A Shimmering Red Fish

by Youssef Fadel

  Monday evening, the lawyer rushed in as usual, coming straight from the courthouse. He and his heavy briefcase both groaning under the weight of a day burdened with work. He said he wasn’t going to stay for more than half an hour. There was an important case waiting for him at the courthouse for which he was going to request a temporary release because his client hadn’t confessed to killing his mother with an iron. Would a son kill his mother with a hot iron? Did that make sense? But when he saw Farah in her short dress that scandalously revealed more than it covered up, he was no longer in such a hurry. Rather, he would postpone the case in order to party with his new friend, even though three weeks had gone by since she had first arrived. He took a bottle of whiskey out of his briefcase with a silence befitting the celebration he had begun to prepare without anyone asking him to and poured himself a glass. He poured me a glass, which I drank in one shot (although the pain that raged in my blood and the dark thoughts that dominated my mind didn’t go away), and a third glass for Farah, but Farah doesn’t drink. She was content just to sit next to the lawyer who had thrown the keys to his new car on the table, enumerating its merits. Then he took hold of her hand, kissed it twice, and predicted a bright future for her in the world of singing. She laughed. She might as well have been sitting there naked, as if we had been in a whorehouse. That’s Farah. And that’s the man I picked, who was becoming a stranger to me. I’m nothing more than a simple girl who isn’t seeking fame; who only wants to build a nest for herself that won’t cost too much, to prepare his food, wash his filthy underwear, and happily go to bed with him; to happily open her legs while avoiding as much as possible allowing him to place his heavy body on her chest and smelling his bad breath, putting off my real orgasm (setting it aside on the cabinet next to us) while moaning and trembling to make him think that my orgasm has come on top of his blessed penis. I tell him that he has a large penis, that he has vanquished me, in order to make him happy. I add a final shudder to make him orgasm quickly so I can get away from the smell of his sweat and the whiskey on his breath, to relax, to put an end to the battle. As for my orgasm, it comes as I like it, and I reach it without needing him, without the need of any man. It’s enough for me to pass my hand over my pubic hair while thinking about all the beautiful things I haven’t achieved on this earth. Little by little the water rises up to my mouth as if emerging from a secret spring, then it goes down, down until it settles in my belly and becomes music that plays and plays, then, bit by bit, I feel it going down further, down until a pleasant shudder comes over my entire body, flowing from every pore in my skin, its springs welling up between my thighs, until finally it bursts. Then I go to the washroom and clean up, laughing after being kept up so late Monday night. It seemed like forever. I stood at her bedside and said threateningly to her—to Farah, “I don’t want any problems with the police because of some scandal that may have forced you to leave your home in Azemmour . . .” I didn’t find her Tuesday morning when I woke up.

  We left our neighbor Rabia’s house and headed in a direction only he knew. I saw him walking in front of me, turning every which way. He’d stop for a moment, and then go the other way. Suddenly, he headed toward the beach and climbed up onto the rocks. This made me laugh. Was he looking for her under the water? Or between the rocks? Was she a sea crab he was looking for between the cracks in the rocks? I wish she really were a sea crab. Then I saw him turn and go around the lighthouse, telling the guard that he was looking for a girl named Farah. “She has a round face and narrow eyes, and she’s wearing green and yellow. She left home this morning.” The guard asked him what a young girl would be doing alone at the top of the lighthouse. Then he walked alongside the old houses that had previously been used as barracks by the French army. It was almost eleven o’clock and the sun was practically right above our heads. We weren’t going to find her. This was what I had hoped, even before we left the house. The lawyer walked in front of me in his wrinkled clothes looking defeated, like someone who has lost his mother, hunched over, shoelaces untied, which caused him to trip with every step. He walked along fully expecting to find her, whereas I, in the depths of my soul, hoped we wouldn’t find her. Women sat here and there on the bare ground, warming their bones which had been chilled by the dampness of a rainy night. The lawyer walked up to a woman and told her that we were looking for a girl named Farah. “She has a round face and narrow eyes, and she’s wearing green and yellow. She left home this morning.” She’s not a child at all. She’s seventeen or older, but that didn’t mean a thing. I stood next to him, listening but not adding anything, as if she had come from Azemmour for the sole purpose of taking control of him, of tirelessly plucking the fruit from my tree. No doubt the man’s smell was what drew her to my house—the smell of an easy prey, within reach, fresh. To think of all the amulets I had prepared and the dried lizards I cooked. The lawyer didn’t turn toward me because he didn’t hear what I was saying.

