by Fadia Faqir
The mother did not tell her daughter the rest of the plan which Aida discovered later, and had never stopped thinking about, even at the very moment she bit into the black prison soap. The crime shook the village community who never dreamt that an incident of this kind could occur in such a respectable home. After the police inspected the scene of the crime they took Aida away in a car to the department dealing with the investigation. Her mother promised to instruct the best lawyer in Cairo to defend her and protect her interests until the conclusion of the trial, adding that she would never abandon her during her imprisonment. But the reality, which Aida never anticipated, was something completely different. Despite the long time which had passed she never believed that her mother and father could have abandoned her as soon as she had been sentenced to life imprisonment nor that they had washed their hands of her forever as a murderer who respected neither God nor the ties of kinship. Even worse, that they both considered her dead without granting her the ceremony of mourning. To the delight of the family of the murdered son, the gentle young brother was coerced by his parents into marrying the victim’s sister, despite the fact that she was a widow nine years older than him and was crippled by polio. Aida tried to contact them in various ways and sent them dozens of letters; she even sent news via someone from their village whom she met in prison and was released after serving half of her sentence on good behaviour. But days and months followed without her receiving a single word from these people with their hearts of stone. This silence completely destroyed her and made her curse the moment she submitted against her better judgement to her mother’s diabolical plan and agreed to confess to the crime. She had hesitated at the time out of fear but her mother’s scornful looks which pierced her, heart and soul, terrified her into submisssion. She also feared for her beloved brother who only killed her husband out of compassion for her and out of concern for her loss of dignity.
After Aida had lost all hope of retrieving any thread which tied her to her family and her old world, she fell prey to grief and began to crave death. She longed to see her beloved brother to whom she had often sent letters seeking his compassion and begging him to reply. What hurt her most was that his loving tender heart which was always compassionate towards her could have bowed to the influence of his parents in agreeing to abandon her. How could he be so heartless as to forget her and leave her to this terrible place without sending a word? She hoped for nothing more in life but to see him face to face once more and to look into his beautiful eyes and chide him for his harshness towards her since she had only accepted the role of murderess for his sake and for the sake of protecting him from further harm.
However, one day – the very day she ate the soap – she met a smelter by chance in the prison kitchen whom she immediately recognized because he lived in the same street as her in the village where she was married. She knew he had also been sentenced to life imprisonment, for stealing telephone cables, and was an inmate of the adjoining men’s prison. Passionately, she began to beg him for news of her family and he told her that both her mother and father were well and so were her uncle and his wife but when she asked him about her brother, who concerned her more than all the others, he hesitated a little then told her that he was dead. His wife had tried to rouse him from his sleep one morning and was surprised to get no response. When she tried again she discovered that he was dead and the doctor diagnosed a sudden heart attack which had killed him in his sleep. However, the whole village said that his wife had poisoned him with a rare poison which leaves no trace in the body nor in any of its organs. On hearing this Aida left him, dragging her feet to the prison courtyard and stood with her mouth wide open just as she did when her brother killed her husband. She soon went back to her ward and gathered together the few clothes that she owned together with her white sheets and went to wash them, even though they weren’t dirty. She set about scrubbing them energetically, as the best way she knew of getting rid of her frustration and of unburdening the suppressed feelings that she had harboured over the period when life had been so cruel to her. But despite washing the clothes until they were thoroughly clean and scrubbing them over and over again, the washing neither alleviated her troubles nor satisfied her, and in no way assuaged the pain which burned inside her. It was for this reason that she had been unable to control herself and had begun to howl like a bitch in labour. The pain caused her to cry out, tearing her soul to shreds, and even though she had never experienced labour pains in her life, she started stomach contractions as if she were really giving birth. At this point she began to eat the soap because it seemed preferable to the earth she was sitting on, she would have swallowed it had it not been for Umm El-Khayr, who came and prised open her jaws. From that moment she was aware of nothing more until she opened her eyes again to find herself on a bed in the prison hospital.
All the while Aziza listened to Aida’s story she was gazing at the ground, occasionally interposing a few words to reassure Umm ElKhayr that she was still listening and following. As she listened to the tale, she mulled over the extent of pain and sadness which this young woman had suffered because her family had shut her out of their hearts. What astonished her the most was the amazing cruelty of the mother and her rejection and desertion of her daughter in such difficult circumstances. She was shocked by the rigid traditions of the Saïd and the insistence on taking blood revenge, when neither life nor retribution really worked like that. There is a law unknown to conventional justice whereby revenge can surface in a thousand different ways. It is possible for the victim to take revenge on the wrongdoer simply by invading his being with remorse and thereby tormenting his conscience and soul.
