I can’t see his expression behind the dark wooden grid covering his face. He has chosen the mask as instructed, because it must also be rustproof.
He unfastens the suit’s collar releasing the laces at the base of the mask. She says to him, “And what’s the news of your beloved ones?”
“Everything is as it should be.”
She lifts up her eyebrows as he removes his headgear. She places a bundle of cash in front of him and says, “I suggest that you close down this apiary before we lose even more in expenses.”
“Have you gone mad, woman?”
“No, but it seems as though you’re going to be boiled alive by your psoriasis in the hot sun; and we still won’t have achieved anything.”
“Time alone will tell.”
“We haven’t got the time. Our situation gets worse every day.”
“We’re not the only ones in this crisis.”
He starts to fold the mask and places it on the couch beside him. He asks her, “Where did you get this money?”
“From my work, of course.” She then adds, “My work, which generates a speedy income.”
“From sewing shrouds?”
“If you’d listened to me, we could have opened a shop that sold cloth, and we could’ve fought off this poverty. If you’d heeded my advice, and become a used car dealer, or traded in cigarettes many years ago, we wouldn’t be in the state we’re in now.”
He shakes his limp glove in her face. “If, if, if…IF is a plant that doesn’t sprout.”
“My profession will be the winner in the end, you’ll see.”
Her husband picks up the bundle of cash from the table and tosses it into her lap saying sarcastically, “You nectar-provider.”
He walks past her as she follows him with her eyes. “You’ll fail.”
When he reaches the kitchen door, he turns around and says to me, “As I explained to you this morning, Dalal, the bee uses its tongue to suck up the nectar. Bees with a longer tongue can penetrate more deeply into the flowers to reach the nectar.”
He gestures to me with his hand, indicating that I should come closer. He then says, “Your aunt thinks that she’ll be able to gather more nectar if her tongue is longer and her voice is raised.”
I say to myself, “Heaven help me. So today she’s the queen, he’s the male, that leaves me the role of the worker.”
Two hours later, the flat has calmed down. My aunt has gone out to find an experienced dentist, while her husband returns to the back of the club. I stand at my bedroom window for a few moments. On my bed I have left a magazine article translated from Hebrew, “How to Raise a Laughing Hyena in Your Home.” I observe Abu Ghayeb’s movements in the rectangular area surrounded by wire fences. It occurs to me that one day he’ll be able to write an article entitled “How to Raise Bees in a Tennis Court.”
The apiary is taking shape. The storage room and the honey filtration room have been fitted out and prepared for the arrival of the frames that the bees will need to build their hexagonal cells. Space has been set aside for the tools, the containers used as travel boxes for the bees, the wax discs, the fumigation boxes, and the incubators.
I search for my homework in a green booklet with a little bee printed on it. My aunt’s husband knows very well that I would rather chase after his insects than trace out the patterns from women’s magazines. My aunt informs me with relish, “You lay out the tracing paper on this page. You then trace out the printed lines following the numbers and the letters, and then draw out the lines you need using a pencil. This way you can obtain the patterns for a beautiful dress or a skirt.” I don’t tell her that I can’t differentiate between the pattern for the shoulders and those for the hips.
I read, “The worker bees are considered the working class within the colony. The role of the queen bee is that of mother to all the bees. The males have one duty only, and that is to fertilize the virgin queens.”
I close my eyes to imagine myself as a worker bee. When my glands start to develop, I start to secrete royal jelly, and I must feed the young larvae, and the queen. I put my hand on my neck to feel for them, then I remember that they’re located in the lower abdomen. I lie back on the bed for further reading. The nectar is a sugary liquid that contains disaccharides, glucose, and—
The phone beside me rings. I pick up the receiver as I’m saying “fructose.”
Ilham’s voice at the other end draws me into her world. There’s a tremor in her voice. “My fears have been confirmed. It’s a malignant growth.”
“How do you feel?”
“Lost.”
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital.”
“Are they going to fire you?”
“Not yet. I’ll try to keep it a secret, and arrange for the operation at another hospital.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible, so that I can start the treatment after that.”
“Are you afraid?”
“I don’t fear the operation, but I’m worried about how I’m going to get the money, and how I’m going to look after myself when that’s over.”
“I’ll help you.”
“Thank you, Dalal. Help yourself and your family first.”
“I meant, I’ll look after you.”
“Damn, I don’t need pity.”
She is quiet for a few moments as if inhaling on her cigarette. She then says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rage at you. What I need is cash; I don’t need to trouble other people with my condition.”
“Should I ask my aunt’s husband? He might have a suggestion.”
“No, no. I don’t want you to do that.”
“We could start raising some money as a charity in your name.”
“I certainly don’t want that.”
“What will you do?”
“God will provide.” She adds, “Anyway, what’re you doing?”
“I’m trying to understand the world of the bees.”
“So have you decided to help him out?”
“No, but if I have to choose a profession, I wouldn’t become a seamstress. I’d rather water the vegetables, protect them from the perils of the wild parasitic eggplant, and exterminate the German cockroaches.”
