by Ghada Samman
Casting her sister a look of non-recognition, the dying woman emitted a feeble scream. “Look at him! Look at him!” she cried pitifully. “For God’s sake, look at him!” I saw her point in the direction of the window. Zain didn’t know whether she was referring to the light coming in through it, or to the leafless tree outside it. She was so alarmed, at first Zain thought she must be seeing a burglar. Then she realized she was talking about Lord Death. Taking her hand, Zain asked her what she was afraid of.
Staring back at Zain in sheer terror, she shrieked faintly at Grandma Hayat, “Why did you bring this scrawny owl with you? And you brought death along, too! Look at him! He’s splitting open a watermelon beside the pond. Now he’s coming after me. Look!”
Like a guilty little girl, Grandma Hayat said, “I swear, I left her at home with the kids in the courtyard. I have no idea how she managed to follow me all the way here!”
“Look! Look!” her dying sister screamed, and pointed at Zain. Now Zain was afraid.
“Close your eyes,” Grandma Hayat said to her, “so that you can’t see him.”
The dying woman whispered feebly, her eyes shut, “I still see him clear as day, even with my eyes closed. I don’t want to close my eyes. He’s… he’s…”
Grandma Hayat broke in, saying, “Start reciting from the Qur’an. Say: ‘God is One.’ He’ll be easier on you that way.”
As I listened to the two women, I thought of my mother. She was laid out in a coffin, and I lay down beside her to wake her up. I wanted to meet Death and ask him to send her back to me.
The dying woman’s voice grew softer. “Look… Look… What is it? Please… What is it?” She didn’t say any of the traditional things that Zain had read about people saying when they’re passing away.
* * *
Waseem’s mother arranged the sitting room, placing the finishing touches on it in preparation for her guests. Today’s the monthly reception at my house, and I’m expecting all the women of the family and all the neighbor ladies to come. It’s the first time we’ve met since the news got out about Zain and Waseem.
She knew the women coming to visit would outdo themselves saying nasty things about Zain, thinking this would make her happy. It would never have occurred to them that she loved the girl! She had the guts to do what I always wanted to do myself, but never dared. I wanted to finish my education, but instead I was married off to my cousin, and for that they pulled me out of school when I was just fifteen years old. I didn’t know whether I loved him or not. At that age, I didn’t even know what love was. I had lots of children, but never once did anybody ask me how I felt about anything. I was just a paddle in a water wheel that kept taking me around and around. When Zain came along and was so in love with my son, it reminded me of the way I’d felt about a neighbor boy back in the day. I buried those feelings, of course, and forgot about him. Then, when Zain had her change of heart toward Waseem, it scared me, because I was reminded of resentments I’ve struggled with myself. I mean, I’m no saint. In fact, I’m full of regrets. For one thing, I regret not finishing my education. So when I sent food every day to my son’s house, I didn’t do it just for his sake. I did it for Zain’s sake, too, since I wanted her to be able to go on with her studies. Touching my children’s school books sends an electrical charge through me to this day, because it makes me think about the chances I was deprived of. I dislike my poor son-in-law for the simple reason that he married my fair-skinned, pleasantly plump daughter and bought her a fancy condo on Abu Rummana Street, which is in an upscale part of town. Buying her a nice place to live was all right as far as it went, of course. But then he isolated her from people and took her away from her studies so that all she does now is have kids and cook big meals. I liked Zain because she made me think of the way I was before I was “tamed.” How can I hate her for wanting to divorce her husband, even if he happens to be my son? That’s exactly what I would have liked to do once upon a time, but I didn’t have the courage to go through with it.
* * *
When Zain came home from the university, she headed straight for the kitchen, which was where she usually found her grandmother. As she approached the door, she heard Grandma Hayat’s lovely voice wafting in her direction. As usual, she’d changed some of the words in the song the way she’d always done with the stories she told.
My hometown, O my hometown,
I want to go to my hometown,
O my dear, I want to go to my hometown.
It’s worth six hometowns put together,
And I’ve got six kids there.
O Lord, take me back where I belong, And bring my children home!
