by Alia Mamdouh
“There, what do you think, ya Ustadhu?” This was from Quds. O Professor! She said the formal title in very proper formal Arabic and in a forceful declamatory tone as she looked at me, as if I were a creature who had just now descended into the world. I longed to give her a kiss and to bawl out to her, “This is the most beautiful and inviting dinner of my life!” Diyala and Quds, each now positioned at either side, nearly touching my shoulders as I sat, tried between them to lift me from the floor. Flanked by the two of them, I got to my feet and I flung my arms around both of them. I swallowed my tears once, twice. With sweetness as light and as lovely as the breeze, they were helping me to be better.
I was shaking and trembling as they held my hands and pushed me toward the dining room. But the soft and gentle voices of everyone gathered there gave me calm.
II
We gathered at the dining table. My attention was drawn by the silver flatware and the costly, precious china. The table was loaded with delicacies: luscious fish, hot spicy sauce, miniature pink shrimp, and an innumerable assortment of vegetables: artichoke, sliced avocado, radishes, carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, and chard.
Narjis, on her feet, was beaming, while Hatim hummed an Iraqi tune and Blanche tried to provoke him. “Hatim, today of all days does your voice have to burst out of its solitary confinement? For the sake of Nader and Suhaila—please!”
He was smiling and the mutual attraction binding him and Narjis was like a magnet attracting us all. It was a round table with space enough for six people. I felt embarrassed when I saw that Hatim and Narjis were not sitting with us. I stood up but Asma pushed me down lovingly. “Sit down, dear. Mu khtaar—none of us are guests here, it might as well be home and we’re all family. Nader, dearie, why on earth are you as thin as your mother, shnu inta ma takul hunak? You must eat nothing over there! Why?”
Everyone laughed as I held out my plate, steering it beneath Narjis’s hand, which was dishing out a moist, oily slice from the fish’s generous front side. She moved among the plates distributing food onto each one while Hatim spooned on sauce. Caroline began to eat slowly, sending me messages with her eyes as if to tell me that she was as wildly in love with the food of the East as we were.
“Here no one pushes food on you, Nader. Consider yourself in your own home.” Hatim spoke as he neared Caroline to offer her a slice of lemon and various pickled vegetables.
“This is a blend of different cultures,” she said. “I love combining things like this—I’m different than the rest of my family who are all bourgeois, and I’m even different than my country. I have learned to taste and to enjoy the variety that Suhaila offered me the first day we met. And then the same thing was true at Blanche’s and chez Nur. Suhaila made me feel as if I were in the presence of a Babylonian artist and now here I am and around me are those lovely dishes with every sort of appetizing thing! Poetry truly is Iraq’s first talent and gift. Even if Narjis is Lebanese.”
Asma answered her, smiling. “Don’t forget, Caroline dear, that Hatim is Iraqi.”
Swallowing the bite in her mouth, Caroline tipped her head up to look at us. “No, I have not forgotten. And anyway, with all of you around, all of you as friends, who can forget such things? I am going to tell you something about les crevettes that I see here in front of me, lying quietly on these plates as if they want me to reveal what happened to me and to Suhaila more than once. But before I do that, I will tell you what happened to me. One day Suhaila asked me to make her some Swedish food. Anything, she said. Soup, gateau, any recipe, even if it is nothing more than a hot drink. My tongue went dry; I nodded. Yes, of course, Suhaila. Sometime soon, I will certainly do that. And so she is waiting. She does not insist but her expression as she invites me to share her simple and delicious dishes truly embarrasses me, but I am unyielding. I did worry that she would call down maledictions on me and that they would strike home! My mother sent me a how-to-cook-Swedish cookbook and I marked some dishes that weren’t very elaborate and looked easy to make. I drew on my own everyday training, as I was growing up, in food and nourishment. I discovered that we eat as if there are secret police hovering and at the ready to punish us. I really felt things were awfully dire as I read the recipe amounts. Our food holds no enigmas for us to solve! And my family comes from a class background that dictates meals strictly within the law. That is all we know. From my perspective I fixed on Mexican food as closest to the East, and so I made her that famous Mexican dish, chili con carne. It took me a while, practicing, learning to get it right, preparing. One day I invited her to dinner. But this is enough—I have said enough! I cannot go on and tell you about the outrage I committed. After the third bite your mother went. . . .”
