Absent: A Novel

by Betool Khedairi

  Clumsy Badriya is scratching her head. Suddenly, she stops as though the movement of her fingers is annoying her, forcing her to think. She says, “For migraine.”

  Umm Mazin tugs on her assistant’s headscarf. The rage is now obvious on her face, “Even a donkey would learn by repetition. This is for dried skin and corns. What have you been doing with me all these years?”

  Badriya starts crying. “Baji, I was able to recognize these various items from the shape of their containers. Now that all the jars and bottles have been broken, I’m finding it difficult to differentiate between one herb and another, and one powder and the next.”

  Umm Mazin strikes the back of her hand with the palm of her other hand in exasperation. She turns to us in supplication:

  “Always bear tall and dignified

  And ask for what you need

  But only from those,

  Who are wise and specialized”

  A short while later she says, “Go and make some coffee for Dalal.”

  I sit up and say, “I don’t want any coffee, thank you; but have you got anything for a headache?”

  Umm Mazin points to a clay-colored substance in a small cup. She asks her servant to boil it for five minutes, add some honey, and then serve it to me. I agree, but I want to supervise the preparations in the kitchen. I notice Badriya is trembling. I ask her, “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Of being tested on the different herbs?”

  “No, Miss Dalal. Much worse.”

  Badriya stands on an iron box with a sticker on it: WARNING: NONFLAMMABLE STARCH. She stretches up to get the coffee pot from the high cupboard. I ask her, “Are you afraid of the bombardment?”

  “Worse, worse.”

  “What?”

  After adding two spoons of honey to the mix, she passes the cup to me with shaking hands. “When Umm Mazin was ill this past week, I sold several mixtures to a lot of women without her knowledge. I told myself I would make her happy with the cash when her health improves. But now I realize I’ve made a lot of mistakes in the herbs and items that I used.”

  “How did you dare do something like that?”

  She strikes her cheek in distress. “May God protect us from her curse.”

  I drink the hot liquid as I watch her wailing, “My God, what have I done? I sold the remedy for memory loss to the young girl with a sore throat. I gave the powder for heartache to the woman whose son has acne.”

  She uncovers a plastic container; its contents have gone moldy. It is full of a smelly gas that emanates from the stale substance. As she removes the rubber lid the container releases a choked noise: hufff. She is repelled by the stench. She continues, “Another potion has failed.”

  She gets rid of it, saying, “Then I gave the woman complaining of persistent constipation the treatment for a hoarse voice. And the woman with insomnia ended up with the remedy for hemorrhoids.”

  She strikes her cheek a second time. I ask her, “You did all this in one week?”

  “Worse, worse. I gave the woman with asthma the treatment to bring down a fever, and mixed it with ground pebbles that break the curse that brings bad fortune.”

  Umm Mazin calls out, “Where are you? Come back and let’s finish what we have to do.”

  Her servant grabs my hand; for a moment I thought she was going to kiss it. “I beg you, please don’t tell her about this.”

  “I promise.”

  She returns to her lesson, striking her cheek one last time before she enters the room. Umm Mazin lifts up a dried fistful, and holds it out to her. “We’ll start again from the beginning. This is mountain chamomile. You can’t prepare it in a steel pot because it’ll react with the iron just like acid reacts with copper, and in both instances, a poisonous agent is released.”

  Badriya looks at me with two droopy eyes. Her mistress continues, “And for the millionth time, this is the sacred herb that is given to dry up a wet chest.”

  Umm Mazin glares at Badriya. “Is that understood?”

  Badriya swallows. “Yes, ahem, yes Hijjia.”

  Their appearance reminds me of the illiteracy eradication programs that were shown on our television screens in the seventies. “Rashid plants. Zainab works.”

  I miss Ilham.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FOUR DAYS LATER Abu Ghayeb returned from the Dead Sea. That was when my aunt put plan “Husband 3” into action. It appeared that she intended to rely on herself this time, as Umm Mazin was still unwell. The box contained nothing more than a number of rusty pins. His skin had gained a tanned look from his exposure to the sun and salty water. He went about showing us how some of his spots had disappeared here and there. He reiterated, however, that psoriasis could only be eradicated after numerous courses of treatment. My aunt noted that he asked how the bees were before he asked her how she was; and when she realized he hadn’t brought her back a present, she put her plan into action.

  She scattered the pins around the sofa. She knew that he always took his shoes off and walked around there barefoot. One of them clung to his socks, but didn’t prick him. That was when it flared up between them. “So you’re determined to hurt me?”

  “Why didn’t you even remember me?”

  “Do you blame me?”

  He placed the pin on the table. “Explain to me the meaning of all this.”

  “No. I won’t explain.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’ll make me look small.”

  “You can rest assured that you’ve already mastered the art of shrinking, if that’s the case.”

  He set about looking for more pins. “Do you hate me that much?”

  “I hate her.”

  “Your jealousy is unjustified.”

  “She took you away from me for ten days. And that came on top of the torture during the fair.”

  “Nobody took me away from you, so please don’t push me in that direction.”