Then she said in a plaintive voice, “Everybody lives in a different country now!” Zain laughed affectionately. As far as her grandmother was concerned, leaving Ziqaq Al Yasmin for another neighborhood was the equivalent of going abroad!
Grandma Hayat turned to look at Zain and found her holding a small cat in her arms.
“So,” she said happily, “you’ve brought me a kitty-cat! You know how much I loved the ones that used to make friends with our pet snake4 back at the house in Ziqaq Al Yasmin.”
But after taking a closer look at the little creature, she objected, “What’s this sickly, ugly, scabby thing you’ve dragged in, girl?”
Zain put the cat down on the floor, and as she walked toward the grandmother, she limped from a defect or wound in one of her front legs. She looked so miserable and worn-out, you would have thought she’d been run over by all the cars in Damascus, and her fur looked as though it had been singed by lightning. She kept heading toward Grandma Hayat, doing her best to walk normally.
“All right,” the grandmother relented, softening at the sight of the little animal’s valiant efforts. “She doesn’t hold a candle to your aunt’s cat Fulla. But she’ll do. Where did you find her?”
“Oh, she was wandering around in the street,” Zain replied. “Her owners must have abandoned her. We can’t neglect a kitty that’s had such lousy luck. We love cats!”
“Cats, you say?” the grandmother rejoined with a laugh. “Or do you mean owls? No owls, please!”
Giggling and giving her grandmother a hug, Zain said, “You’ve already got an owl in the house.” She ringed her eyes with her fingers and called out, “Hoo! Hoo! Hoooo!”
Grandma Hayat wrapped her arms around her and drew her close, and Zain found the safe haven she needed.
* * *
One day as Zain walked in exhausted from her shift at work, she nearly bumped into the maid, who was carrying a tray of fancy coffee cups reserved for guests.
Her curiosity aflame, Zain stepped into the sitting room. The guest turned out to be none other than Dr. Manahili. She was gripped with terror. Might he have told her father about her abortion? She stole a fearful glance at her father’s face, but saw a happy twinkle in his eyes.
He said to her, “You may not remember Dr. Manahili. You were just a little girl when we used to meet. He was at your wedding, but I’m sure you weren’t paying any attention to the guests that night!” Then, his voice tinged with pride, he added, “Dr. Manahili came to congratulate me on the things you’ve been writing.”
“You’re really good with words, Zain,” the doctor interjected. “I’ve started buying the newspapers just so I can read what you’ve published there.”
Then, in a meaningful tone he added, “I’m happy to see you looking so well!”
Zain sat down with them happily, and to her infinite relief, not a word was said about her upcoming divorce.
* * *
Fadila paced around the courtyard pond. My dad is determined to marry me off to Mutaa, since he’s rich and comes from a “respectable family.” The first time he saw me, my sisters and I were working in our brocade shop because Baba was sick. He said he’d come to buy gifts for some clients of his in the import-export business, and asked to talk to one of my brothers or my father. In other words, he wanted to speak witha man of the family who’d ha
ve the smarts to understand business matters. As far as he was concerned, I couldn’t possibly have been anything more than a “helper” and wouldn’t have been fit to make any decisions! He talked down to me as if I were some pea-brain who didn’t know the first thing about Damascene brocade. On top of that, he said something about a plan to market the brocade all over the world, which led me to suspect that he wasn’t really there to buy presents but, rather, to find a way to take over my dad’s business now that it was being run by his daughters.
So he turned me off from the start. But now I really don’t like him. I’ll bet the only reason he wants to marry me is so that he can get his hands on our Damascene brocade, which was “woven from a love story between the sun and the moon, between the silver strands of its fabric and golden threads of sunlight between the blueness of the sea, the darkness of night on Mt. Qasioun, and the red spring flowers of the Ghouta.” That’s how Zain described our brocade—the material we’ve spun with our sweat and tears—to a delegation of Westernized Arabs, some of whom had been born in Syria and some of whom had been born abroad, and had come to visit their homeland. As Zain switched back and forth between Arabic and other languages, I heard her giving voice to things I felt but didn’t know how to express. I envied her for the chance she’d had to learn so much. Unlike my dad, who’s wanted ever since his daughters were born to pawn us off on a respectable suitor, Uncle Amjad made sure Zain got a good education.
