by Mike Allen
The fish begin to swim, trying their very best not to look conspicuous; as if they are going about their normal day the way normal fish are supposed to do. They understand how important it is that they look like normal fish; wide, vacant eyes, mouths open and shut, for they know there is nothing more suspicious than a fish that has been caught in the act of vigorous thought. It unnerves human beings when they see fish this way; makes it harder for them to reconcile the use of barbed hooks and spear guns. Normally the fish would not care, they would quite like to unnerve, but the last thing they want to do is upset their Master now.
“That was amazing,” says the little boy leaning over the fountain edge. “I’ve never seen a fish dance before. Did you see the way the first one twirled? So many somersaults and pirouettes, he was beautiful don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Faris agrees. “Very beautiful indeed.”
“Can I bring my older sister back another day? She is in Aleppo with my Uncle now but soon she will return. I am sure she would love to see your fish dance. She loves everything that dances.”
“Of course,” says Faris, patting the boy gently on his shoulder. “Though I cannot promise you the fish will dance again. I’ve never seen it before myself.”
* * *
Later when the boy has gone, and Faris has retreated to his room, the fish congregate amongst the reeds and mouth the word “dance” in joyous unison. Of course, they should dance; it will bring all the women to Master Faris’s door.
Don’t women love their dancing as much as they love their glittering heels?
Such a gloriously simple idea, they wonder how they hadn’t thought of it any earlier until one of the fish rather wisely says: “Yes, well though I am very familiar with the song; I am not so certain of the dance.”
“We can learn it,” says the biggest fish instantly, for he is not one to be deterred. “Tell us smaller fish, what exactly it was you did.”
The smaller fish drops his head; his wee mind has drawn a blank. He remembers being high up and seeing gold letters in woven tapestry. He remembers the boy’s face smiling and thinking he might die.
“Never mind,” says the biggest fish. “We shall ask the universe for help. Someone out there will be able to teach us how to dance!”
* * *
The fish ask the universe in the very next storm; threading their message through the water before it is conjured to the sky.
We are the fountain fish of Faris Al-Kawthar.
We must learn to dance.
It is a matter of great consequence for the fountain
and the land.
They listen as the storm carries their words across the sky; they listen and they hope that their answer will soon arrive.
Unhappily for the fish though, the universe is not forthcoming and most of the creatures who hear their message choose to ignore their plea instead.
Why do fish want to dance anyway?
It sounds preposterous and frivolous; a little high-faluting as well.
* * *
In the end it is a Desert Lark who takes pity on the fish. She has looked down on the land from the blue sky above; she has seen how it is dying a little more with each passing day. She may not understand why the fish want to dance but she understands that it is something that they feel they must do.
She comes late one evening after the dusk light has faded and sings to the fish of all the dances that she has seen. Of dolphins she has seen skipping between the white tips of the sea. How they twirl high into the air, both backwards and then forwards. How they vault, leap and cartwheel across the surface of the water and wave with their fine flippers to each other in joyful harmony. She tells them of other dolphins, and of whales and seals too, whom she has seen performing in grand theatres to wild, rapturous applause.
The fish feel heartened as they listen to her accounts: if their fellow fish can dance then surely so too can they?
Soon they begin to secretly practice every night as Faris sleeps. The Lark tells them what she has seen; they listen and they learn. They find it much easier if there is a beat they can follow so the Lark invites a Syrian Woodpecker to come join her fountain side. He drums out a merry rhythm with his slim slate-black beak.
The fish are good studies and they work very hard. Sometimes they even slop water over the edge of the fountain. In the morning Master Faris mops the floor, shaking his head at the mess; he never questions why it has happened, he just cleans it half-heartedly and moves on with his chores.
Finally, after all the phases of the moon have made one journey across the sky, the fish decide that they are good enough; that they are ready to perform.
“We are ready,” chorus the fish all together. “Now all we must do is wait for the boy.”
Their waiting is soon rewarded. The boy returns two days later. He has brought his older sister with him too and she has brought her many friends. They crowd curiously around the fountain while Faris Al-Kawthar hovers in the periphery: he is preparing tea and kanafi should the fish fail to satisfy. But the fish will not fail; they are ready to perform and as the afternoon Asr Prayer ends they begin their special dance. Shooting up with the fountain they spring out from each side like small exploding firecrackers; writhing orange flames. They spin, twirl and twist, while singing harmonic chords, before swooping back towards the water in synchronized dancing pairs. Then once under water they begin their formations: a flowering lotus, a revolving sun, a layered quilt of weaving fish.
Everyone is spellbound, even young Faris. Unable to speak, they simply watch on in wonder, mouths open and mouths shut and then mouths open once again. When the show finally ends with a triumphant fistful of springing fish the women cannot help but turn to each other and whisper how much more interesting Al-Kawthar’s fountain is now it is the host of dancing fish.
“We shall come back with our sisters, our friends and our mothers. Every woman must come to Faris Al-Kawthar’s fountain now to see its dancing fish.”
The fish are delighted when they hear what the women say. Surely their young Master’s loneliness will be cured before too long.
