‘Aren’t you going to take a shower first?’
‘What?’
His anger showed. Never before had a woman been as daring as this. His hand almost rose and fell on her face. Perhaps it did really rise. Then he took a step back, suddenly seized by exhaustion. He pointed to a little glass on a wooden shelf. He opened his mouth so wide that she could see the red uvula vibrating in his throat.
‘Four drops.’
She poured four drops down his throat. He closed his eyes for a long time, then he opened them. She licked her lower lip with the end of her tongue.
‘Is it water?’
‘No. They are a sort of oil drops, which quench the thirst more than water, and cleanse the intestines. Open your mouth.’
He poured into her mouth the first drop and then the second. She wanted the third and the fourth drop. She clung to the bottle, holding it with all five fingers, but he wrenched it from her and concealed it. ‘According to the law you only get two drops.’
She bowed her head. She was in a state of dazed exhaustion. It was as if she had heard about this law before. She fell asleep and saw herself taking a shower in warm water. The sky was pure blue and the fields were green. In her nostrils was the smell of farmland. She was sitting on the bridge at sunset waiting for the lights to appear.
She opened her eyes to the sensation of something burning under her eyelid. The room was bathed in darkness. A faint light was emitted by a lamp that burned languidly. He was sitting in his place behind the open newspaper. His feet were bare on the tiles.
She tucked her bag under her arm. She began to drag her feet to the kitchen. She came back with a cup of black tea. He stretched out his arm and took the cup without saying anything, and sank into something resembling sleep. The newspaper was rolled up into a ball on the ground. She opened it and turned it page by page. ‘A woman has gone on leave and has not returned. According to the law it is forbidden to give her shelter or to conceal her.’
Noiselessly, she hung the bag over her shoulder. She closed the door cautiously and went out. The wind howled like a hungry wolf. Her feet sank in at every step. She could not tell the mud from the dry ground. She used the walls for support as she used to do when she was a little girl, before she learnt to walk, with her aunt holding her hand.
One, two, buckle your shoe.
Three, four, walk to the door.
Help her, our Lady of Purity.
When she was a little girl, she did not know who the Lady of Purity was. Perhaps it was the Virgin Mary. In the darkness of the night, her face sometimes used to hover over the roofs of the village. Some blind people had their sight restored and movement was restored to some paralysed legs. Or perhaps it was Lady Zaynab, the only prophet who was able to heal her aunt of pain.
‘What are you saying?’
‘I will be a prophet . . . so that I can heal people.’
‘Have you lost your mind? There are no female prophets.’
His voice rang clearly in her ears. It dispersed her dreams. The voice of a man. Perhaps it was her husband or her boss. In the entrance examination he was sitting behind his desk, with a black pipe between his lips, which shook as he asked her question after question.
‘What do you know about Numu, the first goddess of the waters?’
‘Numu?’
‘And Inana, the goddess of nature and fertility?’
‘Inana?’
‘And Sekhmet, the goddess of death?’
She did not know that there were such things as goddesses. The prophets were all men, and there was not a woman among them. How then could there be female gods? Which are higher in rank, prophets or gods? As for the god of death, his name was Ezra’el not Sekhmet, and he was male not female.
She was reading in the light of the lamp. He was sitting in his usual place. His top half was hidden behind the newspaper.
‘Are you reading?’
All that was visible of him were his feet and legs. His angular knees stuck out from under his nightshirt. Were his eyes in his knees? She no sooner opened her book and started to read than she could see them shaking – was it in irritation?
‘Leave the book.’
‘The exam is tomorrow. I haven’t finished revising and . . .’
‘I’m hungry.’
She looked at the watch on her wrist. Ten past nine. She had prepared him his food an hour previously. How could he get hungry again so quickly? And if he was hungry, the saucepan was on the stove, and the kitchen was only three paces away. She saw him sitting down shaking his knees and moving his feet in the air, cracking his toes.
‘I’m thirsty.’
He never stopped making demands. Like a child, he could neither feed himself nor get himself something to drink. He would no sooner see her opening a book than he would shout. As if the book was another man who was taking her from him.
She hid the book under the pillow. She would wait until he was asleep, sound asleep, and his snoring had begun to rise and fall regularly. She opened the book and read. In it there were commands from the mother goddess to her daughter:
‘Do not forget your mother.’
‘Bear her as she bore you.’
‘She bore you in her stomach for a whole year.’
‘She gave you her life and died.’
In the quietness of the night, the voice rang in her ears. She had never heard the voice of her mother except when she was a foetus in the womb. She saw him turning over in his sleep as if he heard the voice. His hairs bristled in irritation. He opened his eyes suddenly and she hid the book. He rolled over on his other side and went back to sleep. She lay in her place waiting. She did not know if he was sleeping or pretending to sleep. His breathing had not grown louder yet and the rise and fall of his snoring was not regular.
‘Are you awake?’
She closed her eyes and pursed her lips. She let her breathing rise and fall. Then she fell asleep. Her body was falling down and down as if into a well.
