The Bamboo Stalk

by Saud Alsanousi

  My mother shook her head sadly, then continued. ‘We had no choice but to accept. We would have done anything to save ourselves in the short term, even if it meant more trouble down the road.

  ‘In the employment agency in central Manila the next day I had to stand in a long queue that started at the door to the little office and ran along the pavement, down the street and far into the distance.

  ‘Hours later I managed to meet the clerk. I paid him half the amount and started to fill in the forms. On my next visit, after my application was accepted, I paid the rest of the money. The clerk told me I would be working in Kuwait, and that was the first time I had ever heard of the country. I cheerfully got ready to leave, though I knew I would have to give half of what I earned abroad to the Indians and the other half to my family. I willingly agreed to let them share out my money between them, in exchange for leaving me free to do what I liked with my body, free to give it to whoever I chose.’

  5

  When my mother came to work here in Kuwait, she was completely ignorant of the local culture. The people here are not like people in the Philippines. They look different and speak a different language. Even the way they look at each other can have connotations that she wasn’t aware of. The climate in Kuwait is nothing like the climate in the Philippines, except that the sun does shine by day and the moon comes out at night. ‘Even the sun,’ my mother said. ‘At first I doubted it was the same sun that I knew.’

  My mother worked in a large house where a widow in her mid-fifties lived with her son and three daughters. The widow, Ghanima, would later become my grandmother. The old lady, as my mother called her, was strict and neurotic most of the time. Although she seemed to be sensible and to have a strong personality, she was also superstitious and firmly believed what she saw in her dreams. She thought that every dream was a message that she couldn’t ignore, however trivial or incomprehensible it might seem. She spent much of her time looking for an explanation for the things she had dreamed and if she was unable to do so herself she would seek out people who interpret dreams. Although the various interpretations she obtained from these people were different, sometimes even contradictory, she believed everything they said and expected the things she dreamed to take place in real life. On top of that, she saw everything that happened, however banal, as a sign that she shouldn’t take lightly. Once, when I was with my mother and my Aunt Aida in the little sitting room in our house in the Philippines, my mother said, ‘I don’t know how that woman could live like that, keeping tabs on everything that happened, every coincidence that came her way. Once she was invited to a wedding with her daughters and they came back only half an hour after leaving home. “That party finished quickly, madam,” I told her.

  ‘The old lady went straight upstairs without looking at me. Hind, her youngest daughter, took up my question and replied, “The car broke down halfway there.”

  ‘I thought of all the cars lined up in front of the house. “What about the other cars?” I asked her.

  ‘“My mother thinks that if the car hadn’t broken down halfway, then at the end of the journey the angel of death would have reaped our souls,” she said, wiping her lipstick off with a handkerchief.

  ‘“What do you mean?” I asked her in surprise.

  ‘“My mother thought some disaster was in store for us,” she replied, bending down to take off her shoes.’

  It was a vast house my mother was working in, compared with houses in the Philippines. In fact one house in Kuwait is ten or more times bigger than the houses where my mother came from. My mother arrived in Kuwait at a sensitive time. My grandmother thought her arrival was a very bad omen, and it showed on her face whenever she saw my mother. My father had an explanation for that. ‘You came to our house, Josephine, around the same time a bomb went off near the Emir’s motorcade,’ he said. ‘Without divine intervention it would have killed him. So my mother saw your arrival as a sign of bad luck.’

  My father was four years older than my mother. My grandmother mistreated her, and so did my father’s sisters, except for the youngest one, who was temperamental. Only my father was always kind and gentle to her and he often disagreed with his mother and his sisters over how they treated my mother.

  I was almost ten when my mother started telling me these stories about things that had happened before I was born. She was paving the way for me to leave the Philippines and go back to Kuwait. In the sitting room of our little house she read me some of the letters my father had sent her after we left Kuwait. Before I went back to Kuwait as my father had promised, she told me all the details of her relationship with him. Every now and then she made a special effort to remind me that I belonged to another, better place. When I first started speaking, she taught me some Arabic words, such as greetings, how to count and how to say ‘tea’ and ‘coffee’ and so on. When I was older, she tried her best to give me a good impression of my father, who I couldn’t remember.

  I would sit in front of my mother in our house in the Philippines, listening to her as she told me stories about him. Aunt Aida would usually dismiss her stories impatiently. ‘I loved him, and I still do,’ my mother said. ‘I don’t know how or why. Perhaps it was because he was nice to me when everyone else treated me badly. Or perhaps because he was the only person in the old lady’s house who spoke to me, other than to give me orders, or because he was handsome, or because he was a young writer and was well-educated and had dreams of writing his first novel, and I loved reading novels.’

  She smiled as she spoke to me and, strangely, she often came close to tears, as if the events in the story had just taken place.

