by Ghada Samman
When my father found out I was in medical school, he was so furious that he told me to quit my stupid studying and do something I could make a living from. I told him I wanted to be a doctor. “What!” he scoffed. “A beast like you become a doctor?” “That’s right,” I told him. “Like other beasts, I’m struggling to survive.”
Changing the subject, he groused, “You’re living here rent-free, by the way.” A classmate of mine had told me about a room for rent in an elderly widow’s house, and the next day I moved out. I didn’t say a word. I just disappeared from their lives, which was exactly what they wanted me to do. After I graduated I found out they’d been looking for me. And why? Because my father wanted to rake me over the coals for leaving, and my stepmother wanted to tell me how grateful I should be to her for wearing herself raising me! She was good at making up stories about how she’d taken care of me when I was little, when she was the one who’d made me sick in the first place.
Have I forgiven them? I don’t know. Forgiveness is an elusive sort of thing. Sometimes, when you’re feeling serene, you stitch up old wounds; then along come the shadows of bitterness and resentment and tear the stitches out. In any case, I went to France on a scholarship to study obstetrics and gynecology. My aim: to be able to abort any woman who was carrying a child nobody wanted. A child that would come into the world only to be abused and degraded, then grow up without being able either to forgive or forget.
When I met the French nurse who later became my wife, I didn’t tell her about any of this. The look of admiration in her eyes came as a thrill to this hardworking man who had felt so degraded and defeated. Here was somebody who, as she handed me the scalpel, looked at my hands with respect and appreciation. I was a sucker for her veneration, and when I came back to Damascus after graduating, she came with me.
Once you’ve tasted the water of Al Fijeh Spring, you’ll be nostalgic for Damascus as long as you live. Ah, the memories of wandering through Bab Al Jabiyah, Bab Tuma, Al Salihiyah, Al Jisr Al Abyad, Sheikh Muhyi Al Din Mosque, Al Qassaa, the Umayyad Mosque, Souq Al Hamidiya, Al Marjah, Baghdad Street, Qanawat, Al Shaghour, Mi’dhanat Al Shahm, Qabratkeh, and on and on… They won’t let you forget them. I came back to Damascus not to take revenge on the people who had humiliated me and who need me now. I came back because my love for Damascus won’t let me go.
The city changed a lot while I was gone, as had everyone I’d known there. This kind of change goes on all the time, of course, and cities mirror the spirits of those who live in them. When I got back, everybody seemed to think I’d forgotten the abuse I’d endured during my childhood and adolescence, and when they came to the clinic for treatment, they’d make up funny stories about things I was supposed to have experienced with them when I was a little boy. All I could remember was maltreatment and humiliation. Somehow I managed to keep my mouth shut with a stupid, Mona Lisa-esque smile plastered on my face.
Maybe I get my calm resignation from drawing pictures of the children I’ve aborted. Before doing a drawing, I form an image in my head based on what I know of the parents’ features, my impressions of their personalities, and the kinds of suffering that might have been in store for the child. I have a huge collection of drawings that people might think are of babies I delivered. Little do they know they’re of children I euthanized. As for people who know what I actually do, they assume I do it for money, and I let them think whatever they please.
Tonight I’ll go home to my wife, who doesn’t know a thing about what goes on deep inside me, and plant a kiss on her forehead. Then I’ll head for my clinic, which at night I turn into a studio, and draw Zain’s baby. He’ll be beautiful and mournful like his mother, who has no idea what sorrows she’s stirred up in my soul. This is the first time a girl has come to get an abortion without support from anyone at all, and it’s shaken me to the core. I go looking for her in Subki Park, but I don’t see her. I wonder where she went.
The building Zain had asked Dr. Manahili to take her to had once been home to her friend Nayela. The two of them had attended twelfth grade together in Al Jisr Al Abyad neighborhood, and Zain had passed by Nayela’s every day so that they could walk to school together. Nayela didn’t live there anymore, and the building had been put up for sale. Even so, Zain plopped down on its front steps to rest for a while until the doctor was out of sight. She doused her neck with jasmine perfume from a Parisian crystal bottle she’d inherited from her mother. Jasmine perfume made her feel stronger, as if it were the scent of her ancestors’ spirits.
The abortion was just the beginning. The worst part is still to come. My husband’s been getting ready to celebrate my eighteenth birthday in full bourgeois style. But tonight I’ve got to tell him that it’s all over between us.
Zain got up and left the building. She was afraid some resident might come out, find her sitting on the stairs and ask her what she wanted. She was too worn out to come up with a story about why she was there. Feeling more exhausted than ever, she decided to rest for a while on the bench nearest the Subki Park entranceway. She could hardly walk, but she had to decide what to do next. Now that she was homeless, whose house would she go to – her husband’s, or her father’s? And how would she get there? Would she have the strength to tell her husband what she’d decided to do that very day, or would she put it off until the next morning? Was that Dr. Manahili’s car parked at the end of the street, or did it just look like his? As she collapsed onto a green bench, she regretted not having bought her scarf to wrap around her neck. Damascus’s autumn sun was warm. It was hot, in fact. Even so, she was shivering. She felt panicky. She might start bleeding, and catch a cold, too.
