Dreams of Maryam Tair

by Mhani Alaoui

  Her loneliness hit her full force as she stood there wiping the rust from her fingers onto her blue skirt. She was alone in a place that breathed nothingness. Her inner world touched magic daily, but she was unable to share the intensity of her emotions with anyone. If only they knew, if only they cared to know. She walked into the first building and then into the second one. They too were deserted. Her confusion and doubt grew as she returned to the main courtyard. Her eyes wide open, her senses on the alert, she thought she felt a faint breeze touch her skin. It must be my imagination, Maryam thought. Then the breeze touched her skin again, but this time it was stronger, warmer, more insistent. The breeze stilled into a presence at her side, but it was not an evil presence. It was the spirit of a woman.

  A woman with short dark hair and the deepest eyes in the world. Ghost or djinn, an apparition from Zohra’s bedtime stories, Maryam ventured. Yet there was something tough and kind all at once about it; she almost smiled. “Your mother,” the woman said.

  “Here I am, my beloved. I sense the depth of your solitude and doubt. Now come close and listen, for my time with you is short. Don’t be fooled by this place. It is in hiding. A powerful scribe has placed a spell on it that shields it from being seen as it is. The scribe is here. Find the scribe, perceive him as you perceive me, and you will find what you are looking for.”

  Leila’s ghost began to fade away, but Maryam tried to hold it near. Her heart was full and about to burst with want. “Wait, please, there is so much I need to know. I am alone. When I was born, I was cursed with loneliness.” She wanted to say: “You left me.” But the pain caused by the thought was too great, and Maryam was unable to express it. Leila turned to her daughter. “I know, habibti. I know you feel that way, but you are loved. You are my greatest dream and my fundamental love. One day, you will see what can be done in the name of love.”

  Then Leila was gone. Maryam stood still and in disarray. She fought her tears and her feelings of abandonment, and discovered, there at the core of her being, in the smallest of nutshells, an invincible strength. She took that minuscule nutshell of strength in her hands and saw that it was made of pure gold, of tough moon and diamond stars. She understood that she was stronger than she could have imagined: formidably, delightfully, fearfully strong. She felt that strength course through her body all the way down to her shoes.

  Maryam had always had to wear ugly shoes, made to hide her handicap. They were painful and only brought attention to her legs. People often made fun of her handicap, and she shielded herself to ignore their disgust. When she looked down, she saw that her ugly shoes had become gorgeous blue boots that fit perfectly against her feet and calves. And, of course, they allowed her to walk as she was always meant to do: unevenly, unfettered, and with a grace all her own.

  She stood straight and quiet in the deserted courtyard. Her senses were stretched to their utmost in order to sense what lay beyond the veil of nothingness. As she stood there stretching her perception like a web across a sleeping cave, she began to hear it. It was faint and light, but she knew it was real. The noise became stronger, and it resembled a pen scratching paper. No, it was the click and swoosh of a typewriter. Her eyes adjusted to this new sound and to the reality it carried within it. She walked toward it and saw a small man with balding head and round glasses hunched over a typewriter, too busy typing to look up. She stood in front of him and cleared her throat. He looked up, and Maryam shivered. The man had the mundane appearance of a government clerk but the eyes of a dead thing. She understood that the nothingness that was this place came from these eyes. She braced herself and then addressed the man.

  “There is a spell. It makes us believe that this place does not exist. Type it out.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Because I have started to see beyond the emptiness. Those are the rules. Something cannot both be and not be.”

  “Yes, perhaps. But you will regret knowing what lies behind. Why are you here?”

  “I came for my uncle who was wrongfully taken here.”

  “Wrongfully? You believe others are here rightfully?”

  “I must believe something.”

  “Beyond the lifting of the spell, you will find that nothing is as it seems. This spell is one among many, and you are very young. So young for a place like this. Aren’t you afraid that I will write you in as one of our inmates?”

  Maryam came very close to the dead scribe. She looked down at the paper and saw that the paper was blank. She turned around him, her boots singing on the cold stone beneath and her orange blossom scent diffusing its fragrant nostalgia of things as they should have been but never were. The scribe screeched like an unplugged grenade and covered his nose with his hands.

  “Those are not the rules. Unfair! Unfair! Take that horror away from me.”

  “I cannot. My scent—I myself cannot smell it. But I see that you can.”

  “I will write, but just move away from me. Your smell is disgusting, impure. It is...alive.”

  The dead scribe, let’s call him S, sighed and raised his hands to the typewriter. Letters and words began to appear on the blank piece of paper, and the nothingness dissipated to reveal the agony beneath. Maryam watched as light became shade and shadows replaced the emptiness. Forms began to step out of the darkness. Though they walked and surely breathed, they showed no other signs of life. Their heads hung low, and their clothes floated on their emaciated bodies. They were neither chained nor whipped nor controlled in any way that she could see. Where were the guards, doctors, nurses?