  ‘He said he was happy with me because, like him, I liked reading. He told me that whenever he was about to start writing his novel, something always came up to distract him. He kept being dragged into the thick of political events in the region. He wrote a weekly article for a newspaper but it was rarely published because of the censors in Kuwait. He was one of the few writers who opposed the Kuwaiti government’s decision to take sides in the Iran-Iraq war. Imagine how crazy your father was! He used to talk to his maid about literature and art and the political affairs of his country, at a time when no one else even spoke to their servants, except to give orders: bring this, wash that, sweep the floor, wipe the table, get the food ready, come here and so on.’

  Aunt Aida grumbled and fidgeted in her seat but my mother continued. ‘I washed and swept and mopped all day long, just so at the end of the day, when the women of the house had gone to bed, I’d be free to chat with your father in the study. I tried to keep up with him when he talked about politics, and impress him by showing off my meagre political knowledge. One day I told him how happy I was that Corazon Aquino had won the presidential elections. She was the first woman to rule the Philippines and had restored democratic government after leading the opposition that brought down the dictatorship of Ferdinand Marcos.

  ‘Your father was unusually interested in what I had to say. “So you put a woman in power!” he said. “Five months ago, on 25 February,” I said proudly. Your father burst out laughing, then checked himself in case he woke up his mother and his sisters. “That was the same day we were celebrating our national day,” he said. He paused. Then, tapping his fingertips on the desk and as if speaking to himself, he said, “Which of us is the master of the other?” I didn’t understand what he was driving at. He talked to me about the denial of women’s rights, as he put it, because in his country women don’t have the right to take part in politics. He looked very sad, then he tried to involve me by talking about the Kuwaiti parliament, which had been suspended by the Emir of Kuwait at the time. Although I didn’t much care about what he was saying, I listened to his voice and took great interest in how he felt.’

  ‘Why was he talking to you about these things, Mama?’ I cut in.

  ‘Because the people around him dismissed his ideas? Maybe,’ she replied, spontaneously but sceptically. ‘He was an idealist, I thought, and I’m sure
everyone else thought so too. His mother gave him special treatment, saying he was the only man in the house. He was quiet and rarely raised his voice. He spent most of his time reading or writing in the study. Those were his main interests, apart from fishing and travelling abroad with Ghassan and Walid, the only friends who came to visit him, either in the study to discuss some book or to talk about literature and art and politics, or in the little diwaniya in the annex if Ghassan had brought his oud along. Ghassan was an artist, a poet, sensitive, although he was also a soldier in the army.

  ‘At the time the countries in southeast Asia, especially Thailand, were popular destinations for young Kuwaiti men. Your father often spoke to me about going there with his friends. When he was talking about Thailand one day he looked me straight in the eye and said, “You look like a Thai girl.” Did I really look like one, or was he hinting at something else? I wasn’t sure.

  ‘It was depressing in the old lady’s big house when he went away with Ghassan and Walid. I would count the days till they came back and got together again and made some noise for a change in the house or in the diwaniya.’

  My mother suddenly stopped a moment and looked at the floor. ‘I used to watch them in the courtyard from the kitchen window, laughing and getting their gear ready for a fishing trip,’ she said. ‘They’d be gone for hours and I’d wait for your father to come back so that I could put his fish in the freezer and wash the fish smell out of his clothes.’

  She turned to me and said, ‘I hope you find friends like Ghassan and Walid, José, if you go back to Kuwait.’

  ‘Tell me more, Mama. What about Grandma?’

  ‘The old lady worried about her son and the way he spent his time. She often told him she was worried that either his books would drive him mad or the sea would sweep him away. She often walked in on him in the study and begged him to stop reading and writing and turn his attention to things that would do him good. But he insisted that writing was the only thing he was good at. He loved the sea as well as his library. He adored the smell of fish as much as his mother liked her incense and Arabian perfumes.’

  My mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath as if she was smelling something she loved.

  ‘Your grandmother was always worrying about your father, not just because he was her only son but because he was the only remaining man in the family and only he could pass on the family name. Most of his male ancestors had disappeared long ago. Some of them were sailors who disappeared at sea and others in other ways. Those who survived only had daughters. The old lady said this was because long ago a jealous woman from a humble family had cast a spell so that only the women in the family would survive. Your father didn’t believe in such things, but your grandmother was totally convinced. In those distant days your grandfather and his brother, Shahin, were the only surviving males in the family. Shahin died young before marrying. Isa married your grandmother, Ghanima, late and they had your father, Rashid, and when Rashid’s father died Rashid was the only male left in the family.’

  My imagination ran riot: people dying at sea, sailing ships fighting giant waves, a woman casting spells in a dark room, the males dying out one by one because of magic. My mother’s stories made my family sound like characters in some legend.

  ‘He was the only reason I had the patience to stay in the old lady’s house and put up with the way she mistreated me,’ my mother continued. ‘He offered me words of sympathy at night, when everyone else was asleep. He used to slip his hand into his pocket, pull out banknotes and give them to me – one dinar, or two or three. Then he would leave. I wasn’t interested in the money of course.’

  Aunt Aida interrupted her. ‘All men are bastards,’ she said.