Caroline turned to look at me. Her face, squarely opposite mine, was crimson. But courageously she plowed on.
“Suhaila went into the bathroom and without further ado the whole thing ended right then and there. I heard the sound of the water, washing off the long hours I had spent in the kitchen. She washed her face, combed her hair, applied her lipstick and put on some perfume, too. She came back into the dining room, sat down, poured herself a glass of water and drank it down all at once. She lit a cigarette. When she turned to me, I was in the worst state of confusion and anxiety you could ever see. Her voice was quiet but the sarcasm it carried was unbelievable. If you were not Caroline, she said, my very dear friend Caroline, I would be suspicious of you.
“I didn’t say anything. She went on. Did you mean to poison me, dear? If I were considering murdering a certain someone, then I would surely invite you to make this cunning dish, for no one would suspect you. Caroline, don’t you dare—don’t you dare invite me to your kitchen again. I will go on inviting you to eat what I cook and I’m in God’s hands! And you—your punishment is that you must invite me to restaurants—Italian, Chinese, Persian. D’accord, my dear?”
We laughed and laughed although we didn’t know how we might make her feel better. But she kept on.
“From that day on I was in a permanent and public state of repentance. Usually I invited her to seafood restaurants in Montparnasse. Aside from their specialties, she loved crevettes. When I told her that this dish raises one’s blood cholesterol—and wasn’t she following a proper diet to keep it down? I would ask—her answer put an end to the discussion: Caroline, you must read Robert Wright’s book on betrayal and faithfulness.
“When I asked her what that had to do with crevettes she launched into her own version of what she had read. Among all known species, she explained, shrimp and leeches are the only two species distinguished by marital fidelity. As for women and men, it isn’t a certain thing. This writer—he’s American and author of The Moral Animal—stirred up terror in men and women both when he wrote that multiple partners guarantee the continuation of the species. I couldn’t help laughing as I asked her, Are you still occupied with the subjects of betrayal and fidelity, Suhaila? Your mother didn’t answer, Nader.”
I turned immediately to Wajd and asked her baldly, “What’s your opinion, Doctor? It seems to me that people betray each other without having to make much of an effort—betrayals that the law doesn’t punish.”
Wajd was not her usual self. She was uncharacteristically distant this evening and her complexion had a pallid look. She smiled weakly but did not raise her head to look directly at us. As if she were wary of touching on some particular topic she mumbled from the corner of her mouth. “For men, betrayal is tantamount to existence and equilibrium. It stands in for power, influence, and a reputation for being strong.”
My voice was hesitant as I asked again. “What about women, Doctor?”
She lifted her head to look at me. Her gaze seemed very sad. “As long as we’re talking about Suhaila—she used to say that women are likely as unfaithful as men. Maybe a bit less so, or maybe more so, but whatever the case, they are very keen to keep everything hidden. And that’s all there is to it.”
Asma broke in with an attempt at dispelling the atm
osphere of tension. “Hassa shnu hadha’l-kalam. . . . Now what is all of this soul-destroying talk? Women less or men more. Everyone thinks that they have been the victim of betrayal many times over, and the very person who thinks that might well betray someone else and not even know it. People betray people without being conscious of doing so. That’s what they say in psychology, isn’t it, Doctor?”
Wajd did not say anything. She picked up her napkin and began to wipe her mouth. Caroline was like the proverbial deaf woman at the wedding—she seemed oblivious to everything, even though Blanche was translating for her. She turned to me, the gesture looking spontaneous and casual as if she wanted to put a stop to this sensitive subject.
“Your mother is harsh, Nader, very harsh. Do you know that?”
Narjis was setting her plate down on a small table nearby where she and Hatim were sitting but almost immediately she stood up, still gripping her plate. “Suhaila had fancies akin to those of some primitive people. For instance, that in a plump body there must be a delicate, ‘slender’ soul.” She looked at Blanche with a sweet smile. “And in the slender body sits a big soul. So—Suhaila would add—ascetics fast long and hard and often in order to achieve large souls and acquire vast dwellings for them.”
