Saad interrupts once again, “You provide the suitable limb for the individual patient.”
“Once the limb has been manufactured, the wood or plastic must be covered with the appropriate color. What I mean is, if the patient has a dark complexion, I can’t provide them with a white hand.”
“A spare parts engineer.”
“Orthopedic surgeons are in great demand these days. I wish I’d studied medicine.”
“As the proverb goes, ‘When his youth was gone, he went to the scribe.’”
“The problem we have is that we’re beginning to run out of the dyes we need. We no longer have the suitable ones. The only colors you can get these days in the markets are blues and greens. Can you imagine amputees walking around with multi-colored limbs?”
I ask him, “What did you study?”
“Nursing, and then physiotherapy. You can’t imagine how difficult it is when you have to deal with children who’ve lost a limb. How can you convince a nine year old to wear a blue hand made of wood, and go to school with it?”
Saad brings in the coffee. “My God, how can you deal with things like that?”
“By accepting my mission.”
His mustache has no shades of gray in it. It’s neatly kempt and trembles as he sips his coffee. “I came to ask you for a favor.”
“Ask away, Addoula.”
“You know how I hate nicknames.”
“Of course, Addoula.”
His voice reaches me like a wave of warm olive oil.
“I need hues that are close to the color of human flesh. Fair, dark-skinned, or pink. I want you to sell me hair dyes. I’ll mix them with other agents and use them to paint the artificial limbs.”
Saad heads toward the shelf and starts handing him some boxes. “This one I’ve used. Try it; if it works, I’ll order another batch from the salesman.”
“Thank you. You’re contributing to a good deed.”
I close the door on my way out. Inside, Saad’s merriment alternates with Adel’s seriousness.
My aunt’s husband is optimistic about the opportunities that the fair will bring him. The laws now allow Iraqis to sign contracts with individuals and Arab companies who wish to invest in livestock and agricultural projects. In his case, he embarks on his private trading on the third day of the fair. Abu Ghayeb invites Miss Randa to join him at a meeting attended by scientists and researchers from the Ministry of Higher Education and Scientific Research and the Atomic Energy Commission. She attends as an elegant listener, then expresses her admiration for the meeting’s emphasis on palm trees, dates, and sugar beet production. In return, she invites us to attend an exhibition of her country’s products.
It is a five-minute walk to the Jordanian pavilion. She takes out some packaged products. The covers have beautiful images of sea waves underneath red and green suns. Her presentation is as smooth as her hair. “These are tonics, refreshing liquids, invigorating agents, and also pain killers. These are antibiotics that must be given directly into a vein for serious illnesses. Less serious cases are dealt with in the patient’s home.”
Abu Ghayeb says, “With phototherapy, soaks, and wearing cotton clothes.”
“Precisely.”
They speak the same language, but his questions overpower her delicate accent, “Have you got anything that controls the dandruff?”
“This is a shampoo that contains coal tar extracts.”
She then suggests, “Why don’t you try them, sir?”
I can visualize his joints relaxing as he listens to the way she talks to him. She continues, “I have an oily ointment that relieves itching.”
He sits down on a chair. In his lap rests a large map of the fair that he picked up at the north gate. She says, “We also have treatments for mildew, should you need them.”
In the end, they perform an exchange. He gives her a jar of honey, and she gives him special tablets to make his skin more sensitive to sunlight. She warns him to expose himself to no more than a moderate amount of sunlight so that the treatment will be effective. She adds, “Eating a small piece of bread before this treatment would make it easier on the stomach.”
She lifts a blotchy finger and points at him, “As you are a beekeeper…”
His eyes shine as she says the word “keeper.” “You must avoid getting sunburned. It would make your condition worse.”
He knows that information well, but still he says, “Is that so?”
“We also suggest that those who develop the illness mix with other patients in order to exchange opinions, complaints, and experiences.”
Abu Ghayeb is keen to exchange information with her. He takes down her work address: The Health Spa at the Dead Sea Hotel, Aghwar Road, Jordan. He also writes down his details for her on a small piece of paper: Tennis Court No. 1, the Alwiya Club, near the Teachers’ Building, Baghdad.
He then adds, “By the way, the roundabout that our building looks out onto—it used to be known as the Square of the Unknown Soldier. It’s now going to be officially renamed Firdaws Square; and they’re going to put up a statue of the president in it…another one.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
WE WAIT FOR Miss Randa in the reception area at the club. It is his turn to display his local produce on-site at the tennis court. Before going to bed, Abu Ghayeb applied her ointment to his skin, and wrapped up the badly affected areas. When he woke up, he noted that the color of his skin had started to change. The Sudanese delegation is late, so we spend half an hour in the lounge drinking tea. She asks for coffee. She says to him, “Don’t worry. Psoriasis always gets worse in the winter.”
“I ache in my joints.”
“That too is part of the illness.”
She takes something out of her handbag. It is a gift; a bottle of phenol. “Try this and see if it helps you.”
“I’m going to develop premature skin damage with all these treatments I’m trying!”
