We reach the club. There is a tanker parked outside the rear entrance to the restaurant. A large hose stretches from the tanker to the water containers on the roof. One of the workers leans against the lettering on the side of the tanker, which says DRINKING WATER. Tap water is no longer safe. Everyone complains of intestinal symptoms these days: cholera and typhoid.
I don’t know why Abu Ghayeb has brought me here. I could have seen everything from my bedroom window: the swimming pools, the tennis courts, the large wall where they used to show foreign films, even the children’s playground.
Maybe he took me with him to demonstrate to me that my money was being invested wisely and wasn’t being wasted!
Through the haze of smoke from her cigarette, Ilham says, “Don’t you believe what they tell you, Dalal; that this is a military operation. We’re the real targets.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“I mean the women and children. I know that very well, and I won’t let anyone try to tell me otherwise. The hospital where I work is full of sick women and babies dying in their mothers’ arms.”
She sits in front of me, her back rigidly erect. She hardly moves at all when she smokes. She looks like a portrait, with her round white face and pointed European nose. Her thin lips barely cover her rabbit’s teeth. She always applies lip balm to them between cigarettes and says, “It is to stop the butts from sticking to my dried lips.”
I can’t understand why she wastes all her wages on cigarettes and learning French! I eventually find out that she calms herself down by smoking. Learning this language will help her to face her French mother—if she ever finds her.
I ask her, “Why don’t you change your job?”
“I have no choice. I live alone, and I can’t ask for leave from the hospital to go looking for another job. Where would I go? Rents are exorbitant and earning a living is almost impossible. In spite of that, I thank God that I don’t have to support a child, like the women I come across every day.”
She crosses her legs. The smoke seeps out between the locks of her curly black hair. The layers of hair are shaped like the letter C. When she shakes her head to chase the smoke away from her eyes, the Cs dance about in all directions.
She shows me a picture of her mother who abandoned her when she was a six-month-old baby. The French bride had been unable to forge a lifelong bond with this land. Her Iraqi husband had promised her that her visit would be temporary, to meet his parents, but he didn’t keep his promise, so she abandoned him, leaving him his daughter. She took her divorce papers and returned to her country. She then married one of her own kind, and forgot everything about her daughter. Ilham’s father was a renowned lawyer. He died when she was five years old, but even then her mother hadn’t wanted to be reminded of anything.
She says, “The emergency cases remind me of her. How could she leave me to my fate with no mercy?”
“Why do you still think of her so often, when she shows no interest in you?”
“Because she’s my mother in spite of everything. I look at the people who don’t even have enough money for a burial. I often think of her when we take the bodies of dead babies and send them off to be incinerated to prevent the spread of diseases.”
She takes a long drag from her cigarette. “No matter how bad things get, I know in my heart that I’ll meet her one day. I know it.”
I interrupt her, “Can I come with you to the hospital to do some volunteer work?”
“I wouldn’t advise it. That kind of work needs experience and a heart of stone. Staying underneath your aunt’s wing would be so much better. I wouldn’t encourage you to see what’s happening.”
“I’m willing to do anything for the children.”
“The problem is that there’s nothing we can do to help these people. In any case, maybe raising bees will turn out to be a better source of income.”
“How did you find out about the bees?”
“Nothing remains secret in this building.”
She is right. Even Uncle Sami on the fourth floor knows all about it, although he only leaves his flat when it is time for his dialysis. Ilham keeps an eye on his health, and accompanies him to the hospital. I sometimes see her going up to his flat. She says jokingly, “It’s a wash and dry day today.” She never complains about having to look after him, as she considers him to be one of the most pleasant inhabitants of our building.
I meet him for the first time in his flat. Ilham is in a rush to get off to work, so she asks me to take him some painkillers. I knock on his door. I wait several minutes. The door is eventually opened by someone who looked like the fourteenth grandson of Father Christmas.
I ask him with a smile, “Uncle Sami?”
He replies, but his smile isn’t crooked like mine, “Yes, Uncle Sami, come in.”
He hooks his cane onto his wrist and asks me to follow him. He sits me down on a comfortable armchair and chooses a high-backed chair for himself. A few moments later he heads off toward the kitchen. He comes back with some tea. He offers me a cup, and adds a spoonful of sugar to it, without asking me if I wanted any.
He says, “You’ve taken your time.”
I readjust the way I am sitting. “I’m sorry, but Ilham only gave me the medication this morning.”
“I wasn’t talking about the medication.”
I look up at him and he smiles. “Don’t look at me like that as if I’ve frightened you. Calm down and enjoy your tea. What I meant to say was that I’ve been waiting for someone like you for a long time.”
“What do you mean, Uncle?”
He doesn’t reply. He gets up from his chair and says, “Excuse me, I have to go to the other room for a moment. Please feel free to look at a few magazines.”
