“At least my aunt and her husband have embarked on a new phase of friendship.”
“So they’re now like cream and honey?”
“Not to that extent.”
“Is there hope to save the marriage?”
“I don’t know about that, but at least he no longer sleeps on the sofa the way he’s been doing recently.”
“Dalool, when will you realize that the pillow is always the best solution?”
We mix the sugar paste that will be used to remove clients’ unwanted body hair. Saad advises me that it is not a good idea to start calling my aunt’s husband Khalo. Two cups of sugar, half a cup of cold water, a sprinkling of lemon salts; and it would be better with a spoonful of Abu Ghayeb’s honey to make it more malleable. We bring it to a boil briefly, then let it cool while we wait for the next customer.
Saad has allocated the back half of his shop for these hair removal procedures. His flat is just one very clean bedroom, with one very tidy bed. The walls have been painted black and decorated with exceedingly unusual silver stars. Suddenly, there’s a flurry of activity amongst the three customers in the shop. The first one says, “Hurry up, Umm Hassan is on her way here.”
I watch her gather up all the ashtrays and place them in a corner. She then covers them with a towel and says to Saad, “This is one of Umm Mazin’s patients. She’ll steal any ashtray she comes across.”
The second woman adds, “She’ll tuck it away in her handbag and add it to her collection at home.”
The third woman puts in her contribution, “They say she has the most beautiful collection of stolen ashtrays. And she doesn’t even smoke.”
I am at the back when I hear one of the women ask for the services of “the little sugar wax girl.” I get so annoyed when I’m called that. I’m no longer a child. I’ve started to study French literature, yet I still can’t get rid of this silly description. But, as Saad says, we have no choice sometimes in the way we earn a living. I open the bedroom door. It is one of my aunt’s customers, who has also become one of Umm Mazin’s. I remember her; she is the woman who complained that her breasts produced a lot of milk even though she was still a virgin. She lies down on the bed and lifts up her legs. She starts telling me about the premature hormonal imbalance that afflicts her. I curse the times, while I clean up her ugly triangle for her. These are the moments when I hate myself.
By the time I have finished with the lactating virgin, Umm Hassan’s face and neck are covered in a paste of honey, ground chickpeas, and blue flower extract. Saad caresses her mask delicately as he says, “Remember my dear, happiness has no wrinkles.”
Her blue mask is cracking. He blows gently onto her eyelids. “Happiness doesn’t argue with time. Moments of joy don’t age.”
She checks her wrinkles and leaves. When Saad removes the towel that covers the ashtrays, he cries out, “Oh no, there are two missing!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT’S NOVEMBER. I stick my foot out from underneath the covers to check the warmth of my room, the way cartoon characters would dip their toe in the ocean to check how cold the water was before they leapt in.
The television is showing archive images of war donations. During the conflict with Iran the government insinuated to the people of Baghdad that they should donate their gold. Queues of men and women line up in the large hallways at one of the presidential palaces. They smile to the camera when their names are read out. Unbelievable amounts of women’s jewelry are taken out of large carrier bags. Words of gratitude are measured in kilos. The names of those who donate their gold are registered and printed in the next day’s newspapers. The hall erupts with applause. The program is followed by a commercial break, and then an announcement about the opening of the Baghdad International Fair.
Abu Ghayeb now attends the inaugural sessions of the fair to discuss the scientific papers that deal with crop yields, pest prevention, and agricultural education. He disappears for ten whole days while he is displaying his product at the honey exhibitions. Umm Mazin is unable to pay my aunt’s husband for her quota of honey this month. Instead, as a substitute for the cash, she sends him the only painting from her flat. She has obviously heard from Badriya what our flat looks like. Abu Ghayeb is delighted with the painting of the field that Umm Mazin had acquired from a family fallen on hard times. She accepted the painting as payment in exchange for reading their coffee cups for a whole year.
