by Anna Tambour
All Munifer possessed now was a few coins, a sum that any public servant would consider an insulting pittance. He touched his beard apologetically. “You’ll have to adjust the disbursement amounts.”
The notary clicked his tongue. “I will have to rewrite the whole document.”
“Then,” said Munifer, “you must adjust accordingly.” He stood, and with a cursory “Peace be with you” on both sides, he left the office.
Though you throw a bridle over the ass’s head, he does not become a horse; though you dress a captured girl in a robe, she does not become a lady.
Beyond rubies
MULLIANA SINGS WHILE SHE WORKS. Over a fire hangs a cauldron of water. She unhooks it and tips it in dribbles all over the mat till the pot is empty and the white cloud of fluffy carded wool, flattened and grey as any waterlogged cloud. She kneels again and rolls the mat tightly, binding it with cords that she has also made, this of her own strong hair.
And now she steps on the steaming roll, and stamps on it in a rhythm that she first felt in her mother’s womb.
The water runs into a drain and escapes laughing into the face of the sky.
Yes, yes, you say. I remember.
Do you remember her father?
One day, well after that particular day that you remember, but which was like every other day since her father locked her in the tower—
“Dearest daughter,” cried Mulliana’s mother as she climbed the inside ladder, Mulliana’s breakfast in the basket on her back.
“Today I bring you joy.”
“What more joy can I have, my darling mother?” said Mulliana. “Oooh, new figs.”
Her mother spat in the fire. “Your father’s dead.”
Mulliana’s teeth tore into the steamy bread. She poured her mother’s tea into its little sparkling glass, and poured the rest of the jugful down her own throat as if she hadn’t had a drink since ever. She cut into a fig with her teeth, gazed into its red, red heart; and ate it, and all the rest of the figs, one by one, till they were all eaten up.
And still she kept her silence. Her mother was ready to burst, to tell Mulliana (bragging, it would have been, so she had to lock it safe within her breast) how she had finally done what she had wanted to do ever since her husband had taken her beloved daughter Mulliana and imprisoned her here for his pleasure and his profit for however long he lived (and he came from a line so longlived that he had loved to speak warningly to his wife of an ancestor who had lived for 969 years—and therefore it was an act of Providence that her husband was an only son of an only son).
Mulliana’s mother sat, as patient as she had almost always been, watching her daughter eat. It was unbearable.
“Has he broken you?” she said.
“I live for your eyes,” Mulliana trilled. Then she cocked her head, perhaps listening for wisps of her trill in the air. “Do you think my voice sounds broken?”
Tears sprang into her mother’s eyes. I live for your eyes.
Mulliana sang this painfully tragic lovesong every day for their secret joy—there were no lovers for Mulliana.
Mulliana’s mother reached into her robe and drew out the giant key. It swung on its chain. “Why haven’t you asked me if it’s safe to escape?”
“Escape?”
“The key is yours now. Your father now sits in the afterworld. And your brother is fighting in distant lands, may his soul—”
“Mother?”
“Pomegranate seed?”
“Haven’t you always told me what a bane marriage is, and how blessed I am to be free?”
“Have I said that?” Mulliana’s mother clapped her hands over her mouth. Her eyebrows leapt in fear. “I’m sure I said it to make you accept your fate. I must have.”
Mulliana’s eyes crinkled. She slid over to her mother on her knees.
“Sing with me,” she cried, making sure she sounded happy.
Her mother sang, and didn’t stop when Mulliana, still singing, stood up and climbed down the inside ladder made of Mulliana’s hair, and climbed up carrying sticks which she fed to the fire; and climbed down and came up with a bucketful of fresh water hung from her neck, which she poured into the cauldron that she hung over the fire; and then took from her mountains of wool piled against the walls, pieces of coloured wool which she shaped just so, and began to place them on a mat so that they took the shape of wonderful creatures and plants; and so on, just like every other day.
They sang together for two songs, but halfway through the third, they stopped.
