“It seems that Umm Mazin is still providing you with her wisdom.”
My aunt’s voice becomes slightly uneasy. “What does that poor woman have to do with our situation?”
“Poor woman? In any case, it doesn’t matter. We’ve had our share of genuine drama.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that life will go on, and I’ll continue to treat her courteously.”
“And will you treat me courteously as well?”
He doesn’t answer her. It seems that he is trying to go to sleep. She insists, “The same way you’re courteous to that fresh creature from Amman?”
“Now I begin to understand your anxieties.”
“I have every right.”
“What’s wrong with you? All we’re doing is discussing the problems we have in common.”
“Don’t you have enough problems in common with me?”
“I meant our illness.”
“I don’t want to hear that you’re spending most of your time with her.”
When Abu Ghayeb starts growling at her, I hurry back to my room. “You can hear whatever you want.”
A few moments later, he ends up on the sofa.
The next day, my aunt expresses an unexpected interest in the experiment that is due to be undertaken in the storeroom, under the supervision of an expert Tunisian apiarist. She hears her husband discussing it on the phone. The plan is to extract the venom from the bees for medicinal purposes. He is due to arrive at one o’clock. She turns up at five minutes to one.
They set up the necessary equipment. The expert places the worker bees in a clean glass container, and covers it with a sheet of filter paper soaked in ether. The bees are soon anaesthetized, and their venom flows out along the walls of the container and onto its base. He then washes the beaker and lightly heats the resulting cloudy solution. The water evaporates and what is left behind is the venom extract.
He says, “The next step is to dry out the bees in a warm room, or in the sunshine, and then return them to their hive.”
He wraps up a rubber hose and returns it to its box. He adds, “The benefit of this method is that it can provide reasonable amounts of venom from a thousand bees, without killing them. This, however, isn’t the total amount of venom since a large number of bees may die during the extraction process.”
Abu Ghayeb then asks him, “What about the use of bee stings as a form of treatment?”
“This form of treatment is practiced in Japan. The stinger is removed from the bee using a fine pair of forceps. It’s then inserted into the patient’s skin. It causes a minimal amount of pain, and the venom is absorbed into the body to exert its effect.”
My aunt interrupts, “Excuse me sir, what illnesses are treated with this venom?”
He answers her while drying a long-necked vial, “Ringing in the ears and blockage of the nasal septum.”
I return to the fair with Abu Ghayeb and the Tunisian expert. In the taxi, I wonder what was going through her mind.
When my aunt learned that bees could be affected by disease, like any other insects, but that, unlike any other domesticated creature, they didn’t transmit these diseases to human beings, and when Abu Ghayeb informed her that he was considering the official invitation he’d received to visit the Dead Sea, she retreated to her room for two whole days. Her Singer sewing machine hummed continuously throughout that time.
Baghdad International Fair closed its doors, and Abu Ghayeb packed his suitcase. He said he’d only be away for a few days. That week, my aunt produced the most beautiful coat I’d ever seen. It conformed to the contours of her body. The shoulders were padded, it had a narrow waist, and a wide train. Its beauty, however, resided in the excellent quality of the mustard-colored wool she used. She acquired it from our neighbor, who had bought it from the Afghan pavilion. My aunt then proceeded to embroider its broad collar with some unusual cord that resembled fur. She used alternating shades of mustard and black. She wore her high heels, and put up her blond hair with the bronze-colored streaks that Saad had applied for her. I was laughing inside as she paraded herself in front of me haughtily. Is this what jealousy does to women?
I was mistaken. Her interest was no longer in the bees’ venom. It was the appearance of Randa on the scene that had released her creativity. It was jealousy that had driven her to the apiary without her husband’s knowledge. She collected the dead bees that dried out in the sun after they had been anaesthetized. She pulled off their heads and their stingers, and submerged the rest in a preservative mixed with a clear glue. She left the bees’ wings attached to their bodies before she mummified them. This gave them an extra sheen. That was how she obtained round balls of synthetic fur that she used to embroider the coats this season!
