by Alia Mamdouh
NAPHTALENE
A NOVEL OF BAGHDAD
ALIA MAMDOUH
Translated by Peter Theroux
FOREWORD BY HÉLÈNE CIXOUS
AFTERWORD BY F. A. HAIDAR
Published by the Feminist Press at the City University of New York
The Graduate Center, 365 Fifth Avenue, Suite 5406, New York, NY 10016
feministpress.org
Paperback published in 2006 by the Feminist Press
Hardcover published in 2006 by the Feminist Press
First published in Arabic as Habbat-al-Naphatalin by al-Hay’ah al-Masriah al-Amah li-al-Kitab, Cairo, 1986.
Original text © 1986 by Alia Mamdouh
Translation © 1986 by Peter Theroux
Foreword © 2005 by Hélène Cixous
Afterword © 2005 by F.A. Haidar
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or used, stored in any information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission of the Feminist Press at the City University of New York except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Mamdauoh, ‘aAliyah.
[oHabbaat al-naftaalain. English]
Naphtalene : a novel of Baghdad / Alia Mamdouh ; translated by Peter Theroux.
p. cm.
I Theroux, Peter. II. title
PJ7846.A543H3313 2005
892.7’36—dc22
2005000682
eISBN 978-155861-712-4
This publication was made possible, in part, by public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency, and the National Endowment for the Arts.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1.Cover Page
2.Title Page
3.Copyright Page
4.Foreword
5.Publisher’s Note
6.Glossary
7.Chapter One
8.Chapter Two
9.Chapter Three
10.Chapter Four
11.Chapter Five
12.Chapter Six
13.Chapter Seven
14.Chapter Eight
15.Chapter Nine
16.Chapter Ten
17.Chapter Eleven
18.Chapter Twelve
19.Chapter Thirteen
20.Chapter Fourteen
21.Chapter Fifteen
22.Chapter Sixteen
23.Afterword
24.About the Author
25.About the Feminist Press
26.Also Available from the Feminist Press
NAPHTALENE
FOREWORD
Naphtalene repels moths. But this Naphtalene preserves the remnants, clothing, and memories of two powerful sites of childhood: a little girl and the great city of Baghdad. And this Naphtalene also recalls its chemical origins, its relationship to gasoline and fire, and its links to perfumes, dyes, and odors. This Naphtalene causes the closet in which it is kept and from where it keeps watch to erupt in flaming sentences. What Naphtalene protects is destruction, dislocation, and the pain of love and hate. Naphtalene sings life at its most intense; for here the singer of life’s opera is the most poetic being in the world: a child, and what is more—a child half-boy, half-girl.
Alia Mamdouh’s stunning gesture is to have turned over the keys of the narrative to the violent sensitivities and superior intelligence of childhood. Seen by the untamed, wild, immediate, and uncalculating eyes of a youth, the world appears in monstrous forms, in all its naked extravagances and cruelties, and making no excuses. All the actors are superhuman characters, surging forth from the terraces and public baths of the neighborhood to enter into eternity, smoking and stinking.
Naphtalene is an extraordinary book about Beginnings, a kind of Bildungsroman of Baghdad (a narrative which assembles all the fragments of a prophetic childhood, and which, in remembering the primary elements of subjective life, proposes a vision of the world and an art form). The expression “Bildung,” which speaks of genesis, of formation, and of education, is not, however, sufficient for Naphtalene—for here genesis is also chaos, and apprenticeship is constantly turned upside down, while a wind of revolt blows, shatters, and scatters each scene at the very moment it begins to crystallize. Naphtalene is volcanic; the narration and its narrator are perpetually exploding. Neither family structure, nor institution, nor streets, nor feelings—nothing at all—can resist the fireworks of the naphtha named Huda—genial Huda, devil of society, of the City, and of the novel—a trail of gunpowder. She gives the narration its lightning rhythm: one has never seen a story run so fast, rush so heedlessly toward all its limits, doors and walls, in order to break them open. Huda? In appearance, a girl. In action, a boy. In poetic truth, a fiery daughter.