The sounds outside had grown from the normal whispering hush around the tower at Mulliana’s first songs of a morning, to a raucous crowd.
Mother and daughter peered out through the slit in the wall. The men’s raiment was so colourful and strange, and not one man stood still. So from the tower looking down, the town seemed planted with precious, exotic, heavy-headed flowers, each fingered by its own unseen breeze.
“I’ll wager you a horse!” someone said. “Too much,” yelled another, to much laughter. “Come out and show yourself, Bird of the Day.” “Let me climb your locks, Geunivere!”
“Enough,” a man growled. Ostrich feathers trembled high over his cap, and his hose was dotted with pearls large as carbuncles, which unfortunately emphasised how like his legs were to an aged rooster’s.
“Don’t tempt me to skewer you,” quipped a young man from the top of a skittery white charger, and the peaceful collection of flowers began to push and shove.
Mulliana’s mother sighed and pulled back from the window.
Her daughter had already turned away and was laying out a mat near the drain hole.
“I’ll keep it safe,” said Mulliana’s mother, hanging the key from her neck.
Mulliana looked up from her work. “May you live forever in peace now, Mama.”
The woman who had grown old before she might have become beautiful, choked back tears and smiled brightly.
“More figs when I come tonight?” she asked as she climbed down the ladder. What will become of her with no man as her protector?
“Yes, dear oil of my light,” Mulliana called down, pulling the ladder up.
She had already turned toward the hearth so she didn’t hear her mother’s uncharacteristically sharp “What can you expect?” as she once more secured her daughter with a turn of the key.
The crowd made way for the old woman, but they paid her no mind, their attention on the tower. Still, it was fortunate for her that she had to keep her face lowered in modesty. No one could see the illicit triumph in her eyes, the glow of joy on her withered cheeks, from a murder well done.
Later at the river, her voice was strident. “He strokes the ruby,” she sang, “and turns it into a donkey.”
The chorus shouted the refrain: “Marry your donkey!” as they lustily beat their laundry.
Almost every woman at the river sang the refrain as mightily as the others, but there were some who secretly hated it, and thought as they beat—of their own loves, and the feel of their strokes.
Indeed, a small voice hardly more than a trickle, sang lispingly, “My love is sweet as honey . . . ” But the walnut-faced old thing was deaf.
Approach of the tongue
KLASHICKY-LAKISH-KHHU went the train on the track to the Unknown. Yuri Shurov, being the great train driver he was, listened and drove and got out and shovelled when he needed to, without disturbing anyone on the train.
They might have thought this an unfair distribution of duties if they had been thinking of him at all. Instead, like evolution speeding backwards, each reverted to the mindset of a passenger.
Valentin had scurried to his compartment two and a half carriages away, where he barricaded himself in—with what looks like piles of garbage. Come! Listen in the passage but don’t let him see you. Hear him making incoherent noises like something that is black and grey, and has horrible bent posture and long fingernails and the breath of the crypt—and your health at heart? Let us leave Carriage
1 to its demon!
Now let us make our way to the restaurant car. Ooh la—don’t look.
Galina had cooked for Savva the most delicious meal, but not just for him. She had made a gala feast for everyone, including Valentin. And she had made everything without help, though Savva had wanted to help. At least he had said he wanted to help, not that he was any help at all, so passionately did he hang around her and cover her neck with kisses.
She had a feast’s-worth of food, too, since the town of L——was a normal re-stocking point for food and fuel, and the workers of that unit had done their job.
When the meal was ready, Galina went to get Yuri Shurov because, as she said to Savva, “There’s no schedule to follow. He might as well stop.”
Savva agreed wholeheartedly. He’d never been able to say a word to Shurov because he was so shy in the great train driver’s presence. And why this hero should have defended him, Savva couldn’t fathom. He followed Galina to the engine. And there, like the hero in the mural “Through the night”, stood Shurov, peering through the window into the beams that led the train like reins on a horse and sled (not that anyone has ever been interested in that mural except, briefly, the committee that wrote its specifications). Indeed (where were we?), the train was slowing and beginning to make the shhhhuhing sound of a sled getting clogged in insufficiently icy snow.