* * *
Soon the fish are dancing every day after the Asr Prayers. Tantalizing crowds of enthralled women as they dance, twirl and spin. Of course men come too, largely male relatives and showboat types. But it is the young women that the fish want to please; they want to charm them most of all.
Unfortunately, however, Faris does not see what they see. He is too busy being mesmerized by the tricks the fish perform to notice all the beautiful women who are now congregating in his home. He simply stands, widely gaping, watching his fish as they dance; clutching clenched fist to beating chest such is his pride in their fine work.
“He looks like a stunned mullet,” the fish mutter in disgust. “Hell never find his true love if he simply stands there and stares.”
“I shall try and draw his attention,” says the biggest fish to the others. “Away from we fish and towards the young women.”
“But how?” the fish chorus back in six chord harmony.
“I’m not sure but I shall try. It is imperative that I must.”
* * *
The next day as the fish dance the biggest fish does his best; trying to catch his Master’s eye as he somersaults through the air, while nodding his head vigorously towards the pretty young woman seated to Faris’s right. It seems that after a few attempts Faris has begun to notice the biggest fish’s efforts for he stops staring at the dancing fish and stares at the young woman instead.
* * *
But then something terrible happens!
* * *
The biggest fish is thrown out of orbit from all the vigorous nodding of his head. Confused and disoriented he misjudges his descent so he no longer falls back down towards the fountain but instead shoots across the room like a small orange dart. He lands on the lap of another watching woman but the landing is hard and causes him to bounce; twice on her covered knees and then once on her shoe,
before hitting the marble floor very hard and with some clip. The whole crowd falls silent; many avert their eyes. No one wants to bear witness to this tragedy that is unfolding.
The young woman quickly kneels on the floor by the fish. She does not care that the cold marble will tear at her skin. She only cares about the fish lying so lifeless on the ground.
She cradles him in her hands, willing him to breathe. But the biggest fish does not stir. He is as still as Palmyra stone.
She carries him to the fountain, carefully cupping him in her hands, and then lowers him into the comforting embrace of the fountain spring. She prays the little fellow will feel his watery home once again. But the biggest fish feels nothing. He remains perfectly still; a limp, autumn leaf in the palm of her cupped hands.
Faris Al-Kawthar hurriedly joins her as she stands fountain side. His eyes are very bright. They shine like wet coals.
“I am sorry Brother Faris,” she says gently, pouring the fish into his hands. “He was a beautiful fish. He lived a full life.”
She then steps away from Faris and disappears with the crowds; leaving him alone by the fountain, his head bowed in sorrow.
The other fish congregate below the place where their Master now sadly stoops. Eyes wide, mouths stretched open; they are screaming silent Os. Faris leans over and lowers his cupped hands into the water. He knows the other fish will want to see their fallen friend one last time. They nudge at Faris’s fingers and caress the biggest fish with their heads; all the time they are singing, though Faris cannot hear them. They are singing In Paradisum; they will never sing Fauré again.
* * *
That night Faris goes to bed without cleaning the fountain at all.
“Now the situation is worse,” the fish weep. “Far worse than ever before.”
* * *
The next day Faris Al-Kawthar’s courtyard is inundated with visitors. They don’t come because they expect to see the dancing fish again. They come because they want to express their sorrow for the biggest fish; because they want to embrace Faris Al-Kawthar and to bring him baked bread.
Yet as the Asr Prayers end there is a sudden surge in the fountain pool and the fish rise up once again; they rise up just the same. They don’t feel much like dancing, their souls still freshly torn, but the fish know they must: that the biggest fish would have said so; that it is more crucial now than ever that their Master finds his true love.
It is difficult; however, for the fish to freely dance because they are nervous in the air and their hearts weigh them down. They can only hum intense melodies, most of which are by Wagner; melodies even the fish concede are not the most conducive to merry dance.
* * *
When the dancing finally ends and the applause has petered out, Faris clears his throat. He has an announcement to make.
“Thank you my good well-wishers for sharing your thoughts and your bread but I have decided that my fish shall no longer dance to great crowds.”
He says this even though he knows he cannot stop the fish from dancing. Even though he knows he holds no power over what his fish choose to do. If the fish wish to dance, they will dance all alone; no crowds to distract them and divert their small minds. Perhaps without distraction no more fish will fall.
* * *
The fish are appalled when they hear their Master’s words.
“How will he ever find his true love now,” they sing in minor chords.
* * *
The following day there is a knock on Faris Al-Kawthar’s door. Faris opens it expecting to find a small crowd of well-wishers begging him to rethink his ban on the dancing fish. Instead he finds a young woman standing alone on the doorstep. She is wearing a khimâr, all the colours of the rainbow; it is too cheerful for Faris, he wants to turn her away.
“The fish are not dancing,” he says. “Now if you must excuse me I must go.”
“I am Hayam,” the woman answers, blocking the door with her foot. “Don’t you remember me, Brother Faris?”
