by Ghada Samman
“You’re right,” the grandmother agreed. “They’ve got a deterrent now, don’t they!”
“Juhaina’s managed to change a lot of things around here,” Zain added.
The little cat slipped onto the old woman’s lap. It looked worlds better than it had on the day Zain brought it in from the street. In fact, it was almost beautiful. It was walking better, too. Grandma Hayat began stroking it affectionately, and the cat seemed happy with the pampering it had missed as a kitten.
“By the way,” said the old woman, giggling, “He’s a he, not a she. I’ve named him Haroun!”
* * *
From the time Zain and Waseem were divorced, the phone had been ringing off the hook at her house. People seem to get high off scandals.
Another ring of the phone. Zain jumped up to answer it. I’m not going to use my grandmother as a shield anymore! To her pleasant surprise, the voice she heard was that of Dr. Manahili, who had called to congratulate her on a short story of hers that he’d just read in a Lebanese newspaper. Dr. Manahili had given her a second chance at life, and he knew it. And the fact that he knew this made her happy. He was also the only person who had never said a word about her divorce. So now they were friends who shared a secret. He invited her to have coffee with him in the outdoor café at the foot of Mt. Qasioun. “It’s to the right of the square where you look out over the orchards.”
“Have you invited my dad to come?” she asked.
“Your father hates sitting in coffee shops, even the beautiful ones in Dummar, Hameh, and Al Ayn Al Khadra. When I invite him to spend time with friends in places like that, he always turns me down.”
“Okay,” Zain replied. “I’ll be there after I get off work at five.”
As little Haroun rubbed up against Zain’s legs, Grandma Hayat picked him up and gave him a kiss. My goodness, this little guy has gotten better fast! He walks as well as any other cat now, and now that his coat is nice and clean, you can see what a beautiful face he has. He’s a real character, and he’s developed little rituals of flirtation and playful ways of getting our attention. But he can be fierce, too. When the neighbor lady Fitna tried to pet him the day she’d come to gossip about Zain’s divorce, he pulled away from her. If fact, he scratched her and hissed in her face. And I’m sure Zain feels exactly the same. She doesn’t want to hear another word about her divorce.
* * *
Fadila took another bath the next morning, and this time she nearly scrubbed her skin off. She was desperate to wipe those hoof prints not only off her skin, but out of her memory. The very thought of the bastard made her blood boil, and she wanted the whole world to know how despicable he was. I’m going to tell my family what that son of a bitch did to me. It may be a heavy price to pay to get rid of him and make my family leave me alone, but they’ll hate his guts now. Then they’ll have to open their eyes to what kind of a “groom” he is. My dad will be so mad, he’ll never let him set foot in this house again. No more rolling out the red carpet for him as if he were this one-in-a-million son-in-law that’s going to lay him golden eggs! My dad says things to Mutaa like, “If the ground knew who was walking on it, it would kiss your feet!” My God! It makes me want to puke! And my mother fawns all over him, too. But now they’ll despise him the way I do, and they’ll kick him out. They’re sure to stop pushing me into marrying a man I don’t love. I know I was right to stand up to that horned monster. When he slapped me with his foreleg, that hurt even more than when he slammed his horn into me and stabbed me with it every way he could think of. I resisted, I screamed, I writhed in pain, and he didn’t give a damn. His slaps left visible marks on my cheeks, and pretty soon they’ll start turning black, blue and all shades of hate. I can hide the bruises on my body, but not the ones on my face, or on my soul!
As her parents sat drinking their morning coffee with cardamom pods and rose water, Fadila came in to join them and, in as few words as possible, told them about the incident. “After conning me with a story about how his mom was sick at home and wanted to talk to me, he raped me.”
She expected her father to fly into an indignant rage and call down curses on Mutaa, his father, and all his ancestors. But in a surprise that stung as cruelly as her father’s slaps, he growled, “You should thank your lucky stars, girl. He spoke to me just a little while ago and said he wanted to move up the marriage-contract signing ceremony to tomorrow. So you’d better keep your mouth shut and quit acting like a spoiled brat. Be grateful he’s still willing to marry you! Who else do you suppose would want you now, huh?”
