by Maha Akhtar
“Giving up, Lawrence?” Auda sauntered over.
Lawrence remained silent.
“What kind of man are you?” Auda jibed. “You call yourself my brother? You pretend to be an Arab? One of us?” He gestured around. “You want to be a Bedouin? Then come out of hiding, little white boy …”
“Really … why don’t you take a look around, Auda?” Lawrence said. “Look at your so-called fierce warriors! They shoot a lot, but what are they hitting? Nothing, my friend. Some use they are!”
Auda’s eyes narrowed into slits. His nostrils flared and he puffed his chest up. “How dare you?” he growled and stormed toward his men, shouting orders. “Salah come! We will show this white man what we Arabs are made of.”
“Auda! Auda!” Lawrence ran after him.
But Auda wouldn’t stop.
“Auda!” Lawrence caught up to him. “Look, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean that.”
Auda didn’t say a word.
“Auda …”
“Get out of my way!” Auda growled.
“Salah … ?” Lawrence tried.
“Stay here, Lawrence.” Salah mounted his horse.
“But what are you going to do?”
“I’m riding with Auda.”
“Allah-o-Akbar!” Auda cried and raised his sword.
The entire Howeitat Tribe gathered around Auda. With loud cries of Allah-o-Akbar, the hundred-strong group of men galloped down the mountainside screaming, shooting from the saddle, riding straight into the middle of Turkish troops, leaving Lawrence staring after them.
Lawrence crawled forward to the ridge of the crest just in time to see the charge reach the bottom of the hill. The Turks were completely spellbound by the sight of Auda’s warriors and appeared not to be able to move. They fired back in the beginning but mostly turned and ran when the Bedouins descended in their midst.
Lawrence watched as Auda and Salah fought fiercely, cutting down the Turks with their swords in one hand, guns in the other. As the fighting intensified, Lawrence lost sight of them in the dust and sand that was kicked up by men and horses. He tried to look for them with his binoculars, but they had disappeared.
Lawrence jumped up. “Come on! Yallah!” he cried to the other Arab tribes who were watching, waiting. “Let us help them!”
He quickly mounted his camel and led the rest of the Arabs on camels down into the battle, shooting as he descended the side of the mountain. Suddenly, his camel tripped and fell and Lawrence hurtled to the ground. The fighting was going on all around him. He turned over and covered his head with his arms to protect himself from the hooves of camels and horses as they flew past. He didn’t know how long he remained there when suddenly he heard Salah shout.
“Lawrence!”
He looked around and saw Salah running towards him. His face and clothes were black with the filth and dirt of the desert and gunpowder. There was blood on his cloak and a large cut on his cheek and above his eyebrow.
“Salah! Oh thank God you’re all right.”
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Salah shouted over the din of the battle.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw you coming down the mountain and you shot your own camel in the head.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
“Anyhow, what is going on?”
“Auda’s taken the fort. The Turks have given up.”
Lawrence threw himself into Salah’s arms.
That night, after it was all over, they all sat in Auda’s tent enjoying a narghile and some tea.
“Auda, I need to go to Cairo,” Lawrence said.
Auda fingered his prayer beads silently.
“We have no food,” Lawrence started. “We need supplies, we need gold …”
“And you think you will get it?”
“I have more chance of getting it if I am in front of them than if I am here and telegraph them.”
Auda nodded.
“And I want tell them about Aqaba in person. I don’t want to just send a telegram.”
“Then go … ,” Auda said. “I hope you get what you want.”
“I hope I get what you need.”
The next morning, Lawrence rode into the Sinai Desert, headed for Suez on his way to Cairo, making the hundred-and-fifty-mile trip by camel in just over three days.
Salah went with him.
Salah was just about to put his key into the door when it was flung open. Tears were rolling down Saydeh’s eyes. Immediately, Salah went into his mother’s open arms, hugging her.
“It’s all right, imme. I’m home now.”
“Oh my son,” Saydeh cried. “My dear, dear son.”
“How is Noura?” he asked.
“She is much better … recovering well.”
“And Siran?”
“Also very well. Growing up. She’s a curious little girl. She’s already trying to eat on her own!”
“Imme …”
“Go to Noura. She is waiting for you in my room.”
Salah hugged his mother once more and ran in. Noura was sitting on the sofa, embroidering. Fatmeh was sitting next to her holding a pattern open. The two women were smiling.
“Salah!” Fatmeh saw him first and jumped up, running over to hug him. “I am so happy to see you.”
Salah hugged her, but his eyes were on Noura.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Fatmeh said and immediately disappeared.
Salah silently walked over to Noura, who had not moved. He sat down next to her and took one of her hands in his and raised it to his lips and kissed it. Still she did not move, concentrating on the other hand in her lap.
“Noura?” Salah said softly. He got up and sat in front of her on the coffee table. He held her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted it up toward him. Noura’s eyes were shut. She would not look at him.
“Noura, what is the matter?”
Noura’s chin began to tremble. Her forehead crinkled and tears began to seep from the corners of her eyes.
