A Shimmering Red Fish

by Youssef Fadel

  I knew that she had emerged from the workshop without even seeing her or her flowers, especially since I had been waiting all this time, hoping to hear her footsteps, waiting for some sort of movement in the air that would tell me she was approaching, on her own. Without perfume or fragrance. Even without hearing her footsteps, I imagined her now looking from afar at the carvings I etched into the wood. My hand was proud of this small victory. The look on her face showed that she didn’t like my drawings too much. She wasn’t affected by them in the slightest. Whereas, just like I had been during the first week she stayed in my workshop, I was plotting to get her close to me. Nevertheless, Farah was still distant. During that first week, she barely left the spot where she was sitting. We ate and exchanged bits of conversation. We didn’t spend too much time on the topic of the lawyer who had blinded her, and who she had agreed, voluntarily, to let rob her—because of his occupation, his new clothes, his cologne, or his lying voice; or because of things I didn’t understand—but it was a story that subsequently made us laugh. She told it without bitterness, as if it had happened to another girl in another town. There were other stories similar to that of the lawyer, meaningless ones, which also made us laugh when we told them to one another. But she didn’t stray far from the workshop’s interior. This was her place, where she sat the first time she came in. Because of our previous experience, I rejected the idea of going down to the ocean to fish. My red drawings would attract her and draw her out of her isolation. This was also what I told myself. By the end of the first week, she began to move toward the decorated pieces of wood without actually getting close to them. I was amazed that the color red—Casablanca red, Father’s color—didn’t attract her as I had thought and hoped it would. Everybody likes red, except for Farah.

  The dress was white with purple flowers. I had noticed it as soon as she stood in the door of her modest room. She stood there as if waiting for someone to show up. Her face was pale and it was difficult to recognize in a room with no windows. As if her real face were hidden underneath a temporary mask that was preparing to surprise me with its previous freshness. Farah’s current situation, like that of anyone who has been saved from a disaster, didn’t concern me. Barging into her room without permission didn’t concern me. I was encouraged by the child’s tapping on the wall. Un, deux, trois. I stood there unable to speak, as if the time we had spent apart had created a chasm that was difficult to jump over. How had she been saved from drowning? That was the only question that concerned me. I had spun all sorts of tales about her disappearance that night, each stranger than the other—a ship or fishing boat had pulled her out; she had spent a night, or many nights, clinging to a board that fate had placed in front of her at just the right moment; the tide had tossed her onto a distant beach after she’d spent the night lost, with no moon or stars or even the slightest light to guide her—as I pictured the extraordinary efforts she must have made as she struggled with the waves and the night and the sharks, using all of my mental faculties to avoid picturing her breathing her last breaths underwater. There was nothing more horrible than drowning, which I’d always imagined to be an accidental death. As if the drowned person had slipped or gotten distracted, and here she was now, stumbling over her mistake, thinking she could correct it, a simple mistake. After all, water is merciful and doesn’t kill. Making fun of herself, her mistake, and her foot that slipped. Until the final moment, the drowning person thinks she has made a simple mistake that she’ll be able to correct, until she sinks to the bottom, until the water brings her back up to the surface emptied of all meaning except for the meaning of being on the water’s surface where people don’t usually sleep. Death by drowning is always a humorous calamity. I was also thinking about how she arrived at this house, moving between the darkest of thoughts and even worse expectations, as if preparing myself for her fickle moods and strange disappearances. I stood in front of Farah in a room with no windows, without even the smallest peephole you could look through to see the world. Farah’s face was pale, drained, the face of a girl exhausted by lack of sleep, or hunger, or both. It was as if I had found her on a boat long lost at sea. Her eyes were filled with doubt and suspicion, at least for the first few minutes, as if she were taking her time to recognize me and what my intentions were. All I remember is that I pointed toward the door, as if inviting her to take a walk around the neighborhood. She responded as if she were saying that she was busy, unable to go with me right then. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after. What was bothering her? What was it that she had been doing before I had barged in on her isolation? What could a young woman possibly be doing in a small room six meters square? Not now. No, before now. Before I went in, this morning, yesterday, and all the time she had spent locked up in this suffocating room. If there had at least been a window, I would have said that she had been spending some of her time watching the girl move her stone from square to square, or watching the birds if her window looked out over the garden. The second time I burst into her room, she categorically refused to accompany me, even when I insisted (when I felt bold enough to dare). As if the room were my room. As if it were just a passing stubbornness that would neither listen to nor accept any advice. I was also a bit pleased with myself, even feeling a little cocky seeing her apologize, saying she was sorry, completely at my mercy. At my mercy, but refusing to take even two steps outside of her square. She was waiting for someone. He’d come today or tomorrow, so she had to wait. She couldn’t go anywhere. He could come anytime. Her life depended on him coming.