Faris looks closely at the woman. Now he remembers. Her ebony eyes, narrow and bright; and the knitted frown of her forehead. He remembers the way her hand had brushed his as she gave to him the biggest fish.
“I have made something for you,” the woman continues. “May I come in and show you?” Faris nods at the woman and he ushers her quickly in. He is in no mood for visitors but he is curious just the same.
The woman removes a square package she has been hiding behind her back. It is wrapped in brown paper and then secured with jute twine. She hands it to Faris and then looks to the floor.
Inside is a painted canvas; even more colourful than her khimâr. It is of the biggest fish dancing. Dancing high above the fountain. She has caught him in full flight; he is living in the paint.
“It’s just like him,” says Faris, holding the painting out in front. “Thank you my Sister Hayam, I shall hang it in the courtyard.”
The woman lifts her gaze; she is pleased Faris is happy.
“Won’t you join me for some tea? A little thank you for your work.”
“Sorry I cannot. I am already expected elsewhere today.”
Faris is disappointed. “But I would so like to thank you for giving me this gift.”
“Perhaps you can,” Hayam says, nodding her head towards the fountain. “I should like, if I may, to return with my easel and paint all the other fish that live in your fountain. I am a painter as you can see and I delight in painting nature. But of late I have been sad and unable to paint for there has been nothing in nature I have felt inspired to draw. Everything is dying: trees, birds and flowers. These fish are the only things I have seen that have rekindled any sort of desire.”
Faris pauses for a moment and then quietly nods his head. “It is true that I have said that my fish shall dance no more but if they are your one muse then I would be most honoured if you should come.”
* * *
Hayam returns the next morning with her easel and paints. She looks into the fountain. It is sicker than ever. She can barely see the fish; they are slowly choking amongst the weeds.
“Brother Faris,” she says, while rolling two rubber gloves over her jilbâb sleeves. “Would you mind very much if I cleaned your fountain first. I want to paint the dancing fish but I can barely see their golden scales.”
Faris nods his head; feeling the smallest pinprick of reddening shame. “There is a special way to clean it. I will show you how it’s done. As you have seen I have been neglectful. Please accept my apologies.”
“It’s not me you should be apologizing to,” says Hayam, running her gloved finger across the water pool. “It’s the poor fish I feel sorry for, fancy dancing in such squalor.”
“Yes, fancy!” chorus the fish who are listening down below; before breaking out rather boisterously into The Hallelujah Chorus by Handel.
* * *
It takes Faris and Hayam most of the morning to clean the fountain properly. They trim away the strangling weeds and scrape dead algae from the marble walls. They cart away the stagnant water and polish the brass taps until they gleam. Their work is not easy. Their space is confined. Sometimes they brush limbs as they work side by side. Each time it happens and their limbs coincide, the fish feel a charge, a wild current through the water. It makes their tails spin and for a moment they feel giddy; unable to remember anything but the transient flutter of complete joy. This feeling swiftly passes and their grief soon returns but these currents are like nothing the fish have ever felt before.
* * *
At a little after one o’clock the fountain is declared clean and Hayam sets up her easel so she can begin painting once more. The dancing fish are coy at first and hide amongst the reeds. They have never been a painter’s muse before and are not entirely sure what it is they should do. Fortunately Hayam knows exactly how to put the fish at ease and she begins by feeding them bread—not enough to leaden their stomachs but enough to make them surface. Soon the fish are nibbling and growing bolder
with each breath; by afternoon they are dancing wildly, more wildly than ever before. They want to delight this painter woman; she makes them want to soar. There is something different about Hayam they have never sensed in a woman before.
By sundown Hayam has finished her first painting and she is ready to return home. Faris wants to admire her work but he is too nervous to be near her. He doesn’t know why he is nervous he just feels it in his bones. Like if he stands too close he will forget how to speak, how to think, how to breathe.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, standing a few feet behind her.
Hayam jumps at his sudden words and drops the paintbrush from her hand. It falls into the fountain; its bristles thick with colour.
The fish watch entranced as the brush drifts to the fountain bottom; leaving a small contrail of vivid colours: orange and yellow; blue, red and green; traces of indigo and of sweet violet too.
It is Faris who retrieves the brush; soaking his tunic to the shoulder. Hayam must be nervous too; to have dropped her brush that way. He feels better for this somehow; knowing she is nervous too.
“Will you come back tomorrow?” he asks handing her the brush.
Hayam nods her head shyly.
They both lower their heads and smile.
* * *
That night as Faris sleeps, his fountain throws a grand storm. Flowers crawl from parched deathbeds to drink its nourishing rain and frogs find their voice again after having been silenced for so long. The rain water is pure again and even sweeter than before. Olive trees have stopped wilting. The rapeseed is turning yellow.
And in Faris Al-Kawthar’s courtyard swim seven orange goldfish who sing jubilant Os as they reel round and round. This time though they are smiling; they are smiling as they sing. For they know when the dawn comes all they will see in the sky is a rainbow of orange and yellow; blue, red and green; traces of indigo and of sweet violet too.
THE SECRET HISTORY OF MIRRORS