She is fire, the daughter of an inflamed man, of a mother devoured by tuberculosis.
Fire rules in Naphtalene. The Father, a central character, hated and adored partner of the daughter’s combat with the gods, catches fire at the end of the story as if he had caught his daughter. Fire, masculine and feminine naphtha, never reduced in this text to a banal opposition between sexes or emotions. That’s what is great and free about this work. Love and hate do not oppose each other but mix and blend. In the same way, good attaches to evil and fusion marries effusion. The strong melt, the weak knock the strong to the floor. If the women are slaves and prisoners, the men are the paramount prisoners of the prisons they run.
Freedom? It gushes uncontrollably from the body. It is secretions, odors. A country of odors. Acridities, repulsions, and seductions: everywhere is the penetrating odor of Naphtalene, which kills and bewitches. It is the first version of writing. Freedom? You can’t imprison Voices. Naphtalene is a magnificent hurricane of Voices: the screams of aunts, the chanting of the grandmother’s prayers, the Mother’s coughing, the children’s laughter, the pigeons’ cooing, “the Arab Voices.”
This world is full of Voices: in this, Naphtalene is an enchantment bordering on myth. A marriage of the primordial and of modernity, of fury and of love.
Hélène Cixous
Translated from French by Judith Miller, 2004
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Naphtalene is narrated by Huda, the central character. Readers experience the various incidents and see the different characters through Huda’s eyes. Yet Naphtalene is not entirely an “I” novel, although the “I” of narration is frequently present. Mamdouh has chosen to use also the second person singular where Huda seems to be talking to herself, as in the opening line of the novel: “The clouds are over your head and the trials of life are always ahead of you.” There are also occasional lapses into the third person. In this way readers have the impression they are witnessing events from different perspectives.
GLOSSARY
abaya: long black cloak covering head and body, worn by women in some Muslim countries.
Abu: title used to address men, whereby they are known by their eldest son’s name. Hence Abu Adil is Adil’s father.
khishkhash: a mild opiate used to quiet young children.
Umm: title used to address women, whereby they are known by their eldest son’s name. Hence Umm Jamil is Jamil’s mother.
A reference is made on page 89 and page 92 to a precious flask containing hairs. This refers to the 27th day of Ramadan when people visit the Mosque of Abu Hanifa in al-A‘dhamiyya and revere the holy relic of the Prophet’s hair.
1
The clouds are over your head and the trials of life are always ahead of you. Just look at your father. It seems to you that he is driving a truck. Your mother is sitting in the back, monopolizing the silence and illness. The re
st of the herd are playing inside the detention camp, growling a little, then falling silent.
Your grandmother knew how to withdraw from company and free herself from all chores, as if she were created only for worship. She was content with this distinction, showering us with prayers after every meal to protect us from the wiles of Satan.
She was well aware of devils. She used to recite to you and your aunt the verse of the Throne so that your aunt’s hell would become more bearable and you would steer clear of any evil temptation.
“May God show you the right path and bring you closer to Munir!” she cried to your aunt, and the strength of her faith inspired you.
When Munir thrust his fingers around your aunt’s upper arm, the mark remained for days, indelible, like that of a slap. He used to show up without notice and leave without excusing himself. When he was silent we knew there was trouble. He chattered about things which could not be understood. He was short and stocky, always wearing a suit and a new tie. His shoes gleamed, and so did his bald head.
He mocked and ridiculed. He laughed and winked. He jumped like a field locust and scurried like the cockroaches in the cesspool. He moved the way the movie heroes did, pinched me on the cheek when he came in, and slapped my behind when he left. He filled the plates with cigarette butts. He drank a great deal of water and tea.
Yet there was something of an evil spirit about him. You could never tell by his face whether he was serious or joking. He spat on the ground and coughed violently. Your mother vanished out of his way. He always asked about your brother; Adil was afraid of him. I always provoked him, and my grandmother watched everything.
To us he looked big and scary. You learned his age, approximately, when Aunt Najia told your grandmother, “No, dear, he’s too old for her. He might be forty, and Farida only came of age a few years ago.”