Salah went down on his knees in front of her and took her in his arms, holding her close to him, caressing her hair as she clung to him, crying into his shoulder. It was several minutes before she finally quieted down, her sobs turning into hiccups.
Salah cupped her face in his large hands and looked into her eyes.
“I love you, Noura,” he said, which brought on a fresh bout of tears.
“What is the matter?” Salah asked again.
Noura looked at him apprehensively, her eyes darting around, evading his. Salah was perplexed. He put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.
“Now tell me what is wrong,” he said. “Whatever it is, we will deal with it.”
“Salah … I can’t walk.”
Salah stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t walk,” Noura repeated. “The nerves around the base of my spine were badly damaged.”
“Noura … !” Salah said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“How would I tell you? You were in the middle of the desert … in the war.”
“What do the doctors say?”
“They’re not sure what is causing it,” Noura said. “They didn’t think there was serious damage to my back during the explosion, but now they feel there might have been.”
“We will find the best specialists for you. Don’t worry.”
Salah took her in his arms. “Don’t worry,” he repeated. “I’m here now.”
They sat together locked in each other’s embrace for some time, Noura resting her head on Salah’s shoulder. Salah kissed the top of her forehead. She looked up at him and with her fingers, gently caressed his cheek, running them along his jawline and up to his forehead. Slowly, with her thumb, she rubbed his bottom lip. Salah bent his head and put his lips over hers. She placed her hand on his neck and brought him closer as their kiss deepened. Noura arched toward him as his hands slid down to her waist.
“I love yo
u, Noura,” Salah murmured against her mouth.
“And I love you, my Salah,” she whispered back. “Don’t leave me again.”
Noura pulled back and put her hands on either side of his face.
“I promise. I never will.”
Salah looked at her.
“Noura … I want us to be married. Immediately. I don’t want to wait.”
“I can’t walk down the aisle.”
“I will carry you,” Salah replied. “And one day you will walk again. I know it.”
Rania was in the kitchen preparing for her usual morning crowd. She was in a good mood, smiling to herself and singing a little tune as she did her chores. She fired up the brick oven with wood and while she waited for it to heat up, she walked around the café inspecting it. It looked good, she thought. Rabih really had done a very nice job. I’ll tell him when he comes back. Now all I need are some new curtains and tablecloths. Perhaps Noura will make me some, she thought.
She looked at the clock. I must have woken up early today. Given that she had a few extra minutes, she decided to have a little breakfast herself. She went back into the kitchen and was pouring herself some coffee when there was a soft knock at the back door.
Through the thin, linen curtains, she recognized Salah.
“Salah!” she said, pleased to see him. “Sabah al-khair! What a wonderful surprise! I had no idea you were back. When did you arrive? How are you? I must say you look well!”
She threw herself into his arms and hugged him.
“Sabah an-nour, Rania,” Salah said a bit gruffly.
Rania noticed the gruffness and wondered what was wrong. Usually Salah was all smiles.
“Well now, sit down and tell me everything,” she said. “What can I get you this morning?” Have you eaten already or can I tempt you with some fresh-from-the-oven manoushe and olive oil?”
Salah’s eyes were serious. It was not like him to turn down food.
“What has happened, brother?” she asked, worried.
“Sit down, Rania,” Salah said in a deep voice.
“Why?”
“Rania, sit down,” he repeated.
Rania looked perplexed.
Salah sat down in front of her.
She searched his face feverishly. Something was wrong. She could feel it.
Salah closed his eyes and took a deep breath. As he let it out, he reached across the table for her hands and took them in his. He did not look at her. Instead, he cocooned her hands in his in a prayer position.
Rania’s heart jumped into her throat. It began beating so hard she could feel it reverberating in the pit of her stomach. “Rabih’s dead.”
Through her lowered lashes, she saw Salah nod his head.
She swallowed.
She gave Salah’s hands a squeeze and gently extricated hers from them. She got up and went to the oven and began to put the small rounds of bread on the oven paddle, readying them for the oven.
“Are you sure you don’t want any breakfast, Salah?” she asked in a toneless voice.
“Uh … no … I’m not hungry, thank you, Rania.”
Rania continued to make bread and drank her coffee in one gulp, keeping her back to Salah.
“Thanks for coming by and letting me know.”
“Rabih was a very good man,” he said.
Rania kept her back toward Salah.
“I’ll be going then, Rania.”
It was only when she heard Salah close the door that she turned around and opened her eyes. She was haunted by images. Rabih in the kitchen … mostly of him in all four corners, standing high upon a ladder, smiling down at her when he would see her come in in the morning. “Marhaba ya, Rania,” she heard his voice again. She turned around to stop the memories from washing over her and she saw him again, sitting at the kitchen table, tucking into the food she’d served him. “This is delicious,” she heard him say. “I love baklava.”
Rania ran into the café and slipped behind the bar, crouching down near the coffee machine, her hands over her ears, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she tried desperately to keep the memories away. “Please, please, help me,” she heard him say and when she dared to turn around, a bleeding Rabih, lay slumped over her bar. She stared, watching as his eyes slowly rolled back in his head and his lifeless body sank to the ground.