The war, sanctions, and the Varroa mites have led to the annihilation of ninety percent of the bee colonies, reducing the country’s honey production. However, the fruit trees that were planted in the 1980s compensate for some of the destruction that befell the orchard groves in the Gulf War. On the other hand, the creation of a lake in the Shatt al-Arab area using heavy machinery has resulted in large numbers of palm trees being uprooted. This is what I learn on my first visit to the fair with Abu Ghayeb. I am hoping that our visit will end soon as I have an exam the next day. The subject is French theater. My lover will drink the poison: diluted ink in a mouthwash bottle. I’ll call out to him, “Chatterton, Je t’aime, mon Chatterton.”
My aunt does not accompany us to the fair. She is busy sewing a number of winter coats. I tell her that there are thirty-seven participating nations from Europe and the Arab world. She asks, “So why is Vietnam attending?” I explain to her that the national strategy to promote the cultivation of rice is being developed in collaboration with the Vietnamese. I also tell her that there is an open invitation to market the honey in other cities to coincide with various other agricultural fairs due to be announced soon.
What I do not mention to her are Abu Ghayeb’s frequent visits to the Jordanian pavilion after he meets the lady in charge of Dead Sea Products. As she puts her hand out to shake his, she can’t conceal the skin condition that affects them both.
“I’m honored. My name is Randa.”
He replies with a smile, “Maybe psoriasis is better than a thousand introductions.”
They exchange soft chuckles. After that, their meetings become an addiction.
Two months after her operation, Ilham disappears. It isn’t because she has died of her cancer, but because she has been imprisoned. The mood of the people living in the building has been shattered by this news, which is conveyed by Hamada, the newspaper boy. We find out that she was arrested along with her boyfriend, the engineer-cum-butcher, in his shop. We were told that Ilham had been selling human organs to him that she stole from the operating theater at the hospital where she worked. He would mince them and sell them with his beef or lamb.
I stay in the salon with Saad. I don’t feel like going to the fair with my aunt’s husband. I clean the floor, return the brushes to their place, and start washing the dirty towels. Saad has sunk into the chair by the washbasin. He’s flung his head backward; he’s thinking. We don’t say much. His forelock appears mournful as it dangles down to one side. Abu Ghayeb knocks on the door and walks in. “Saad, I want to ask you a favor.”
“Please do.”
“Can you lend me a bottle of white nail polish? I’ll return it to you this evening.”
He doesn’t mention Ilham. No doubt he has decided that life must go on. Saad hands him the bottle of nail polish. He thanks him and leaves. Saad asks me, “What’s he going to do with it?”
“He’s going to change the queen.”
He returns to his seat. “I don’t understand.”
“He’ll color her back with a spot of white nail polish. That’ll expose her wherever she goes.” I then add, “The queen bee must be changed every year or two because the Varroa parasites suck her blood around the clock. That weakens her, and she may no longer be alive by the autumn.”
As he talks, his neck settles in the washbasin, which takes on the look of a white ceramic collar. “So what will he do with the old queen?”
“The warrior bees will instinctively kill her when the new queen enters the hive.”
Saad freezes in his seat. As though posing as a model
for a still life painting, he listens to me. “There are many things you don’t know about these insects. Can you imagine, in order for Abu Ghayeb to gain one gram of honey, the worker bee must collect three grams of nectar, which means it has to visit more than one thousand apple blossoms, for example?”
He extracts his head from the washbasin. “You’ve enlightened me. Now I want you to wash my hair.”
I am learning by practicing on his scalp. First the avocado shampoo, the scalp must be massaged thoroughly; then the peach-scented conditioner. Then repeat two more times. He says, “Poor Ilham. We won’t be seeing her for quite a while.”
He then adds, “We may never see her again.”
“Maybe.”
I say, “It’s quite likely that there will be another group of women that we won’t be hearing of from now on.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some women have disappeared from the streets, accused of prostitution.”
“This might just be a rumor.”
“How can you tell what’s a rumor and what’s the truth, Saad?”
