Absent: A Novel

by Betool Khedairi

  She sips her tea as she speaks, making a distinctive slurping sound, “We dealt with imports and exports to Kuwait. We traded in clothes, car spare parts, okra, soap, sesame seeds, wool. After that we bought a shop together in the Women’s Market; there I met an Indian trader called Mirjan. He taught me how to revoke certain spells, and in return, I read him his fortune in his coffee cup.”

  She takes a black handkerchief out of her pocket and blows her nose into it with all her might. “Aah, this cold is killing me!”

  She calls out to Badriya to get her an antibiotic capsule. She swallows it quickly without any water. The capsule sticks to her palate. Umm Mazin becomes agitated. She burps, and a fine mist, the size of her mouth, emerges from within the white capsule. Ilham and I are taken aback by her appearance. The dust from the medication flutters around her as she gasps. Badriya brings her a glass of water. She closes her mouth like a heavy trapdoor, attempting to swallow as much water as possible in one go. A moment later she spits out the shell of the capsule that has opened up in her throat; the green half emerges first, then the white half. She constantly repeats her prayer to God asking for protection from the evils of the devil, while cursing the pharmaceutical factory in Samarra that manufactured the capsule.

  Ilham says to her, “Thank God you’re all right, Umm Mazin. I’ll get you some tablets from the hospital that are a little easier to swallow.”

  When she has calmed down a bit, Umm Mazin says to her, “Well, since you’re a nurse; how can I be of help to you?”

  “In my profession, we’re fed up with drugs and medication. I need a natural remedy. I always feel exhausted, and I’m having difficulty sleeping.”

  “For your troubles, I suggest that you take one kilo of sugar, and half a kilo of yeast. Dissolve them both in two liters of cool water, and place this mixture in a glass jar that you must seal firmly. You must wait for one week to allow it to ferment. On the seventh day, open the jar and add to it two handfuls of the flowering tips of dried rosemary. You must then seal the container once again, and leave it to brew for a whole month. After that, filter it and store it in ordinary bottles, and take a dose whenever you need it. It should last you for a whole year. The dose you need to take is a small cupful, three times a day before meals.”

  She calls out to her maid, “Bring me the dried rosemary and a bag of yeast.”

  Ilham takes the items. “Thank you, Hijjia.”

  Umm Mazin glances at me. Ilham asks her, “And what happened to the Indian trader, Mirjan?”

  “May God bestow His blessings upon him. He simply disappeared. I think he went back to India. In 1990, when things got bad over here, we abandoned our shops as they were. We had bought a lot of goods from Kuwait and were liable for substantial amounts in taxes that were imposed on everyone who’d traded with Kuwait. My partner fled during that time, and I took up this line of work.”

  She turns around and looks at me. “You don’t say very much.”

  “You have no cures for me.”

  “Your visit here doesn’t have to be for treatment. We can chat about other things.”

  An energy emanates from Umm Mazin. I feel it go through my left shoulder. She asks me to sit in front of her so she can look me in the eye. I do not feel comfortable.

  “Like what?”

  “Like your honey. I hear that you’re about to start harvesting it.”

  “You mean collecting it.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s what I meant. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you that I use more than twenty kilos of honey each month. It’s an essential component in so many of the charms, and it’s also an ingredient in most of the remedies that I dispense.”

  I don’t like the way she strikes up a conversation with me. Her tone is dry, and her pupils are cloudy. “My clients, sorry, I meant my friends, trust me because I’ll only use pure honey. I know my honey. No one can deceive me on that account.”

  Ilham is settling her bill with the maid. Umm Mazin carries on, “And thy Lord taught the bee to build its cells in hills, on trees, and in men’s habitations; then to eat of all the produce of the earth, and find with skill the spacious paths of its Lord: there issues from within their bodies a drink of varying colors, wherein is healing for men: verily in this is a sign for those who give thought.”

  Her servant, in the corridor murmurs, “Verily spoke God Almighty.”