Shurov braked, and picked up a shovel. He had not noticed that he had visitors.
“Comrade,” called Galina gaily, stopping him with her hand on his arm. “Come have a bite.”
Shurov turned beet red. Muttering something about having to get something moved or they’d be stuck, or somesuch nonsense, he jumped out and got to such energetic work that in the beams of light he looked like that hero in the mural—you are not interested?
Then let’s follow the kissing couple as they make their way awkwardly, with many stumbles and giggles, to the carriage under Savva’s care, specifically the compartment of such fascination, 3C.
The door was open, so there was no need to knock. Instead, Savva leaned in and wittily said, “Knock knock.”
“Yes,” said the Omniscient, who was on his upper bunk, slumped as a pile of old pillows.
“A feast for your eyes and tongue awaits,” announced Savva, more poetically than he’d ever thought possible. Galina regarded the chapped back of his neck with shining eyes. She’d never known him like this. She didn’t see, because she felt shy and a bit embarrassed for the woman, the way the old man in the compartment looked at that woman in red, nor did she see that strange woman not look back at the old man, nor look anywhere, nor even pretend that she noticed any invitation.
“Upset stomachs,” apologised the old man. He rubbed his own stomach to prove it, though Savva was not convinced. For a moment, Savva felt bad for Galina, but then he shrugged. Passengers! Who can understand them?
Savva turned to Galina, whispered something about crazy tourists, and politely took his leave of the old man. He had barely gone a step out of sight of 3C when Galina pulled him into 3B, where she gave him a kiss that made Savva forget all about getting Valentin.
So they made their way to the restaurant car by themselves, where because there was no one to hide from, Galina didn’t tape any cardboard over the windows. And where, because Galina had done all the cooking, she didn’t want to eat now, and where because of the kiss, Savva’s insides were too turmoiled for even a slice of pickle; here they swept the feast off the restaurant table and Galina unbuttoned Savva’s jacket (which was missing one button) and unbuttoned his shirt, and tore it off.
She ran her fingers over his sunken chest, and laughed.
Instinctively, he reached out for his shirt.
“Leave it!” she ordered.
“I’m sorry I’m no hero,” he said. “I’m cold.”
“You!” she laughed. “You can’t fool me. Besides, you can take your heroes, and stick them where Stalin lies.”
“Shh!”
“Speak to the wall,” she laughed. “Who wants an old- fashioned hero? I’m a modern woman. And you—” She ran her fingers over his standout collarbones. “You look like a rock star.”
“Rock . . . ” Savva gulped. “Mick Jakhar?”
“No, stupid.”
He looked down, wanting to put his shirt back on but afraid to. Tears welled in his eyes. She was playing with him, cruelly. And he had thought it love.
“I must go to my duties,” he said.
“Your duties are here.” Galina pointed a finger at him—Stay!
She ran behind the counter, felt behind some pots, and emerged with a magazine. Flip, flip, she made the pages turn, until she found what she was looking for.
“Mick Jagkhar,” she said prissily. “He’s an old man. See?”
So that’s what he looks like. Savva hoped he never aged like that, but Savva didn’t have time to examine all the wrinkles, because Galina was off again, flipping the pages without mercy, till she found what she was looking for. “Look!”
“You don’t want me to wear eye makeup, do you?”
“Only look at his chest.”
The resemblance was remarkable. And from the crowd, the man looked to be adored.
Galina closed the magazine and kissed Savva on the tip of his nose. “If he had your nose, I might think of him and not you when we make love.”
“My nose is my best point,” giggled Savva.
“This is not a time for critical analysis,” said Galina.