  All of a sudden, the sky became clear. Blue as if it were the height of summer. We searched in the forest that stretches along the coastal road and asked the guard if he’d seen her. “What would a girl with any brains be doing in the forest?” the guard replied. We walked through the cemetery before reaching the mosque and asking about her there, because one night he’d heard her say that she had visited the new mosque. We left the forest and the coastal road and headed back toward the old city, and there too, even before the walls of the old city loomed before us, I heard people say, “What would a girl with any brains be doing on these unsafe streets?” He peered into kiosks we passed, thinking we’d see a picture of her on the front page of the newspapers. He wouldn’t go any farther than the municipal park. That was all he had left in him. Or perhaps he’d venture as far as the Jewish cemetery. But what would she be doing in the Jewish cemetery? I watched him. He had lost his mind. He was raving mad. I was sure that whatever he was doing no longer had anything to do with me. I also felt relaxed because I had been able to get rid of her. My heart couldn’t take another catastrophe. I hadn’t swallowed a single bite since yesterday morning. How could a single blessed morsel of food enter my mouth with such rage stuck in my throat?

  III

  16

  The man sitting in the wicker chair, brushing the ground impatiently with his feet, had settled on this land years ago. A land where he has no roots. A land with no name, or rather, with a name that is difficult to remember. He’d planted his walking stick here, as any weary traveler might do. One day he just left the city, without family or baggage. Without illusions. Was he a fugitive from justice? An adventurer thoroughly exhausted by life on the road? A refugee who lived as a stranger among the crowds and clamor of the city? Or was he just a man whose hair had gone gray, not yet forty-three years old? And what was he doing on this desolate land, alone, with no friends or neighbors? Without children. The closest human soul in this vast emptiness—the closest neighbor from whose chimney smoke rose up—lived four kilometers away. There, where three eerie, lonely eucalyptus trees loomed, lived his in-law, the public cistern guard. And, while waiting for the judge who visits his village on Saturday evenings and who would pass through on Sunday on his way back, what does this man do with his time? He plows when it’s time to plow. He plants seeds when it’s time to sow. He fertilizes when it’s time to fertilize. He watches the sun as it moves across the sky. He watches the seasons come one after the other. The cistern guard’s daughter came one afternoon, the summer before last, carrying a loaf of bread fresh from the oven in her basket, a round loaf made with fresh wheat wrapped in an embroidered white piece of cloth, sent by her father, Salih.

  She showed up at the house again on a fragrant summer evening a few days later. He was preparing dinner when she knocked gently on the door. She entered like a dove that had found its nest, bringing with her all the summer fragrances from outside. Figs and wild wormwood, along with a strong smell of straw. All those arousing smells. In a white dress and barefoot, as if she had just come from the n
ext room. Her arms were bare. The lantern behind her made the light silky down on her arm appear golden, and it shone with a breathtaking femininity. The light from the lantern revealed the contours of her tender body. Her neck, her buttocks, her thighs. She remained standing there, waiting. The crickets were chirping in the distant fields. He had to say he was preparing dinner, what with the knife in his hand. His hands were wet. Anything to take the edge off the tension and excitement. He no longer remembers what was going through his head right then. He might not have been thinking about anything in particular. He might not have moved for a few long moments, as if the white of her dress had blinded him and prevented him from moving at all, or as if he feared that the fragile image that had burst in on his solitude would vanish if he did move. A puff of wind would have been enough to cause this precious, fragile form to fade away. He ran back into the kitchen with the knife as if to give her a moment to turn back. But when he returned, she was still standing there with no discernible expression on her face, the green of her eyes now shining more brightly. Then, with a light movement, she removed the belt with the butterfly drawn on it, and the dress fell off with little more than a light rustle. Here was Hayat in front him, completely naked, her breasts standing firm, jutting out, full, making his mouth water. Suddenly he felt hot. The juices of desire between his legs began to boil. Rather than think about her in this rare moment he had been given, he found himself thinking about his penis. She headed toward the bed and lay down on it. The man followed her to the edge of the bed and stood there gazing at her naked body. Her hair fell haphazardly onto the pillow. He stripped off all his clothes and lay down next to her, catching his breath, afraid to touch her. Her fragility was still there, and the closer he got to her the more it pushed him away. He waited for the fever in his head and between his thighs to subside. He told himself that Hayat had surprised him. She should have come to him slowly, gradually—not like this, all at once, sweeping in like a storm. Did what he was thinking even make sense? Lying down next to her, his penis touched her cold body. He waited for a few more moments, hoping she would make some sort of movement, hoping she would moan or shiver. He was also scared that she would become frightened if he put his hand on the small mounds on her chest and the two pomegranate seeds adorning them. Then she moved gently, turning as he did. Her back was warm and her bottom was cold. The pleasant smell of her hair covering her face surrounded him. Its smell went right to his head, filling up the dreadful void in him. He placed his hand underneath her throat and touched one breast, then the other, then the first one again, then the other. He twisted her nipples and played with them, gently rubbing them up and down. Little by little he felt a movement between his thighs like a swarm of ravenous ants. “It’s coming, here it is, it’s coming,” he said. Hayat turned to him and grabbed him, smiling. Now it was her turn to play with him. Between her fingers he grew, becoming firmer, becoming human, warm, hard. He smiled, then let out a loud laugh like a child when his mother takes him and throws him up in the air. Life washed over them. The man closed his eyes and said, “This is happiness.” She filled his head and the rest of his body as well, and after a little while he would explode with pleasure.