Saad opens the door. I feel the need for a change, so I adopt his style: “Hi.”
He adjusts his forelock: “Hi….”
His smile widens as he continues to stand in the doorway: “Along with God’s blessing and his mercy.”
I go in, and he shuts the door behind me, “What’s new?”
“‘Buzzy Bee’ has gone, and ‘Fashion Chick’ is at home.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll do my studying at the apiary till he gets back.”
We sit down and Saad says, “I presume Umm Mazin felt dejected when she found out that her spell had no effect.”
“In spite of that, she didn’t give up or desist. She’s preparing another concoction to recapture my aunt’s husband.”
“Will you tell him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How innocent you are, Dalal.”
“There’s a difference between innocence and being fed up with paranoia.”
I take my shoes off to rest my feet. “I don’t know how things ended up like this. Did Abu Ghayeb reject his wife before or after he met Randa? Was my aunt attached to him before another woman appeared in his life, or did she start rushing about trying to hang onto him after that, because she was afraid that she might lose him? And what does marriage have to do with success at work, outside the home? How can the situation be salvaged with mixtures of herbs and spells?”
Saad replies, “Do you think that Randa seduced him intentionally?”
“It didn’t seem that way to me. All they talked about was their psoriasis.”
“Maybe their relationship is a clean one.”
“How could my aunt be jealous of an afflicted woman?”
“Because she’s a woman.”
“Jealousy and envy are for beautiful women only.”
“Do you really think that it’s only beautiful women who attract men?”
“Of course.”
“I disagree with you.”
“Disagree as you wish.”
“And I’m not the only one who thinks like that.”
“Sometimes, I can’t understand the way you think, Saad. Tell me, why would a man be attracted to a woman with a problem like mine?”
“I told you that I wasn’t the only one who thought like that. I’ll answer your naïve question by telling you that my friend was fascinated by you.”
“Adel?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tease me.”
“I swear to you. He said that your eyes were beautiful.”
“Then, he must be attracted to faces drawn in cubism style.”
Saad is unable to control himself. He bursts out laughing vigorously. “So you insist that you’re not attractive?”
“An attractive personality is one thing, a beautiful appearance is something totally different.”
“And his visit to me asking for dyes was one thing, and his enquiries about you were also totally different.”
“He came to see you a second time?”
“This morning.”
“All right, for your sake, I’ll translate his attraction based on the fact that he’s so used to dealing with people who have a disfigurement.”
“You’re
belittling the issue.”
“What issue?”
“Give him a chance.”
“You look so serious, Saad. Don’t frighten me.”
“It’s he who’s serious.”
“How strange.”
Saad leaps up from his seat, “That’s it! You’ve just described him. He loves things that are strange: foods, faces, places. He always says that each person looks at life through his own eyes, and not through anyone else’s.”
“Saad, I’m warning you. Don’t entangle me in things I can do without.”
“Do you mean that you’re afraid that you might do wrong?”
“Brother, don’t force thoughts into my head.”
“Dalool, are the memories of our mistakes not the most beautiful things we possess?”
“Our mistakes make us more cowardly.”
“I’m the one who commits the right error at the right time.”
“Rubbish!”
“Believe me. I classify errors into two types: mistakes and delightful mistakes.”
“And do you also classify the price we pay into two types?”
“What’s wrong with you? Even clouds will eventually become water and end up coming down as rain. The clouds themselves are merely water from this earth that has grabbed its chance to fly.”
“In other words, it’s a closed circle.”
“You stubborn girl, it means that life is a natural cycle!”