  I reflect on what the people in the building say about her. When she gets bored in the evenings, she asks Badriya to get her the castanets made of four small brass discs, which she wears in each hand by fitting them on her thumb and index finger with elastic bands. She then starts to play a tune: chum chum cha cha chum chum cha. Badriya provides the background beat with regular taps on a metal mortar.

  She adds, “Even the Bedouins have appreciated the importance of the bee for over fourteen centuries.”

  I say to myself, “I must introduce her to Abu Ghayeb.” As though she has read my thoughts, she says, “Give my regards to your aunt’s husband, and your aunt of course, and tell him that I’m interested in buying the first batch of honey he produces.”

  After a short while she calls out to Badriya, “Is lunch ready?”

  “Yes, Hijjia.”

  She invites Ilham and me, “Stay for a meal. We have cooked first-grade Basmati rice. The grain is big and whole, so the rice will sit on the plate like rows of baby geese’s eyes.”

  We excuse ourselves and decline the invitation. We leave the flat just as she is saying to her maid, “There is no moving creature on earth but its sustenance dependeth on God.” I visualize Badriya behind the door nodding her head in assent.

  Abu Ghayeb impersonates the role of a farmer. He wears a yashmak and has his photograph taken in order to obtain a farmer’s identity card. He tells his wife, “The damages that have resulted from the blockade are estimated at billions of dollars. We’ve returned to the pre-industrial age, so the government is encouraging farming to support the economy.”

  “What I can’t understand is why they bombed the mosques, the schools, the homes for the disabled and the civilian shelters. What have they got to do with the military targets?”

  He replies with a shrug, “Who can afford to buy food from the markets at the present prices?”

  He then adds, “We used to import seventy percent of our food requirements. Now they have deprived us of the seeds. The stranglehold on the animal products became complete when they bombed the only lab that produced vaccines against animal diseases. That came after they ruined the irrigation canals, and we can’t obtain fertilizers or pesticides.”

  He raises his eyebrows and continues, “And I’ll tell you something else, the committee from the UN supervising this blockade has prevented us from importing the fibers and threads used to produce children’s clothing on the pretext that they’d be used in industry. They’ve also stopped us from buying the cloth used for shrouds. Can you imagine that! They prevent us from weaving cloth, as if that could threaten the security of the region!”

  My aunt gets up from her seat, “It’s a catastrophe!”

  “Of course it’s a catastrophe.”

  “I mean with no threads and no cloth, how will I be able to work?”

  The next day, my aunt decides to go to the Arabic souk very early in the morning. She wants to buy the largest possible amounts of colored threads and a wide variety of different types of cloth. She gathers together all the cash that is available in the flat, and leaves her husband sleeping late. She knows that he has taken medication for his psoriasis. It contains a hefty dose of sedative, and waking him would not be easy.

  The water is running again. I decide to take a long shower. I allow the clear drops to slide down over my hair and my face. I am afflicted by a delightful dizziness when a drop strays from its path and enters my ear. I stand aside to allow Umm Mazin’s suggestions to flow down into the drain with the water. The rough surface of the wheatgerm soap from Nablus rubs against my skin and invigorates me. I don’t use
the loofa, instead; I cautiously prod my body checking for lumps.

  I have to save the rest of the water for washing our dirty clothes this afternoon. Though I long for more, I turn off the tap. My ears are assaulted by the sound of Abu Ghayeb’s infuriating snores. I head toward my aunt’s bedroom. I want to shut the door, to entrap the cacophony of his sleep behind it.

  I place my hand on the door’s handle. Abu Ghayeb is submerged by his snores and the heat. The corner of the bedsheet covers part of his naked body. He lies flat on his back. I insinuate a third of my body into the room to stealthily cast an eye on the scene, and linger for a while. His ‘thing’ resembles a little mouse, blind, scalded, creased, and crumpled together at the base of his groin. Suddenly his right foot moves. In a split second I find myself in the sitting room, by the big window.

  I will store that image in my mind for two years, at a temperature of 10º C, the same way I will soon learn how to store honey.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HARD, HARD.