Your grandmother lit two cigarettes and they smoked. This aunt’s voice fluctuated between masculinity and femininity. She was full-figured and fortyish, and wore gold-framed eyeglasses; her teeth were yellow, big, and jutted forward. She left her hair in two narrow black braids, streaked with white.
She always wore the patterned silk robe with the low neckline. Underneath it was a pink, beige, or orange slip with the bosom worked in lace and threaded with silver or gold. She would tie a wide headband of shiny black fabric over her wide, high forehead. As soon as she entered a strong scent emanated from her—the scent of a woman in labor. We gazed at her as if she were a fashionable lady, at the expanse of her wide, freckled chest, exposed to us, and the crevice between her ample breasts that were pushed up by her brassiere. When we looked further down, we would be dazzled by her large shining brooch with its colored stones, and stunned by the big turquoise stone. After taking off her veil she would wipe away her sweat with a handkerchief of soft material whose edges were embroidered in brilliant colors. She would then bury the handkerchief in her bosom. She would have a long coughing fit and spit out a thick clot of phlegm. Your aunt would take from her the silk cloak embroidered with gold thread from the neck to the waist.
In summer the courtyard was washed. The cushions with their patterned covers were arrayed on the straw mats. The brazier gleamed, the coal turned to bright embers, and the teapot and kettle were new. The little cups with their gold-lined saucers and silver spoons were set out in the middle of the round platter, brought out of the old wooden chest. The courtyard was roofed with broad panes of glass seamed with black and gray iron, specked with bird droppings. When it rained, the raindrops reminded you of the devils that went around in your head, and when the sun shone our spirits were revived.
Rooms lined the courtyard. Your parents’ room was at the end of the corridor, and your aunt’s and grandmother’s room was at the entrance. It was your room, too—yours and Adil’s.
This open courtyard was where you used to receive guests. In winter, the holes in the corners were stuffed with rags dipped in paraffin. We spread out old rugs and worn-out carpets, and big pillows with worn linen covers in the four corners.
The rusty gray heaters were my mother’s job. She took them into the kitchen and there began to clean and polish. She replaced the old wicks. She greased the hard knobs and returned everything clean and polished. She put one in each room, then brewed tea on the big brazier, she grilled onions and warmed the stale bread. On cold winter nights we smelled the orange peels as they burned—she used to spread them on the coals to banish the bad smell of the paraffin.
The ground was always the best place for sitting and relaxing. And for dreams and games.
Ahead of us were the steps that led to the roof on top of the house, where there were two rooms. The first was spacious and abandoned; there was old furniture in one corner. In the smaller room were heaps of newspapers and books: the treasures of you and Adil!
When Aunt Najia came into the courtyard, we knew that the door of secrets had opened before us. When she laughed, the house shook. She shouted, “Huda, wipe off the platter, what’s wrong with a little cleanliness?”
You, Adil, and your mother squatted in the corners. Your brother spread out the old newspapers, and pulled the thread off spools to make his kites. He worked like a patient adult; he did not shout or grumble. He was the youngest, the prettiest, the plumpest, the most delicate. You used to divide the world between you and him. He was order, melancholy, and introspection. You were anarchy, insolence, and violence. Your footsteps annoyed the people in the house and the way you walked in the street provoked danger. You were nine years old; Adil was eight. He was possessed by a surpassing ability to bear anguish and pain; you loved to apportion grief, hatred, and love toward everyone and among everyone. His head was strong and his eyes were wide, shining with sects and minorities. Their color at night concealed the echo of sensitivity; in daylight, lights mingled in their honey-colored waves. He was beautiful, venerable. He stood before you and you looked at him. You gave him titles, you barked at him. The day passed, and another, and another. You knew that his beauty was your greatest joy. The lines of his face, his nose, his lips, his silence, his backbone. The shadows of his casual sympathy, the depths of the resistance that people like you never know. All of this turned you against him. Siblings’ fears are not written down or publicized. They proceed, step by step. You lit all the lights so that he did not walk alone. You were with him; no, he was with you. He was the one everyone loved, he was the one who loved you. It was you who pushed him toward the wheels of the wagons drawn by decrepit horses. It was you who were frightened by the creeping of the horses, though he was silent. You cried “God is great!” in the street, you shrieked. You took him behind the graveyard to frighten him. You dressed him in your father’s uniform and saluted him. You got him embroiled in wild dreams. You were sure of nothing but his regal face. Adil’s face was created as if he were meant to return to Heaven young. You used to take him up to the roof, place him at the top of the steps, and push him down. He did not raise his voice, cry, or whisper. He did not give away this secret. You were burdened by the ways you tortured him. You were an expert at capturing him and hiding him. You stole the money that his father gave him, sweets, apricot paste, dried apricots, and the bunches of wrinkled figs that your grandmother put aside for him alone. He never protested, he gave you things in front of everyone and away from everyone—when they were asleep, when they were out, when they returned. He loved you as if you were the last sister in the world. He knelt before you, gave you his portions, made winged animals for you, frightening bears, gentle toys, and did not bother with talk. You imagined him standing up, his chest ready to receive bullets. He would close his eyes, his tears would flow, his pulse would stop, he would not raise his spindly but soft arms in the air and say “No!”
