Absent: A Novel

by Betool Khedairi

  “Saad told me that I’d find you on the second floor.”

  “Yes, on a mission to clean.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  He makes his way into the flat. He too is amazed by the pattern on the floor. “What’s this?”

  “Umm Mazin’s remains.”

  He says, half in disbelief, half mockingly, “So she really was an enchantress.”

  He wraps his arm around my waist. “Saad told me that the bees had attacked you.”

  “Two bees stung me at the same moment, in the same place.”

  “Show me.”

  “Here, but don’t touch it. It hurts.”

  He doesn’t touch it, but he kisses it, to cool it down. He asks me, “Where’s the hot water switch?”

  “In the kitchen. Why?”

  He heads toward it saying, “I’ll tell you later.”

  I pick up one of the bags. “Where shall we start?”

  He takes the bag from my hand and tosses it aside. The horse’s jaw is coming closer to me. “How about raising some dust first?”

  He moves the cacti and the thistles to one side before he lays me down on a patch covered in lavender. The grasses with a thousand holes cling to my hair. Adel laughs at the way I look. Some orange powders have splattered the side of my cheek. I push him away as hard as I can. He lands on a Chinese rhubarb plant and his neck turns green. I pick up a sturdy branch of cedar and hold it up in front of him. “In days gone by, this wood was used to make boats.”

  “Enough talk,” he says. His skin gives off the scent of basswood and sweat. The carpet of herbs underneath us is crushed.

  We get our breath back when the map has changed and the colors of the mixture blend into one. I place my head on his chest. I am being stifled by a sneeze that tastes of carnations. His voice asks, “Dalal, when will we be celebrating your graduation?”

  “At the end of the year, if I manage to keep up with the assignments.”

  “Is there anything that might distract you from them?”

  “Nothing much; the problems between my aunt and her husband, and the madness of his bees.”

  I add, “But still, I’m worried.”

  “Why do you worry when you have me around?”

  “One of my student colleagues has been expelled because he smuggled in copies of George Orwell’s Animal Farm onto the university campus. He sneaked them in past the university guards, and handed them out to the students in the English Language Department.”

  “How did they find out about him?”

  “One of his colleagues informed on him. He submitted a report about his actions to the National Union of Students.”

  “He should have adhered to the recommended guidelines. Anyway, how’s your work with Saad coming along?”

  “Saad is sweet. But he won’t stop exchanging items from his shop for whatever he craves. He got food poisoning the other day from a tin of sardines that was past its sell-by date. He acquired it in exchange for a manicure set.”

  Adel laughs, my cheek picks up his chest’s vibrations. His laugh has two layers; the layer closest to my ear has a clear pitch, and the other is smoky, as if it forms a lining to the first layer. He says, “I love that creature. He knows exactly what he wants. Most people don’t know what it is that they really want.”

  “Who can decide what their goals are in times like these?”

  He hands me a stick of cinnamon, and places one in his mouth. We both suck away gently. “And have you found your calling in languages?”

  “At least I found a translation of my name. Dalal means ‘dalliance,’ an ancient word for flirtation.”

  I gaze at the ceiling for a while. Then I shake off some blue mint that clings to his arm, “You know, I feel that language is like a person; it never reaches completion.”

  After a long pause, I squeeze his shoulder. “From another angle; a person is also like a language….”

  He lifts his head up and follows the movement of my lips. “They’re both full of common mistakes.”

  We don’t put our clothes back on. The dust of the dried materials covers us from head to toe. I grab Ilham’s nursing uniform from her bedroom and put it on. Adel finds a sheet. He wraps it around his trunk. It hangs down from his waist all the way down to his knees. We both feel the cold. We clean the room, open the windows and stack the black bags outside the flat. He then carries me over to where the hot water is. We stand and watch the dozens of different powders melt into the water. They become strands of color that flow from our bodies onto the white porcelain of the bath. The steam rises upward, taking with it the scent of spices and musk. I point to a pale red tricklet that winds its way down my leg. “Adel, this isn’t pomegranate juice.”

  The beads of water bounce off his hair in the form of multicolored droplets. He doesn’t comment, so I say, “I can feel a pain, low down in my belly.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  When the water has cooled down a little, he asks with a smile, “Would you like a bat’s wing?”

  I slap his shoulder; the water magnifies the echo which mingles with our laughter. “You brute! How do you know that story?”

  “I live in the same area as the doctor who’s nicknamed ‘The Night Bat.’ Some of us have heard the tale.”

  I pick up an old forgotten bar of soap with horizontal cracks; I try to work up some lather. “Baghdad is a small place!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE HONEYBEES DON’T CALM DOWN.