I think Mutaa is disgusting. He’s nothing but a greedy opportunist. He doesn’t love me. Far from it. He wants to get back at me for not liking him by invading me and taking me over. I pulled away when he pretended to touch my hand by accident while I was showing him a piece of brocade. By that time, I’d caught onto the fact that he didn’t want to buy some brocade as a gift for some clients. He wanted to buy our whole shop as a gift to himself!
Today we had the ceremony where he put a ring on my finger. As he slipped it on, I closed my eyes and imagined that it was my dear, not-so-well-to-do Najm putting the ring on my hand. If Mutaa kisses me or violates my body some day, I’ll pretend he’s Najm so that I won’t go crazy. Mutaa’s hand on my fingers felt so cold, it sent a shiver up my spine. Our families applauded, thinking I was trembling with joy. If only I could be like Zain. If only I could just say, “This is the man I love, and he’s the one I’m marrying!” Zain had a steely determination about her that was made even steelier by her passion. Well, I’m just as passionate about Najm as she ever was about Waseem. When Zain was living here in Ziqaq Al Yasmin she was a rebel. According to my mother, her mother Hind’s spirit had taken up residence in her body (imagine that!). Still, I don’t dare do what she did now that she’s let me down. Both families are talking up my engagement to Mutaa. We’re scheduled to sign the marriage contract a week from today, and my mother-in-law says the groom’s furnished a house for us, which means we won’t be living with her. That, as far as my mother is concerned, is the best wedding gift any bride could hope for. On top of that, the house is on Abu Rummana Street, which is in a posh part of town. So what more could I ask? As Mutaa was leaving, he said in a sickening voice, “Whatever you want, just ask!” I nearly said, “All right, then, I want you to take that filthy smooth talk of yours and get out of my life. I don’t even like you, much less love you! But I do love school-teacher Najm and I want to spend my life with him whether he’s inherited a fortune from his rich uncle abroad, or not!”
I hope I can get up the courage to do what Zain did even though she’s gone back on it now with her divorce. She heard Waseem was the black sheep of his family, and people said all sorts of terrible things about him, but she didn’t give a damn. She told everybody how things were going to be, and married him. In fact, they had a huge bash of a wedding. Her dad bought her a trousseau fit for a queen, including top-of-the-line fashions, traditional hand-embroidered gowns and modern, machine-made items from Al Hayek’s Department Store. Then she spent her wedding night with the man she was in love with, and she said it had been the night of a lifetime.
In any case, after our awful engagement party, where everybody but me had a good time, I mustered the courage to tell my mother how I really felt. As she helped me unbutton my corset, I said, “Mama, I don’t love Mutaa. The person I really want to marry is Najm, the school teacher.”
My mother looked as if I’d just slapped her in the face. Once she’d collected herself a bit, she said gloatingly, “Oh, haven’t you heard? Zain wants to divorce her husband—the one she was head-over-heels in love with—and she’s come back to live with her dad. That’s what I heard from your grandma Hayat.”
I didn’t tell her I’d gone to see Zain and that I knew everything. I felt so confused and demoralized, I just kept my mouth shut. How was I going to get myself out of the situation I was in?
Chapter Four
Tomorrow morning’s the divorce hearing at the Palace of Justice. That’s all I know. I haven’t dared ask my dad about the details. I know he wasn’t happy about this marriage, and deep down I’ll bet he’s glad I’m getting divorced. At the same time, I know I’ve embarrassed him before society and his associates in the national companies they’ve fought so proudly to incorporate since being liberated from the French mandate. He’s bound to these people not only by ties of friendship, but also by the interests of fledgling corporations allied with the Quartet Company, most of which is owned by Waseem’s family. Basically everybody in both his family and mine was sure the marriage would fall apart once the flame of teenage romance had died down and the magic carpet had brought us down to earth again.