“Thank you for these lovely morsels, Narjis. Who cooked today?”
Reaching to collect the plates, Blanche remarked, “They are dazzling partners. Narjis stuns the fish with exquisite sauce and Hatim fishes it out and puts it on the platter and arranges all of the vegetables around it. He draws on his poetic culture and Iraqi sense of style, and she delights us with her impeccable Lebanese taste and elegance.”
“Allah alayki, Blanche! You are all poets. My soul just flutters away with happiness when I’m listening to poetry or reading it. But, in the end, I studied economics.”
Caroline answered her, sounding sure of her facts. “Right, you economists are at the center of today’s world. You organize the financial chaos and you put life into the numbers.”
The table had been returned to its pristine state and we were all in that post-feast state of somnolence. Wajd stood at the window looking into the distance. It looked to me as though she were mourning, or grieving, or pining. Was it decent or appropriate for me to ask her about it? She might just avoid me and wriggle out of it. She seemed wary of any approach, her eyes conveying a deep sadness.
“Where has your mind wandered, Doctor? How do you explain such distraction, in the language of psychology, when you are amidst friends? I wonder, are there special locations where the mind wanders? Do places exist that can ease the jagged edges of distraction and blunt the sharpness of frustration and turmoil?”
She turned to me, and I saw the look of pain in her face growing sharper, I thought, as if she were struggling against something stronger than she herself was.
“Will you go back to the hospital after we leave here?”
“Yes.”
“Good. It isn’t far. If we talk a bit on the way, we’ll find ourselves there.”
“About Suhaila, or me, or—”
“Or.”
Wajd smiled, finally, though it was a tiny smile. We heard Asma’s voice inviting us to drink Iraqi tea.
III
I realized suddenly that Asma was there in front of us. Steam rose from the tray in her hands on which gilt-edged Iraqi tea glasses sat.
“W-Allahi, I want to hide my face in front of you, Nader, dear—I am that ashamed. Hammada promised to come and meet you but it is always the same. He is forever embarrassing me in front of my friends by not showing his face. Ayy, he’s a little shy, around a lot of racket and folks he doesn’t know really well.”
“I am sure that I will get to know him sometime. You don’t have to apologize. We have days and days in front of us. We will see each other.”
“But with your mother he’s just fine, really himself. He comes out of himself, talks with her for hours at a time. By God, I don’t know where he finds all these words to say to her! She asks him about the computer and then she says, Ayy, he’s just like Nader. Both of you are programming engineers and you do all sorts of programming but you don’t know shloon how to program things when you’re having any conversation with us! Suhaila says, I only hear my rare one’s voice rarely. Naderan. Rarely, only every month or two. Nader, my son, is it true that you don’t have much to say to your very own mother? That you don’t talk to her very often but you do sit there in front of that machine talking to it by the hour just like Hammada does with his? Allahu akbar, ayy shnu ash-shasha ahamm min al-walida! How can it be? That this screen is dearer and more important than your mother! And your mother brings out all her grief and anger onto Hammada instead of onto you. Ayy, he gets a little uncomfortable, my Hammada does, but he keeps quiet, because he loves her and holds her dear. He talks to her on the phone, complains about me to her when I am late coming home from work and I go to the co-op right afterward instead of coming directly home. We pick up medicines, pens and notebooks, and food for the children of Iraq. Nader, dear, you see, all of us here, everyone here sitting with you, even Caroline; we all work in some way or ‘nother for the old country’s sake. Min ajl al-balad, Nader!”
Wajd was aware that I would get uncomfortable, even irritated, if Asma or Blanche were to ask me what I was doing for the old country’s sake. But it was Narjis who happened to be standing nearby and stepped in to rescue me after my face changed color.
“Nader!”
I heard my name said simultaneously in two pitches. One voice belonged to Narjis and the other to Quds who, standing stock still, was looking around the room for me.
“You passed the exam with flying colors, Ustadh,” said Hatim. “You’ve got what you wanted—enjoy it! Quds wants to monopolize you. Come on, what are you waiting for?”