“We have no choice. Your affliction is much less severe than some of the foreigners who come to our health spa. They spend weeks in the salty water before they see a result.”
“It’s a curse, Miss Randa.”
“Or merely our fate.”
She inserts the tip of her blotchy finger into the cup’s handle. “In any case, we have to maintain our general health. We have to exercise, eat well and in moderation.”
She adds, “And avoid stress, of course.”
She can’t understand why my aunt’s husband and I exchange glances.
He says, “Your psoriasis is painful, is that right?”
“You can’t imagine.”
“Have you tried soaking in marigold?”
“Yes, for six months, but it didn’t do me any good.”
“Then try soaking in almond oil.”
“I’ll try.”
“The general advice is to keep the skin clean by showering daily, and avoiding contact with all chemical agents that are used in domestic cleaning solutions.”
“I see that you’re well-informed regarding this condition.”
“I had no choice.”
Her gentle smile does not befit the topic of conversation she is about to embark on. She adjusts the way she is sitting. He does not avert his admiring gaze from her matching elegant black trousers and orange top made of soft wool. She lowers her voice and says, “I’ll tell you another secret if you promise not to embarrass me.”
“I promise.”
“Urine treatment; an accepted method in France.”
“Topically?”
“Unfortunately not, and that makes it even more difficult. Some health institutes recommend drinking—I’m sorry to use the word ‘pee’—as a treatment for psoriasis. But most people are reluctant to partake of this treatment and prefer to take vitamin pills instead.”
I join their discussions involuntarily. “That’s disgusting!”
“I know, but the patients don’t have to drink other peoples’ fluids, just their own. They also have to be vegetarian
s, as meat eaters produce high levels of urea.”
My aunt’s husband says, as his face wrinkles, “In other words, the treatment for the disease is based on the illness itself.”
“Exactly. Some experts suggest that since the urine contributes to the illness, it can therefore be used as a treatment.”
Miss Randa is once again totally relaxed as she continues, “The doctor sends the sample to the pharmacy with the prescription. The usual dose is fifteen drops of urine diluted in water, to be taken half an hour before breakfast.”
He says, “But if the body is excreting these substances, then why are we putting them back in again?”
Randa laughs. “In any case, it doesn’t matter. We’re not vegetarians.”
I say to her, “But this is vile.”
“Not as vile as the miserable existence of some patients.”
The circle of visitors is now complete. The group comprises the delegate from the Agricultural Reform Society in the Sudan, the representative of the Modern Irrigation Projects in Algeria, and Randa. They all sit down in the warm sunshine. The chairs form a half circle in the middle of the apiary. Abu Ghayeb stands in their midst, surrounded by his teaching materials. Their first enquiries concern the effects of the no-fly-zone regulations that prevent all flights between a latitude of thirty-two and thirty-six degrees. This means that no crop-spraying airplanes are allowed to fly; and the fields cannot be protected from disease. However, once they have tasted the honey, they become engrossed in the delivery my aunt’s husband is making. He enthusiastically explains to the delegate from the Sudan who has asked, “How is the honey ripened?”
“A number of worker bees stand at an angle to each other. They flap their wings, creating an air current that promotes the evaporation of water from the solution. That results in ripening of the honey.”
“What about this heating and cooling of the hives that I’ve heard about?”
“Yes, bees are cold-blooded insects so they adjust the temperature of the air inside the hive.”
Abu Ghayeb points to the basin with the floaters on its surface and adds, “That’s where the bees get their water. They store it in the discs while another group of bees stand on the cells and aerate the water to cool the hive.”
“And when it’s cold?”
“The bees congregate in the form of an intermingling mass. They consume honey and metabolize it as they breathe. That generates heat and provides warmth for the colony.
Randa asks the next question. She hides her stained hand underneath her woolen blouse in the presence of the others. “Excuse me, what’s swarming?”
“It’s a natural instinct that the bees inherit from one generation to the next. The queen bee leaves with a significant number of worker bees in order to set up a new home, away from the hive they’ve lived in.”
“Why do they do that?”
“The benefits of swarming are to multiply and increase the number of colonies. For some beekeepers however, swarming is a financial loss as the bees may leave the area and their keeper is unable to retain them.”
We feel a cool breeze. My job is to serve hot lemon tea to those attending. The Algerian delegate is aware that I am studying French. He says to me, “Merci,” then asks a question in his North African accent: “Mr. Abu Ghayeb, do these apiaries provide you with a good profit?”
“Let’s say that we’re now able to eat more than just potatoes on their own, with dates for dessert.”
As he talks, I sit down in a corner that has a variety of wild plant life. I test myself to see if I can identify them: wild mustard, dog’s tongue, and stork’s beak.
Suddenly, Randa indicates with her orange arm to where I was sitting and asks me, “What are those?”
“Liquorice roots.”
“And that?”
“A small radish.”
“And that one?”
“The plant we call ‘the beads of the farmer’s daughter.’”
“Your world is fascinating.”