He reflects for a moment, “The same way you can differentiate between pure honey, and honey that’s been tampered with. You put it underneath your tongue; then you swallow it.”
He adds, “Do you remember how she kept saying she was no longer of any use?”
“Now we know why.”
“I wonder why Umm Mazin didn’t predict this and try to stop her.”
I say to him, “In these situations, Umm Mazin merely says, ‘People follow their destinies, they have no choice.’”
He gets up from the washbasin. One black hair clings to the white porcelain. I rinse the basin and start drying the boss’s hair.
“Mouth, nose, and eye…he who talks will die.” That was the way that Umm Mazin has abbreviated her new spell to protect those living in our building from all harm. She warns her clients that magic spells can be renewed each year by the one who’s cast them. If the person whom the spell was cast upon becomes aware that they have been enchanted, then the spellbinder must rapidly renew the spell and bind them in a more powerful way. That way, it will be more difficult to break the spell. Umm Mazin insists that Ilham’s scandalous downfall was caused by a spell, and that it was cast by someone who envied her. She then asks Badriya to purify all the floors using a mixture of Indian incense and moon disc herbs. She calls the concoction, “the termination of all sorrows.”
Abu Ghayeb doubles his efforts at the apiary. He is expecting a visit from a number of delegations that had attended the fair. They are coming to view what some of the younger members in the Beekeepers Association are calling “Cells under Sanctions.” In these hard times, producing honey has become a source of nutrients and a cure.
I find him in the separation room. He is measuring the viscosity of the honey. To assess its consistency, he places it in a glass container. He fills it, almost to the top, covers it, then turns it upside down to watch the air bubble rise to the surface. His little notebook is filled with memos. Lemon honey, to calm the nerves. Mint honey, to relieve pain. Clover honey, a diuretic. Acacia honey, a cough suppressant.
He turns around when he becomes aware of my presence. “Dalal, how can you differentiate between pure and adulterated honey?”
“If I buy it from you, it’s pure; if I get it from somebody else, then it’s been tampered with.”
He laughs out loud. No one has laughed since Ilham’s affair. He says, “Take a spoonful of this. It’ll give you heartburn within a few minutes. That’s because it’s been tampered with.”
I don’t experience the acid heartburn. Maybe he is testing me by giving me pure honey. He adds, “Pure honey is gelatinous and rubbery in consistency when it’s eaten with a spoon; look. Impure honey doesn’t have this form.”
A short while later, I eat an unripe date. Its unpleasant taste numbs my mouth. “I heard that the owners of the date grove are going to use half of their crop to make arak; and they’re going to make vinegar out of the other half.”
“Yes, they’re planning to launch their produce at the fair next year.”
A heavily laden shelf by the window catches my eye. The sun’s orange rays traverse the glass jars filled with honey of varying hues. Watery white, brilliant white, white, very pale amber, pale amber, deep amber. I ask him, “How’s honey tampered with?”
“Some beekeepers tamper with their honey before it’s even taken from the cells. They provide the bees with a sugary solution.”
He replaces the top back onto the uncovered honey jar and says, “That type of trickery can be detected by analyzing samples of the honey in a lab.”
“So how does Umm Mazin detect evidence of tampering?”
“Umm Mazin analyzes the salesman, not the honey.”
He then asks me, “How are your studies coming along?”
“Third year is no joke. And what’s happening in the corridors at the university is no joke either.”
“You sound exceptionally serious.”
“The brother of one of our lecturers has been executed because he was a communist. The lecturer has now been reassigned to the library archives, and is no longer allowed to teach. We’re forbidden from having any contact with him. His wife is American. She has taken their daughter and left the country.”
“Stay away from politics, Dalal.”
“This isn’t politics, husband of my aunt; he was my favorite teacher.”
“Do you want a break from work at the apiary so that you can concentrate on your studies?”
“No.”
“Then prepare yourself for the first delegation that’ll be visiting us this week.”