  I don’t like the sound of his voice in the beginning. His tone dribbles, like melting Dutch butter. “We need hard currency.”

  The man carries on explaining to the teacher from the first floor, “And even with that, we won’t emerge from this crisis easily.”

  The teacher answers him, “That’s right, but at least you have your own independent business.”

  “But it’s not covered in the ‘Oil for Food’ program.”

  They’re unaware of my presence. I cross the road, heading toward them. I watch their backs strain to hang up a decorated sign announcing “Saad’s Hairdressing for Ladies.”

  After we have been introduced, he says, “So you’re Dalal. I’ve had a brief resumé about the inhabitants of the building from our esteemed teacher.”

  “Are you a hairdresser then, Saad?”

  He adjusts his collar pouting out his lips as he says, “I’m a ‘coiffeur.’”

  “Congratulations on your new salon.”

  “It’s only one half of the premises actually. I’ll be living in the back half of the flat.”

  The teacher said, “It’s strategically positioned. You’ll get lots of customers here.”

  A small child crosses the road behind me. He resembles the teacher in his thinness. He wears a torn pair of trousers and carries a bundle of newspapers under his arm. The teacher takes one of his papers, gives him some change from his pocket and says, “Give my best regards to your mother, Hamada.”

  I ask, “Do you know him?”

  He shakes his head. “I used to know his father. He was the chief editor of a cultural magazine. For one of his assignments he visited the village of Halabja, the site where our brothers, the Kurds, suffered from chemical bombardment. He was struck down by a yellow haze. He vomited repeatedly for three days, then died. Now his son sells newspapers to support his mother.”

  Hamada stares at my mouth. He kisses the coin from the teacher, and takes it away with him, heading back in the direction he’d come from. He disappears into an alleyway, beside the “Wahbi” restaurant that used to be a Wimpy’s until the government issued an order that no shops or restaurants were permitted to have foreign names. All commercial ventures had to acquire Arabic names.

  Saad looks at me. The center of his eyes is like the transverse section of an oily black olive. He asks, “Did you know that deaths of children under the age of five have increased five-fold since the Gulf War.”

  He lifts his hand up to wipe away a black cluster of hair on his forehead. “Before these times, had you ever, in your entire life, heard of depression in children? It now affects most of those who lost relatives or friends as a result of the explosions, and those who were rescued from underneath the rubble of collapsed buildings.”

  At that moment, Umm Mazin comes down the stairs panting. She is followed by Badriya, who rushes up behind her, almost colliding with her. Umm Mazin stops close to where we stand; she starts to analyze Saad.

  “Welcome.”

  He replies, “And you are doubly welcomed.”

  “Are you the new neighbor?”

  “I am.”

  “We heard that you’re a barber.”

  He replies in French, “A coiffeur.”

  “Have you got any real henna….” Then she adds in a southern accent, “Mr. ‘Kafoor,’ did you say?”

  I exchange giggles with the teacher from the first floor over the rural manner in which she pronounces “camphor.” This herb is boiled with tea in the army to minimize the soldiers’ desire for sex, or so they say.

  He caresses his forelock with delicate fingers, smiling. “The henna I have has been mixed with Turkish coffee.”

  “I want a kilo.”

  “Kindly come back for it next week.”

  “Thank you, I’ll send you my assistant. We’re going to the auction.”

  “Which auction, may I ask?”

  “May God protect you from such situations; there are some families who have resorted to selling their possessions outside their homes before they too are sold. They say that the pavements are covered with jewels, cooking utensils, carpets, and clothes.” She sighs. “Everything’s for sale.”

  Badriya butts in from behind her saying, “Even the wooden doors, Umm Mazin.”

  Her mistress agrees with her. “Yes, even the wooden doors that have been pulled from their hinges. Prosperity brings choices, but poverty brings changes.”