To my chagrin, I’ve discovered that society’s verdicts aren’t always stupid after all. When I fell in love, I was sure the whole world was wrong, and that I alone knew what reality and love were. But now, all I know is that I want to be unshackled from this marriage. There’s no harm in my admitting that I made a mistake and that I want to correct it. All that matters now is to let go of my pride and make a new start.
Zain paced the balcony. Why is Najati so late? He promised to come by so that we could talk about tomorrow. It’s the day I’ve dreamed of for so long, yet now that it’s almost here, my knees are wobbly, I’m so scared.
She knew her father hated talking about the issue, and she didn’t blame him, which was why she’d hired Najati, an old friend of the family’s and her father’s one-time partner. She called Najati’s house to find out what had kept him. No answer. I know this is the first divorce in the Khayyal family. No woman in the clan has ever had the nerve to insist on marrying a man because she was in love with him and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, to insist on divorcing him a year later because she couldn’t stand him anymore. No woman in all Ziqaq Al Yasmin has ever dared say, “I’m in love.” When a neighbor girl did that some time back, her mother put a hot coal on her tongue. Well, I committed the same sin that girl did, and now I’m committing a second one: getting divorced. I feel so sorry for Fadila, who gave in and let Mutaa put that ring on her finger!
In need of moral support and wanting to know what awaited her the following day, Zain tried calling Najati again. When his wife answered the telephone, she told Zain that he’d been invited to a book-signing event by a well-known author. “Everybody’s who’s anybody in the literary world will be there. Aren’t you going, too?” That author is so inundated by admirers, he won’t even notice if Najati didn’t show up. As for me, I’m lonely, I’m worried to death, and I need him, damn it!
Crestfallen, Zain hung up and went back to pacing the balcony. She decided she would have to face the next day on her own, unarmed outside and inside.
Her father came out and asked, “Would you like me to go with you tomorrow?”
There was nothing she would have liked more. But a voice inside said, Let him be. You’ve put him through enough as it is.
“No, dad,” she told him. “Najati will be there, and we’ll be just fine!”
She could feel her father heaving a silent sigh of relief.
> “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll be turning in early, since I’ve got briefs to file in several different courts tomorrow.”
What she hadn’t said was: I really do want you to go with me tomorrow, and I know you’re afraid I’ll change my mind. You’re going to bed to escape your worries, but you might not sleep a wink. You’ll just turn off the light and try not to think about how rash I can be!
At that moment a flame was ignited in Zain’s heart. I’m going to take hold of my life without anybody’s help. I’m not going to let anybody interfere in my decisions or even listen to anybody’s opinion unless I’ve asked for advice.
When Zain went to bed, she slept fitfully, dreaming off and on. When she couldn’t sleep, she journaled. The strong woman that lived inside her wrote about how happy she was that her father had decided not to go with her to the courtroom. Zain told herself that if she’d known how to go through the divorce procedures on her own, she wouldn’t even have let Najati come with her. Several times on the same page she wrote, “I want to take hold of my life. I want to own my own destiny. I don’t want to depend on anybody but myself. I want the right to make mistakes the way men in Ziqaq Al Yasmin do, and the right to correct them without everybody else getting all bent out of shape over it.” She wrote herself to sleep, her owl cooing in her ear.
The morning of the big day finally arrived. A hard-hearted winter had wounded Damascus with its snows, and in through the window wafted the fragrances of a warm, long-awaited spring.
Despite her restless sleep the night before, Zain was alert and ready to go, like a slave on the day of her release.
One night I was staying late at the library getting ready for final exams. The winter winds were blowing wildly outside, making a sound somewhere between a howl and a scream. I sat down in the only vacant seat at a large table next to the window. As I was studying, a car pulled up outside with its radio blasting. An exquisite, captivating voice crooned, “We’ll come back some day to our neighborhood and walk down memory lane! However long we’re apart, no matter the distance, we’ll be back, the nightingale told me on the morning when we met at the bend.” Then all of a sudden, I saw Waseem’s face peering in through the window. He was spying on me even though I’d announced that I was leaving him.