Sirine closes her eyes and for a moment the traffic sounds and the buzzing electric lines beyond the courtyard all blur into a soft whine like a cicada shrilling.
“But the old-timer Middle Eastern poetry,” Aziz is saying, “it’s such a bore. It’s all nightingales that aren’t really birds and roses that aren’t really flowers. And the big-head critics say Omar Khayyam wasn’t really writing about food and wine, it was more divine love or some other nicety-nice. Nobody can ever just enjoy themselves. I prefer when the prayers turn out to be about sex, not the other way around.”
Nathan sniffs. “Why is that so terrible? It’s poetry. You know, symbolism.”
“It’s smoke, mirrors, et cetera,” Aziz says. “Let us just say I prefer a little old-fashioned kissing. Maybe a little plain old-fashioned wild sex.”
Sirine opens her eyes again and sees the men through a filmy sun-and-leaf haze. Then she lifts one hand for shade and notices Han poking his head through the back door. “Sirine?”
“Over here!” Nathan says, waving.
“I don’t think we were who he had in mind,” Aziz says
“We’re discussing Middle Eastern poetry,” Nathan tells Han.
“Oh, well, count me out.” Han takes the third seat at the table but scans the courtyard over his shoulder. “I don’t do poetry.”
Sirine stretches, then decides to wait behind her screen of leaves.
“Oh, I see. And I suppose you prefer something like: ‘They went to the bar. And it was good. And they drank a beer, and that was good too.’”
“Is that Aziz doing Hemingway?” Han asks.
“Aziz interprets all the greats,” Aziz says. “My Arabic poet can beat up your Hemingway any day.” He turns to Nathan. “He could beat up Whitman too. You know there’s a great tradition of sensitive yet manly Arab poets.”
Nathan puts one finger in the air. “‘I live in the face of a woman / who lives in a wave—/ a surging wave / that finds a shore / lost like a harbor under shells.’”
Han taps the edge of the table. “Bravo, Nathan.”
“Yes, very bravo,” says Aziz. “That’s the poetry of Ali Ahmed Said, of course, more famously known as Adonis. I’d recognize that attitude anywhere. So what about this?” He clears his throat, then says: “‘A young gazelle there is in the tribe, dark-lipped, fruit-shaking, / flaunting a double necklace of pearls and topazes, / holding aloof, with the herd grazing in the lush thicket, / nibbling the tips of the araq-fruit, wrapped in her cloak.’”
“Ibn al-Abd!” Nathan says. “That’s easy. ‘The Ode of Tarafah.’”
“Okay, okay.” Han raises one hand. “Let me try one: ‘And a red feather / Is blown into the air by the magician / Sometimes turning into a gazelle / With horns of gold / Sometimes into a priestess practicing seduction / And the game of the end / In the harem of the caliph / His night is haunted by ghosts and boredom.’”
“Abdul Wahab Al-Bayati!” Both Nathan and Aziz cry before Han is finished.
“‘On the morning they left / we said goodbye / filled with sadness / for the absence to come,’” Nathan says.
“Oh, that’s, um—that’s…I know that…” Han waves his hand around.
Aziz sits up. “That’s ‘Leavetaking’ by Ibn Jakh, eleventh century. Okay, you’ll never get this one—I dare both of you!” He lifts both hands and declaims: “‘If white is the color / of mourning in Andalusia, / it is a proper custom. / Look at me, / I dress myself in the white / of white hair / in mourning for my youth.’” He folds his arms over his chest. “My theme song.”
“Sure, that’s ‘Mourning in Andalusia’ by Abu il-Hasan al-Husri,” Nathan says. He passes one hand contemplatively over the top of his hair. “Actually, that was a favorite of a bunch of the young writers at the French Council.”
Han tilts his head toward Nathan. “The French Council. Oh. Not…the little office in Tahrir Square?”
“Yes! You know it? A group of students and writers from the University of Baghdad used to gather there in the afternoons and talk about writing and recite work.”
“Why does no one in America recite poetry?” Aziz complains. “They go to the coffeehouse and they just drink the coffee.”