Her mouth gaping in shock, Fadila sputtered, “But he’s the criminal, and I’m the vict…!”
Before she could finish her sentence, her father started calling her names.
For the first time in her life, Fadila interrupted her father: “Najm’s prepared to marry me!” she shouted. “I told him what happened, and he told me to take a bath the way a bride does before her wedding and wash off Mutaa’s filth. He really loves me, and I love him, too!”
This time the father blew his top. “Love, love, love!” he shrieked mockingly. “What’s this stupid nonsense? Ever since Zain got married against the wishes of her father, who got her the poshest trousseau a girl could wish for, all you girls and women in Ziqaq Al Yasmin can talk about is this idiocy. It’s the latest fad. And now Zain’s divorced, trashed like a stray dog, and her picture’s in newspapers and magazines like some nightclub entertainer. For shame!”
“Love isn’t some new fad, Baba. And it isn’t shameful, either! Zain gave me an Arabic translation of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, but I can tell you for a fact that it wasn’t Shakespeare who invented romantic love!”
“What would you know? It’s just a new-fangled idea that we’ve got no need for! And I don’t want you seeing that perverted cousin of yours ever again!”
“But no, Baba, you’re wrong. What about Qays and Layla? Kuthair and Azzah? They were all Arabs…”
“And infidels! All of them were dirty infidels! Have some shame and be grateful he still wants to marry you! Now, I don’t want to see you again until the night of the ceremony, you hear? Get out of my face, you filthy good-for-nothing!”
“But I didn’t do anything. He raped me!”
“You’re a dirty slut!”
So she left. It was obvious that trying to talk to her father was a useless proposition. She would never get any support from him for the simple reason that she was a female. When a cat had given birth to a litter of kittens once, he’d thrown the females against the Damascus wall and killed them, but left the males alone.
Agitated, Fadila’s mother came running after her. She’d expected her mother to say something in her defence, or at least to sympathize with her. But before she could say a word, her mother lit into her, crying, “What happened is all your fault!” Then, her voice rising, she went on, “You’re the one who insists on wearing tight clothes and short headscarves instead of putting on the traditional headscarf like the one your grandmother wears, or a three-layered one like mine! You made him rape you, since you got him all stirred up! Girls like you should stay in line so men won’t go wild and do the things they do.”
As if she hadn’t gone on long enough already, the mother added, “Like your father said: Thank your lucky stars he’s going to cover your shame! So cut out this nonsense about wanting to marry some poor wretch named Najm that you say you’re in love with. We’ve had enough of this silly talk about love, sweetheart. Come on now. Pull yourself together. So Mutaa did what he did to you. Even so, he’s an honorable man, and he’s prepared to sign the marriage contract tomorrow. Luckily for you, he’s going to keep you from being scandalized.”
“I don’t love him, and I don’t want to marry him. He’s despicable. And I don’t care what you think! I want to marry the person I’m in love with the way Zain did. You can’t put a hot coal on my tongue the way mothers used to be able to, and neither can any other mother, even in Ziqaq Al Yasmin. Those days are over.”
Fadila looked up and saw the neighbor ladies lining the surrounding rooftops like TV antennas. She knew now that the upcoming reception would be devoted not to gossip about Zain’s divorce but, rather, to the story of how Mutaa had moved the wedding date up by a day and a night. I refuse to go through with this marriage. And if they manage to force me into it, I’ll commit suicide.
“Who can tolerate rebellious women? They should be burned as witches. No woman has been allowed to swerve from the path set out for her by males since ancient times.” Fadila reread these lines from an article Zain had written and given her a copy of. She decided to try to see Zain and tell her what had happened. Then again, she didn’t want advice. All she wanted was a sympathetic ear.
One cloudy morning, Fadila’s sister Hamida announced to her mother, “I’ll be late getting back this evening. I’ve joined the Baath party and they’re having a meeting.”
Buran wouldn’t have dared object to her daughter’s involvement in the Baath Party. It was the ruling party, after all, and she didn’t want to bring trouble on the residents of Ziqaq Al Yasmin. After their mother left the room, Fadila whispered, “Did you mean what you said, or is that just an excuse for coming back late?”