  For days I sat in my workshop waiting for her to come. I was certain she would show up one day. As if she were sitting on the mosque’s wall and might come in at any moment. I was even picturing the way she walked and the dress she would be wearing. And she really did come to visit me, two times, then went back to her room. She came in hesitantly, as if setting foot in my workshop for the first time, standing close to the door like a stranger, watching me draw on the wood (or at least pretending to). What could I have been drawing? Circles. Then more circles. Each one less complete than the one before. After Father fell, work ended. Lines, circles, and muqarnases with their bright colors all came to an end. The red that he was so proud of was done. For the most part, I was pretending so as to give her the chance to become reacquainted with me and the place. But she didn’t leave her spot by the door. She didn’t say a word. She just stood there watching what I was doing, and I wasn’t doing anything of any use. I wasn’t going to make any move that might drive her away. Like you do when a dove lands close to you and you think your heartbeats would be enough to scare it off. Even when I heard her voice saying hello to me from behind, I returned the greeting without turning around, or rather, I turned as much as necessary to assure her that I was returning the greeting in my own way. Then, after twenty-eight days, she handed over the keys and left her room for good, and she agreed to stay in the workshop temporarily. I think it was because the old woman was no longer able to feed her. I also think that she came to stay.

  38

  Before touching her own brush, Farah sat down to watch me and what I was doing. I wasn’t drawing circles this time. I was struggling to draw her into the world that I loved, one that had dominated my thoughts ever since I was little, when I would run through the thicket of wood in our old house. I brushed the colors I had just prepared—blue, yellow, orange—over the piece of wood. Farah loves the color blue. Red doesn’t make her think of anything pleasant. Farah turned toward the pieces of wood and picked up the brush. Contrary to what I thought she would do, she plunged the brush into the red paint, as if to try her luck with this color I had talked with her about for so long. Maybe ten minutes went by before I went up to her again after having left her with her pieces of wood, along with pictures and images that might inspire her, although I hadn’t left her completely. A bell inside me rang to the rhythm of my newfound excitement. I was with a young woman for the first time in my life. A young woman made of living flesh and blood. Her name was
Farah. A real name. She moved like someone who was used to places like this. She was meandering her way closer to me. I sensed this in the way she looked around. My proof was that she was moving closer to the color I loved.

  So I drew closer. I didn’t have to tiptoe. That’s because Farah was completely immersed in drawing whatever she was assembling in her head, crouching in front of the vibrant colors, her bright smile shining in the darkness of the workshop. She hadn’t yet drawn a single line. But she was ready. I sat down next to her. Then I remembered the golden spotlight that had fallen onto her rounded breasts that night when we were at the cabaret as I sat next to her without the need to speak at all. I smelled the scent of cloves in her hair and said to myself, “This time she’s come to stay.” Then she said she’d draw a cat. “In mosques and mausoleums, they don’t draw living things, Farah. They only draw things that are dead. Like letters, shells, circles, and squares. They don’t draw humans or animals.” But Farah insisted on drawing a cat. A red cat. “In mosques and mausoleums, they don’t draw living things.” She replied that her cat wasn’t alive. That it was neither living nor dead. A red cat doesn’t even exist. It only existed in her head and in her hand, and it wouldn’t become any more alive once it was transferred to the wood’s surface. Farah is beautiful, with her Asian-like eyes—amber, almond-shaped, narrow, and cheerful. Here she was, having brought back her laugh and her vigor. Here was Farah, just as I’d like her to be, always. Farah was beautiful, with or without her red cat. I watched as she drew her first lines on the wood panels.