“I heard about the French Council salons,” Han says to Nathan. His voice is spirited. Sirine sits forward in the hammock so it sways a little and the leaves undulate overhead. “I always wanted to go.”
“You should have! There were all sorts of arts societies,” Nathan says. “Not just poetry. We met all over Baghdad—actors and singers and painters. Loads of us. Of course, so much had to be done in secret because of Saddam.”
Aziz sinks his head into his hand. “Ah, but doesn’t the taboo make things more exciting?”
“No.” Both Han and Nathan speak at once.
“Well,” Han concedes, “sometimes. It did seem exciting to me at the time. But I went away to school when I was still very young, before I could really see any of this for myself. When I was a young boy I used to bicycle past the cafés and try and look inside.”
“Oh yeah, the cafés and the clubs were all crowded, full of life,” Nathan says. “Of course, people frequently went to each other’s homes—especially as there were more and more problems. But I thought the best scene was at the Sapphire Club. Late night. After all the tourists and expatriates went home.”
“The Sapphire Club!” Han says. Sirine hears the sweet twist in his voice, as if he were looking at something that he yearned for. Her heart trips. She pushes off from the hammock and tries to get a better glimpse of his face but loses her balance and her hand splashes through the leaves. “Oh!”
Then the back door opens and Um-Nadia is standing on the porch in her gold high-heeled slippers. She looks from Han to Aziz to Nathan. “Where is Chef?” she says and waves at the screen of leaves. “Cleopatra? You are needed at the grill!”
Quietly, guiltily, Sirine steps around the leaves and all three men turn to look at her.
CHAPTER TEN
Sir Richard Burton wandered the Arab world like a speckled wraith. He dressed in native garb, spent hours gazing into Arab eyes. Arabic, in turn, went into his heart like a piercing seed, growing tendrils of beliefs and attitudes. But his tongue was flat as slate. He spoke so many languages that he had no native music left in him. He did, however, like so many Victorians, have an aptitude for ownership, an attachment to things material and personal, like colonies and slaves—he especially enjoyed owning slaves while living in someone else’s house. He was an amateur slaver but he was a professional amateur, wearing the robes of so many different tribes, eating the food and entering the land of so many different countries.
Burton had written a book called The Perfumed Garden, and after she sold herself to Burton, Abdelrahman Salahadin’s mother Auntie Camille found herself in just such a place. Burton’s house in Syria, where he was residing at the time, was loud with birdsong, splashy with butterflies; ladders rose into bowers, grapes swayed, trellises swung and vines clung, and the sky arched like the roof of a mosque. And there was Sir Richard sitting in the middle of it, crouching on cushions, fat as a pasha, with his friends and all the local yokels coming and going, talking, eating, forming opinions, messing up the paperwork, et cetera. Not like this so-called America today where they just talk all day long on their phone, their computer, and no one ever lays eyes on each other and no one remembers how to cook a tomato or to bring flowers or to kiss the babies.
Anyway. Sir Richard said to Auntie Camille, yes, it’s true I know the way to the source of the Nile, I helped find it, but it no longer matters. I no longer want anything to do with that silly river. You see, Sir Richard’s former best friend had grabbed all the credit for himself about finding the source, so Sir Richard’s heart was no longer in it.
What does Camille do? Does she lose heart? Not in the least. She sits on a rug on the terrace and starts to meditate on the garden. She hears the sound of leaves on leaves and that sound is a word and the word, she says, is auj
uba, wonder. She watches the way the nightingales and the hummingbirds spin around the garden like spirits and shadows. She makes a house of the outdoors, a cape of the night. You may have guessed that she wasn’t much of a slave, but that was of little consequence to Burton, who, remember, was just an amateur, and enjoyed collecting people just for the sake of collecting. He adorned himself with Arabs, Chinese, and Indians, and he wrote and wrote and wrote, trying to fill the empty space inside him with a layer of ink.
He also happened to be married. It was a marriage conducted at arm’s length. But of course, as Chekhov said: if you fear loneliness then marriage is not for you. His wife was an agreeable soul who routinely burnt whatever writing of her husband’s was not to her liking.