  My mother and I turned towards her. ‘However much they don’t appear to be,’ she added.

  My mother replied with two words: ‘Except Rashid.’

  ‘One evening in the kitchen, he put his hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Don’t be angry with my mother. She’s an old woman and she doesn’t mean what she says. She’s neurotic, but well-meaning.” I didn’t want him to take his hand away. I forgot all the insults from the old lady. After that I deliberately made her angry every now and then. I’d drop a glass on the kitchen floor and leave the pieces lying around till the next morning, or I’d leave a tap running all night and making noise, or I’d leave a window open on a windy day so that all the dust came in and landed on the floor and the furniture. When the old lady got up in the morning, she would throw a fit. Everyone in the house would wake up to her shouting and calling out “Joza!”, the name she had given me because she thought Josephine was too hard to pronounce. She would curse and yell and swear, and I would just sweep up the pieces of glass from the kitchen floor or spend the whole day dusting and cleaning the place in the hope that when night came it would bring your father’s gentle hand to touch my shoulder.’

  She took out a handkerchief and wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘One day he was writing his weekly article in the study,’ she continued, ‘resting his left elbow on the large file that contained a draft of his first novel. I put a cup of coffee down in front of him and said, “I like watching you write, sir.”

  ‘“Can’t you call me something other than ‘sir’?” he said.

  ‘I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t imagine ever calling him Rashid, like his mother and his sisters.’

  ‘“Isn’t there anything else you like, other than watching me write?” he asked.

  ‘“Anything else?” I said.

  ‘He put his pen down, locked his fingers together and rested his chin on his hands. “Something, or maybe someone?” he said.

  ‘After that I was sure I was in love with him, or almost, although to him I was no more than someone who would listen without objecting whenever he wanted to explain his ideas and beliefs. Since I was certain he hadn’t fallen in love with me and never would, I was content to love him in return for his interest and his sympathy.

  ‘When I came to work in their house, your father was just getting over a love affair. He had had a relationship with the girl since he was a student. He wanted to marry her but, because of prejudices I know nothing about, the old lady prevented the marriage. So love alone is not enough to bring you together with the girl of your dreams. Before you fall in love, or so I understood from Rashid, you have to choose carefully the woman to fall in love with. You can’t leave anything to chance. Apparently some names bring shame on others, and that’s what happened with Rashid. As soon as his mother heard the girl’s family name she rejected the idea of Rashid marrying the girl. Some time later the girl married another man.

  ‘The relationship between your father and me continued like this. When the old lady was asleep in the afternoon or at night, and the sisters were busy at university or watching television upstairs, I would take the opportunity to make tea or coffee for Rashid, and spend as much time as possible with him, listening to stories that mattered less to me in themselves than as a reason just to be in his company in his study.’

  6

  My mother’s intuition was quite right about his remark on how she looked like a Thai girl. My father was hinting at something. He didn’t say it straight out, but there was an insinuation. My mother didn’t tell me all the details, but he must have been clear about what he wanted, because she answered him firmly. ‘Sir, I left my country to get away from things like that,’ she told him. As time passed, his hints became more explicit but my mother stood her ground.

  Then one day he said, ‘Shall we get married?’ and she finally relented. She must have been very pleased, because she accepted the marriage, which wasn’t really much of a marriage.

  It was the summer of 1987 and my mother had been in Kuwait for about two years. As my mother told me, and as I later experienced for myself, the summers in Kuwait are brutal. Rashid’s family spent the weekends in their beach house on the coast south of Kuwait City. The house is still there and the family gathers there from time to time.
<
br />   My grandmother and my aunts had gone there with the Indian driver, on the understanding that my father would drive my mother and the cook there and join them. He set off later the same day but he didn’t go straight to the beach house. He stopped the car in front of an old building not far away. He and my mother got out, while the cook stayed in the car.

  ‘It was old and in bad shape,’ my mother said, talking about the building. ‘Apparently it was housing for foreign workers. There were clothes hanging on lines in the courtyard and in the windows. It didn’t look like a woman had been near the place in years. There were tyres of various sizes piled up in the corners of the courtyard, and abandoned planks of wood, old wardrobes and cupboards covered in dust and thrown aside any old how. There were coils of wire and mattresses that were torn and faded by the sun. Instead of going in through the front door your father took a narrow passageway to the left towards an outer room. There was a man waiting for us there. He looked like an Arab, with a long bushy beard and a dark mark in the middle of his forehead. He was wearing an Arab gown and an Arab headdress but without the black band that Kuwaitis usually wear to hold the headdress in place. The man called in two other men, who apparently lived there. We didn’t stay long. We sat down in front of the man, who started talking with your father in Arabic. He turned to me and asked, “Have you been married before?” I said no. He asked your father something in Arabic and he answered yes. Then he turned back to me and asked, “Do you accept Rashid as your husband?”

  ‘He wrote out a piece of paper after we agreed. We signed it, Rashid and me. Then the other two men signed it too. Then it was “Congratulations.”