States of Passion

by Nihad Sirees

  I would have liked a moment to think about the whole thing but the old man interrupted my train of thought. He called out for me, so I returned to my place opposite him and adjusted the blanket on his lap. I decided to return to the matter of the servant later on, once I was back in the bedroom for my afternoon nap.

  “Where were we?” the old man asked me.

  “Before we get back to the story, I’d like to ask you something. Why did Badia send her daughter to Khojah Bahira? I don’t understand it, especially seeing as how Badia had herself run away from her long before. Khojah Bahira was a domineering woman, a ladykiller. Badia must have been okay with whatever might happen to her daughter.”

  “Definitely. I agree it’s confusing, but apparently she regretted what she had done after she left her ablaya Bahira. Badia seems to have been thinking that she should have trusted Bahira and steered well clear of men. During the time she lived with Bahira she had been treated like a princess, so on her deathbed she thought the best way to protect her daughter would be to send her to Bahira instead of marrying her to some country bumpkin with whom she would live out the rest of her days in Maydan Ekbas, turning into an ordinary country woman.”

  “Didn’t it ever occur to her to take Widad to her ablaya before she died?”

  “Women aren’t miracle workers, son. You’ve got to keep the matter of reputation in mind.”

  “But wouldn’t you agree with me, old man, that she escaped the restrictions of her mother in the context of the First World War because she longed for freedom, and that she did the exact same thing again when she ran away from Bahira’s rules?”

  “Badia spent her entire life bouncing from the authority of one woman to another. She had bad luck. She believed that if she ran away from her mother’s house she’d be able to live any way she pleased, beyond the control of another woman, including her mother. But as soon as she arrived in the city, she fell under the sway of another woman.”

  “So when she met Captain Cevdet, she thought she could throw off the control of women once and for all.”

  “That’s right, but the Captain let her down. Maybe the man couldn’t take on his responsibility because he was killed in one of the battles that took place outside of Damascus. Whatever the case, he let her down. In order to finish what she had started, she moved to that village with a train station and decided to live there and raise her daughter. Still, it does seem that she suffered a lot. She turned into an unremarkable woman, but pride prevented her from behaving as if she had been defeated. The important thing is that she wasn’t going to deprive her daughter of what she herself had been able to enjoy, and so decided to send her to Khojah Bahira’s house, but not until after she had passed away.”

  “Which means that she believed life with a woman could be better than living with a man; I mean, she arrived at the same conclusion about men that her ablaya had tried to convince her of before.”

  “Eighteen years in the village made her regret following after men, which is why she tried to instil the fear of men in her daughter, not to let her be friends with anyone except Bayonet Abduh.”

  I didn’t know very much about the banat al-ishreh, just a few rumours we used to spread. Men used to love talking about them, embellishing their own stories or those told by famous banat al-ishreh in the city, however they wished.

  “As far as I know,” I said to the old man, “the banat al-ishreh have nothing against marriage. Even some of the most famous ones in Aleppo are married and have families and children.”

  “That’s right. A woman wants to be taken care of, no matter her sexual preference, longs to be under someone’s supervision, whether that’s her father or her husband. Most women get married while they’re young, or you might say they get married at an early age, before they have developed their own will. Most of the time their friendships develop in women’s spaces, which city women attend all the time.”

  “You’re talking about the qabool reception, as they call it in Aleppo.”

  “Yes. A woman at one of those qabools becomes familiar with this kind of relationship. She’ll see women sitting together in pairs, talking to one another, laughing and having a good time, even embracing and caressing and kissing. After a while some other lady will approach her, pissing off her girlfriend and stirring up feelings of jealousy. That’s the way this companionship blossoms, far from the prying eyes of men. I’m sure you know that men aren’t allowed to attend these women’s gatherings.”

  “Of course I do. Eastern men guard their honour in front of other men. Women do nothing of the sort.”

