Or perhaps this feeling of anxiety stemmed from the message that arrived from the old city, casting its pall over the entire household, sowing childish desires in Father’s heart and invigorating Mother’s broken hopes. A message from Suleiman. Finally. But it wasn’t a message like other messages, just a bit of news transmitted by a man we didn’t know. The house was suddenly and radically turned upside down. And the man who brought the message, where was he? He contacted us at our old address, but the old address was no longer there. An unwritten message. But that was unimportant. The important thing was the piece of news, which was that Suleiman was en route, although it would take some time for him to arrive because Saudi Arabia was far away. I didn’t see the man who carried the message. The ones who saw him were two kids who stayed behind in the old city because they weren’t lucky enough for their parents to have gotten an apartment in the new neighborhood. Why Saudi Arabia and not Abu Dhabi or Oman? No one knew. They’re all distant countries located in the east, as far away as one can go. And the man? He hadn’t gotten in touch before because he didn’t know our new address. But thanks to airplanes, all points on earth are now close to one another. Saudi Arabia is still far away, though. The news came at just the right time. Mother figured that a reasonable amount of time had passed. “There’s nothing better than for a person to remember his kin after being away for a year! We don’t know how many days Suleiman will spend with us.” We bet that it won’t be more than one week. Then we bet that it will be longer. Two weeks. We had never seen a migrant worker return to his job after less than a month, especially if he was working in wealthy and far-off countries like Saudi Arabia or the Emirates. People didn’t need to work too much there. All the money he might be bringing back with him would be useful. Mother said that the best that could happen would be for us to be done with this cardboard box of a house before it was ripped from above our heads by the wind, and to go back to our old house and fix whatever could be fixed. All things considered, it was a fine house with four rooms where we couldn’t hear the embarrassing things the neighbors were doing in their houses on the other side of the thin walls.
The razor passed over his head, shaving it bald as his eyes followed its movement. The blade mowed down the white hair, leaving behind red skin like that of a plucked rooster, along with some shaving cream. Khadija asked for the razor before the hair was completely gone. The head shrank. Mother demanded the razor back before the head shrank to the size of a pomegranate and became too difficult to handle. Mother wanted to have her share of the fun with Father’s head before it disappeared completely. It might be gone at any moment, then we’d be left without a head at all for us to empty our old hatreds into. Father’s physical condition had improved, but the ceiling and the crack in it came back to trouble him. Karima rubbed her small fingers in shaving cream mixed with hair. She was playing too. Father asked whether Suleiman was going to come in now, and we told him that he was en route, as we had been told. Then he immediately forgot about Suleiman. He went back to asking about what was still worrying him: Would the king see the crack in the ceiling on Dedication Day? He was no longer worried about his shrinking head, or about the hands tracing all of their accumulated anger on it. He was no longer worried about whether his son Suleiman was coming back. Rather, for every single ticking second, he was hoping that in the coming days the king wouldn’t notice the damn crack. Father didn’t get up from his chair, but his health had improved, as Khadija said as she rubbed his beard. His wrinkled red neck had grown longer, and his head had shrunken as much as it could. His speech seemed heavier as he talked about the mosque and Dedication Day. He asked when it would be. It wouldn’t do for him to miss a day like that because he had contributed to it mentally, and his health had suffered for it as well. Dedication Day would be memorable, and the hairline crack wouldn’t be visible to anyone. Do you think the king is going to worry himself with something so minor as a small crack in the ceiling ten meters up? And about the crack, he also told us that he’d discuss the matter directly with the king in the event that he did see it. If the king saw it, there was no doubt he’d demand that the one responsible for the ceiling be brought before him. And that was what Father was anticipating with all of the former enthusiasm we recognized. As if the thought of the dedication returned him to his old vibrant self. Then, this question: If the king doesn’t see it, what if a member of his entourage does? These guardians of hell don’t allow anything to go unnoticed. That was what worried him. What would happen if that were to occur? Then he forgot all about his question and told little Karima that he’d take her with him to see the mosque he helped build. He wouldn’t say anything to her about the crack, though. He’d let her discover it for herself. And she’d tell him that she saw it because she’s young and doesn’t know how to lie. All she wanted to do was pluck one of the hairs from his head, but the hairs were all gone. We all still harbored a hatred inside us that had not yet been slaked. An unsatisfied anger.