Since that time you have been alone, sinking into infernal stoicism. He stood in the doorway, defending you from their hands and feet, the whip, and shoes. He cried instead of you, and your rage mounted. You have brought all these curses upon yourself, yet you always found some
one to blame.
Your mother moved as if she were climbing a high mountain. She brought tea and biscuits on a wide, flat tray. She offered each person a fan. She sullied no one with her voice, responding to Aunt Farida’s shrieks and shouts with a brief nod of her head. She gave them Adil and Huda—what more did they want from her?
She was extraordinarily slender, fair-skinned, and tall. Her hair was the brown of an old walnut; her eyes were honey-colored but showed no light. The skin of her face was dry, her cheeks hollow, her teeth crooked. When she laughed, she asked God’s protection from Satan, and her facial features became tense as she remembered that laughter is a sort of sin.
After pouring and serving the tea, she sat on the low wooden bench like a dejected sentry. She opened and closed, rinsed and dried, came and went. She finished everything slowly: cooking, eating, loving her husband.
Her sharp coughing traveled through walls and windows. You heard your grandmother praying for her, and your aunt cursing her. You and Adil were surrounded by that cough, so they moved you to another room, out of fear, for protection, in expectation and doubt.
We did not know. We did not understand. We did not want to know. And they did not want us to know.
We called her “Mama” only when we were frightened or needed help, but after giving birth to us, she covered her narrow uterus with a veil of secrecy.
She learned one thing from your father: never dare to refuse his wishes. She walked toward the unknown with her ailing chest. She continued to have a delicate brow, dreaming of the fat of the land and hoping to put some flesh on her cheeks and thighs. Your grandmother loved her, and she did not dislike anyone.
Aunt Najia began to pace in front of your grandmother. She joked with her, she chatted her up, and teased her with grand titles. She behaved in the same way with other women. When your grandmother appeared, she wanted her to herself, and when your father’s sister came, she got her into new positions, saying things she never thought of saying before. When a changing rapture appeared on the horizon, she embraced it fully, never remembering what had gone before: the past, apprehensions, the first stammering. Your grandmother appealed to her now and she wanted to have a hold over her. She showered her with flames of passion that exuded from every part of her. She pounced on her with all her height and breadth as if in a frenzy. Her voice would become faint and I would hear her pulse throbbing. And when a new gripping thought presented itself to her she would wholeheartedly follow it and forget anything that had preceded it: the past, the anxieties, the first stammerings . . . Her legs were long and slender like those of an ewe. She took off her slippers and threw them far away. She rolled up the sleeve of the robe, higher, higher, up to her armpit. This was where the smell of steam and sweat came from open pores and the extending folds of her limp forearm. The hair between her armpit and forearm was long and black. When she was intoxicated, she undid the brooch and it dropped to the floor. Aunt Farida sat across from her with her legs open, and your grandmother asked God’s forgiveness: “There is no strength or power save in God!”