the back, giving one shoulder a quick rub.
“So what did you want to talk about?” her father asked.
“It can wait.”
Her mother emerged with a tray covered with food. Gameela could already smell the cubed beef in brown gravy, the pasta in béchamel sauce. Her father followed her to the dining room, where Nora was placing the food and filling a cup with guava juice. Gameela stared at the cream-colored drink.
“Come on. Sit down!” her mother ordered her, pulling out a chair and sitting, too. Her father brought his newspaper over and continued his crossword puzzle.
“So how is work?” her mother asked.
Gameela sat down, cut a piece of beef, and lifted it to her mouth. The warm food made her feel unexpectedly tired. “Okay. Nothing new.”