Soon after, in a flight of creative fancy, Savva smeared caviar on Galina’s upper lip. He had never liked its taste but this was no time for a thought like that, when Galina was spread like a tablecloth under him and he was poised above, tongue out.
Stop yelled Nick, and for a moment, Savva paused. Nick pulled as delicately as he could (pulling with all his might) but he was powerless. Savva’s tongue drew closer, and closer, and finally, just as the pink tip of Savva’s tongue touched Galina who was shaking like a train with all diesel engines fired up—just at the moment of touch, with one almighty pull, a greater effort than he had made in his whole life, Nick popped off Galina’s face and flew out of the restaurant car so that the loving couple could consummate the beginning of their ever after in the privacy they deserved.
It all happened in an instant, yet Nick was out of earshot when Galina reacted.
“Yo!”
Savva fell to the floor. “What’s wrong? Am I too heavy?”
“You bit me,” she giggled. Her eyes opened. “What are you doing there?”
“I didn’t bite you.”
“Yes you did.”
“No I didn’t.”
Galina’s hand flew to her face. She wiped the caviar off as if it were a fly, and felt her upper lip. “Help me stand up.”
And of course, a very confused Savva did.
He stood shivering as Galina rummaged in the mess of clothing on the floor.
She plucked out her mirror and shoved it in front of her face.
“My mark! It’s gone.”
“No.”
“Does a mirror lie?” She spun round, and it was true.
“It must have been a rash.” Rash, no rash. What does it matter at a time like this?
Galina threw herself into his arms.
“Oh Savva!”
“Galina!” This is more like it.
“Can you ever love me again?” she wailed.
“Oh no,” he groaned.
“I thought not!” she shrieked, tearing out her hair.
“I didn’t mean that! My love!”
. . .
and it comes out excellently, so understand that.
—the end of many recipes,
Kitāb waşf al- aţ’ima al-Mu’tāda
The time on the hill
MUNIFER WOULD HAVE LIKED to have strangled the notary for the interruption in a scene that Munifer had planned as his life’s heroic act—his selfless generosity destined for immortality in poetry and song. Instead, in a mood of
mixed temperance and superstition, Munifer restrained himself, prescribing himself a walk out of the City.
By the time he reached the City Gates, he was admirably stoic. What does it matter if he steals it all? I did what I could.
He tossed the rest of his coins behind his left shoulder, and continued walking. His goal was the top of the hill. He would camp up there by the bush of revelation for the next few days. And then when it was time, he would bravely walk to the Palace, where he would present himself to the Great Timursaçi as expected.
And so he walked to the top of the hill, where he saw, not the ‘bush’, but two crows fighting over a hank of kinky yellow hair. Still, this place was as good as any to spend his last days, so he sat under a stunted fig and thought about his life and what a waste it had been and how happy he would be when it was over and he was in that Paradise that only men lucky enough to have found revelation can earn entry to.
Only some wizened figs passed his lips. And each day passed till he lost track of days and had to go running after a traveller, who cuffed him cruelly.
Munifer broke into tears. He had been spending far too much time than is healthy, grizzling like a sentimental drinker. “I only wanted to ask the day.”
“A fool where one least expects it,” laughed the traveller. He tossed a coin into Munifer’s face, and walked on.
“What day is it?” Munifer cried out, but his voice was weak.
The cuffing did him good, though. It focussed his mind. He soon came to the conclusion that Tomorrow is the Day.
Therefore, he planned the rest of this day contemplating.
He contemplated till his eyes were so puffy that they were painful. He needed to stretch his limbs, too.
As he stood, a gust of wind shook the leaves in the stunted fig so much that they sounded like midnight in a gambler’s den. That thought brought a smile to his face. Life had been good.
He stretched out his arms to the sky, and the good fresh air restored him. His eyes rose to look at the wonders of nature—not the ugly stunted fig but those swallows swooping, those clouds scudding, and the beauty of genuine virgins’ hair, just like that ribbon of it floating by. Floating by???