I think to myself that I doubt my aunt would share this opinion. I catch a glimpse of her every now and then peeping out at us from my bedroom window. Abu Ghayeb is answering a question I missed: “Of course, there are those who guard the hive. Each colony of bees has their own distinctive scent. They’ll prevent any enemy or unknown bees from entering their hive.”
I watch my aunt from my position by the grassy area. Abu Ghayeb carries on, “If an enemy approaches, the defending bees will stand on their hind legs, lifting their front legs into the air. Their feelers stand up, and they fold their wings. They stand ready to defend their colony.”
My aunt has disappeared for a few moments. She soon returns, with the phone in her hand. She speaks on the phone as she observes our gathering.
Randa asks with emotion, “Do the bees learn to fly like birds?”
“Each bee has to practice flying with the larger bees to identify the landmarks that surround their colony.”
Adel, Saad’s friend, was right about the lack of dyes in the marketplace. It seems that the local producers have started mixing whatever dyes remain with any other product. I offer the guests a sweet snack, dates stuffed with nuts and sesame seeds. They are placed inside small napkins of a shocking red color. Abu Ghayeb then offers each one of them a small jar of honey. He has placed them in carrier bags that are a bright, screaming purple. They say that the only toilet paper available in the shops these days has a silvery hue, and that it leaves its glittery mark when it’s used.
The meeting is over, and Randa is given a bouquet of flowers. It is made up of wolf grape stalks decorated with bride’s arm flowers. As the sun inclines in farewell, she says to my aunt’s husband, “We’ll soon be organizing a brief presentation about the benefits of the Dead Sea Products. I’ll provide you with the details.”
“I’ll most certainly be attending.”
They all leave via the club parking lot. Their drivers are waiting for them. One is black, and the other is white.
I can’t believe that my aunt has acted so promptly! It didn’t occur to me that she was talking to Umm Mazin on the phone. She had asked her for a charm while observing our movements in the apiary that day. I found out later on that the spell they’d agreed upon consisted of the words “Flee and die cursed bee…Get away, shoo…Let God preserve this nest.” Badriya told me that Umm Mazin had acquired a dove and cut off its head. She assumed that I was aware of their plans. Her mistress had then stuffed the bird’s head along with the potion into its abdomen. She had then sewn up the bird’s neck with a black thread she asked my aunt to provide. It didn’t end there. She’d then asked our neighbor, the woman with the freckleless face, to take the dead bird wrapped in cellophane, and leave its body in the Jordanian pavilion at the fair. Our neighbor was going to use the pretext of showing Randa some beautiful textiles. She was going to pretend that she was an agent for the weaving factories in the Indian pavilion.
So what should I do now? Should I warn Abu Ghayeb, or ask my aunt to desist, or attend the lecture with him and look for the bird wrapped in cellophane during the intermission?
Her lipgloss shines when she notes his presence beside me in the middle of the lecture hall. We were a little late. Randa had already started. “The beneficial minerals in the water include the chlorides of calcium, potassium, sodium, and magnesium.”
They exchange glances from afar.
“There’s a high level of evaporation from the waters of the Dead Sea. This layer of water vapor creates a mist of gases that acts as a natural filter for the atmosphere.”
She continues, “This mist filters out the harmful ultraviolet rays, thus preventing these rays from causing sunburn.”
Half an hour later, Randa concludes her talk by explaining the benefits of dissolved bromide. Her young assistant starts handing out little booklets about the health spa to those attending. She says, “You’ll feel completely relaxed during an experience such as this. You’ll not feel any embarrassment as you lie in the
sun with the others.”
She concludes, “I thank you all for attending.”
So far, Umm Mazin’s dove hasn’t prevented Randa from accompanying Abu Ghayeb as he makes his preparations to exhibit his honey during the Spring Fair in Mosul. Nor does it prevent them on the seventh day of the fair from traveling to Dyala, to the Citrus Fair where he will meet the delegates from the Arab Association of Beekeepers.
At the fridge door I hear, or rather, I decided to listen in on my aunt’s argument with her husband. She says to him, “You don’t love me anymore.”
“It’s no longer an issue of love between us.”
“Is that so? Have our feelings for each other gone?”
“Love at our age is a question of understanding.”
“And do we no longer understand each other?”
“After all these years together, you can still surprise me with a question like that!”
“I want to be sure.”
“Love is the ability to converse, and we’ve lost that interaction.”
“You mean we no longer have a relationship.”
“We’ve lived our lives together. What more do you want?”
“I feel that we’re growing apart.”
“Don’t you think that we’ve outgrown romantic scenarios?”
“No.”
“What? Do you no longer consider me to be a fungal swampland, an arrogant art aficionado? Not even a failed trader?”
“Maybe I’ve wronged you.”
“Don’t retreat.”
“Things have just started to brighten up. We were exhausted in the past.”
“Do you associate our success at work with our relationship?”
“Not entirely, but at least the financial pressures we were under have now been resolved.”
“I therefore wish you an even larger income.”
“Don’t say that; ‘People can decimate their wealth by afflicting themselves with their own evil eye.’”
Absent: A Novel Page 15