  They go from aggressive to downright evil. They sting us for no reason, and we are no longer able to enter the apiary without protective suits. We start moving around on tiptoe fearing that we might enrage them suddenly. My aunt’s husband is feeling very dejected. He has implemented each and every one of the recommendations for exemplary beekeeping, to no avail. He starts watching them from dawn till dusk to stop them fighting, swarming, and thieving. He sits on a podium, and keeps himself occupied by leafing through his beekeeping booklets. He exchanges glances with the soldier across the court who whiles away his time by watching the pigeons landing and taking off from the roof of the club.

  Due to recent events, the number of visits from my aunt’s clients goes down. She starts going to bed early to avoid the boredom of the long evenings. Abu Ghayeb is going to stay up late this evening. He is planning to try and contact Jordan from the teacher’s flat on the first floor. I say to Saad, “I can’t bear it any longer.”

  “What’s with you?”

  “There’s something mysterious going on.”

  “With Adel?”

  “No, at the tennis court.”

  “Dalal, the sign says ‘Keep Out.’”

  “But it doesn’t say ‘Don’t try.’”

  “You’re mad. What do you mean?”

  “I’ve got to know what’s inside that cube-shaped, khaki tent.”

  “What are you thinking of doing?”

  “Let’s sneak in from the back.”

  “No, you’ll be putting yourself in danger.”

  “I grew up in that Club building. I know all the entrances and exits. I went through every gap and every opening in there when I was a child.”

  “But now you’ve grown up!”

  “I can do it.”

  “I won’t let you.”

  “Saad, we have to salvage the situation. If we lose the honeybees, then we’ll have lost everything.”

  “You could lose your future if things don’t go according to plan.”

  “My future won’t provide me with an income, whereas now, we’re living off the income from the honey.”

  Saad fiddles with his forelock. I ask, “Will you help me?”

  “I’m very afraid of what might happen to you.”

  “If my aunt loses her clients because of the unstable current circumstances, and her husband loses his clients who buy the honey, then it could be your turn next. You might end up having to close down your shop.”

  He pauses for a moment, thinking. I add, “On
the other hand, if production improves, we could start exporting some of our honey next year. In dollars, Saad, U.S. dollars!”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Keep an eye on the soldier for me while I try to find out what’s inside the tent from the back.”

  “What if he becomes aware of your presence?”

  “I’ll leave that up to you. You’d have to distract him in any way possible.”

  We sit down on the sofa. I pick up a pen and a sheet of paper and start sketching out a diagram for him. “We’ll go in through the entrance by the kitchen wall. That will lead us to the area where they store the food. We then go round the side of the restaurant to reach the players’ changing rooms. To the right is the big electric generator; you can hide behind it. In the meantime, I’ll walk along the big white wall that they used to project films onto. From there, I’ll go into the grove of palm trees. Just a few steps further is a medium-sized opening in the fence, on the left side. It leads directly to Court No. 2. I’ll look for an opening in the tent material. I’ll take a quick look inside; and then I’ll come back to where I left you.”

  He gazes at my sketch. I ask, “Are we in agreement?”

  He gathers up his courage, “We’re in agreement.”

  It gets darker. Saad disappears behind the huge silent generator. From his position, he will be able to observe the entire scene clearly. I cautiously make my way toward the projection wall. My heart is fluttering away inside my chest in terror. There is no going back now. I try to visualize myself playing a game of cat and mouse at the age of eight. The bitter cold is pinching me. I curse the litter that has been tossed behind the wall. It crunches as I step on it. I slow down to try and minimize the sounds that my feet are making. A few moments later, I spot the soldier, hunched up in his chair, the way he always sits. His face is illuminated by the feeble glow from a lantern. I bend down as far as I can go and squeeze myself through the opening at the end of the fence that surrounds the grove of palm trees. I have finally reached my target.

  A small hole in the cloth is calling out to me. A faint glimmer of light is shining out through it. It seems to be coming from a lantern that has been hung up inside the tent. The floor of the tent is slightly raised. It too gives off a dim light. I take a few cautious steps forward. Soon I am close enough to smell the odor of the khaki cloth. My eyes freeze on the spot. My God! I am unable to control myself. A scream of horror bursts out from my throat. At that moment, the soldier stands up and shouts, “Stay where you are!”

  Without seeing me, the soldier starts to head toward the back of the tent. But he is stopped in his tracks by a loud din that makes him turn around in amazement. Saad has started up the electric generator, and the tennis courts are blanketed by the unexpected sounds. I am trying as hard as I can to remember the sketch showing me the way back to our building. I concentrate my thoughts, trying not to drag my feet.

  I start to make my escape through the opening in the fence I came through. A creepy-crawly feeling spreads throughout my body; it is turning to goose flesh all the way down including the leather skin of my shoes!

  Saad’s hand reaches out from somewhere to haul me out of the darkness. The din of the machine is deafening. We emerge from the opening in the kitchen wall, and run panting, all the way back to his flat. He turns off the lights and we throw ourselves down onto the floor, trembling.

  When I open my eyes, I can see his bedroom ceiling whirling around me. His face then appears, followed by the face of my aunt’s husband. As soon as I see Abu Ghayeb, I throw myself into his arms sobbing like a baby. He starts caressing my forehead. “How do you feel, Dalal?”