“You learn fast. What about your studies?”
“I don’t know.”
“The day will come when you’ll know what you want to do.”
The connection starts to fade; her sentences start breaking up. I take a small piece of tracing paper that my aunt uses for her dress patterns. I use it to wipe the wall by my bed. I crumple up the paper and mold it into the shape of a fist. I try to obliterate a small splash of brown that two nights ago had been a fat annoying mosquito. She asks me, “Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll speak to you when I get back.”
I continue reading the green booklet. “Bees are exceptionally clean insects. They will not die inside the hive. When they become aware that their death is imminent, they will leave the hive to avoid leaving their carcass inside it. We can see a number of bees accompanying the dying one to the outside in a dance of death to honor the bee that is about to die.”
As evening descends, my aunt returns to the flat. It is obvious that she has spent her money on some anesthetic. Her mouth is numb and drawn to one side of her face. At last, if we walked down the street together, people might think I was her daughter. And who knows, perhaps she’d experience a motherly feeling!
She has a hot story from the dental clinic about a burglary based on a bet. She attempts to straighten her mouth as she tells the tale of a man who boasted to some people that he could burgle their house while they were in it. They accepted his challenge, and waited for him in their house at the time they’d agreed upon. He went to the police and informed them that illegal sexual acts were being committed at that address. The police went around and immediately arrested everyone in the house. They took them away for interrogation; and the man was then ab
le to enter their house and burgle it as he’d said he would.
On the shelf in front of me, the sculptures move like my aunt’s story. Primitive shapes of men and women seem to be embracing. The sand sculptures love each other; the stone sculptures sow distrust.
CHAPTER NINE
OUR DAYS REVOLVE around themselves like a cylindrical Sumerian seal. A deer, followed by another deer, followed by another deer, followed by another deer.
People living in the provinces have started calling Baghdad “Paris, the city of lights.” We hear reports from the major cities in the north that Sulaimaniya and Arbil have been affected by daily power cuts. The drainage of the sewage and the city’s drinking water supply are affected. Duhok has no electricity at all except for a single generator that supplies the hospital. From the south, we hear that ten thousand inhabitants from the city of Basra lost their homes as a result of the bombing. They are now living in buildings still under construction without running water or any other services. Their children play in the pools of stagnant water covering the streets.
Ilham and her smoke are inseparable. She says, “He seems nice.”
“Yes, he does.”
“So you met him as well?”
“Yes. I think he’ll attract a lot of clients. He loves gossiping.”
“What has gossiping got to do with the price of meat?”
“Meat? What’re you talking about?”
“The butcher who’s opened a small shop at the bottom of the road.”
“You’re interested in a butcher?”
“No, I’m interested in his shop. He’s called it ‘Gilgamish’s Butchery.’”
Our laughter pierces through the haze of her smoke. I say to her, “I was talking about Saad.”
“Who?”
“The hairdresser, I mean the ‘coiffeur,’ on the ground floor.”
“So do you think he’s nice too?”
“We’ll see.”
The lift only started working again a few hours ago. We decided to take a risk and use it. She says, “He used to be a civil engineer, but couldn’t find any work, so he decided to sell meat instead.”
“Umm Mazin says everything is for sale.”
“He told me that most of the major engineering projects have been put on hold because there are no maintenance services. He also mentioned that large areas of the green belt around the cities have started to disappear. This is because people have been cutting down the trees in order to use the wood as fuel.”
“How’s Saad going to keep his shop going?”
He is standing outside his shop saying goodbye to a very short woman whose hair looks like a starched bird’s nest. She waves to him with her little hand. Five circles of black nail varnish flash from the tips of her fingernails. She trills out as she leaves, “Bye-bye from Bonsai.”
He turns to us saying, “Do come in.”
He explains as we enter, “That’s the name that this crazy woman has called herself since the Days of Plenty. She thinks that her hair is a bonsai tree that needs to be cut, pruned, and trimmed every month.”
“Let me introduce you to Ilham who lives on the second floor.”
“I’m honored.”
He gestures, indicating that we should sit down.
“We don’t see you very often.”
“Yes, my job involves long working hours.”
“We’re all having to work extra hours these days.”
His premises reflect his style: modest, but elegant.
There are two revolving chairs. In front of the first chair is a large mirror and the second chair has a smaller mirror in front of it. There’s a two-seater couch for the customers who are waiting their turn, and beside it is a wide seat with a white ceramic bowl fitted on top of it. A segment has been nibbled away smoothly from its side so that it can support the customer’s neck. We later find out that because of the small size of the salon, the lady waiting on the couch would have a few drops of water splattering her left cheek from the woman having her hair washed next to her. She would either have to put up with it, pretending to find it refreshing, or pull up one of the small wooden chairs and sit by the entrance. The spray comes from a crack in the plastic handle of the hose that lies coiled up inside the basin.
I point to the hairdryers hanging from the wall between the mirrors. “What are you going to do about the electricity?”