“I don’t know,” Hamida replied truthfully. “All I know is that I want to be free like my brother and his friends. And I really am a Baathist, so just let my brother try beating me again! I might join some other party later on, but until then, I’m going to find a way to command enough respect not to get knocked around anymore, at least.”
* * *
It upset Juhaina that when she visited the Khayyal home, she hadn’t had a chance to be alone with Zain. She wanted to vent to her about the torment she’d been going through every night since her husband took another wife. For weeks now I’ve lain in bed every night trembling with rage. Gone are the nights when I tremble with pleasure the way I used to when he was in love with me. He would whisper louder and louder, “Juhaina, Juju, my life… aah!” Now I have to listen to him pounding his new wife in the next room. I hear the same whispers and moans of ecstasy that used to take me so high I’d nearly pass out on my pillow. Well, all that’s moved to the pillow in my cowife’s room, which is right next to mine. It pains me to think that she actually has a face and a name and that she’s a human being like me, but even though it’s a big house, I can’t avoid passing her in the hallway since our rooms are right next to each other. It’s as if he gets double the pleasure if there’s a woman in the next room who’s hurt by what he’s doing and who knows every little touch she’s missing. For all I know, he’d invite me into their room to watch if he could, since that would take him even higher! Then, if I pounced on him crazed with lust and jealousy, he’d come again, with two women begging for what his body has to give.
This situation had changed around a month earlier, when the despised cowife began showing signs of being pregnant. The moans of ecstasy coming through the bedroom wall began giving way to angry shouts. So delighted was she at their misfortune, Juhaina nearly reached orgasm just listening to them have it out in the next room. The louder they yelled, the higher she went. She launched out alone on dark waters in the vessel of pleasure until, reaching the end of the churning rapids, she came tumbling down a waterfall of warm, delicious froth. Then she drifted off as the sound of their bickering rocked her to sleep. She knew her husband hated pregnant women, since she’d experienced it firsthand herself, and he couldn’t have cared less about a woman after she’d given birth.
This time the argument was about something really trivial, just like the ones she and he had had before. Specifically, it was about an issue that the unemployed Ido, son of the Ottoman pasha’s daughter, deemed of life-and-death importance: the matter of the salt in his food! He started blustering furiously at his new wife for daring to cook rice with just a little salt. She told him she’d done this based on orders from his father and his doctor. His shouts even louder now, he started making fun of the elegant way she had of arranging the dishes on the table.
“Do you think putting the rice in a stupid heart-shaped mold is going to make it taste better?” he asked contemptuously.
When Najwa suggested that he sprinkle more salt on his own plate if he wanted to, he launched into a tirade about how salting food after it’s cooked isn’t the same as salting it while it’s still in the pot. This was the first time I’d ever called my cowife by her name, even in my thoughts.
The next morning as each of the two wives was making her own coffee in the kitchen, the same stupid argument broke out again. Hearing it being repeated all over again made Juhaina sick to her stomach. She was fed up with the spoiled brat who kept a steady stream of idiotic complaints going into Najwa’s ear.
“You lazy bitch, you should cook in two separate pots, one with salt in it for me, and the other without salt for my dad!”
“I can’t,” she told him, maintaining her composure. “I’m tired and I’m having cravings.”
Lighting into her like a crazed bull, he struck her suddenly on the face, sending her reeling to the floor. When she tried to get up, she lost her balance and fell again. Setting aside the food she was preparing for her little boy and the coffee she was making for herself, Juhaina went over to Najwa, held out her hand to her, and lifted her off the floor. Even though short-statured Najwa had taken cover behind Juhaina, Ido managed to hit her a second time. When he moved in for a third blow, Juhaina—both taller and stronger than he was—grabbed him by the arm and hissed, “If you touch her one more time, I’ll break your hand. And you know I’ll do what I say. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, you pitiful little monster?!”