  “What happened?”

  “You passed out.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “We were worried about you. What did you see?”

  “Where’s my aunt?”

  “Asleep.”

  “Does she know?”

  “Not yet. Don’t worry about her, just tell us what happened.”

  Saad starts to wipe the sweat from my face. “Dead bodies. Dead bodies everywhere!” I tell them.

  My words hit them like a bolt of lightning. “I recognized two of them. They’re the people from the building that was struck by the missile.”

  My aunt’s husband holds me close to his chest. “Calm down, calm down.”

  He asks Saad to get me some water as I go on, “They’re so many. And the children are laid out to one side.”

  Saad and my aunt’s husband exchange glances. “And there are some soldiers there as well.”

  Saad asks my aunt’s husband, “Why would they store dead bodies in a tennis court?”

  “Maybe they’ve run out of space in the morgues at the nearby hospitals.”

  “Aren’t they worried that they will start to decompose?”

  “It’s very cold these days.”

  Abu Ghayeb brings the water to my lips. It cascades onto my teeth like an icicle. “Their limbs have been severed, their legs are twisted, and their faces are deformed.”

  Saad comes over and holds my hand. “Saad, I saw a little girl with ribbons in her hair, but her eye…it wasn’t there.”

  “Stop. Relax.”

  Saad asks him, “But why would they hang up a lantern to illuminate the corpses?”

  “Maybe it’s to enable their relatives to identify them. Maybe those soldiers were lost in a battle.”

  “But there are no battles going on at the moment.”

  “The country is full of secrets, Saad. How do you expect us to know why soldiers are dying when there isn’t a battle going on?”

  “Please, Abu Ghayeb, lower your voice. Walls have ears.”

  “That doesn’t change things. We’ll never know the truth about what goes on outside these city walls, or even within them.”

  Abu Ghayeb stands up and starts pacing up and down the room. I gesture to him, calling him over. He says, “Yes, Dalal.”

  “The bees, they were feeding on their blood.”

  The silver stars go out.

  I stay in my room for two whole days. During that time, the teacher on the first floor announces that he is going to marry the woman who gave birth at home and had her baby delivered by the barber. He is going to move in with her. That way they can share their expenses between them. He can claim that he is going to adopt the boy who sells newspapers. Therefore he is entitled to be officially called “Abu Hamid.” Also, the owners of Ilham’s flat, who live in Cyprus, send one of their relatives to sort out the flat on their behalf. Thus the building now has three signs saying FLAT FOR SALE decorating it. The signs dangle down from the various floors, one from the fifth, one from the second, and one from the first.

  My aunt follows her husband’s movements from one room to the other. “I’ve already told you. There’s no need for anyone to know.”

  “I can’t go on pretending that I don’t know the truth.”

  “But then our future will be over.”

  “You carry on with what you’re doing; I’ll deal with my problem myself.”

  “But I’m no longer expecting an income from sewing. This season isn’t encouraging, and I don’t know what business will be like in the summer.”

  “What do you want me to do? Cheat?”

  “Let us at least wait and see how things turn out.”

  “That’s too late. The insects have been tainted.”

  “What do you want to do now?”

  “What can I tell the buyers? That the next batch of honey will be made out of human juices?”

  The distress in his face is obvious. His voice is becoming more high-pitched, “Yes, I’ll display the strange honey with a pinkish hue on the shelf and announce ‘Just released, From Humans…For Humans.’”

  “Don’t be cynical.”

  “Or maybe it would be better if I brought it out at the next fair with the other flavors: Orange Honey, Date Honey, Human Honey. Do you like this idea?”

  She follows him wherever he goes. “But you
have no proof that the bees have been feeding on human blood.”

  “What other proof do I need? They went mad from the time that that tent was set up. What do you think has happened?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Would you change your mind if I checked it out?”

  My aunt doesn’t answer him. He adds, “In order to get rid of the red bee, which is the honeybee’s deadliest enemy, a beekeeper will lay out traps with rotting meat or fish in them. I suspect that my honeybees have been attracted to a similar substance.”

  She says to him, “But you mentioned once that bees hate unusual smells.”

  “In spite of that, I can’t be certain that they didn’t feed on the corpses. I can’t risk it.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’ll get rid of them.”

  “How?”

  He paces around the sitting room, surrounded by the paintings. He gazes at the colors all around him. “In my own way.”

  “How can I convince you to change your mind?”

  “I have no choice.”

  She shouts at him, “Yes, you do have a choice. You can keep quiet, and we can carry on with our life as before.”

  “At this point, nothing is as it was before.”

  He rubs his forehead for a while, and then pinches his cheeks between his fingers as he tries harder to concentrate. He goes up to the paintings, walks away from them, and then makes his way back toward them once again. He says, “Dalal, get me a measuring tape.”