Well, it could not have escaped the notice of Mrs. Sir Richard that a coal-eyed beauty with shimmering hair had taken up residence on one of their terraces, and when she pointed this out to Mr. Sir Richard, he said vaguely, hm, oh yes, so she is, so she is. And when the Mrs. pressed for more information, he said, oh, mm, she’s one of the slaves, dear.
But here is the interesting part. In her slow and very nice and deliberate way, Aunt Camille began to take up space in Burton’s imagination. Like a creature leaving a chrysalis, she began the metamorphosis from slave to muse. He found he liked to contemplate her curled up on the lawn while he ate his morning scone and he liked to watch her peeling loquats while he worked on his conjugation of Croatian intransitives.
He was a slaver, an explorer, and a translator, yet he could not quite translate Camille’s white Nile of skin and blue Nile of hair into the right sorts of words. She made him ache in seven different places and she taught him the seven kinds of smiles; she filled his sleep with smoke and made his mouth taste of cherries. And one day, after thumbing through some old notebooks, random tales from ancient Persia, Phoenicia, Hindustan, Burton found himself writing the thunderstruck phrase: “And afterwards.” He had begun his famous, criminal, suggestive, imperial version of Victorian madness dissolved in the sky over the Middle East—his translation of The Thousand and One Nights.
That evening after work, while mockingbirds are singing loudly in the branches and the palms tumble over her head in the breeze, their fronds like crossed swords, Sirine walks to the Victory Market.
“Bonjour, honored chef!” Khoorosh cries out as soon as she enters. The shop is small and close, the air damp with a rich influx of spices, garlic, saffron, and clove. Sirine often shops there, even when she doesn’t need anything—just to sample a new spice or to taste one of Khoorosh’s imported ingredients, dreaming of new dishes located somewhere between Iraq, Iran, and America.
“Chef, these I put aside, just for you,” Khoorosh says, as he hurries to the back of the store. He returns with preserved lemons, Turkish honey, pomegranate paste, and a container of tiny apricots, and brings them to the counter. “Look at these beauties,” he says suavely. “The foods of love.”
“Beautiful. How much are they?” Sirine asks.
“What are you talking about? You’re insulting me now.”
“Khoorosh, you can’t always give me everything.”
“No, these are a gift.”
“I want to pay for my gifts.”
“Never mind. These are a gift from my hand to yours. If you say one more single word about money I’m going to become very upset. I’m developing a headache now.”
More customers come in and greet Khoorosh in Farsi, the language rippling fluidly between them. Sirine flees back into the shelves, the intimate smoke of spices mixing with the sound of the customers’ laughter.
She enjoys the refined cadences of Farsi, enjoys this eavesdropping without understanding; it is comforting and delightful and deeply familiar—the immigrants’ special language of longing and nostalgia. Her childhood was spent in places like the Victory Market, holding her uncle’s hand as they wandered in search of the special flavors that weren’t in any of the big American grocery stores. It didn’t matter if the shop was Persian, Greek, or Italian, because all of them had the same great bins of beans and lentils, glass cases of white cheeses and braided cheeses, murky jars of olives, fresh breads and pastries flavoring the air. And the shop makes her think of Han—somehow, everything seems redolent, brimming with suggestions of Han. When she turns into an aisle full of bins of red and yellow spices and resinous scents that swirl through the air, she is swept by a craving so thorough, she understands finally that she isn’t getting sick. It seems that something potent was unlocked inside her during the night, as they shared sleep without quite touching, his breath fanning her face. The intimate proximity of Han’s body comes back to her now, the scent of his skin echoed in the rich powder of spices. Desire saturates her, filling her cells, and her sense of reserve instantly gives way. The sweep of her own hand through her hair, the switch of her legs, even the rush of breath through her mouth stirs her. She hurries with her few supplies to the cash register, her head lowered and her hands fumbling with money, and pays for as much as Khoorosh will allow.