I’m a boulder on Mt Qasioun.
Afraid one of her aunts might pass by and see her, she moved to a bench further from the entrance. On one bench lay a homeless man taking a nap. Then she spotted an empty bench across from a turbaned man with a rosary in his hand. When he saw Zain, his fingers started fiddling more rapidly with his beads as though she were an evil omen. Undeterred, she flung herself down on the bench opposite him, closed her eyes, and fell into a coma-like slumber.
She was wakened by the sound of children who had come to the park with their mother and were taking turns screeching. She was too tired to move to another bench, but she planned to pass by the Kaddoura Pharmacy to buy the medications the doctor had prescribed. She hadn’t understood part of his instructions, so she’d decided to read the prescription later when she felt calmer and to ask the pharmacist about what she’d missed.
As she sat there engrossed in her anxious thoughts, in pain and on the verge of despair, she heard a voice speaking to her. It was vivacious and manly.
“Would you mind if I sat down here?” the voice asked. “All the other benches are occupied, as you can see.”
“Go ahead,” Zain replied curtly without a sideward glance. As she spoke, she picked up her purse and shrank toward one end of the bench. Meanwhile, she continued to wonder how she was going to get home when she could hardly walk, and whether she would go to the house she’d been sharing with her husband in Hayy Al Ra’is, or to her father’s house in Sahat Al Midfaa. It was a reminder that she didn’t have a house she could really call her own. At the same time, she couldn’t bring herself to go to a hotel.
I wish I had a cave in the wilderness just for me, some place where I could argue with myself, and with the woman who lives inside me and who’s started using my fingers to express her ideas.
She felt a terrible urge to go to the old house in Ziqaq Al Yasmin. If she just told her family what she’d done, maybe they’d take her in and give her the TLC she needed so badly. Then she realized what a ridiculous thought this was. In your dreams, girl! Who do you think you’re fooling?
The stranger sharing the bench with her said, “I’m Ghazwan Ayed. What’s your name?”
Looking over at him for the first time, she saw a slightly built young man of medium height whose face was adorned by a mop of thick hair, a pair of eyes that dr
ipped with honey, and an exquisitely dimpled chin. She wondered if his mother had pressed a chickpea into it when he was little to make that lovely indentation. According to her grandmother, at least, this was how people got dimples in their chins. For a few moments Zain forgot all about her pain and the awful day she was having. At the same time, she drew her blouse more snugly around her as though to protect herself from an invasion. The stranger took off his suit jacket and, without asking her permission, draped it over her shoulders and tucked it fondly around her neck.
“There,” he said simply. “You’re so beautiful! But you’re so pale and tired-looking. And you’re shivering with cold even though it’s warm!”
She said nothing, but made no attempt to resist his gesture. She really had begun to shiver despite the warmth in the air. She felt herself slipping out of consciousness again. In a voice she felt she’d known for a thousand years, he said, “I’m Ghazwan Ayed. I’m telling you my name again because I don’t want you to forget it. And I want you to know that as drained as you are, I find you ravishingly beautiful without a drop of makeup. Are you a Palestinian refugee like me?”
Amazed by the steadiness in her voice, as though she were drawing strength from his presence, she replied tranquilly, “I’m a local refugee from no place and no time. I could tell you were Palestinian from your accent. I have a cousin who’s a Palestinian refugee too. You’re welcome here.”
“Don’t worry,” he added amiably, “I won’t be invading your house, or even your neighborhood! My family has a house here and I’ve got a job as a teacher in Kuwait. But I’m on leave now, since I’m also a student at the University of Damascus.”
She cracked a smile for the first time since her miserable day had begun. She wanted to tell him that she was a university student too, and that they might even have a class together, but she couldn’t get anything to come out of her mouth. Her nerves were a wreck, and she kept fading alternately in and out of consciousness.
“You’re not much of a talker,” he commented. “But your eyes speak for you. I can hear them. They’ve got a music about them, and they fill the sky with a rainbow of light.”
Then he went quiet.
They sat pondering the colorful autumn leaves as they fell from the trees. Zain seemed to recall hearing of Ghazwan Ayed before. She’d read some short stories in newspapers by someone with that name. She felt as though they’d lived some previous life together. Come on now. Don’t go off on some romantic tangent. You’ve seen his picture in a magazine on literary criticism. No, it wasn’t him. Yes, it was. Those eyes… that dimple. That handsome face… Chill out, advised the sensible writer who lived inside her. The anesthesia hasn’t worn off, and you’re still not rational.
Ghazwan looked her straight in the eye for a long time. Then suddenly, and with utter seriousness, he said, “Will you marry me? If you’ve turned eighteen, how about we do the ceremony today?” Zain burst out laughing. “But you haven’t even asked me what my name is!” she said, “Or whether I’m married or not. Or pregnant, for example!” Does every day bring a new love?1 she whispered to herself. His presence almost made her forget her pain and the tangled web she was struggling to break loose from.
“Well, girl, whatever your name is, I love you!”