I leave, and in my head I can hear Umm Mazin’s voice saying, “From the fruits of the date palm and the vine, ye get out wholesome drink, and food: behold, in this also is a sign for those who are wise.” And of course, the conclusion comes from Badriya, “Verily spoke God Almighty.”
My first meeting with Adel coincides with studying Flaubert.
I come down the stairway, heading toward the apiary. I feel a hair tickling my mouth. Like a child who doesn’t know how to deal with a situation like this, I fidget angrily. The hair sticks to the roof of my mouth, half swallowed. Before I reach the ground floor, I put my finger in my mouth to try and get it out, but I am overcome by a choking feeling and the urge to vomit. I decide to pop into Saad’s salon for a drink of water, and maybe even a crust of bread to slide the hair down and get some relief.
The door is open. Before I can call out “Saaoudi,” I hear voices from the back half of the shop, the part he considers to be his flat. I am intrigued by sounds that pitch like a whale’s moaning. I go closer; the voices are speeding up. Saad is ordering, “Put your tongue out.”
The second voice obeys, “Please don’t overdo it.”
“Is it sweet?”
“It is sweet.”
The other voice suggests, “Let’s try this one, Saad, you bird of happiness. What do you think?”
“I like it soft.”
The second voice replies, “Well, I like it grainy.”
Saad, the bird of happiness, flings open the door to his room. I try to conceal my eavesdropping by rummaging through the items on the sloping shelf. He does not appear at all surprised. In his hands is a glass container. He is followed by a man carrying another jar. Saad says, “You’re just the right person. We have a question.”
I say to the other man, “Good morning.”
Saad then introduces us, “Adel, meet my friend, Dalal.”
He puts his hand out to shake mine. Saad says, “This is smooth honey, and that’s grainy honey. Which one is healthier, Dalal?”
“Graininess in the honey indicates that it’s been exposed to low temperatures. The sugars inside it have crystallized.”
The voice repeats, “I like it grainy.”
I answer him, “That means it’s pure. Honey that’s been tampered with doesn’t crystallize in the winter.”
I can no longer bear it. I ask Saad, “Have you got some bread?”
“Yes, take what you want from the back.”
I go into his flat. The whale song is coming from the television. It is Calypso, the program about oceans that is on every Friday morning. His home is always the same, one very clean bedroom, with one very tidy bed. I finally swallow the hair.
Saad insists that I spend the day of rest with him, but Abu Ghayeb is waiting for me. The man with the voice glances briefly at my mouth. His eyes are the color of nutmeg whip. He is taller than me, and taller than Saad. His neck is slender and strong. His facial bones stand out to the side like the muscles of a horse’s jaw. The way he stands is so rigid; he reminds me of Ilham. His temples have streaks of gray like strands of castor sugar. We sit down, and then Saad says, “Dalal is a beekeeper.”
“I don’t intend to become one; I do, however, help out my aunt’s husband in his work.”
Saad says, “She also helps me out in here, and in addition to all that she’s a student of languages.” He adds, “How clever!”
Adel acknowledges with a nod while Saad steers the introductions, “You too are very clever!”
“I’m only doing my duty.”
I ask him, “So what is it you do?”
“I work in the field of social education.”
Saad cries out, “Gosh, how modest you are!”
“Don’t get yourself worked up, Aboul Su’ud; that’s the truth.”
Saad interrupts our concentration on each other. He leaps into our midst offering us cigarettes. “Adel is a physiotherapist. He fits false limbs.”
I don’t smoke. He doesn’t smoke either. “No thank you, Saad. You know that smoking kills the salary.”
“Then go out and become self-employed.”
“Where do you work?”
“In a specialized clinic. We look after those who have been injured in the war and as a result of the bombing. We try to provide false limbs made of wood or plastic for those patients who’ve had one of their limbs amputated. One of my responsibilities is to paint those limbs to match the patient’s complexion.”
Absent: A Novel Page 14