  Some faces turned toward her, and instead of the madness she was expecting to read, all she saw was fear and despair. She did not know what “mad” meant. Was it the anonymity she saw in the faces and bodies before her? She knew that her uncle was not mad. She remembered him from his rare visits to the family house. He’d sit with her and speak to her of Nietzsche and Sheherazade, but also of Boabdil, their family’s spiritual founder, and of Marechal Lyautey, who had reigned over Casablanca decades ago and had built the road leading to their house. She wondered whether his encyclopaedic breadth of knowledge could qualify as madness for those who did not get his many references and meanderings.

  Night was falling. The country cold was settling in her bones, but her heart was warm. The faces came closer to her, and their open mouths stretched up and down in a soundless scream. Soon, she was surrounded.

  “What is that?”

  “A child.”

  “A child?”

  “In here?”

  “Not the first time.”

  “She won’t last long then.”

  “Is she lost?”

  “How did she find us?”

  “She must have found S.”

  “Or S. found her.”

  “Unheard of.”

  “What does she want?”

  “Ask her.”

  “No, you ask her.”

  “She found us. That’s all that matters.”

  “Hope.”

  “We are the margins.”

  “Not to be seen.”

  “To be forgotten.”

  “We don’t exist.”

  “She must be different from the others.”

  “Is it a she?”

  “She reminds me of someone.”

  “Of me.”

  “She’s lonely.”

  “She’s in pain.”

  “Poor, poor thing.”

  “Like us.”

  “But she’s different from us.”

  “Her scent. It’s...”

  “Life.”

  “Light.”

  “Water.”

  “Lightness.”

  “Joy?”

  “Kindness.”

  “Yes, kindness.”

  “Perception.”

  “Appetite.”

  “Remembrance.”

  “I’m...remembering.”

  “Stories.”

  “A story.”

  “What does she want fr
om us?”

  “Why are you here?”

  They were very close to her now, close enough to touch her face, her body, plunge their hands in her hair, on her heart.

  “She’s not scared.”

  “Her heart beats quietly.”

  “She’s so warm.”

  “I feel something. It reminds me of...”

  “A hazelnut in autumn.”

  “Books by the fireplace.”

  “Laughter.”

  “It must be made of pure gold.”

  “Of tough moon.”

  “Diamond stars.”

  “And Milky Ways.”

  “She’s not scared.”

  “She’s not repelled.”

  “She...perceives us.”

  “She cares about us?”

  Maryam spoke above the whisperings, worried they would never stop.

  “I am Maryam Tair. What are your names? I am looking for my uncle.”

  “There are no uncles here, no family, friends, or names. There is only an us sheltered from the world as a they.”

  “His name is Mehdi, and he should not be here.”

  “Who should be here?”

  “No one should be here.”

  “Or perhaps everyone.”

  “I shouldn’t be here. I had a life once.”

  “How I miss children.”

  “How brave you are.”

  “A superhero!”

  “A supergirl!”

  “A superhero with a physical handicap? Are you mad?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve been told that I am.”

  “He is, he is.”

  Night was falling, and still Maryam did not have the answers she had come for. Then, in the corner of her right eye, she sensed a shift, a break in the atmosphere. She turned her head and saw a man walking toward her. His steps rang clearly on the broken floor. He was different from the others: he held his back slightly higher than his fellow inmates, while his eyes did not reflect as deep a fear and despair as theirs did. They stepped aside reluctantly to let him through. He spoke. His voice had its own distinct grain. It was rough and melodic all at once and, most importantly, still retained a fragment of personhood.

  “Are you Maryam of the House of Nassiri?”

  “I am Maryam Tair. But I am of that house, yes.”

  “A man was brought in some time ago. In Birsoukout, there is a period of time, or a place if you like, it’s like Purgatory—purgatory for the insane. When we are first brought here, they take us to this space and time where we are broken down. It can be a short or a long process. I am still in that place. But you did something...You conjured me with the others, and here I am. Before I tell you what I know, tell me, how did you find us? No one has ever found us.”

  “I didn’t find you. I just saw you. There’s a scribe. He types all day, but it’s blank.”

  “You mean S. He is responsible for Birsoukout. He writes the prescriptions, thinks up our punishments, and determines what we eat, feel, and see. We believe that he controls day and night, and time itself.”

  “Yes, that’s him. I found him, then I told him I must see behind the veil and that he must let the non-writing become writing. He said yes as long as he never had to smell my scent again.”

  Maryam was smiling now, almost despite herself. She was enjoying this moment, and she could tell that the people surrounding her were enjoying it too.

  “Does my scent bother you too?”

  “It’s life and hope and lightness.”

  “Thank you. Tell me what I need to know about Mehdi.”