  “We almost died, and you weren’t here.”

  “I don’t think so. I checked, and everyone seems fine.”

  “Umm Mazin has been affected, and her flat has been badly damaged.”

  “Don’t worry about her. She’ll pull through; like a cat with nine lives.”

  She commented thoughtfully, “You’ve changed a lot since you met that woman from Amman.”

  “So what do you want to do now? Reform me?”

  “I want you to go back to the way you were.”

  “The only thing that’s changed in me is my psoriasis.”

  My aunt burst out crying. “I admit that I went through a phase of murderous jealousy. Maybe I wasn’t jealous of her specifically, but I was jealous of the people and the reasons that made you become the person you are now.”

  “Am I that bad?”

  “On the contrary, you’ve become someone else. You’ve adapted in your work. You’ve fought against adverse circumstances, and you’re always optimistic. On top of that, you’re able to get around without any hindrance. You represent to me everything that I’m unable to become.”

  He picked up another pin from the floor, and placed it beside the first one. “Nice recovery.”

  My aunt tried to control herself. “I started to ask myself, why wasn’t it I who was the incentive for your transformation?”

  He placed his hands behind his head as he relaxed. He watched her and said, “If it’s a trip to Jordan that’ll relieve your anxieties, then I’ll take you with me next time I go.”

  She didn’t believe him. She also couldn’t believe that she’d ended up in this dilemma. Was she jealous of him, or over him? He said to her, “Do you have any other confessions?”

  She wiped away her tears, not knowing how to answer him.

  “For example, what did you put in my bed?”

  My aunt became depressed and when my aunt becomes depressed, her shoulder pads shrivel.

  I take the bag full of beauty products Saad had asked Abu Ghayeb to get for him from Jorda
n. I open the door; Adel is waiting. “Hello.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Where’s Saad?”

  “He’s gone to get some hot, freshly baked bread.”

  “Another late night, brothers?”

  “If you like.”

  I place the bag on the table. “Adel, what happened that night?”

  “You relaxed.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I relaxed as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I relaxed because you were relaxed.”

  I start taking the contents out of the bag. I look up at him, wanting to know more. He says, “In other words, I like to see other people totally comfortable.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all; no more.”

  He watches me placing the boxes on the shelf. “In any case, that arak was for beginners.”

  “That wasn’t the first time that I tasted alcohol.”

  “What I meant was that the people who made it were beginners.”

  “Yes, it was somewhat bitter.”

  A short while later, I say, “Adel, what were you doing to my feet?”

  His voice laughs, “I was checking the stability of your infrastructure.”

  He senses my irritation. “By the way, Dalal, I don’t like what’s given to me. I prefer what I manage to get for myself. You have no reason to be worried.”

  “The problem is that I can’t remember what happened after that.”

  “What happened is that I turned a woman made of wood into dough.”

  “And how did you do that?”

  “That’ll remain my professional secret.”

  I feel like a cat circling around itself, trying to catch its tail. “Tell me, please, how?”

  “By giving her what she’s entitled to.”

  “So is it true what Saad said, that you’ve been with a thousand women?”

  “What’s said in the night is erased by the day.”

  “It’s now nine o’clock in the evening.”

  In spite of his smile, I am afraid that he will be annoyed by my questions. “How can you justify flitting between women?”

  “So you do recall several segments of that evening.”

  He gets up from the sofa, and asks me to sit down beside him, “Imagine that being with me is like your favorite childhood toy. Do you remember how you used to play with it all day long and not get bored with it? The toy hasn’t changed; but your fantasies change from one day to the next, while you play. That’s creativity.”

  A thought comes into my mind: “Why didn’t Madame Bovary do that with her husband?”

  Saad walks in, the bread swung over his shoulder as usual. He says excitedly, “Have you heard?”

  I turn toward him as Adel asks, “What?”

  “Umm Mazin is being investigated.”

  Adel asks him, “Is she that ill?”

  “No, not medical investigations.”

  I exchange glances with Adel. Saad says, “She’s being investigated by the Security Services.”

  I get up from the sofa. “How could that be? My aunt and I checked on her this morning. When did this happen?”

  He hands me the bag of hot bread, “I’ve just found that out at the police station. It’s next door to the bakery, and it’s full to the brim with files of recent complaints against her.”

  Adel arches his eyebrows. “Where did you get this information?”

  “I shared some hot bread with the policeman on duty outside the station. He told me that many women in the area had put in complaints, stating that she’d harmed them. Some had become ill as a result of her potions, while others had been scarred mentally. The officer is going to call her in for interrogation very soon.”

  Saad notices the new boxes on the shelf and heads toward them for a closer look. “Wonderful, this is exactly what I need.”

  He takes a few dollars out of his pocket and hands them to me. “Tell Abu Ghayeb that I’m very grateful.”

  I ask Adel, “What will her punishment be?”

  “I don’t know; but I presume that she’ll be forced to give up her practice.”

  “And Badriya?”

  “Her fate is most likely to be the same as the fate of her mistress.”