  She adjusts her abaya before she crosses the road toward the bus stop in the direction of Kifah Street. As they recede in the distance, the arched shadow of the Monument of the Unknown Soldier would have enveloped them, but it is no longer there. It has been pulled down and rebuilt in a non-residential area. Instead, they are enveloped by the shadow of the mosque’s minaret.

  I meet my aunt as she is leaving the flat. She says, “You’ve come just at the right time.”

  She places a copy of the magazine Burda in my hands as she locks the door behind her. I ask her, “Where to?”

  “Come with me to the dentist. One of my teeth is inflamed, I can no longer bear the pain.”

  The nearest dental clinic is next to the French Institute, a twenty-minute walk away. I remember what Ilham said, that I was wasting my time reading magazines. She explained to me that the pastries called mille feuilles which we used to eat in the Days of Plenty meant “a thousand leaves” in French. She was proud of this discovery.

  We cross the road that separates the Sheraton Hotel from the Meridien Hotel. We walk past the house that burned down because its owners had been hoarding petrol. They were afraid it would get stolen, so they stored it under the ground; but it had leaked, and their garden exploded. Ten minutes later we turn by the stairs leading to the institute, which is now closed down because of the blockade. The young dentist opens the door; a fresh graduate, the cheapest available at the moment.

  The waiting room is also the treatment room. A girl waits while the dentist works on her mother’s teeth. My aunt is trying to show me how to trace out the pattern for a summer dress from the intersecting green lines on the patterns page that is folded in the middle of her precious magazine. I don’t concentrate on her anxiety as she tries to ignore her toothache.

  I watch the girl as she tries to fasten a huge hair clip. She perseveres, but it’s futile. Her slack, slippery hair slips out of the clip’s teeth. A fly annoys her, and instead of dropping what’s in her hand to shoo away the fly, she blows on it to send it away while she continues to struggle with her hair. Her head spins in all directions, then she lifts up her arms and wipes the thick ball of hair underneath her armpits with a sheet of toilet roll that she has taken out of her handbag.

  The electric disc that lights up the patient’s mouth contains three bulbs. Two of them are out of order, and the third one emits a dim light. The dentist’s younger brother comes in with a flashlight. He stands behind his brother, the graduate, and points his light in the direction it is needed.

  The dentist’s couch is a lea
ther seat that has been removed from an old car. It has been converted by an ingenious mechanic into a dentist’s chair. It doesn’t go up or down, but can be moved forward and backward with assistance from the patient who has to extend her trunk this way or that.

  A short while later we find out that the instruments are being sterilized in a small oven that, in the Days of Plenty, would have been used to roast chickens. The dentist uses a plastic syringe filled with a solution of tap water and Dettol. It floats in a small glass that had once been a container of “Heros,” an imported brand of cream cheese. He squirts the solution into the patient’s mouth. He asks the patient to rinse and then spit into a dented bucket to get rid of the germs.

  The lady looks like she was nailed to the chair. Something is hurting her. Suddenly, the dentist’s younger brother comes in and calls out to him, “There’s a phone call for you.”

  The doctor asks, “Soft or coarse?”

  “It’s the soft sex.”

  He leaves his patient with her mouth open, and disappears.

  We make our escape before he returns.

  The next day, Abu Ghayeb comes back to the apartment at three o’clock in the afternoon wearing his protective suit. He has spent the morning examining his bees. He sits down on the couch and starts removing the stingers that have become embedded in his soft leather gloves. My aunt hurries toward him and places an ashtray on the coffee table in front of him. She says, “Put all the bees’ tails in there, and don’t let any of them fall on the floor.”

  He becomes more engrossed in what he is doing, and says, “I have to get rid of them all. If a few of them remain, their scent will enrage the bees. Then I have to wash these gloves well, and rub them down with vegetable oil to keep them soft and supple.”

  It’s not only the bees that are enraged by this sight.

  The spaceman looks at her through his mask. It is cylindrical in shape, made of wooden strips connected to each other by leather ribbons so that it can be folded when not being used. He says, “The bees become enraged because they’re sensitive creatures!”