He shuffles across to the room next door. A notebook with a shiny, wine-colored cover catches my eye. It lies on top of a pile of magazines and has the words “Umm Raid’s Diary” printed on its cover. On the first page I read, “Twenty thousand houses, flats, and residential complexes were destroyed and one hundred thousand palm trees were killed by the bombardment. I heard that a woman had to have a Caesarean section without an anesthetic.” I turn the page and read what the diarist has written. The factory that made household cleaning agents had been bombed. Ninety kilos of insecticide had seeped out. Another page described how the plastics factory had been bombed: tiny fragments of polyethylene had been dispersed into the atmosphere where they mingled with paint, industrial glass, solid and liquid wax, black graphite, and burning rubber tires.
I hear Uncle Sami’s heavy footsteps coming back, and I slide the notebook back to its original place. He points to a small metal cage with two white mice playing about inside it, and says, “I see you’ve met my friends. The female mouse is called Cerebrum. Her husband’s name is Cerebellum.”
His giggles tumble all around me, and I can’t stop myself from joining in. He says, “Yes, laugh girl, enjoy yourself. That’s what those two balls of warm fur do. They provide me with great joy.”
He puts his hand inside the cage and tries to grab one of the mice. His hand wriggles about and creates a ruckus on the floor of the cage. His fingers strike the metal bars like the hands of a blind man seeking something in the dark. Suddenly I gasped, “He really is blind.” At that moment he manages to grab hold of Cerebellum by his pink tail and puts the mouse in his lap. He caresses the small head like a dear friend’s, and says, “It’s my diabetes. Insulin became almost impossible to get hold of in this country, so inevitably, the disease ended up affecting my vision. I can no longer differentiate colors. I can only make out shapes in black-and-white. What color are you wearing Dalal?”
“Green.”
“I thought it might be green.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I can sense gentle vibrations coming from you.”
Cerebrum, alone in her cage, starts to get agitated on my behalf. Uncle Sami is becoming increasingly calm. He says, “Nurse Ilham told me about you. S
he suggested that we should meet. I am pleased that this has happened.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you want to play with Cerebellum?”
“No, thank you.”
“You’re a polite girl. This mouse is going back to his cage, and I’d better get back to the other room for a few moments.”
He disappears. I watch the two rodents celebrating their reunion. They make contact using their transparent tails and whiskers. Uncle Sami gazes at me.
I ask him, “Would you like me to get you something from the room next door? Do you need any help?”
“There’s only one thing you can do in the room next door to help me.”
“Of course, what is it?”
He bursts out laughing. “If you could get rid of the wind from my tummy for me!” He pats my shoulder. “Fate can be so cruel, dear neighbor. These diseases destroy us gradually. Forgive me my candor.”
He then adds, “Anyway, I must point out that you are late.”
“For what?”
“I hear that you’re learning about art and colors.”
“Yes, with my aunt’s husband.”
I sip what is left of my tea in order to leave. Uncle Sami bids me farewell. He says, “What I’ll teach you is that human beings come in different colors.”
Abu Ghayeb wishes that he could emigrate and settle on the shores of the Dead Sea. He’s convinced that his skin needs to be treated with natural minerals. He has started scratching again. He brushes away the flakes that have descended from his scalp and settled on his shoulders. A few soft scales have come away from his left ear.
He gazes at a scale that he’s pierced with the tip of a pencil. I ask him, “Is it possible to say what caused your disease?”
He laughs. “I thought that Pepsi Cola might be the cause of dandruff, but we haven’t had any for years now because there isn’t any of it around. So that’s the first possible cause that we can cross off the list.”
“But I’m asking you a serious question.”
“And I’m telling you in all seriousness that the stuff I now drink tastes better than Pepsi. It’s a gelatin solution. I have to drink half an ounce of gelatin dissolved in water every day without fail, to promote the growth of my fingernails and strengthen the flesh beneath them. It helps allay my fears that I might be afflicted with psoriasis of the hands. They say it affects the nail beds and is very painful.”
“What are you saying?”
“That’s it exactly. Psoriasis is exacerbated by anxiety, and flare-ups are likely to occur as one lives in a constant state of anxiety. When the disease flares up, the anxiety worsens as a result, and so on. It’s a vicious circle.”
“My God!”
“And apparently the only protection is avoiding anxiety!”
He starts pacing to and fro in front of one of his paintings. He stops and gazes at it and says, “How do you think we can measure beauty?”
“If things aren’t distorted, they may be more beautiful.”
“I’m sorry Dalal. Please try to be less sensitive when we study art. Appreciating beauty is more important than understanding it.”
“How can you expect me to appreciate what I’ve been deprived of?”
“I’ll give you an example. A splodge of yellow, hanging on its own in the air may appear ugly, but as part of a painting, amidst other colors, it can be very beautiful.”
I head toward a painting that is a cacophony of loud colors erupting from a volcano in their midst. I stand in front of the center of the volcano with my back toward the painting.
“Then tell me now, husband of my aunt, do these colors make me look beautiful?”