Then time takes its own revenge on everything in life by constantly transforming what appears to be unchangeable, just as the maternal love of Aida’s mother was transformed into extreme cruelty.
Umm El-Khayr related Aida’s story factually and without any embellishment. When she had finished she asked for God’s protection from the Devil and raised her hands in supplication asking for health and protection for her ten children and that He should bless them with good people around them who would take care of them in their daily life. Meanwhile, after the most intense and prolonged thought, Aziza had decided to include Aida in the golden chariot. However she decided not to tell Umm El-Khayr immediately, preferring to keep her in suspense for a little. So she asked her to apply her gentle and skilled hands in making a pudding of rice flour, dried milk, sugar and cornstarch. When this was prepared she stood up and handed her a little sugar on a dish for them to share with the pudding, whispering to her, “Tell Aida, but keep it to yourselves, that, God willing, she will be coming with us.” Umm El-Khayr didn’t give what Aziza said a second thought, refusing to take anything she said seriously because she believed Aziza was half-witted.
4
An Escape to Better Things in the Golden Chariot
The old white tiled floor in Aziza the Alexandrian’s ward looked sparkling clean even though it was faded through the wear and tear of time; Jamalat had just finished scrubbing it with a piece of sackcloth and water, mixed with a little liquid chlorine in the absence of any other disinfectants like carbolic acid which Aziza preferred because it gave a good shine and cleaned well. Unfortunately carbolic acid was not allowed because it came in dark bottles, instead of transparent plastic containers which couldn’t harm anyone in the violent incidents which broke out between the prisoners from time to time.
Aziza looked with pleasure at the damp, clean tiled floor, so cool at this hot time of the year, and her eye followed the thin, curved wainscot along the edge. She had just voluntarily given up her small iron bed to one of the political prisoners she came across from time to time. She could see no obvious reason why such people should be dumped there or why the Government should be on collision course with them. This political prisoner was extremely friendly to Aziza and one day she greeted her as she passed her in the corridor where Aziza was standing with Azima the giant. After the poli
tical prisoner had given her a broad, friendly smile Aziza felt encouraged to approach her to discover her story. She guessed she might be a communist or belong to the Muslim Brotherhood because they were the only kind of political prisoners Aziza had met during her long stay in prison.
She soon came to the conclusion that she must be a communist because she was not veiled and seemed rather lively and straightforward. The girl spoke to her in the same way that all the other communists Aziza had met in prison before had done; she never understood anything they said to her, nor the purpose of the mental and physical anguish that women like this girl brought upon themselves. Aziza noticed that almost all of them were educated and respectable. They had good jobs and lived in more pleasant circumstances than most; she observed the lavish visits they had every other day and the cigarettes which arrived for most of them in cartons of two hundred. Now she felt annoyed with herself because she no longer understood things as she had before; she was distracted and her mind was in turmoil.
Aziza sighed, she found it rather a strain to listen to the girl’s story which had nothing new in it as far as she was concerned. She had heard the same story from many others before and had concluded that such stories were good for nothing – useless – because, if the truth be told, these politically-minded people lived in another world and knew absolutely nothing about the poor they were always talking about. She looked over into the girl’s cell and noticed there was no bed in it – only a straw mattress lying on the floor. The political prisoner then asked her about her story and Aziza told her an abridged version; the girl gave her another smile and wished her well, presenting her with a whole packet of Marlboro cigarettes. Aziza was overwhelmed by her generosity and began to think of how she could reciprocate; after returning to her cell she decided to give her her iron bed since Aziza saw little difference between sleeping on a bed raised from the ground or on her mattress directly on the tiled floor, particularly as the summer heat was intense at that time. Aziza decided that she could accompany her on the golden chariot with winged horses at the moment of lift-off to heaven. Aziza actually carried out her first idea and asked Jamalat and Azima, the mourner, to carry the bed and place it in the political prisoner’s ward. However, her second idea was aborted by the Government’s decision to release the girl only a month after her imprisonment. Aziza bitterly regretted not having informed her about the heavenly ascent before she had received the order for her release. There was no doubt in her mind that the girl would have been so taken with the idea that she would not have left prison but would have joined the passengers on the chariot ascending to the beautiful celestial world, the like of which could never be found on earth.
However, after thinking about it a little, Aziza thanked God that the girl had left prison, for if she really had joined the chariot she would almost certainly have talked incessantly about politics and incited all the passengers to demonstrate against their contemptible conditions in prison. This would have enraged the government and, even if the chariot had taken off into the clouds, it could have aborted the ascent by sending one of its many planes to arrest the girl.
Aziza inspected her large room carefully, and after she was satisfied that her few possessions, just old clothes, her combs and hairpins, some plates and plastic cups, were in place and perfectly clean she looked gratefully at Jamalat who had made everything shipshape and said to her: “God preserve you, Jamalat. By God, my spirit has been lifted.”