He’s folding a pile of clean towels, laying them out neatly one on top of the other.
“I’ve reached an agreement with the Alwiya Club. They’ll provide me with a few amperes from their generator for a price.”
“And the water?”
“I’ve installed an extra tank in the garage and linked it to my flat. I don’t have a car, so I don’t really need the garage.”
The shop front’s aluminum door still has its maker’s sticker on it—AL-SUMOUD FACTORY, THE MANUFACTURERS OF STEADFASTNESS. The window frame is made from the same aluminum, but somebody has scratched out the label with their fingernails. Below the window is a pot containing a green feathery plant that will grow into a mulberry bush, the type that silkworms feed on. Beside the inner door, which leads to the second half of his shop, or rather his flat, is a row of crooked metal shelves. Bottles of hair coloring, chemicals, and cans of hair spray are stacked there. There are straw baskets filled to the brim with traditional wooden and modern plastic hairbrushes of every size and model. They’re so numerous, they appear to be pricking each other intentionally. Some of them are about to fall off the shelves.
Saad hands Ilham an ashtray, and hands me a magazine. She offers him a cigarette, while I give her a cushion to support her back. We’re getting on well together.
Ilham says, “Prepare yourself.”
“Whatever for?”
She picks up a box of twelve hair rollers, each the size of a finger. Printed on the box, in golden letters, are the words “Hair Rollers,” “Made in Germany.” “Umm Mazin has a client who has a phobia of these things.”
“Is there anyone in the world who’s afraid of hair rollers?”
“Her sister died of a stroke while she was wearing them in her hair. The poor woman is now in shock. She needs therapy because she firmly believes that her sister died of electrocution as a result of using electric hair rollers.”
The word stroke divides my thoughts in two. Before the sanctions started, I used to feel that my life was divided into two halves, the time before the stroke and what came after it. Nowadays, everyone talks about the Days of Plenty, and the times that followed; the days before the war, and those that followed; life before the crisis, and after it. I, too, find myself, reluctantly, thinking like everyone else.
Saad is amazed. “Don’t tell me that that’s the type of customer I can look forward to!”
I join their conversation. “At least you call them customers, and the relationship is clear-cut. Umm Mazin treats them in these weird and wonderful ways, yet refuses to call them patients. She insists on referring to them as ‘my friends,’ ‘my dear ones,’ or ‘my neighbors.’ Even Badriya is called her assistant rather than her servant.”
“So she must be a civilized woman who’s considerate of their feelings.”
“And would you call this tale civilized? A woman who’d become unable to walk went to see her. The doctors had been unable to diagnose her condition, so she headed off to consult Umm Mazin to see if she could find out the cause of her paralysis. Our friend, ‘the healer,’ convinced her that the Blue Jinni had entered her spinal column and was refusing to leave. Umm Mazin spoke to the jinni through the woman’s foot, and he answered her by writing out various words on the sole of this woman’s foot. Apparently, the jinni once wrote the word ‘scorpion.’”
Saad recoils in disgust. “And what happened to the patient?”
“She’s still continuing with her treatment. We call her ‘the woman with the blue spinal column.’ When we see her driver carrying her up to the top floor, we know that Umm Mazin won’t be seeing anyo
ne else that day. They say that Badriya lights incense to clear the air after a lengthy session. That’s when the loud, frightening shrieks are heard.”
“You intrigue me. I think I’d like her to foretell my future by reading the signs in my coffee cup.”
“Not possible, unless it’s through an intermediary. She doesn’t accept visits from men.”
Ilham turns her head toward me. “You could take Saad’s coffee cup with you for her to read it, couldn’t you?”
“I’ll ask my aunt to do that.”
Ilham smiles, and says to Saad, “Dalal has her doubts about Umm Mazin’s abilities.”
“Of course I do. She once told me that a woman with a red flame in her belly button stole away my smile during my childhood. She told me that this woman seeks out children when they’re asleep, and takes from them parts of their bodies so that she can make herself a child of her own. Can you believe that she offered me a magical counter-spell that would restore the shape of my mouth? She then said the treatment could take several years.”
Saad stands up and places his arms around my shoulders. “Dalool, don’t become fixated on this issue. There’s a defect in each one of us.” He adds, “Come.”
He drags me by the hand, and sits me down on the revolving chair in front of the big mirror. He takes out a bag of paints and powders that looked like stage makeup. He says, “Close your eyes and don’t move.”
He thrusts his hand into the bag, and starts tickling my face as he applies the powders. A soft brush caresses my eyelids, and with another, he thickens my eyelashes. I find it difficult to keep my eyes closed as his fingers caress my mouth. A greasy feeling overwhelms me. He says, “You can open them now.”
He has drawn on my face a continuation of my mouth in a smoky fleshy color that matches the original color of my lips. “What do you see?”
“My dream coming true.”
“And what else?”
“That you’re mocking me.”
“Be serious. What’s this face in front of you trying to say?”
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