  I brought her food from Mother’s house. Or I stole it from the big restaurants that run the length of Boulevard de la Résistance. When Farah showed up, my enthusiasm for bringing tasty treats like the ones Kika and I used to steal was renewed. Even more, I wanted to surprise her every day with a new story. Even if it was only a story I had made up so she wouldn’t get bored. I also brought her a book I bought in the flea market—How to Preserve Your Beauty. Then I took her out to look at the luxury car of one of the tourists who had stopped there to check out the nearly completed mosque. I opened the door for her. My excited mind had cooked up this idea too. Farah looked pleased as she sat in the back seat. Thin and fragile as a twelve-year-old girl. She loves everything she touches and lays her eyes on. I don’t know how long she has loved cars. Farah didn’t strike me as the car-loving type. But she loved them as something that went perfectly with singing, as she once said. As if she couldn’t picture singing without all of the pomp that went along with it. Her laugh was resplendent. The imaginary hum of the car swallowed her laughter. Her hair laughed too because of the imaginary wind that reached us, even inside the car. Farah’s confidence and vitality had returned to her. And next to her I was happy, filled with joy. We got out of the car and I offered her an imaginary flower. She asked what it was called. I didn’t know. She didn’t know what it was called either. It wasn’t important that this flower have a specific name. We called it an iris, or a water lily, or a red cat. Delightful days, during which I came to love the mosque and yearned to see it every day because Farah loved the mosque. When the sun went down and its rays reflected off the floor mosaic, spraying a joyous celebration of colors everywhere, she loved to walk between the mosque’s pillars at dusk while she hummed her special tunes. And I came to love the workshop because Farah said she loved her new home. Sometimes, when there wasn’t any work to do, we’d walk around the mosque. Farah and I would dress like the tourists who came after the dedication, and we’d strut around, amazed by the height of the structure, gaping at the ceiling decoration, pausing for a long time under Father’s ceiling. The guide (who wasn’t there) would ask us if we knew the artist who had created all of this magnificence, and we’d reply that we didn’t know who he was, but no doubt he was a great artist. We’d laugh loudly. We’d continue our tour, amazed at the beauty of the zellij tiles on the walls and the rows of pillars. At the end of our visit we’d go out and pretend to stand in front of the imaginary ticket seller to buy a small replica of the mosque, which we’d hang on the keychain that held the keys to our big black car, a grand memento of our visit to this historic site. Then there were those Friday afternoons when the mosque was empty and the few workers who remained had gone to the hammam or the movies. We’d sit in the main plaza listening to the crash of the ocean as it echoed throughout the mosque. As if we were sailing on an enormous ship taking us across the ocean. There was no night, no day. There was no need for food or drink. We were full. Satisfied. Overflowing with calm. A fountain burbled someplace in the mosque. Its music added to the overall rhythm of the place. Or we’d stand on a hill to look at the mosque from another angle. The mosque towered over the ocean. It seemed to glide across the water with an unparalleled loftiness. Rising above the minaret were the three spheres of the jamour. They had completely changed the look of the minaret, giving it a rare dignity. They gave it the life it was missing. It didn’t look like any minaret we had seen before. In the fading light of the evening, the mosque was transformed. As if renewing its own shape. A sailboat was visible on the ocean’s surface, its towering mast piercing the sky’s vault, and when night fell, the stars came right up to the edge of the minaret and stayed there for the entire night. Farah said that she had loved the mosque from day one. That she came from Azemmour to sing. She didn’t sing that day, but she did see the mosque. Perhaps she had only come to see the mosque (it seemed that way to her now in the magic of that moment), and to forget what had happened with the lawyer. She loved to watch the changes that happened to it throughout the day. In the evening, when the sun touched the surface of the water and what looked like mist rose up from the ocean, the mosque appeared to be floating in a translucent purple mantle of light, while the top of the minaret disappeared in a light cloak of azure and orange fog. These were moments when the building was like a dream. Yes, they were pleasant days.

