by Fadia Faqir
Nadira would remain the only woman Aziza would hate and she would hate her for the rest of her life because, in her opinion, Nadira was a thief, an adulteress, a liar and a murderer who had destroyed her joy. In fact she was the storm whose evil force invaded the seven pillars of happiness which had supported her. She had snatched her husband from her, her lover and darling, her brother, father and friend and she had uprooted her from the past, present and the future without conscience or mercy.
Nadira was less beautiful than Aziza in all respects and she was not as well proportioned. Her body, for example, was impaired by her broad shoulders and a rather high waist but she had a strong personality, as well as being kind and capable. She made the best of her good points and was able to conceal her weak ones to the extent that she appeared, to all who saw her, to be a radiant, seductive woman who aroused men’s desire to possess her and wrest her away from other men. But above all else, the considerable degree of learning Nadira had obtained enhanced her distinction and presence. She had been to university for a time but, since she did not particularly enjoy studying, she left with the hope that she could take up painting. This was in contrast to Aziza who had barely completed her primary education, and whose worldly knowledge had never been sharpened because her experience had been limited to a life of perpetual isolation in the large house with her blind mother, deprived of any brothers and sisters with whom she could have shared the details of daily life.
Aziza had often noticed the impression Nadira made when she came in or when she was present in some place or other. She felt jealous and frustrated when people paid attention to her and spoke to her while excluding Aziza or when men, sitting in their corners, changed places to get near her. Nadira was blessed with intelligence and was very articulate. She wasn’t put out by Aziza’s anger and continued to praise her in a way which was quite genuine. She even steered the conversation so that Aziza could take some part in it. But one day when Nadira and her stepfather stayed up all night in the house playing cards she sensed that he was playing a role other than that of hospitable host. It was then that she knew that her lover had fallen for that dark, attractive girl.
The widower and lover took personal charge of preparing food for Nadira and closely studied all the movements which she used to show off her feminine charms. He listened extremely attentively, hanging on her every word, and the words they exchanged were accompanied by impassioned looks.
After that Aziza thought that Nadira would be like a summer cloud passing fleetingly across the sky of her peaceful relationship with her stepfather, like all those clouds which had passed by during their long relationship. There were the dancers in the city nightclubs and the pretty Italian lady whose picture he left scattered amongst the papers on his desk at home. This lady gave him many presents and souvenirs and Aziza never knew that he in turn gave her a little boy whom she took with her abroad after the cosmetics factory where she worked was nationalized. But Aziza’s hopes were dashed the moment he told her of his intention to marry Nadira, despite the fact that he was around sixty years old, for she had never thought that he would contemplate marriage again. Perhaps it was because his handsome face, unmarked by wrinkles, belied his true age that he was encouraged to take a step of this kind – added to which he considered Nadira a real catch. So when he set out to convince Aziza that this arrangement would be preferable for them both and began to discuss the practical details of his intended marriage, especially those concerning the house and its rooms, Aziza was convinced that his intention to marry was serious. She stared at him, without blinking an eye, while she thought about the most suitable way to kill him.
Aziza’s symptoms of madness gradually appeared a few years after entering prison. At first they revealed themselves through her habit of talking to herself from time to time in a way which was incomprehensible to the other prisoners because she spoke in the few Greek words she learned from Umm Zakhary, her Cypriot neighbour. Aziza always took great pains to avoid placing herself in a position in which her dignity would be exposed to their abuse. But after her symptoms emerged, it became noticeable that she lost much of the arrogance and haughtiness which she normally displayed towards those she came across in prison, even towards the warders themselves who treated her with caution. She distributed her clothes to anyone who needed them, keeping only the bare minimum for herself. Finally she started hitting any prisoner who annoyed her or contradicted her and once she almost hit Mahrousa, the warder, who would have given her a slap hard enough to lay her out on her bed like a corpse. However Mahrousa had a kind heart and she remembered that Aziza had given her a magnificent black lace nightdress only two days before so she thought better of it and cajoled her into returning to her cell. But one day Aziza attacked and bit Lula, the procuress, very hard because when they met in the prison corridor Lula told her that she should have met her outside the prison ten years ago and she would have sorted her out. Finally, after all possible methods of punishment in the prison had failed to restrain her the prison authorities decided to bring her before the prison psychiatrists. She appeared before two young doctors who came to assess her case. In their report they described her as calm and gentle – as someone who conversed with the confidence of one of the princesses of the deposed Alawite family and whose civilized manners and aristocratic appearance were proof of her high social standing. This earned her their respect and they decided, in the end, and after long discussions with her, that she was not mad at all. Nevertheless their decision was perhaps more a measure of the madness they frequently encountered in their professional lives far outside the prison walls.