* * *
Everything was becoming damp, even the bed covers. A black dampness with a pungent smell. She saw him kneeling down on his hands and feet. Then he stretched out his arm towards her. He began to gaze into her face without changing his position. His lips hung open in an unnatural fashion, and the hair on his chest was exposed.
She realised that he was determined to go ahead with this game. So her muscles contracted, and she purposefully locked up her body. She pursed her lips and pretended to sleep.
The black liquid poured down even more profusely with a sound like a waterfall. It came up to his knees as he sat there. He jumped up, his body sluggish, yawning. He rubbed his eyes. He blew his nose in the basin. He brought a ladle from the kitchen. He began to ladle it up from the ground. He bent over until his torso stretched downwards. He filled the ladle and raised it with his arms, at the same time raising his torso. He emptied it in the jar. He filled jar after jar without stopping.
‘The level is rising awfully fast.’
‘All good things come from God.’
‘I’m suffocating.’
‘Don’t stand around like that. Get down on your knees.’
He made her kneel down like a camel. He wrung out an old rag, then folded it into a circle and placed it on her head. He fastened it with a succession of blows as if he was banging a nail into a wall. He bent over from his waist, planting his feet firmly on the ground. He raised the jar with his arms, then placed it on her head. Her neck bent under the weight. The jar almost fell. The wind blew and the jar tilted sideways. She left it tilting and moved her feet, one after the other. She moved in the normal way along the path in front of her, as if she had walked along it before. She was familiar with this line of women, and she was one in the line. They moved with slow firm steps like those of time. The storm increased and the waterfall roared. Their bodies shook like straw blown by a gust of wind. Everything shook, apart from the jars on their heads, which remained fixed sedately in their places.
Sh
e used to return with her body exhausted. She would curl up on the ground, her knees under her chin and her bag under her head. Her throat was dry and her tongue was cracked. She opened her eyes in the darkness. She looked for the glass bottle. It wasn’t anywhere. She went back to sleep. Then she woke up to a noise. He had caught an animal like a sheep or a goat. He had slaughtered it with a knife. The blood was pouring out like a fountain. The eyes looked towards her, as if they had never seen her before, and his voice roared, ‘Hey, you. Come and cook.’
‘I don’t eat meat.’
‘You don’t have to eat it. All you have to do is cook it!’
‘I won’t cook it.’
He stretched out his long arm with the knife. She looked at the shining blade and bent her neck down. She cringed inside her body, hiding her neck with her hands.
She dragged her body sluggishly to the kitchen. She wiped away the blood around her neck, lit the gas and put on the saucepan. Steam rose to the ceiling. She felt him standing behind her. He was savouring the aroma of the meat, and rubbing up against her from behind. When the appetite for food was aroused in him, other appetites of his were aroused as well. She abandoned her body to him and went off to sleep. As she was sleeping she felt a pain. Her conscience was pricking her. How could I give him myself in return for supper?
In the morning there was a violent gust of wind. On the crest of the wind a sound came to her like that of an oar. She listened carefully, her heart beating. She heard a woman’s voice like that of her aunt.
The sound was dissipated when the man moved his eyelids. He pulled her up and the black pupil appeared, staring at her. He seized an old rag, perhaps her sarwal. He began to twist it between his hands as if he was ringing it out. He made it into a cord, which he placed on her head. He made her bend over from the waist and then raised the jar with one hand.
‘It’s very heavy! It’ll break my neck.’
Her voice came back to her as if she was speaking to herself. She carried it along the street towards the company, as if in a dream. Perhaps for this reason, her body was strong. She was able to carry it without getting tired. Rather she felt a type of lightness like one feels in dreams. But her heart was heavy. Even a self-respecting ox would refuse this sort of work. Perhaps the only creature who would accept it would be some extinct species of donkey. The jar also was of an extinct type. It had two ears and a stomach bloated in pregnancy like the one-breasted god.
Some sounds echoed from afar. Faint cries uttered in unison, followed by sounds of muttering, muffled laughter, and then silence.
It seemed to her that she was walking without moving forward even a single step. She was standing where she had been. She was no more than two paces from the threshold of the house. The door was open and he was sitting on his seat behind the newspaper.
‘The storm continues.’
‘You can wait.’
‘In this situation?’
‘When the oil begins to creep over the ground, nothing can stand in its way. You must deal with it when the sun is shining and it has dried.’
‘This jar is making my head hot!’
‘There’s nothing to do but wait, nothing.’
As he said the word ‘nothing’, he looked upwards. A grey cloud was twisting round and round on the skyline.
‘The oil is drinking the water vapour in the air. When the clouds are dispersed by the sun, drought results.’
‘Drought?’
‘Yes, the liquid disappears, changing into solid, and you can walk on it easily without your feet sinking into it. Even tanks can cross it.’
When he said ‘tanks’, his eyes began to glisten as if with tears. Perhaps they would take him off to the war. His space on the bed would become empty and she would stop cooking. She tensed the muscles of her throat under the weight of the jar. She beat the ground with her feet.
The man was busy looking at the path. The vanguard of the great procession had appeared. A line of people carrying drums beating out the national anthem. Swarms of motorbikes and fireworks, employees of the palace inside long black cars, followed by the journalists. A vast tank out of which leant His Majesty, waving with his hands as if to the masses. Beside him was the president of the company, raising his hat in greeting.