  We considered ourselves lucky—Farah and I—being so captivatingly close to the mosque. Except for the days when I brought food from Mother’s house or from the restaurants on Boulevard de la Résistance (when I earned some money selling pieces of metal and cardboard left behind by the workers, or Father’s wood that was no longer of any use), we had bread and tea, and sometimes eggs. At night we put cardboard underneath the blanket to keep the dampness out, or at least to keep some of it out. We dreamed of the mosque rising high into the air with its tall minaret, its green zellij, its wide doors, its ceilings, chandeliers, and mirrors. The unique green light of its minaret that would guide those passing by on land and by sea, that would guide passing ships to the far corners of the world so sailors wouldn’t get lost at sea. And its numerous fountains with water that sang. As we slept deeply, we heard the muezzin raise his gorgeous voice calling out the prayer. Even those who had died as a result of their overenthusiasm, those who fell into a hole or from way up high—we started to see them rising from their graves so as not to miss such a blessed prayer. Glory be to God! It was truly a gift from God to be so close to such a grand mosque. There were other nights when we didn’t sleep at all. We lay down next to one another, my hand in hers, without any need for words. The only sound was that of the crashing waves that sang out down below. And when she was happy—for no apparent reason—she got up humming melodies, and drew what she believed to be her red cats on the wooden boards.

  I took a chair and pulled it over next to her, our shadows becoming one. She wasn’t smiling. She was serious about what she was doing. I asked her to get up on the chair to grab a brush from the shelf. She laughed, then got up and lifted her dress a little bit. In those moments I examined her white legs and her perfectly arranged toes. We painted and painted and painted. Each one in their own square. Each one with their own colors, their own ideas, and their own unspoken desires. A moonbeam slipped in through the window. It landed on her face. I felt it on my face before seeing it settle on hers. It gave the impression that we were on the verge of a clear night, the likes of which we hadn’t seen for a while. A
feeling of optimism swept over me, like a rest after feeling tired. I said to myself that tomorrow was going to be a beautiful day. Exceptional. No workers banging their hammers or dragging pieces of metal large enough to cause the ground to shake. No bosses barking at their employees. Her shadow danced in the candlelight. Then her smile returned to dance around us once again, shining in the workshop’s darkness as she got up and stared at the color-spattered fingers, her fingers. She said she had only pretended to drown that night so I wouldn’t be too sad for her. A few hours or days of sadness, and she’d be counted among the unknown dead. She also talked about how the lawyer knew how to corrupt her soul because she thought so much about the happy life that singers lead. She thought about singing first—because she always loved to sing—then about herself and her future, and about the money she took from her father’s pillow. It was her right to think as other people do. Her spirit was just like theirs, easily corruptible. Then it was as if she had entered a period of quiet reflection as she moved away from the window, as if the moonbeam that had settled in her square was pulling her, just like Father when a thought eluded him. I was amazed that, at that moment, I was thinking about the future. Our future. This was something completely new to me. I forgot about the Gulf and my brother Suleiman’s promises. Azemmour is a small city, but it would be enough. Down alongside its walls there’s a river called the Oum Errabia. Farah’s face was bathed in the purple moonlight, weaving her small desires into mine. Her father, the retired solider who, once upon a time, had been preparing her for the life of a soldier so people would respect her, was now sapped of all strength. He walked on one leg so people would respect what he had gone through. In our imaginations we saw that we respected him because of how much he did for his daughters. Despite this, he ended up on a riverbank waiting for a fish that had gone extinct decades ago, stretching his one remaining leg out in front of the doorstep. We would jump over it and go inside.