Jamalat’s round face broke into a gentle smile which made it look like the smiling face printed on children’s sweet wrappers. She replied to Aziza saying: “Are you contented and happy then, love?”
Aziza cast her eye about the room once more with the kind of artificial disdain she usually displayed in the presence of those inferior to her – a legacy from her old life – then she was quiet for a little and said, “Get on and wash this plate and put it back in its place, then come and eat something to keep you going.”
Jamalat went out to wash the plate still covered with leftovers which she had left in the communal washroom at the end of the long corridor near the ward. Meanwhile Aziza began to prepare Jamalat some bread and a piece of white cheese which Azima, the mourner, had given her with a Cleopatra cigarette – the not-forexport kind, rich with wood shavings. She also put aside a guava, one of four which ‘Heroin Safiyya’ had given her when sharing out amongst her friends and those she liked, a whole crate presented by her two sons on their last visit. She had not kept them for herself because she was afraid they might go off after a few days. As Aziza prepared the snack for Jamalat she began to think about the circumstances of the girl’s life.
Jamalat returned and put the clean plate in the far corner of the room away from the bed and the clothes and then came to squat on the clean, swept floor next to Aziza. She placed the cheese on top of a flat loaf of bread and sank her teeth into it. Then as she chewed she said: “I want your opinion about something, Aunt Aziza”.
“Is it something good?” Aziza replied enquiringly. Her eyes bulged as she fixed her gaze on Jamalat’s angelic features because she thought Jamalat was going to draw her onto the subject of the golden winged chariot and her desire to join the ascent to heaven.
After she had finished the cheese, Jamalat pushed what was left of the bread into her mouth in one go. She shifted a piece of grit, which she came across in the last mouthful, to the front with her tongue and spat it out: “Do you know something … When I get out of here, God willing, after doing my time, I have been thinking about changing my job. Stealing has become more trouble than it’s worth with all the rushing hither and thither so I’ve decided to work like girls from good families; I’ve had enough of all this strain and stress.”
As she made this important statement Jamalat looked at Aziza wide-eyed and full of innocence. She had never confided her plan to anyone before but she trusted Aziza and felt at ease and secure with her despite all that was spread around the prison about her madness. For this reason she preferred to perform jobs for her rather than for the drug dealers who were excessively generous to those who waited on them and who used the considerable amounts of money they had to buy anything they wanted in prison, even bribing the warders. Although Jamalat sensed that Aziza was slightly mad because she sometimes looked at her in an unsettling way or smiled at her for no reason when they were chatting together, she still considered her a kind and sympathetic person who would always share anything she had. Jamalat had only to approach her about something for her to offer it to her, if it was within her power, and for this reason Jamalat ignored the rumours and warnings that Aziza might hit her or assault her if roused. Moreover Jamalat had found no one in the prison – a place where friendship between one prisoner and another was so vital – whom she would rather serve and be friends with than Aziza. They came to be like two sisters from the same womb, showing the same degree of sympathy and human understanding for each other. The ordeal of isolation and imprisonment behind bars created a bond between them which encouraged her to confide in Aziza her secret thoughts about what she intended to do if she managed to survive and get away from the place. Aziza was older and wiser and over time she had proved she was a good judge of character.
Aziza banged her head against the floor, thinking. The banging continued as Jamalat continued to put across her point of view clearly, although Aziza made no comment.
“Prostitution is easy and reliable and the sentences are light if you get caught by the police. If I stuck at it year after year I’d soon make a tidy sum of money after which my worries would be over. I would open a general hire shop which would earn enough for my daily sustenance, and that would be that.”
Aziza did not reply because she was now fully engaged in watching a huge Persian ant dragging a tiny piece of bread which had fallen on the floor when Jamalat was eating a little while ago. It made its way towards its hiding place, a crack by the old door of the cell which was so scuffed that the dark wood showed through the paintwork. Aziza followed the a
nt intently with her eyes, announcing, “It would be better if you approached it from the top of the bed”.
The ant responded by disappearing from sight into the crack. Jamalat, who had no idea what Aziza was on about, was busy tidying the fine strands of brown hair which had strayed onto her cheeks, and said, “You know … if they bring us some beef – I’m dying for a great fatty piece which I could boil and make a gravy out of vinegar and garlic – then you and I could sit and eat it together.”
Aziza looked up from the floor and asked Jamalat to go and make some tea. When she stood up Aziza looked over her body, which was on the plump side, and her smooth white legs. She began to mull over what Jamalat had just told her, which was completely new to Aziza despite the long period they had been close friends in prison and all the details she already had of the girl’s past and of why she had been imprisoned.