She was walking along, the road empty in front of her, when the bamboo cane stung her on her rump.
‘Bow quickly!’
She did not know yet how to pay her respects. She leant forwards from the waist and bent the top of her trunk backwards. She became like a camel in the process of kneeling down. The man began to teach her the anthem. His voice intoned a song in a quiet semi-musical voice. After every syllable he would dry his sweat with the sleeve of his jallaba.
‘Is it the national anthem?’
‘Yes, here we follow the principle “I love my country.”’
‘Is it your country?’
‘My mother was buried here, and where your mother is buried, that’s where your country is.’
He said the word ‘country’ and bowed to the ground. He lowered his eyelids over his eyes as if to conceal tears. He never mentioned his mother except when threatened by death. In his hands he held a small piece of paper stamped with the face of His Majesty, and an immediate summons.
She lay down with her eyes open, straining her ears to hear. She felt him climbing into bed beside her. He turned his face to the wall. She stretched out her arm and stroked his neck from behind. ‘Don’t go, for all you’ve got left there is your mother’s tomb.’
‘Anybody who doesn’t go is killed.’
‘And whoever goes is killed.’
‘There is no escape from death.’
‘Then let’s die as and when we want to.’
She said it soundlessly as she got out of bed. She hung her bag over her shoulder and took hold of the chisel. She walked swiftly, squinting her eyes in the face of the storm. Her feet sank into the black water up to her knees. Movement seemed impossible. She stopped, piercing the darkness with her eyes and straining her ears to listen. At first the voices were faint. Like the rustling of the wind or the flapping of jallabas. It came from the bottom of the slope where the houses of the village were, and gradually climbed up the slope. It resembled the beating of tambourines and the throbbing of drums. She saw a woman spinning round on one foot. Around her the women formed a circle, their hair ruffled. Their teeth chattered and they had their arms outstretched. They beat the ground with their feet, spinning round like the earth does. They were singing with one voice:
Our lady of purity,
Lighten our burdens.
The woman in the middle was tall, her head tied with a black scarf. She was like her aunt, beating the ground with her feet. She lifted her eyes to heaven as if entreating the mother goddess. At every spin her body shook. Her movements became increasingly fast and light. At the climax of the last paroxysm, her body became so light that it appeared to disintegrate. Time stopped and silence fell. Then movement broke out once again. It overflowed towards the ocean, and the women’s bodies shook.
Our Lady of Purity,
Deliver us from the flood.
It was as if it was an old chant that the girls used to sing in school. Her lips opened and she began to whisper the song. But the words froze on her lips as torches pierced the darkness. She closed her eyes and could hear nothing apart from the barking of dogs. Metal wheels beat the ground. The women hid, concealing their hair under black scarves. The only person who remained was the tall woman who had been in the middle. The men surrounded her and carried her to the van. One cry and then silence reigned.
She didn’t know how she returned to the house. Her eyelids were stuck together. She rubbed the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. She saw black particles like mist. Around her a waterfall was gushing. The pungent smell in her nostrils brought her back to reality. Everything was dreamlike. The one definite movement was the movement of the oil. A strange movement, which appeared to be the opposite of any other move
ment.
The man had returned from the war with one arm. In the morning he went out to fill the jar. When he raised his arm, it appeared thin and emaciated, as if it had lost half of its weight. It shook in the wind, rising and falling in an endless movement. Like someone bailing water out of the sea.
‘Vanity! Vanity!’ She spoke in an inaudible voice. Her neck bent under the load. The movement of his arm as he bailed out the oil resembled the movement of her neck as she carried the jar. She stopped in her place like an unruly stallion. She planted her feet on the ground. But stopping appeared impossible. The oil was pouring out, and it was in liquid form. Light bodies could float on it. If her body was light she could swim. However, she had not learnt how to float on water. Before she went into the sea, she had to take off her clothes, and women should not take off their clothes.
She closed her eyes without knowing the time. She looked at her watch with her eyelids locked closed. Then she remembered that she could not find out the time without opening her eyes. She pressed her eyelids together, then opened half an eye. It was ten past five. On the horizon there were faint rays of light; she did not know if they signalled dawn or dusk.
She began to get up from her bed. Before she moved, she wanted to make sure that the man was sound asleep. She began to put one foot in front of the other noiselessly. The man turned over on the other side and went back to sleep. She contemplated him for a long time. Curled up in a ball like an orphan child. Surrendered to sleep in what seemed to be despair. She bent low over him as if she would plant a goodbye kiss on his forehead. What would he say about her when he woke up and did not find her? Her conscience was still alive, or so she imagined. A goodbye kiss would not cause her any trouble anyway.
She opened the door and went out. She went forward a few steps and the earth became softer. Her feet sank in up to her knees. She succeeded in pulling out her right leg and then her left. Then she retraced her steps panting.
The man was sitting with head bowed as if in sadness. Her eyes filled with longing for him as if with tears. ‘I tried to run away but I couldn’t move.’
Love in the Kingdom of Oil Page 3