“Noura!” Fatmeh called out, pushing open the door to Saydeh’s apartment.
“I’m in the living room!”
“I was looking for Salah,” Fatmeh said, coming in. “I was just at the mosque with Imam Ziad and I wanted to talk to Salah.”
“He just went out.”
“How did he take the news about your … ?” she asked.
“He wants to get married! He said he would carry me down the aisle!”
“Oh Noura!” Fatmeh jumped up to hug her. “I am so happy for you.”
The two women embraced.
“Fatmeh,” Noura started tentatively, pulling away from her. “About Charles …”
“You’re going to tell me that he isn’t coming back, aren’t you?” Fatmeh said, nonchalantly.
Noura looked at Fatmeh, speechless.
“I know he’s missing,” Fatmeh said. “I’ve known for some time.”
“How do you know?”
“He left my name along with his family’s with his commanding officer in Cairo to let us know if he went missing or if he was dead.”
Noura took Fatmeh’s hand in hers.
“I received a telegram saying that he was missing.”
“But why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because he will come back.”
“But, Fatmeh,” Noura said, “he could be missing, but he could also be dead.”
“No,” Fatmeh shook her head. “He’s not dead.”
“Fatmeh,” Noura took her hands in hers. “Salah and Lawrence heard the explosion … they took him to a Turkish hospital, but after that they lost him. They don’t know where he is.”
“Did Salah say Charles was dead?” Fatmeh asked.
“No … ,” Noura admitted.
“Then he doesn’t know if he is dead.”
“But the probability is that Charles is dead, Fatmeh … ,” Noura said, squeezing the younger woman’s hand. “You must prepare yourself.”
“No!” Fatmeh cried. “Charles is not dead,” she said forcefully. “He is alive and he is going to come back. He asked me to wait for him and I promised I would and I will not break my promise.”
“Fatmeh … please … ,” Noura tried.
“No, Noura,” Fatmeh said gently. “He is alive. I know it. I can feel it. If he were dead, I would know.”
Rania was standing behind the bar, wiping glasses, when she heard someone try the door. She looked up at the clock. She wasn’t due to open for another half an hour at least. She went to the door and pulled the curtain aside. It was Saydeh and Yvonne. Ya Allah! She really didn’t want to talk to anyone this morning, especially since she had a feeling about what they wanted to talk about. Taking a deep breath she reluctantly turned the key.
“Can we come in?” Saydeh asked.
“It’s a little early and I’m not quite ready yet.”
Yvonne clicked her tongue. “Don’t be silly. It’s us …” She tried to barge in.
Rania stood aside grudgingly, releasing a resigned breath as the women walked in.
“What can I get you?” she busied herself behind the bar.
“Coffee?” Yvonne said.
Rania banged two cups down on saucers and threw two small teaspoons next to them. She pulled out the coffee beans, thumping the container down on the bar, not caring what the two older women thought. Why the hell are they going through this stupid ritual, pretending as if they’re here for coffee?
She poured the coffee into the cups, spilling it all over the saucers. “Haraam!” she shouted.
“Can I help?” Yvonne ventured.
“No!” Rania cried. “I don’t need any help. It’s just tha
t nothing is ready … as I said. You are too early,” she added, the frustration evident in her voice.
Her nostrils flaring, her brow furrowed, she pulled out a dishrag and began mopping up the excess that had spilled. She made a little more coffee to fill up the cups and clumsily tried to put them directly under the nozzle from where the coffee was coming out. But, she didn’t quite manage and the boiling coffee ran all over her hand.
She cried out as the liquid burned through her skin, tears rushing to her eyes. She dropped the cups and they smashed to the floor, shattering into smithereens. She ran across the shards in her bare feet to get to the kitchen sink to pour cold water on the burned hand. She bent over the sink, standing awkwardly, trying to not let the slivers of porcelain get deeper into her foot. Tears of pain wet her cheeks as she held the red, blistered hand under the water.
“Rania!” Saydeh and Yvonne came running into the kitchen behind her.
“Leave me alone,” Rania said, her face hidden behind her hair, which hung down on either side.
“Rania, please, we only want to help …”
“Well, I don’t want anyone’s help!” Rania cried. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”
Saydeh took a step toward her.
“Don’t come near me!” Rania growled, still facing the sink. “Get out! Get out! Both of you!”
She whipped around.
“What do you want?” she shouted. “To console me for Rabih’s death? Did you want me to cry on your shoulders and tell you how much I miss him? How much I loved him? Is that what you want? Get out! Get out!” she began to scream. “I don’t love him … all right … do you understand?” Tears started streaming down Rania’s face.
Suddenly, she took a hold of a jar of olive oil and threw it against the wall. It smashed, the oil leaving a greasy yellow-green mark on the wall. Rania let out a loud growl and went around the kitchen, throwing everything on the floor, jars, plates, glasses … anything she could get her hands on. She pulled down the curtains and ripped the light linen material apart, trampling them underfoot. She grabbed the oven paddle and started to hit the floor. She threw pots and pans against the walls. She overturned the table, kicking everything that was on it, cutting her feet even further on the glass and terracotta shards on the floor.