And he knew she meant business. Once he’d hit Juhaina in the face the way he had Najwa, and like Najwa, she’d been sent sprawling to the floor. But Juhaina had gotten up and hit him back as hard as he’d hit her, and then he ended up on the floor. That was when he realized for the first time that her body didn’t exist solely for his enjoyment. She’d dealt him an excruciating blow, and from that day on he hated and feared her. Maybe that was why, when he took another wife, he made sure she was shorter than Juhaina and less capable of defending herself. Striking a woman was, after all, part of the fun. He liked feeling he was stronger than she was and that, unlike his henpecked father, he was the one in control. He’d been confident when Juhaina first came along that he could lord it over her to his heart’s content. But then she’d stood up to him! Not only that, but she’d started coming to her cowife’s defense, and become the owner of the house. God, he hated women!
“Have you lost your mind?” he hissed back. “Have you forgotten the agonized dance you did at her wedding? How can you defend your enemy?”
“It seems my enemy isn’t Najwa, or your father, or even your mother,” replied Juhaina evenly. “It’s you! So why don’t you go find yourself a job and leave us alone? Then go marry a third wife, but don’t bring her to this house. I’ve got your number now, and so does poor Najwa.”
And with that, Juhaina carried her weeping cowife to the bathroom and washed her face for her, saying, “If he hits you again, I’ll break his arm off and make him pick it up himself! If you need anything, I’m right in the next room.”
* * *
After Grandma Hayat had updated Zain on Juhaina’s and Najwa’s news, she remarked, “As I’ve said before, there’s no such thing as a secret around here! The women in the neighborhood are having the time of their lives gossiping about how both Ido Asiri’s wives have stopped sleeping with him. Rumor has it that they’re lovers now.”
Thus far the hearsay hadn’t drawn any connection between Ido and the new maid, who looked to be around sixty years old, and who’d been hired by his mother so she wouldn’t have to see her two daughters-in-law as they drank coffee together and spent their evenings talking. She couldn’t force them out now that her scoundrel of a husband had given the house to the “country bumpkin servant girl,” as she referred to Juhaina whenever she was forced to mention her.
<
br /> * * *
Mutaa actually had the nerve to call me. As if I were his servant now that he’d raped me, he announced, “We’ve moved the marriage-contract signing ceremony up to tomorrow.”
He admitted what he’d done, but instead of being remorseful, he said nonchalantly, “Sorry, the devil must have gotten into me. But I haven’t changed my mind about wanting to marry you!” The arrogant bastard!
Before Fadila could open her mouth to object, he added, “Your family supports my decision. In fact, they’re really happy about it.”
In other words, my family’s rewarding him for his crime. No way will I ever marry somebody who stoops to such crooked means of getting what he wants, much less a man who’s capable of rape!
An aunt of Fadila’s passed by the brocade shop, ostensibly to buy a gift. But the minute other people were out of ear range, she said viciously, “What happened is all your fault, you know! No girl with an ounce of self-respect would go to her fiancé’s house before they’ve signed the marriage contract!”
“But he told me his mother was sick at home and wanted to talk to me about something in private!” Fadila shot back. “How was I supposed to say no to a request from somebody he claimed was on her death bed? Besides, my mother had agreed to it!”
“Well, then,” the aunt retorted primly, “you should have taken your mother, grandmother or me along. Most of the neighbors agree with me, by the way. Besides, the way you dress is provocative. Do you see now why we’re always telling you to wear the traditional veil or a three-layered scarf?”
“But I do wear a headscarf, and nothing shows but my face!” “That’s the bare minimum, my dear, and it shows how weak your faith is. If you don’t want to be a source of temptation, you’ve got to cover yourself up completely.”
Temptation! Oh, yeah, that! Her aunt’s sermon faded out as Fadila thought back on the temptation she’d experienced one day with Najm. She’d told her parents she was going somewhere with Zain, but went instead with Najm to an orchard belonging to a friend of his in Hameh on the Barada River. She watched him swim at a spot where the river broadens as it runs through a lush valley. When he got out of the water, his luscious body glistening in the sunlight, a rush of desire shot through her pores, and she would have done anything to kiss him all over, then fuse with him—in the water, in the grass, it didn’t matter. As she dried him with a towel, she ran her fingers over his shoulders, and nearly gave in to her to her urges. A shudder went through him that awakened even more of her suppressed innocent desires. Then suddenly he said, “Will you marry me? I love you, and I want you!”