My head is filled with half-formed thoughts. I have to find a way to pass my exams in the compulsory civic education lessons. I can’t understand the assigned text: Theoretical Applications in the Context of Applied Theories. The teacher of this subject offered to exempt me from the exam if I’d translate his thesis for him about the life of the Khedive Ismail in Egypt. I also have to write an essay about a poem of the Middle Ages. I sit down in the apiary analyzing verses by Guillaume de Lorris in the sunshine. On the floor beside me is an empty bottle of water that Randa drank during the meeting. I gaze at the label. It has the word “Rivulet” in big blue letters. Below that, it says, “A ton of water passes through our bodies each year, be aware of the water that you drink.”
After an hour, I am bored. I pick up a scientific journal and read about a means of eradicating the Varroa insects. I love the words “Ant’s Acid,” a translation of “Formic Acid.” Apparently mixing it with their nutrients protects the honeybees from the parasitic mites that live in their respiratory system. The parasites reproduce there, preventing the bees from getting enough oxygen. This eventually results in the bees’ death.
My aunt calls out for me to join her in Umm Mazin’s flat; she has new potions for sale. A lack of marriage proposals can be dealt with by giving a girl cedar leaves after verses from the Qur’an, from Surat al-Baqara, have been recited over them. The girl must bathe in water that the leaves have been soaked in. The water must not be allowed to drain into the sewers; it has to be thrown outside the house. She refers to a woman who remains unmarried as having her tail knotted.
For infertility, she recommends a candle and honey. The verses from the Qur’an that have to be recited are from Surat Maryam, to reaffirm that nothing is impossible. The infertile woman is then given the oil of the seed of blessing. In order to cast a love spell, Surat Yusuf must be recited over the loved one’s name and the name of his mother to make him come back.
They are muttering up there on the top floor. Umm Mazin smears the green grease that has been extracted from wind grass onto a small sheet of paper. She hums to herself, “She saw his mustache and fantasized about him…. Were it not for the mustache, she would never have wanted him.” She then writes on a sheet of paper that has a triangle drawn on it, inside a circle, inside a square. She writes the letters of Abu Ghayeb’s name, son of Zahraa; and Randa’s name. She wraps the paper around something she claims is the protuberant part of a hoopoe bird’s ribcage. Then I follow my aunt as she goes downstairs to the apiary and sews this charmed bundle into the lining of Abu Ghayeb’s protective suit, which hangs behind the door.
After she is done, I ask her, “My aunt, are you that jealous of her?”
“I’m jealous over him.”
“What if Abu Ghayeb were to find out?”
“He won’t.”
“Didn’t I find out about the secret of the dove from Badriya?”
“That stupid servant has no social contact with any men.”
“But Aunt, you’re burdening me with weighty secrets.”
“Maybe you bear secrets for him too!”
I hadn’t expected that reply. “Why do you have no doubts about Umm Mazin and the truths she offers you?”
She kicks the plastic water bottle with her foot. “Because I have no choice.”
At that time, we had no idea that that green bundle would be one of the last concoctions prepared by that woman on the fifth floor.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHAT UMM MAZIN hadn’t predicted was the missile that ripped through the air just after midnight. Its blast took out the left wing of her flat. Like a razor blade, it cut through the tops of the trees in the orchard behind the club. It embedded itself at an angle, on the riverbank, but it failed to explode.
It shook our beds. Within minutes we’d gathered in the corridors of the building and started checking on each other. I knocked on Uncle Sami’s door, who called out from inside, “I’m alright, don’t worry.” The knock on Umm Mazin’s door, however, wasn’t answered. In the end the teacher from the first floor and Saad broke it down by force. They stood aside to allow my aunt and I to rush in and find out what was going on.
The missile had broken all the windows. The curtains were torn to shreds, and some of the chairs had been knocked over by the force of the missile’s trajectory. The bedrooms were empty. We found the two women on the floor in the kitchen. The lady of the house was sprawled out on the floor. Her dress was lifted up revealing cuts and bruises all over her body. Her servant was hunched up with a big cooking pot over her head. The pot covered her head and shoulders. Below it, the rest of her body was shaking uncontrollably. It looked as though she was sitting underneath a church bell made of tarnished brass. It seemed that they’d been in the middle of preparing some potion or other.