Narjis tried to inject some lightheartedness. “You’re in such demand with the girls! Imagine, Quds said you would play guitar for them. They really are devils! They called their Chinese friend Hee and she brought over a guitar. Come on, no excuse works with them.”
Narjis’s deep blue eyes smiled into mine, shimmering with true nobility, a generosity of understanding that embraces all humanity. Visiting us in Canada, Suhaila had spoken of Narjis, calling her a life buoy. She accepts you with your weakness and your sicknesses, and she transports you to the other bank, said my mother. When she puts her lovely hand on your shoulder, that is all it takes to make you feel as though she already understands your state of mind.
As for me, I thought, I did not know whether she issued her finding when she saw me for the first time. Did she understand and absolve me without question or did she postpone a bit to see what would happen? I had been in a state of suspension, surprised by those true friends, until I could make it through the truly dangerous parts. These were the thoughts in which I was absorbed when I heard Narjis shout from just inside the study.
“Nader—your wife is on the phone.”
But where had she gotten the telephone number? The impact of the surprise was evident on my face. Caroline, who had come to stand beside the girls in the corridor near the phone, noticed. “She rang last night, and I told her where we would be.”
My voice was faint. “You’re right, Sonia. I’m sorry.”
“No, I didn’t forget. How could I forget, my dear? All it is—is that I was waiting until midnight to talk to you.”
“Yes, of course. She’s making progress, getting better. But I’m greedy. I want everything to be over quickly. I want her to go back to being as she was before. And that isn’t going to happen right away.”
“No, not at all. It wouldn’t be good for the two of you to come right now. What’s that? I didn’t say that you were pursuing me. Yes, of course you’re worried. I know that. But I did not want to worry you any more than I already have. Of course I’m concerned about the two of you, Sonia. Please, this isn’t the time for scolding and blame. Don’t put questions to me that I can’t answer in advance. How am I to know when I’ll be ab
le to come back?”
“Fine. If your sister is coming from London day after tomorrow, I’ll be more reassured. How is Leon?” She put the receiver to his mouth and he began to talk to me in his incomprehensible language, babbling his repeated syllables and singing.
“Yes, she has shown some movement. No, not her whole body, just her fingers and eyelids. She opened her eyes partway and closed them. That has been the pattern; she comes back, in some fashion, and then she is gone again. I don’t know, as if she is playing with me. When she opens her eyes she doesn’t look at anyone. She just looks into empty space, and it is a sort of strange look. It’s as if . . . well, as if a person isn’t himself, isn’t the one we used to know. Basically, this is what I have to expect to see over the next little while. The doctor said that there is no cause for fear. That it is very natural to be like this during the first period.”
“Completely. She was saved from the worst, and we all want to believe that.”
“We’ll go to her when we leave here—Dr. Wajd and I will go. Bye, Sonia, see you soon.”
I put down the receiver and slumped back into the roomy sofa. Leon’s voice was still in my ear. Daa-dee, BACK! I remembered wishing one time that I could have a womb so that I could give birth as Suhaila and Sonia and all the women on earth do.
“Is everything fine, Nader?”
I raised my head to Narjis. She was carrying plates of maamul and the Lebanese pastries that I loved so much. I stood up.
“Let me help you with those—please. No, no, it’s all right, everything is fine, it is just anxiety.”
“That’s natural, isn’t it?”
I don’t know if I had been wrong to keep the details from Sonia. I really didn’t want to worry her. But her voice today carried an additional resonance, something other than worry. Jealousy, perhaps—I was surrounded by women. I had not seen a wedding ring on Wajd’s finger, or on Caroline’s or Asma’s. And Wajd wasn’t “fine.” She was still looking remote, impossible to reach, as if she had had a shock before coming here. Perhaps I noticed it because I had gone through something like it. Perhaps it was a relationship with a man that was going bad. But why did that particular possibility occur to me at this precise moment, with Sonia’s voice still in my ear, with Sonia clearly on the point of collapsing and bursting into tears? The glass of tea was all but cold in my hand. I stirred the spoon slowly and heard my name ring out again.