  “Ordinarily a man will go home and inquire about his wife. He might be told that she has a visitor, one of her friends, naturally, and after a while he’ll be able to confirm that she’s been with a woman when he finds her coming out of the living room as his wife says goodbye to her. But as for what went on between the two of them, he has no idea whatsoever.”

  “I’ve heard of some men who knew about their wives’ relationships with their girlfriends.”

  “A relationship between a woman and her ablaya can get more serious and dramatic things do happen. For example, many women talk about relationships with arguments and breakups and getting back together, stories that might find their way to men who then pass it on to the husband.”

  “And what usually comes of this?”

  “Many men simply remain silent. But if a relationship is discovered and turns into a public scandal they’ll lean on their wives to end it. Most of the time, though, they can’t put a stop to it, and some will divorce their wives as a result.”

  “The situation can lead to divorce?”

  “It only leads to divorce when the woman is really serious about her ablaya. If the ablaya happens to be wealthy, for example, she might encourage her girlfriend to get divorced, she might offer to buy her a house so they can live together as if they were married. Another thing that might drive the husband towards divorce is if his wife starts to shirk her marital obligations, turns frigid because of her relationship with her ablaya.”

  “But that sounds a lot like what we’d call lesbianism today.”

  “Right, lesbianism.”

  “So what about Khojah Bahira? Where does she fit in to all this?”

  “Bahira was an ablaya. She was the dominant one in relationships. She’d just find a new girlfriend if she got bored or if something happened or if she met a more beautiful girl. When Badia first showed up with that man, Bahira was involved in a very serious relationship with the blonde zither player whom she had previously won away from Khojah Samah. But Bahira dropped her with icy coldness when she first set eyes on Badia’s loveliness and beauty and sweetness; she fell in love with her at first sight. That was why the blonde had to go.”

  The subject of banat al-ishreh diverted me for a bit because of the tantalising details he had shared with me. I decided to look deeper into the matter as soon as I got back to Aleppo, to meet some of the women known to be a part of that society, or at least send my wife Nadia to meet them and then ask her to report back on whatever they had to say. Most of those women are too embarrassed to talk about such things with men, unfortunately, which is why I warn you, dear reader, that my information might only wind up being imperfect. You’ll have to follow up yourself, or by way of your own wife, if you want to get into it as deeply as I have.

  Anyway, I wanted the old man to get back to our story. He was the only one who could tell it, and he was rapidly growing weary of talking about it. My time was running short. There was also the matter of the mysterious servant who might wind up kicking me out of there before I had the chance to hear the end of the story, which is why I said to the old man:

  “We left Widad in that horse-drawn carriage with the driver stealing a glimpse of her beautiful face. She was holding an envelope on which Khojah Bahira had written an address. What happened next?”

  He glanced up at me, with gratitude in his eyes for my having reminded him of Widad. What was his relations
hip to her?! He nodded a few times as he squeezed his hands together in order to keep them from shaking. Then he started speaking in his calm, soft voice, finding the proper tone for the story, moving away from the everyday conversation we had been engaged in a moment before.

  “The carriage driver stopped outside a house with high walls that had a small blackened wooden oriel window with five panes of glass, three in the front and two along the sides. The wooden door of the house was clad in metal embossed with an elegant pattern. Widad paid the driver his fare, took up her suitcase and got out. The driver continued to watch her as he had during the entire trip. He repeatedly blessed the Prophet for her beauty. He had never come across such a beautiful young woman before. Then he asked God to protect her from evil men and drove away. She stood there in front of the house, in that quiet part of the chichi Farafrah neighbourhood.