  “I was in the purgatory, and a man was brought in. They kept him there with me for a while, and we spoke whenever we had a chance. I was a farmer once, and one day, shortly after my father’s death, my brother came to me and asked to buy my land. I refused. One night, the family banded against me and brought me here, to Birsoukout. Your uncle, well he had his story too. It was an odd story, full of shadows and doubts. He seemed beyond their reach. They could not break him, for they could not find him. One day they came for him, and I have not seen him since. They spoke of a ‘hole from which there is no escape.’ Before disappearing, he told me about his gifted little niece. He said that she was a magician and that she would save him. If you are who you say you are, then you will find him. He says he gave you a gift once. Find it. But hurry for you must be done before night falls. When night falls, the scribe will put away his typewriter, and you will become his prisoner.”

  The man stopped and turned to go, pushing the other inmates away from Maryam as he left. But they protested.

  “How about us?”

  “I want to stay with the child.”

  “I want to smell her scent forever.”

  “Why can’t we go with her?”

  “I want to keep her here.”

  “I will hide her.”

  “No. If the scribe finds her, he will squeeze her scent out of her and punish you for holding her. The punishment could go on for all time.”

  “You are taking away life.”

  “To each his destiny. I know now we are not meant to stay here. I have a better plan.”

  “What? What?”

  “A blank paper. Let’s take a blank paper and write.”

  “Write? I don’t remember how to write...”

  “I do, just barely, a little, like an eight-year-old child.”

  “But that will be enough.”

  “Yes.”

  “We will write that the end of Birsoukout has come.”

  “Let’s steal the paper.”

  “And write.”

  “And wait.”

  “And hide.”

  “And leave.”

  “We will write of kindness and compassion.”

  “And intelligence.”

  “Competence.”

  “Gentleness.”

  “Discernment.”

  “And patience.”

  “Clean sheets and proper care.”

  “Freedom?”

  “Justice?”

  “Time.”

  “Yes, time.”

  “The end and the beginning of things.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “How?”

  “Did the scribe write this in?”

  “No.”

  “Who?”

  “Her?”

  “I.”

  “I.”

  “I.”

  “I.”

  The bodies drifted away led by one who was saved by a twist in the story of Birsoukout and who chose to try that rabbit hole of change.

  Maryam was left alone, colder than ever. It was almost dark. She didn’t have much time before nightfall. She felt something crawling up her leg. It was a large black cockroach, “the Oil Thief” in Arabic. Its wings fluttered and shone in the dusk. Both fascinated and repulsed, she watched as it crawled up her leg, hip, and arm. Instinctively, she felt like brushing it off her arm and crushing it under her foot. She battled her disgust and forced herself to look at the shiny, hissing insect on her shoulder. The cockroach stopped and raised its antennas. Maryam forced herself to look at it and even let its antennas touch her cheek. She sensed the creature’s intelligence and acute sensitivity to the world. The cockroach had always been the creature beyond the wall, the one you do not let in, or if you do, it’s to trample it under your feet, over and over again. Its presence signaled a rupture of the home cocoon. She looked at it to find that this cockroach, now firmly seated on her shoulder, was keen to establish contact. So, and as can be expected in the face of new and interesting things, Maryam’s disgust began to subside. Slowly, curiosity replaced her natural apprehension of this archaic bug. She understood that it was trying to communicate with her.

  “Could it be? Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Shshshsh…my brothers and sisters are on their way. Look…shshshshsh.”

  Hundreds of cockroaches were climbing down the walls from their dark and moist hiding places. They crawled
like a trained army unit on a camouflage mission. She understood that they expected her to follow them. Scurrying ahead, they led her into a nondescript building that Maryam had not noticed before. Once inside the building, they hurried up its left wall, and with hissing, fluttering wings and strong legs, they pushed and pushed until the bricks gave. The bricks collapsed to expose a small tunnel fit for a child. The cockroach on her shoulder rasped in her ear.

  “Shshshshsh…my journey ends here. Here is a tunnel fit for a small child. You must be brave and go in. At the end of the tunnel is a hole. In that hole is the man you are looking to save. But hurry or you’ll be trapped in the tunnel forever, and not even a telltale heart will tell wherein you lay buried…shshshshsh.”

  “I thank you, noble cockroach, for your help. But why, may I ask, did you and your brothers help me today when your race and mine are enemies?”

  “Shshshshsh…I did not know if I was going to help you or bury you when I started my journey up your leg. If you had tried to squash me, you would have failed and perished. I’m immortal. During my trek up your limbs, I could hear your every thought, sensation, and impulse. I heard the war that you waged against yourself and against your memory of creatures like me. And in the end, in the surprising end of your war, a new way of seeing won out over the old way. You surrendered to me. That’s the reason I helped you. Now go, go. The sun is almost down, and the Scribe is already cracking his knuckles in glee…shshshshshsh.”