Abdullah wasn’t at this party, which seemed more like a funeral. Absent from the shaving ritual, which seemed more like a farewell rite. He was working in the new neighborhood’s mosque. It wasn’t really a mosque. They forgot to build the mosque in the new neighborhood. It was more of a cellar underneath one of the houses. Abdullah was the one who suggested converting it into a mosque. And he was the one who led the prayers and delivered the sermon. This job had completely transformed him. He spent his days repairing the floor. He patched the holes that appeared on the walls after Father constructed a mihrab for him out of wood left behind by the construction workers. And for the occasion, he also put in an arched doorway like those found in palaces. Abdullah repainted the mihrab and door once a week, as if intentionally not allowing himself a minute’s rest so as not to have to make an appearance at home. He redid the mosque’s straw-mat floor coverings. He searched among the pious for new Qurans, incense burners, strings of prayer beads that could be seen in the dark because they were lit only with the light God planted in them, and anything else that might be appropriate for his mosque. Yes, Abdullah had changed considerably. So much so that I had to admit how wrong I had been, and that I had judged him too harshly before. In the evening, he brought home whatever food the other residents brought him—bread, sugar, large bowls of couscous, and sometimes mouthwatering dishes such as soup with local chicken in it, some of which I took to Farah. It was as though Abdullah had become indispensable for sustaining life in our household, and outside of it as well. Even Khadija was touched by the same healing hand. Her face became noticeably fresher. She no longer complained about her old pains, and when she was afflicted by one of her spells, Abdullah took her into the only bedroom, which had become his, and after a quarter of an hour she would be cured. Habiba was the only one not happy with the situation because the room was hers. She didn’t want Khadija or anyone else in it. When the arguing between them grew fierce, Habiba accused her of stealing her husband. And Khadija responded that she didn’t understand why she was making such a fuss for no reason. “No reason?” And what was the harm in their sharing the same man? Habiba was being selfish, because men were created to sleep with many women, four at least. She went on to explain to all of us in scientific fashion that the total number of men was decreasing in the world. They were dying in wars, on the roadways, and at work in the mines. Even those who were still living didn’t live for very long. So, in order for women to fulfill their duties, and in order for life to continue so that the human species wouldn’t disappear from the face of the earth, each man needed to have a number of women. It was just envy gnawing away at Habiba’s heart. “Envy? What envy?” At this point, when the yelling between the two sides reached a fever pitch, I no longer understood any of it; perhaps no one did. But there was still that dangling question: What did Abdullah and Khadija do in the room? After spending a quarter of an hour with him, she emerged rosy-cheeked, in full health, walking and stretching out her arms like someone who has just woken up, fresh, new, cured, completel
y cured. Then we heard Father demand his gold-embroidered selham robe. When we smoothed it out over his shoulders, he said, “Now I can receive him.” We realized after a moment that he meant Suleiman and not the king. Before leaving the house, I heard Mother ask about the girl who sings in the mosque. She was holding a pot between us, and the steam rising from the pot smelled delicious—saffron, olives, and preserved lemon. The smell didn’t dissipate when she put the top back on and handed it to me, without adding anything else. Without waiting for a response.