  “She fidgeted outside the house. She shimmied up a tree to climb onto the wall. Then she glanced over the street before climbing back down, holding on tight to the rough stone wall. Had her mother Badia once stood in the exact same place she was standing now, Widad thought. How had she felt then? Widad suddenly became scared of the unknown, which was going to open up and swallow her whole as soon as she knocked on the shiny black door. Had her mother also been afraid? She gathered her courage and drew closer, climbing the low steps to reach the knocker. Her hand froze once she had got hold of it. From inside the house she could hear the sound of a kamancheh. She concluded that the house was quite spacious because the sound of the kamancheh was obviously coming from far away. Someone was practising the new Umm Kulthum song, ‘To the Country of My Beloved’. She was familiar with the instrument because a street vendor used to park his cart loaded with all sorts of colourful little items in the village square, pull out his kamancheh and start playing sad Kurdish songs. She would go to the square with Bayonet Abduh to look at the colourful women’s headscarves. She used to thrill at the arrival of the street vendor just because of the opportunity to listen to him play his sad songs. She was actually uninterested in the colourful headscarves she knew so well since she browsed through them so often.

  “She rapped on the door with the metal knocker, took a step backwards, and waited. The kamancheh stopped. A few seconds later she heard footsteps and then the door opened, producing a loud screech because it was so heavy. A woman in her twenties stood there, and when she saw that the visitor was also a woman, she opened the door wider, a quizzical expression on her face. This was the woman who had been practising kamancheh. Her name was Suad. She was homely, with hair suspended in hot curlers reaching down to her shoulders, and dressed in a diaphanous robe that extended to just below the knee and showed off her forearms and her legs. Smiling at the peasant who stood there with an old suitcase in one hand and an envelope in the other, looking so friendly and harmless, she asked:

  “‘Can I help you, sweetie?’

  “‘I’m looking for Khojah Bahira.’

  “‘What do you want with her?’

  “Widad was flummoxed. What should she tell this inquisitive woman?

  “‘I need to give her this letter,’ she said, nodding towards the envelope in her hand.

  “‘A letter?’ It seemed as though Suad was having a bit of fun with her. Apparently she was enjoying messing with this peasant girl who became increasingly embarrassed with every question. ‘Who’s it from?’

  “‘From my mother. Is Khojah Bahira here?’

  “Just then the kamancheh player opened the door all the way and invited her to come inside. She watched Widad breathe a sigh of relief after she’d started sweating on account of all these questions from the woman. She walked up the two remaining steps that separated the house from the street, walked past the woman with all the questions, and stopped. The woman closed the door and patted Widad on the shoulder to comfort her, asking her to follow her down the long corridor into the courtyard.

  “Windows on the western and eastern sides looked over the square open-air courtyard. On the other two sides were staircases leading to the sleeping quarters and the rooftops. There was a large iwan furnished with chairs and pillows on the facing side, as though a concert was held there every night. The kamancheh leant against one of those chairs. In the middle of the courtyard was a pool with a fountain that was switched off for the time. Floating in the stagnant water was a piece of muslin, some roses, and leaves from the surrounding trees.

  “Suad guided Widad towards the iwan and invited her to sit down and wait. She smiled again, gently patting her in a reassuring manner, before saying:

  “‘Khojah Bahira is at the hammam.’

  “Widad nodded and then watched Suad as she left through one of the doors. As soon as she was alone she began to inspect the courtyard, the windows and the trees. Sitting there with her mother’s letter to Khojah Bahira in her lap, she unconsciously played with the envelope. She was nervous. What if the Khojah read the letter and kicked her out? Where would she go? She didn’t know anyone in this city. She looked up towards the upstairs bedroom windows and jumped suddenly, letting out a soft squeal that nobody but she could hear. There were two women in their underwear standing by the window, staring down at her and smiling. Why did everyone in this house smile at her so much? They were clinging to one another, each holding on to the other’s waist, standing cheek to cheek. Widad looked away, primarily out of fear and also out of embarrassment, until burning curiosity drove her to look again. Now there was just one woman looking down at her, still smiling seductively, her arms folded across her chest, but she disappeared when the other woman dragged her away from the window.