CHAPTER SIX
I RECEIVE A MAGAZINE from the fourth floor. Uncle Sami now sends me the ones he’s finished reading, or rather the ones that somebody else has finished reading to him. I flick through its pages as I wait for Abu Ghayeb to get changed so that we can go together to the club. The first headline reads, “Experiments in Western Europe: Tomatoes Injected with Fish Chromosomes to Protect Them from Frost.”
Abu Ghayeb calls out from the bedroom. “What’s the latest news, Dalal; what are they saying?”
I read the second headline out loud to him, “The United States declares that the war it waged in early 1991 was a ‘clean war.’ ‘Smart weapons’ were used that struck their targets accurately.”
Abu Ghayeb laughs as he says, “Yes, ‘intelligent missiles.’ They stop at a red light on their way to the explosion.”
A moment later, he adds, “Truly smart weapons. They destroyed communication centers, sewage plants, and electricity generators. And they remembered to wipe out the water purification units as well. With their intelligence, they deprived a whole nation of clean drinking water.”
“This is an article about the latest trends in genetic engineering. Look at this picture in a lab of a human ear growing out of the back of a mouse.”
“They want to grow ears? Our fields are full of human limbs and appendages of all varieties. Some people try to grow limbs while others are born without them!”
He starts combing his hair and says, “By the way, have you heard that dried flies are being sold in the local markets?”
“Is this a joke?”
“Not at all, there’s a group of young men outside Feydhi Hospital selling packaged dried flies labeled ‘Animal Feed.’”
As we make our way from the flat to the club, Abu Ghayeb starts explaining to me with enthusiasm some morphological points of his future career. The distance from his home to his new workplace consists of a pavement–a street–a pavement. The result would be a significant saving on travel expenses.
The lift isn’t working, so we walk down the stairs. He says, “Bees have a social structure. That’s what attracted me to them, Dalal. They live in groups known as colonies, and in structures called hives.”
“What does my aunt think of all this? Has she agreed?”
“Your aunt dislikes all animals, so how would you expect her to approve of raising insects?”
“Then she’ll object.”
“She can’t visualize any success except in terms of cash.”
“So, will these insects provide the money she desires?”
“Time alone will tell.”
The sewage draining from the ground floor flat has overflowed. We jump in synchrony across a pool of rotting lettuce leaves. He says, “Anyway, let me tell you about the daily routine of these colonies whose lives are organized on the basis of the distribution of duties amongst various members. The group consists of the queen, the males, and the worker bees.”
His foot lands in the stagnant water. He stops for a few moments and hits his shoe on the ground, trying to get rid of the dirty froth that sticks to it. On the pavement by our block of flats I learn that the queen is the largest individual in the group. She has short wings, out of proportion to the size of her body. This reminds me of my aunt. She has a curved stinger to use against other queens. As we cross the road, the conversation is about the male bees. They have shorter bodies and no stinger. On the other pavement leading to the club, my aunt’s husband explains that worker bees are equipped with a trunk that they use to collect pollen, which they carry on their hind legs.
The swimming pool supervisor gives Abu Ghayeb the keys to Tennis Court No. 1. The supervisor then disappears as he makes his way between heaps of wood, cork, and water pipes awaiting installation. Abu Ghayeb wastes no time. He signs a long-term lease to avoid having to vacate the premises. He wants to avoid having to move his colonies from one place to another.
“We must think long term as far as possible, Dalal.”
He opens the tall gate made of heavy wire netting and admires its quality. “English workmanship.”
We enter the tennis court. He stands in the center stretching his arms out wide. He looks like an actor in a play, introducing himself to the audience. He turns to me and says, “This will be our apiary.”
He examines the fence surrou
nding the court. He paces around it to measure its dimensions. Its length is adequate; its width is adequate. The wire netting consists of openings shaped like medium-sized baklava. The bees will be able to fly easily in and out of the court without hindrance. He points out the date palm grove just beyond the club’s perimeter fence, “And from there we’ll gather the pollen.”
His project isn’t off the ground yet, but he’s already started referring to himself and to his bees in the plural. I ask him, “Will the bees be able to gather enough nutrients from dates alone?”
“There are other sources of nectar and pollen underneath the date palms; fruit trees, and beneath them are the rows of vegetables.”
He checks the planks of wood that he has ordered, then examines some other items. He blows forcefully into a length of plastic tubing. A fluorescent green fly emerges from its other end. His foot collides with a pile of heavy ropes that’d been stacked to one side. He gazes at it and says, “We’ll have a problem though. There are a lot of red bees in the date palm grove, and they’re the honeybees’ worst enemy.”
I have a feeling that my aunt is watching us. I look up and there she is, observing our movements from my bedroom window. She’ll leaf through the books on apiculture and the instructions for beekeeping. She’ll then toss them aside as she complains disdainfully, “What a waste of time. We’d have done better if we’d opened a shop selling cloth.” She may have been right, but as her husband often says: time alone will tell.
Their concept of time has started to differ. She looks at time as two different seasons: one for sewing summer dresses and one for sewing winter clothes. For him, time now means the season for gathering nectar and the season for collecting the honey.
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