The prison authorities were content to confine Aziza to a solitary cell inside the prison hospital, next to the ward for the weak and disabled, and perhaps that was the most compassionate decision taken on her behalf since she had been sentenced for life after killing her stepfather. In contrast to her previous life in the communal ward, the new arrangement suited her well, because at last she was able to spend long, peaceful evenings on her own, without any disturbance or harassment from anyone sharing her space. She could stay up at night alone, gazing at the stars for long periods of time, without anyone asking her to close the wooden window so that the stray cats and the insects didn’t creep in. Here she would spend her nights thinking with serenity and precision about all those whom she would take with her on the beautiful golden chariot with magnificent white, winged horses ascending to heaven, and which she insisted should include only the most distinguished and noble women of the prison. For these women were really angels without wings who had lost their way to heaven and come instead to this awful, depressing solitary place from which she would rise with them, returning them to their rightful place above by means of that magnificent chariot. The magnificence of the chariot was greater even than that of King Farouk, which she had seen one morning moving through the streets of the city when he arrived from his seaside palace in Muntaza. She was sitting now, after thinking a great deal about the matter of Umm Ragab, having decided to include her in the celestial voyage up to heaven.
Aziza had never liked Umm Ragab who, in her opinion, was the very embodiment of vulgarity and crookedness. Since the day Umm Ragab first came to the prison, sentenced to three years after being accused of picking pockets, Aziza had avoided having any dealings with her because she hated her demonic appearance. Umm Ragab had a small aged face, full of fine wrinkles, and red hair which was almost light orange from too much dyeing with henna. This thick, frizzy tousled mop of hair made her look as if the eternal flame had settled on her head. However, the way Aziza saw this head was different, and somewhat strange. She felt it resembled a little, rotten melon with decayed skin which had darkened. Perhaps this was due to the vile, putrid smell which clung to Umm Ragab, about which Aziza made rude comments every time she passed or approached her. In addition to this, Aziza felt unnerved by her harsh, quick, nervous glances; her eyes darted about like those of a little fox. Aziza’s observation was accurate because these
were looks which distinguished pick-pockets from other thieves. Her extremely thin fingers and her skinny hands were another indication that she was a professional who picked wallets, money and precious things from their rightful place in people’s pockets or handbags.
Umm Ragab was not descended from a family of professional pickpockets and she had never had formal tuition but she was, nevertheless, extremely skilled. She took it up as a profession with ease sometime after her husband had divorced her barely five months after their marriage; soon after that, she gave birth to his daughter and was forced to fend for herself to meet her daily needs and those of her little child.