  “Widad glanced over at the kamancheh leaning against the chair and thought of the Kurdish street vendor, remembering his melancholy songs. Whereas all the Kurds in Maydan Ekbas play the horn, this man preferred to play the kamancheh. Isn’t that strange? She also thought of Bayonet Abduh, about saying goodbye to him that morning. He stood on the railway station platform, in tears over their separation. She missed him. Apart from her fear and bewilderment in that house full of women, she was simply sad.

  “Just then, the clacking of wooden shoes on the floor jolted her out of her reverie. Two women swaddled in bath towels were standing in the doorway Suad the kamancheh player had gone through. Suad had returned with these two women. All three of them were staring at her. The first woman looked just like a man, although Widad was sure she was a woman because an opening in her towel revealed her small breasts.

  “Widad knew this was Khojah Bahira. The woman drew closer to her, inspecting the beautiful face of this peasant girl who looked like an angel come down from heaven. As she joined her in the iwan, she continued to examine her without looking away. Her companion from the hammam started to feel jealous about her ablaya’s behaviour, the jealousy of a girlfriend who had once been confident that she’d be taken care of for the rest of her life even if she couldn’t always keep a close watch on her Khojah. Now Bahira was standing across from this peasant girl as if hypnotised. Then she pulled herself together and hurried back to her room. Suad said, as though she were trying to rouse Bahira:

  “‘She says she’s brought a letter for you from her mother.’

  “Widad handed the envelope to Bahira, who took it from her without looking at it. In fact, she already knew what the letter said and who had sent it. Still staring at Widad, she asked:

  “‘You’re Badia’s daughter, aren’t you?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘Please, have a seat.’

  “Widad sat back down with Bahira seated in front of her. She had recognised Widad because of her striking resemblance to her mother. She had never forgotten Badia. Bahira had never loved anyone the way she had loved her, and after Badia ran away, she spent years dreaming of the day she would return to her. She was haunted by Badia’s image. Badia was her great love, the one who got away. Suad now understood why this beautiful peasant girl had cast such a spell over Khojah Bahira. She asked:

  “‘Badia’s h
er mother?’

  “Widad wheeled around and nodded.

  “‘Where is she now?’ Bahira asked.

  “‘Dead. You meant the world to her.’

  “She said this as if imploring Khojah Bahira not to kick her out. Bahira choked up, sorrowfully shaking her head over her lost lover. She bowed her head in sadness and held the letter in her hands. She unfolded it and started to read. She forgot where she was, the towel slipping from her body as Widad looked away, locking eyes with Suad, who smiled at her tenderly.

  “‘Are you hungry?’

  “‘I ate on the way.’

  “‘I’ll heat something up for you.’

  She went to the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone. Widad watched her go, to avoid the embarrassment of looking at Bahira’s body. She had felt great affection for that woman from the moment she opened the door. Widad needed someone to take care of her and it seemed they weren’t going to kick her out into the street. She had to turn back around and look at the Khojah.

  “‘God rest her soul,’ Bahira said, folding the letter back up and wrapping the towel around her naked body again. ‘Do you know what the dearly departed wrote to me?’

  Widad nodded her head. She had always known.

  “‘I know, ma’am.’

  “‘She asked me to welcome you, to let you live here and work with me, for me, to take care of you. Is that what you want?’

  “‘Yes, it is. There’s nowhere else for me to go.’

  “‘You can stay here.’

  “Widad looked away and saw the Khojah’s companion from the hammam standing by the bedroom door, wearing a red slip and brushing her wet hair. She wasn’t happy about what she was hearing. Just then Bahira got up and moved closer to Widad.

  “‘Your mother tells me your name’s Widad.’

  “‘That’s right.’

  “‘It’s a beautiful name…’

  “Bahira repeated Widad’s name several times and then reached for the headscarf Widad had wrapped around her head, untied it and took it off, marvelling at her beauty. She stroked her hair, smiling. Widad looked towards the woman in the red slip to find her enviously watching what was going on. Bahira bent down and kissed Widad on the cheek in a way that was anything but motherly.