Hundreds of small fragments from the wreckage of the windows, the glass containers and the porcelain cups were scattered everywhere. Chickpeas and lupine had been thrown up into the air. The damaged plastic ablution jugs were stacked in a corner. Colored fluids oozed out from bottles mingling with each other: vinegar, milk, and beetroot juice. The table was covered with aniseed. Several cloves of garlic hanging on the wall had burst open from the effect of the pressure. A cup full of cumin and a container full of chicken claw plant had fallen into a vat of emulsified lamb’s tail plant. The borage plant had mingled with the sweet marjoram. Half made-up bags of goat’s beard and Venus’s eyelashes that had been requested by her clients lay to one side.
As I made my way forward, I stepped on some hawthorn berries, while my aunt inadvertently crushed some of the lawyer’s ear plant beneath her feet. Tongues of regular honey and tongues of enchanted honey were crawling across the floor in every direction. Badriya’s quaking voice could be heard from underneath the pot that still protected her head. She was repeating a phrase form the Qur’an incessantly, “Say: I seek refuge with the Lord of the Dawn.” The echo of her words reverberated from underneath the copper pot that looked like a skirt. They sounded like the chimes from a bell, “Dawn…dawn…dawn.”
Saad and the teacher dragged Umm Mazin out by her abaya. She was still as unconscious as a punching bag sliding on its back, with two fat, dark feet capped with bluish toes protruding from the rim. As for Badriya, we were able to remove her with some difficulty from inside her hideaway. We placed the servant on my bed, and sat Umm Mazin down in the big armchair in the sitting room. We washed her face with cold water, and my aunt removed the top of a bottle of strong perfume underneath her nostrils to try and rouse her. When she opened her
eyes, the first thing she saw was the scene on the wall in front of her, an oil painting. Everything in it had a black tinge mixed with a reddish, purple hue. From the bottom corner, two skeletons and two skulls leapt out. Through their eye sockets, one could see a darker background. There were no openings for their mouths; but they did however have hair. Coils of barbed wire hung down like tresses from either side of their heads. I tried to imagine what was going through Umm Mazin’s mind. She might have imagined them to be two women attempting to straighten out their barbed wire hair. The first skeleton might have been telling the second, “Skully, darling, I feel like a braid today.” Umm Mazin’s eyes rolled upwards flipping into slots of white as she looked at the painting, and she passed out again muttering, “Death has caught up with the one who has neglected her prayers.”
The next day, Umm Mazin asks my aunt for the keys to Ilham’s empty flat. Nobody has come forward to claim it, so she suggests that she can live there with her maid until she is able to sort out her affairs. Ilham’s things are just as she left them, everything is still in its place. Her cotton nursing uniform hangs in the cupboard, the white rubber shoes are under the bed, and the stethoscope hangs behind the door. We hadn’t attempted to aerate the flat since she’d gone. The odor of her cigarette smoke still lingers in the curtains. It feels strange moving Umm Mazin in there. She has developed problems with her blood pressure, and hardly moves at all for two weeks.
The date palms have lost their heads. The orchard has become an area of upright trunks with no palm fronds above them. My aunt gazes out onto those silent columns. She hardly ever leaves her position by my bedroom window. She narrows her eyes as if she’s trying to concentrate angrily on a pressing matter. She curses Abu Ghayeb because he didn’t leave her a contact telephone number. She was unable to join her husband. The travel restrictions forbid a woman to travel without a male member of her family to escort her. She needs a father or a brother or an uncle to accompany her; and where would she be able to generate such a relative for this purpose? She sits down beside the phone, hoping he will ring, but the phone remains quiet for several days. She eventually gives up and decides to spend the night on the second floor to look after Umm Mazin whose condition has worsened. She will check her blood pressure and temperature using Ilham’s equipment.
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