So there it was: an outpouring of madness, Palestinian-style! And what a beautiful madman he was. She knew she’d never forget him. How could she forget a handsome young man who’d asked for her hand in marriage the very first time he saw her? But she wasn’t going to get carried away by romantic fancies or “love at first sight.” She’d tried that before, and now she was suffering the consequences.
If it hadn’t been for a sudden stab of pain in her abdomen, she would have sprouted wings and flown away right there and then. The wave of pain and fatigue pulled her into the depths and nearly drowned her. She didn’t really know whether she had seen that face in The Critic magazine or not, or even whether she’d heard the name before. Her mind was a total blur. She was so exhausted, all she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep. She needed to lie down on a bed that wasn’t an operating table, and without a doctor in a white lab coat standing over her.
“I’ve got to be going,” she said to Ghazwan.
“What?” he said. “Are you leaving? Do you think you can run away from me or forget me? I love you, and that’s that!”
Ghazwan had swept her off her feet, but her body wasn’t up to the adventure. She felt about as energetic as a limp rag. In a tremulous voice that she could hardly bear to hear coming out of her mouth, she replied, “I’m going to the pharmacy to buy some medicine.” What she didn’t say out loud was: Then I’m going to my husband’s house behind the pharmacy to sleep!
The writer living inside her, whose voice was getting louder by the day, said: Spend one more night in your husband’s house. You need rest before making the final leap. Besides, going to my dad’s house would mean having to explain myself, and I’m too spent for that now. Okay then, one last night with my husband, and tomorrow morning I’ll tell him goodbye.
In a tone as serious as it was playful, Ghazwan asked her, “Now that I’ve proposed, might you do me the honor of telling me your name, Miss mystery Girl?”
Her only reply was, “I’ve got a cold and have to be going…” “I’ll take you wherever you need to go. I’ve got my friend’s car till ten o’clock tonight.”
“To Kaddoura Pharmacy, please,” she said. “I need to buy a bottle of aspirin, then go home.”
“Very well, Subki Park girl!” he agreed.
“Let’s go, then,” she said. Ghazwan was enthused, thinking he’d find out where she lived. He didn’t want to lose track of her. Something drew him to her, though he wasn’t sure what it was.
When she gave his coat back to him, he nearly told her to keep it, but then he thought better of it, since it was the only one he had. He never wanted her to go away. It surprised him to feel this way, since he usually took to women who were fans of his, who had read his stories and who knew him as a writer. This girl doesn’t seem to care about anything, as if she were living on some other planet. On the other hand, I think she really is sick. She must have a cold, or something worse. Zain wanted to tell him she was married, that she’d had an abortion just hours before, and that this was why she was feeling so awful. But she couldn’t get herself to say it. He drove off with her, wishing she could stay by his side forever in a car that would never stop, break down or blow up! Unfortunately, though, they reached their destination.
He pulled up in front of the pharmacy. Zain got out with a painful slowness that was inconsistent with her youth, giving him all the more reason to believe she was genuinely ill. She reached out and shook his hand. He took her hand in his, saying: “I’ll wait for you.” As he held her hand, he realized how a handshake can be the equivalent of a warm embrace. He didn’t know what madness had come over him, but whatever it was, he wanted more than anything else in the world never to part with her.
At last she withdrew her hand from his with a smile and fibbed, “I’ll be back after I buy the aspirin.” For some reason he didn’t believe her. Even so, he still expected to see her when she came out of the pharmacy. Little did he know that the pharmacy had a back door that opened onto the alley off the street she lived on. So after buying the medicine, she escaped to her house through the back entrance. Meanwhile, he went on waiting in his stopped car while a traffic policeman took his license plate number.
Once in the house, Zain fell exhausted onto the bed. It had been a long, long day. To her relief, her husband wasn’t home. She drew the curtains and lay back down. In the dim light she saw a naked infant floating through the air. She felt the pain of the millions of people all over the planet who are miserable for one reason or another. She saw scissors, scalpels, tiny probes and terrifying needles floating all over the room alongside the baby. They went flying around in front of her face, in her eyes, inside her head. She took her head in her hands. She wanted to scream, but st
ifled herself, afraid that her husband might come home and see what was wrong. The minute she thought about him, everything vanished. She went out onto the balcony and tried to breathe, but the pathway between her lungs and her throat felt blocked, like a mountain road covered with rocks and dirt from a sudden landslide. She was tempted to take refuge in the sleeping pill the doctor had given her as she got out of his car. He said, “You might need this tonight.” What a thoughtful person he is. He’s nothing at all like the rumors going around about him.
She pictured Ghazwan’s refreshing face as he said to her on the way to the pharmacy, “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. The future is yours. Don’t crawl into your shell. Poke a hole in it the way a butterfly does with its cocoon, and come fly with me. I love you. I love you!”
Zain swallowed the magic pill. Then she sank into a coma-like slumber. Some time later she was wakened by her husband’s voice. “Get up, lazy bones! We’re going to celebrate your birthday tonight. Have you forgotten? And why did you run off in the early morning before I got a chance to see you?”