The nub of Umm Ragab’s story – and this was the name by which she liked to be called by all the prisoners – was the dream she nurtured of mothering another child – a male – whom she would call Ragab. This was one of the small wishes she had cherished in her former life outside prison and which she had tried unsuccessfully to realize by attaching herself to any man who would agree to marry her, whatever his circumstances and no matter how poor. She once even lured an old beggar, whom she saw roaming the streets, crawling along the ground because he had lost both legs. She offered to shelter him in the little room where she lived with her daughter and the man agreed because he had no fixed dwelling. He used to spend his nights in some mosque or other or with some of his prosperous beggar friends who owned houses and provided shelter for a fee. After the man moved into her house, Umm Ragab was happy and felt that she was quite close, or closer, to realizing her wish – of having Ragab. She almost broached the question of marriage when she felt sure of the old man and had showered him with as much of her ill-gotten gains as she could. She did very well in her trade due to favourable circumstances made possible through the inefficiency of government planning, which meant that the city had become inundated with people who, day after day, poured into the city from the villages and little towns which lacked most of the basic services. This gave Umm Ragab the opportunity to increase her takings under cover of the crowds of people crammed into the public buses, and especially the trains, which operated between the centre of town and the distant suburbs. But Umm Ragab was confused when she discovered a little boy sleeping contentedly next to the old beggar, when she returned late one night after a very active day due to the celebrations at the end of Ramadan. At this time of the year, most people working in the government and the public sector went out to buy clothes and new shoes for members of their families after they had been paid their bonus. Umm Ragab was convinced that the hope she had pinned on this man to grant her the dear little gift, Ragab, had been dashed. At that moment, and without any discussion, she threw him out of the house, ahead of his little boy, after stripping him bare of his most treasured possessions; a cross-over lady’s jacket and a white skull cap made of lamb’s wool. She had bought them both especially for him from a shopkeeper who sold second-hand clothes, without realizing, of course, that the jacket was meant for a woman because it was one of those you saw around in the seventies when it was fashionable for women to wear men’s clothes. She categorically refused his entreaties to remain for the night and to let him pay back half the amount of the jacket, just as she stood firm in the face of her daughter’s pleas to let the boy stay the night with them so that they could play a little together.
Perhaps Umm Ragab’s failure in realizing her simple, modest desire – which is one that many women achieve every day – was the cause of her complex and her perpetual sense of frustration. It might also have accounted for her unique ability to transform the simplest of problems into huge tragedies. For instance, if she let the milk boil over on the stove or if her daughter let a cup fall on the floor she screamed and howled as if some terrible calamity had befallen her. Then with the passing of time she changed into a malicious person with negative feelings towards everyone, making her an ideal spy for the prison warders. She went to extreme lengths to flatter them and to ingratiate herself with them through informing them about every detail which took place in the cells, whether she witnessed it herself or heard about it some other way. She didn’t hesitate to report any prisoner who tried to contravene the internal regulations of the prison. For example, one of the prisoners might hide a mirror or some simple cosmetics, or it might be a coloured dress which she would conceal and put on at night when there was only one warder on duty, or two at the most, usually sleeping deeply at this time. However, none of this changed the fact that, for as long as the opportunity presented itself, Umm Ragab continued to carry out the activities which had landed her in prison and which had always laid her open to problems when she was outside. Aziza bumped into her for the first time when she noticed her trying to steal a boiled egg which she had just placed next to some olives resting on a piece of bread on a window ledge, ready for breakfast. As she stood outside the room stretching her hand towards it, Aziza, who was standing inside washing a tomato to have with her food, grabbed hold of her and descended on her with a fierce bite which would have torn a bit of flesh from Umm Ragab’s hand if it hadn’t been for her scream which immediately brought several prisoners to rescue her hand from Aziza’s teeth, while Aziza continued to curse and swear with rage. Then instead of eating the egg and olives with the bread, Aziza threw it all into the prison courtyard because she declined to eat food which Umm Ragab had coveted to the point of stealing. But Aziza had a deeper reason than that for hating Umm Ragab since she had discovered that she had a pathological aversion to soap and water, no doubt accounting for the vile, putrid smell which wafted over everyone who came near her. Even though the warders forced Umm Ragab to take a bath from time to time the parasitic fungi, which thrived in the summer, became more vigorous after each time she bathed and multiplied between her toes, her fingers and under her arms and between the folds of her skin encouraging this unbearable smell to flourish.