  Just a year ago she came leaping in with all of her fifteen years, and here she is now in his house, belly swollen, having reached the end of her pregnancy. And he? He’s sitting in his chair not thinking about her; not thinking about her labor, about whether it would be easy or difficult, about whether the baby will be a boy or a girl. He watches the slightly raised railroad track. It passes by over there in the distance. In place of trees, steel poles run alongside the track. A straight gray track devoid of all movement, as if its only function were to separate the ground from the sky. He watches it for no reason, without curiosity, with neither joy nor sadness. Do you think he’s waiting for someone? No, this man isn’t expecting a visitor. He doesn’t count the judge because he belongs to other circles. The judge greets him as if he were greeting a tree. He isn’t waiting for a relative to come to congratulate him on the newborn baby, and he’s not waiting for rain. The pickax he used to dig up the earth in previous seasons is dry now, leaning up against the wall, spots of rust starting to show on its blade. Next to it is a box in which is a frayed sack full of unplanted wheat. He’ll plant it if it rains, but it hasn’t rained yet. It’s too far past the month that’s best for planting for there to be rain. Maybe he’s waiting for the two o’clock train, the fertilizer train heading to the southern mines that won’t stop at any point along the way. Maybe he’s waiting for it so he can count its cars, so he can see that a good part of the day has passed. Nonetheless, the man is satisfied enough, like everyone is. He hates those who finish their prayers while he is still praying. He hates those who pray when he isn’t praying. Like everyone, he hates those who are lower than him, and praises those who are higher. He hates love stories, especially when he thinks about the woman with her legs wide open in his room, happily awaiting her firstborn child to arrive. When he thinks about Farah, he hates those who have never felt love in their lives, just like everyone else does. He gives to the caid when requesting a permit to dig a well, he gives to the muqaddam when he begins digging, and he gives to the water official so that pipes will come to his land. The official takes, but no pipes come that might bring water, drinkable or not. He gives to the official from the National Department of Electricity so that utility poles will come to his land, but the official takes and no poles arrive. He befriends the gendarmes, though he has no need for them, betting that he will someday. Who knows? Satisfied nonetheless, drawing water from the well and getting light from gas lanterns. Completely satisfied. He has a little piece of land—two hectares—that his father had forgotten to sell and give to the last woman to visit his bed. He has three puppies that eat scraps and moistened dried bread like the other poor dogs. He has a wife who has no desires or thoughts. Nothing like Farah, the girl who loved to dream, who loved Fairouz, and who loved the way her voice echoed in the mosque when she sang her songs.

  The man’s eyes follow a black plastic bag rising up from behind the train tracks. Its brazen indifference breaks the blueness of the sky. The plastic bag doesn’t draw anyone’s attention other than that of the man sitting in the chair. It doesn’t matter to it if it rains. The lives of thousands of bugs crawling along the ground and chirping harshly don’t concern it, nor do the lives of those that crawl underground in silence. The plastic bag is filled with its exceptional life, as if a special hidden life force makes it move. It seems happy with this arrangement of mutual disregard. It turns in the air to its own secret rhythms. Happy with its youthfulness. It emerged from the factory just thirty years ago, and it has five hundred more to live. Overflowing with the same calm haughtiness with which it began its life. Free. Relaxed. Without people. Without relatives. Its whole life in front of it. The plastic bag has no family. It floats down to the ground when it wants, and stops when it wants. It puffs up with a deep, bold laugh, then contracts, then laughs and laughs as it falls quickly to the ground, until the man sitting in the chair in front of his house is sure that it will be blown onto the thorns, snaring and tearing it as it rips apart and dies, so his eyes widen and his ears perk up as he waits. No, the plastic bag knows neither life nor death. In the moment of truth when the man thinks it is living out its final moments, it trembles and rises up with the same lightness. The plastic bag flies over the thorny plants and rises once more, then lands again in an exciting dance. It settles down between the two railroad tracks, warily steering clear of the thorns and stones on the road, avoiding all snares. Then, after a short rest, it continues with its game, this time showing off its strange dance as it glides riotously along the train tracks, reflecting the sun’s rays as if it were itself a small black sun that’s pleased with itself, its own sense of humor, its agility, and its freedom. The plastic bag won’t board the train. It’s playing with the morning sun. The train won’t pass by, or perhaps it already has. The track is occupied right now. D
on’t you see that the track is occupied right now? It hasn’t rained in months, and the year’s crop slowly burns in front of the man’s eyes. The man looks at the hair that’s disappearing on his fingers, the gold ring on his second finger surprising him. No sound comes from inside. His wife is in a hurry. She’s been waiting two days for the baby to come out into the world. She’s been waiting since the day she was born. As for the man, he’s in no hurry. He’s not waiting for anyone. Why isn’t the ring on his middle finger rather than the index finger? He counts his fingers.