  Umm Mazin had barely recovered her health and some of her herbs before they sent for her. Two policemen went up to the fifth floor to search the flat. She tried to convince them that the weird and wonderful recipes for potions and spells were merely a modern creative way of teaching the alphabet and the multiplication tables. She claimed that she was teaching her illiterate servant the basics of arithmetic and reading. Half the materials were still in Ilham’s flat, but nobody mentioned anything to the police as we watched her leave with them. She went down the stairs sobbing. Badriya followed her, stumbling over her abaya. In spite of her emotional state, her mouth remained fixed in a smile. She pinched her servant’s arm viciously. “You’ve ruined me.”

  She pinched her a second time. “You’ve destroyed the reputation of traditional healing.”

  Badriya moaned from the pain of the pinches, but submitted herself to her mistress’s punishment. “Forgive me, Umm Mazin, forgive me.”

  We stood at the entrance of the building trying to console her. Saad said to her, “May God be with you.”

  The teacher expressed his sentiments: “Look after yourself.”

  My aunt patted her on the shoulder. “Umm Mazin, my dear sister, don’t worry. I’ll come to visit you and bring you whatever you need.”

  The afflicted one murmured, “May God preserve you all; may He grant you long lives.”

  When it was my turn, I found myself saying to her, “Umm Mazin, find strength in your heart.”

  She straightened her abaya. “God is my strength, and my best support.”

  That was how we all said goodbye to her, except Abu Ghayeb who was at the club.

  I join him there. He doesn’t seem too troubled by the news. He carries on examining the bees. He picks up a soft brush, and starts gently moving the bees away from the discs. He says to me in a voice that is almost a whisper, “Examining the bees and dealing with them is easy. It’s not at all dangerous if you take the proper precautions, and understand the bees’ habits and behavior.”

  He moves extremely slowly from one honey disc to the other. “We must avoid any sudden movement.”

  He uses a metal implement to lift up the discs. He attaches it to the side of the box, and places the disc on it once he has examined it.

  The bees are very sensitive to any unusual smells, especially animal scents. That’s why the apiary’s special clothing shouldn’t be worn outside the apiary, and it must always be clean.

  He then asks me to move back a little from where he is working. “Dalal, woolen clothing, materials that shed fibers, and dark colors are not appropriate for the apiary. They can enrage the bees.”

  I take a few steps back. He stands beside the hive with his back to the sun. The sunlight falls onto the hexagonal cells, showing the contents clearly; this enables him to estimate the age of the eggs and the larvae.

  I observe him dissembling the frames and extracting them. He lifts the discs upward to check that the queen isn’t on the frame, as she might then fall outside the hive. He locates her, and goes about examining her externally to make sure that she is undamaged. He points with his finger and says, “Look in here, these sluggish bees have got diarrhea.”

  He then adds with a smile, “It’s a pity that Umm Mazin isn’t around to heal them.”

  “Aren’t you at all upset by what has happened to her?”

  “From a salesman’s point of view, yes.”

  “But they’re likely to stop her from continuing to practice.”

  “If that were the case, then I’d offer her a job here.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “She claims that she loves bees and understands honey, but she knows nothing. She’d have to lea
rn from these insects the philosophy of life.”

  It is the first time I have heard my aunt’s husband talk like this. “Dalal, if we could only learn from the bees!”

  He checks that the bees have enough honey and pollen for the winter. He carries on, “Greed is the main problem. Look at the way the bee behaves when it goes out to collect the nectar. The first thing the bees do is check the amount of sugar in the flower. They suck from it what they need and won’t exceed their limit.”

  I say to him, “And will you get Badriya to take down notes for Umm Mazin?”

  He laughs. “By the way, on cold days, when it’s rainy, and at the end of the season, the bees become aggressive, so do be careful.”

  He finally concludes his lecture, “We have to start preparing the hives for the winter. We’ll cover the boxes with jute. We’ll also need to put straw around the sides.”

  Two hours later I leave the tennis court. I can’t imagine Umm Mazin in a protective suit.

  At the flat, my aunt is still tackling her jealousy. Whenever she is reminded that her husband is a beekeeper, she feels uncomfortable because of his paternal instincts toward the insects. She imagines the bees having cravings, and Abu Ghayeb rushing out to plant the flowers that they love. In return, I gave her a brief resumé about the role of the worker bees in exceptional circumstances. They lay the eggs instead of the queen bee and end up being called false mothers.

  I ask her, “And do you know why that happens, my aunt?”

  I feel as though she is humoring me. “Why?”

  “That happens when the queen either dies or gets killed. The hive is thrown into chaos and the worker bees start laying their eggs in the royal cups in a random and irregular manner.”

  Her eyes become narrow as if she is trying to balance the equation in her head. She is busy attaching a length of lace onto an overcoat. She gazes at it, then says, “Do you know, Dalal, marriage is like lace….”

  She tries to cut a thread with small scissors while adding, “Beautiful, symmetrical, artistic, and when it’s new, it’s pure and white. It sits proudly on the shelf in the shop….”