But on this memorable day, such as the prison had never witnessed before, Aziza’s opinion of Umm Ragab underwent a change so radical as to be on a par with Gallileo’s revolutionary theory of the rotation of the earth around the sun. Aziza was roused from her usual afternoon nap by the shrieks and wails of Umm Ragab, who had just been informed by the prison authorities of her daughter’s death after a huge fire had broken out in her home. She occupied a single room in a block in which the owner rented out communal rooms to the poor – people in the city who were unable to rent privately and who were forced to share one room with their family. Umm Ragab continued to cry and mourn for her daughter who died in the fire, leaving her three children behind. A man who lived next door and made his living selling popcorn from a cart had been trying to fill his gas cylinder when it exploded, spreading gas through every corner of the house which then burst into flames.
The daughter who died in the fire had been standing in her room frying aubergine and potatoes for her three daughters who were playing hopscotch in the street at midday. Umm Ragab’s despair increased whenever she remembered the fate of these little girls; only months ago they had lost their father, a chronic diabetic, when he was struck down by a fatal attack after eating two large pieces of konafa cake.
The thought of this tragedy drove Umm Ragab to strike her face in lamentation and to scream for hours with an amazing amount of energy. Her cheeks, puffed out and swelled up engulfing her narrow, fox-like eyes. Finally, when she was capable of expending no more feelings of grief or misfortune she fell in a swoon.
Aziza remained on her bed in her cell and suffered for Umm Ragab in her grief which she felt in all its strength through hearing all the wailing and face-slapping that penetrated through the open window of her cell from the ward next door. For the first time, Aziza’s eyes were opened to the truth of Umm Ragab’s existence, the most wretched of people she knew, a woman who had been devoured by suffering and now wasn’t even able to see her daughter to say her final farewell at the grave. The weight of her enormous pain would continue to burden her and consume her spirit whenever she thought about the three young ones who were cut off without a mo
ther or father to care for them, while she was far away, unable to do anything for them and unable to drive away the evil which had befallen them.
Aziza wept real tears out of the intense sympathy she felt for Umm Ragab, and in these moments she tried to justify her existence as a thief and pickpocket because Umm Ragab had gained nothing through her life of picking pockets nor did she derive glory from it; nothing she accumulated during the days of poverty and hardship was of direct benefit to her. Instead she stole and picked pockets to live and eat and perhaps if she had found a better means of earning a living she would not have stolen.
After that Aziza felt that she had gone too far in her sympathy for Umm Ragab because thieves are thieves, whatever, and they must be punished for it. However while turning the matter over in her mind, she remembered her stepfather, and remembered Nadira and was convinced that, despite everything, there was no justice in this world and if she had the scales of justice in her hand then she would place Nadira in the place of Umm Ragab, and put her stepfather in her place. There are crimes of conscience which human laws fail to rectify. Here was Umm Ragab serving a sentence in prison but in reality it was like being sentenced to death because she couldn’t even take a last look at her daughter who was lying dead, would never be able to hug her or cry on her shoulder or even plant a final goodbye kiss on her cheek.
Aziza continued to cry for Umm Ragab and felt how harsh she had been on her. She reproached herself strongly inside because she had not let her steal the egg and the olives with bread but instead bit her until she made a toothmark on her wrist which looked like a round, blue watch, remaining on her flesh for many days after. Then Aziza lit herself a cigarette and got up to walk around her cell. She continued to reproach herself strongly and realized how thoughtless it would be not to take Umm Ragab with her in the golden chariot up to heaven. Because, before this incident, the very thought of Umm Ragab’s dirty hand contaminating that magnificent heavenly chariot which Aziza had drawn in her imagination, had been inconceivable. The chariot was an exact replica of the royal golden coach which she had once seen long ago, with a simple modification; a collection of strong, outstretched wings which would raise its six beautiful white horses on the ascent up to heaven and through the gap in the billowing clouds.