Sirine walks out then, forgetting her purchases, and Khoorosh has to run outside with her bag. She laughs breathlessly and tucks the bag into her bicycle basket, knocks back the kickstand, and heads into the star-sprinkled night. She’s in a postwork haze, her joints loose, muscles slack, but she pedals until she’s sweaty and breathless. She doesn’t even know if Han will be home, but then he is there, opening the door and nodding as if in answer to a question. He puts her bag on the counter and looks at her. He moves a few steps closer, then, instinctively, shyly, she takes a few steps back. “Wait,” she says. She removes the pint of apricots, plump and exquisite as roses, and offers him one. He takes a bite and puts his hand over hers as she takes a bite, the velvety peel and fruit sugar filling her whole mouth. The air between them is complicated, infused with the scents from the bags: toasted sesame, sweet orange blossom water, and fragrant rosewater.
They finish it and she drops the apricot pit in the sink; Han cups her hand again and licks a drop of juice from her fingertip.
Sirine holds her breath; the ground gets a little wavy. Han slips behind her and runs his hands over the tops of her shoulders. He tilts the top of his head to the back of her head, squeezes, and begins rubbing the muscles between her neck and shoulders. Her head falls forward, captured by the pleasure of it. He presses the heels of his palms along her inner back and squeezes her shoulder blades and rubs just inside them. She lets him work his way down to the small of her back, then back up to the V between her shoulders. He strokes the sides of her rib cage, digs into the tight saddle of flesh over her shoulders, rubs the back of her neck, then runs his knuckles down the length of her back. He interweaves new strokes and pressures. After several deepening, luxurious passes, her body is boneless and liquid.
She turns in to him and they twine their arms around each other. They slide and kiss and Sirine toes off her shoes. She dances him backward into the bedroom, backing down onto his mattress. They pull at each other’s clothes, trying to unwrap each other, kicking at pants and tossing shirts. He pauses and carefully removes the yellow plastic barrettes in her hair. They roll over each other, stroke each other’s arms and legs; he laces his fingers into hers. She opens her mouth and tastes his skin and tongue. He is amber and caramel and earth-colored. His skin excites her; she inhales deeply, as if she could take in his essence; he tastes of almond, of sweetness. She hesitates a moment, then says, “Do you have, you know—”
“What?”
“You know. Protection?”
His face goes blank and he says, “Protection against what?”
Then he smiles, rolls over to his discarded pants, and pulls a condom out of the pocket. He waves the plastic wrapper by one corner and says, “We’re safe!”
The last time Sirine has had sex with anyone was with a tanned beach boy named Danny, over three years ago: long enough for her to have more or less forgotten the feeling of it. But now, when Han rocks his body over hers, the lean weight of his thi
ghs rubbing against hers, it is practically a new sensation, the physical pleasure opening and stirring through her muscles. Her back arches and her ribs seem to unlock. He moves with a deep, almost animal assurance, seemingly without any self-consciousness at all: his body wholly engaged and his eyes steady and focused. She opens her mouth and the only sound is a rushing breath, sweeping through, expanding and contracting the room. They move together, watching each other, hands joined.
At the end, Han’s eyes dilate and darken and his mouth opens as if in surprise but he makes no sound; the length of his body holds and contracts, softens and slowly collapses over hers. She presses in against him and then feels that she is falling through her body; her pulse is fast inside her chest. She finally shuts her eyes and feels the last riffling sensations beneath her skin, and then, briefly, has a sense much like leaving her body: rising just beyond their small balcony, seeing rows of balconies, pale streets, plaster houses the color of skin, neat red tile roofs. The violet night streaks across their faces. There are glistening palms, pool-dark salamanders between the houses, patient iguanas. She senses the insect world turning, horned beetles and wax-winged figures taking to the air. She opens her eyes into the damp, fever dream of their embrace.
Han’s arms smell like bread and sleep; when he gathers her back, it is like being drawn into a world beneath the water, an undersea cave. She closes her eyes and floats. And eventually, still in his arms, she sleeps.
At points, her sleep feels heavy as the ocean, other times she rises near the surface and seems to hear odd sounds: small cries, untuned music. Or she glimpses cloudy faces, unknown apparitions. She feels vaguely that she is being watched.
Sirine wakes after just a couple hours, in the early part of dawn, and the apartment is filled with a silver fog. A country filled with milky canals. She walks to the door and looks back at Han and his face is smooth with sleep. His skin has taken on a bronze patina.
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