These annoying stairways, twisting halls, and narrow windows looking out over the debris left behind by the construction workers didn’t help me know whether Kika was lurking in some corner waiting for me. Because of the buildings, because of the evening sky weighing heavily over them, because of the toxic news that had been spread about Farah, the threat of Kika seemed more imminent than ever before. Not because of the question Mother asked about a girl she didn’t know; not because of the number of times he came knocking on the door; not even because of how long he had been gone before suddenly showing up and spreading the word about the girl who wasn’t interested in him. It might have been because of the way he had stood in front of me, with all that malice coursing through his veins, the day we went searching for Farah and he had left me out to dry. Still, to this moment, just remembering that hateful flash in Kika’s eyes gives me the impression that a nasty wind is heading my way. It might even have started before that, from the looks he had given Farah the first night we met at the Saâda Cabaret, and then afterward on the broad, dimly lit avenue as he walked around her, first as a victor in a battle that hadn’t yet begun, then as a wounded animal that had fallen in that same nonexistent battle. If I ever emerge from this maze that is the new neighborhood, with its dark alleyways and dug-up streets, I’ll never come back again. I can’t walk through it without thinking about Kika, and about Farah.
I passed through a grove of jacaranda trees, putting some distance between me and the new neighborhood, the machines, and the men, who hadn’t moved from where they were standing. Small, purple, bell-shaped jacaranda flowers continued to fall as I moved through the trees, stepping on the blossoms as so many others had, and would. When they’d been stepped on and dirtied, and had lost their color and scent, when they were completely obliterated, new flowers would bloom. Other purple, bell-shaped flowers would fall to earth, fresher, more welcoming of life, even more ready to be stepped on. Before continuing along the road, I stood there for a while smiling at the purple field. A small bell-shaped flower fell onto my shoulder and filled me with a fleeting feeling of intoxication. In order to forget about Kika, I thought of Farah. Would she stay? As sure as I was of the generous, eternal life that filled the flowers of the jacaranda tree, my conviction faded when I thought about Farah. I have little patience, and this causes the fires of disappointment to flare up. I wish my mind would allow itself even a brief moment of relaxation, but it can’t. My mind needed some time to not think about Farah, but that was impossible. Would she stay? How long would she stay? Last time I counted up the days, hours, and minutes. She’s been here longer this time. Did that mean anything? Would I find her there when I went back? I was seized with the feeling that there was some sort of threat out there that would continue to pursue her. The danger still threatened her.
41
This light has always been here. As far back as I can remember, I can’t recall a single night when this yellow light wasn’t flashing. Never was there a night when it didn’t penetrate the bedroom window and even get into the bed. Even when it didn’t come in, it would reflect off of the window all night long, every night, blinking at regular intervals like eternal flashes of lightning. The guardian said, “That lighthouse has been operating for more than seventy years without a shipwreck,” and the guardian knew because he has always been at its side, day and night, in the heat of the summer and during the coldest days of winter. He stays up late at night with it, cares for it, and keeps it company. The guardian talks about the lighthouse like someone who spends all night worrying about a family member, with all the tenderness that has been stored up for decades, so that I imagine tears of compassion shining in the corners of his eyes. Perhaps the lighthouse is his entire family. He’s always been here. Even as kids we would always see him from far off while we were playing ball or swimming between the nearby rocks. We would pass by to watch him washing his hands, not getting too close to him, though, because he was a medic in the Royal Navy. He started guarding the lighthouse when he wasn’t really needed anymore. But he was a medic by profession, and maybe this extended to the lighthouse as well. When we watched him washing his hands, we imagined he had just finished treating the wounds of one of his patients. We were always afraid of him because of that, just as we were afraid of the lighthouse. This guardian and his lighthouse resembled one another—in their isolation, their old age, their loneliness, their seclusion, in how content they were, and in the mystery that surrounded them and their roles. Lighthouses aren’t anything without the mystery that permeates their lives. If it weren’t for the round light that slowly moved up above at night, we would have always wondered what went on way up there. How many mythical beings lived inside it? Did everyone who went up come safely back down? It was perhaps for this reason too that the idea of going up had never occurred to me before that day. The idea of going up hadn’t occurred to any of us because we had known since we were young that no one who went up ever came back.
Two hundred and fifty-six steps spiraled upward, and the whole time we were going up, I couldn’t see the guardian who kept walking ahead of me until I entered the high raised platform where the lamp and its notched mirrors were. All I could hear was the sound of his footsteps on the white marble—taf taf taf. As if the sound of my steps preceded my feet. The sound of the guardian’s footsteps brought to mind images from my childhood. A chronicle filled with fantastic beings wrapped in fog, mystery, superstition, no small amount of fear, and a desire to go back down as Farah had done. Halfway up the stairs, I heard the echo as she stopped suddenly, then the echo of her laugh as it rolled down behind her. The farther up I went, the farther her laughter got from me, and the more violent the sound of the guardian’s footfalls sounded in my mind. Going up is always dizzying. I arrived at the last step exhausted and sweaty. Not because of the 256 steps I had climbed, but rather on account of thinking about her the whole time, along with all the arresting images that accompanied those thoughts. The guardian went up nimbly, talking nonstop, as if he were walking on level ground, or as if it were his way of dealing with all forms of fatigue. Farah decided to go back down after the first hundred stairs. Would I have climbed them all if it weren’t for her insistence on doing so when we were at the base of the lighthouse?
That day in the late afternoon, I returned from Mother’s house in a bad mood. That house is a trap. Same with the other houses that were like confined boxes. Same with the dark passageways, the blazing sun, the deep-blue sky, the old and new workers, the employee and his machines, and Kika, who spread rumors wherever he went. This neighborhood was a great big trap. Best to get far away from it as quickly as possible and be rid of it altogether before getting caught in its snares. Then, as I thought about my brother Suleiman and his imminent return, I realized that going back to the neighborhood once a week wasn’t as dangerous as I imagined, especially since the matter of coming up with money was never more urgent than it was now. My thought was to buy Farah a red dress. As if her staying longer depended on this color. No doubt she had gotten used to it as she drew her red cats. At home, out in the streets, and in markets there was nothing to sell. The sewing machine had been sold by Mother. The only thing a man could find to sell was another man. Suleiman might come tomorrow. Why not? From Saudi Arabia, the two kids said. Not from Abu Dhabi or Oman. Saudi Arabia is a rich country. People there don’t work much, but they earn a lot. He’d bring more than enough money with him. As such, the news came at just the right time. I found the door to
the workshop closed, and on it was a sign with “Do not enter” written in red. This delighted me even more than the sound of splashing water. I sat beneath the window listening to the sound of water pouring inside. Thinking about Farah bathing and humming didn’t help at all. Some other time, it might have been possible for the same happy tune to flow through my veins. Instead, I felt a feverish wave wash over me, reaching my temples. Could this be traced back to the sadness and worry that had been overwhelming me since this morning? I also thought about the previous night, about all the things we had discussed, and the other, more exciting things we had stayed silent about. One question stayed with me for part of the night and during part of the long walk I had taken this morning: Was there any place Farah and I would be able to find refuge? An island, or a forest, or a cave suspended in the sky that no human hand could reach? The thought of going to Azemmour wasn’t pleasant, because she said that if we found ourselves in Azemmour, we’d be going up the river ourselves to fish for North African shad. We laughed because this fish no longer existed. It’s really frustrating when you can’t find money when you need it. What’s more frustrating is when you can’t find anyone to go to for help in your whole entire family that’s spread out across the country and over history, as Father would say every time he recalled his notable forefathers. Or maybe it should be like that. Maybe we shouldn’t be able to find a relative to go to. Not in this city or in any other. Not in an adjacent village or in one far away. Nowhere in this country was there that relative who once said to me, “If ever you need a roof over your head . . .” or “The house is yours, you can count on it.” No aunt on either my mother’s or my father’s side. My uncle Mustafa was in prison. He might have died by now. A bullet like the one that pierced his thigh could kill a camel. As for Suleiman, whose return had been announced by the two kids, no one could confirm the news. No one knew when he’d come back, or if he’d ever really decided to come back in the first place.
A Shimmering Red Fish Page 31