The Sand Fish

by Maha Gargash

  Al-Barza square: it was so full of people it jolted Noora after the calm of the inner streets. She dropped her gaze to the side, where a book binder had set up the tools of his trade on top of a trunk. His face carried the dust of faraway places. The afternoon sun cast a soft glow on his shaved head as he fingered the yellowed pages of an old Koran, patiently shuffling them into a neat pile. Next to him, a long-necked man sat on a wooden stool facing a barber, who was busy neatening his beard.

  “This place just gets messier and messier,” said Jassem, raising his nose so high it looked like the beak of a large bird. He swept an arm over his forehead, wiped off the beads of sweat that clung to it, and turned back to them. “Now keep close here,” he said, nudging his way to the sides of the square. “I don’t want you getting lost.” He twisted his shoulder away from a tin container swinging on a pole balanced over a water seller’s shoulders before adding, “Or hurt.”

  Hamad held Juma’s arm and Lateefa tightened her hold on Noora’s. Two by two, they followed Jassem, weaving their way along the edges of the square, past the calls of the porters. “Two anas and I’ll take your load wherever you want!” Perched on their see-saw carts as they waited for work, they looked like vultures.

  Next to them, sitting on neatly folded legs, were the Bedouins with their camels and supplies of coal for sale. They gawked at the crowds, their faces fierce with the harshness of the desert. Noora spotted an older boy biting his lip as a bone setter twisted his broken thumb back into place. Through the din, she heard the crack and cringed. The souk was losing its appeal quicker than she had anticipated. She felt as vulnerable as a worm crawling in an open valley. Anything could fall on her. Anyone could kick her or step on her.

  The dust that rose from the ground in a haze carried the stink of sweat and urine. Through it, she glimpsed children and beggars, blind men and cripples—and always a madman or two. “Pah,” Lateefa blew into her veil. “Nobody knows what to do with them. So they wander the streets like strays.” She waved an arm at a madman who was dancing toward them. “Pah! Pah! Be gone!”

  The madman opened his arms in a generous bow and winked through a dust-lined eye. “Spare an ardee for a good cause. I am a good cause.” A scar of a previous skirmish drew a line just above his left brow and his bald head was speckled with sores.

  Finally, they reached the other side of the square and entered an empty street. Just as Noora gulped a cleaner breath, she noticed that the madman was still tagging along, twirling in circles behind them, begging for an ardee.

  Jassem snapped at him. “Be gone!” He turned to Hamad and ordered him to get rid of the fool.

  Hamad gripped the madman’s arm and tried to lead him away. “Come on, be reasonable. Stop bothering us and go your way.”

  But the madman was not about to be reasonable. “But what will it cost you to help me? I’m not asking for a shiny rupiah. Just an ardee—a teeny, battered, rusty ardee.”

  “We don’t have any money for you, so go away,” Hamad said, nudging the beggar’s chest.

  The madman hung his head and dropped his lower lip. “Just an ardee,” he squeaked. “Only one ardee.” The madman had changed his voice to that of a child—he was trying another strategy.

  This time, before Hamad could turn to push him away again, Jassem stepped in. His face was the color of the pomegranate Lateefa was deprived of. The thought made Noora want to chuckle, but she knew better than to do that.

  “There are ways to deal with people like this man,” he said to Hamad. “Let me show you.”

  The madman raised his shoulders to his ears and hauled out a set of neat, yellow teeth, each strangely in the right place. It was a silly grin, like that of a child about to be rewarded.

  “Once, twice, you tell them to go and still they persist.”

  The madman swayed and flapped open both hands.

  “It’s all right. I’ll handle him,” said Hamad.

  “You don’t have the stomach,” Jassem said, and grabbed the cane from Juma’s limp grip. He slapped the madman: four flicks on the palms—quick, sharp.

  The madman gasped and dropped to his knees. He looked up at the pearl merchant, his face frozen with the shock of the cane’s sting.

  “I spit on you and the people who created you!” Jassem raised his arm high and let loose another lash, stronger. Noora felt the air vibrate with the cane’s force as it landed on his palms once again. Why were his begging hands still open?

  This time he screamed and cushioned the sting under his arms. His head dropped to his chest and he shrank into a ball.

  Noora was breathing hard now, sucking in her shayla with an open mouth, blowing it away again. She wanted to do something, but what? Could she throw herself in the middle, try to hold Jassem back, take the whipping instead? She dragged another breath and the shayla stuck to her tongue, its weave coarse in her dry mouth. The thought of getting too close to the beggar made her cringe.

  They simply watched, helpless as infants. They were in an empty street, these two women and two men, their thoughts linked in a decision not to interfere. Juma had sandwiched his frail body between her and Lateefa, his face twitching with every lash. Next to him, Lateefa held her head high as if she were floating above them. And that Hamad boy! What was he doing standing to one side, useless like that?

  Noora traced the shape of his arms, easily ten times stronger than Jassem’s. One whack—that’s all it would take to send Jassem into a daze. He was clutching and loosening his fists, as if pumping some power into them. And Noora started to hope. She lifted her eyes back to his arms again and waited for their strength to show. But they just hung there, limp as a tattered cloth.

  Jassem’s arm was up again. He took a deep breath and whacked the madman two more times on his back. They heard no more cries this time, just muffled sobs.

  Finally, the red drained out of Jassem’s face and his nostrils settled back into place. “That should teach you a lesson,” he said. The lesson Jassem had demonstrated was quick, not long enough for a crowd to gather. Only two men watched from the far end of the street. “And what are you staring at?” Jassem yelled at them. “He needs to know that when he is asked nicely he should listen.”

  “But he’s a madman,” called the first man.

  Jassem handed the cane back to Juma. “Even a madman can feel pain.”

  “But a madman can’t understand,” said the other man.

  “I don’t have time for this arguing about whether a madman can or cannot understand.” He cracked his neck. “All right, let’s go.”

  Together, they left behind the whimpers of the madman, who remained in the same position—a turtle with its limbs pulled in. Without Jassem to pull him along, Juma fell behind them and Noora could hear his quivering breath. “You will treat her well,” he called to Jassem. “I mean, you’re not going to hold it against her that she came to us.” He was begging now. “I mean, it is her home, too, and she should be able to come and see her family. I mean, I am her father.”

  “Of course I’ll treat her well,” replied Jassem, as if annoyed that he had to look over his shoulder to answer. A few steps farther on, he stopped abruptly, looked up at the sky, and spun slowly to face them.

  Who would be the next to get caned? That’s what Noora was wondering. But Jassem did no such thing. Instead, he tromped back to them, toward Juma, whose wiry beard was once more held captive under his arms. “Look,” began Jassem, “I don’t want you to worry about anything. Am I not a good Muslim? Isn’t she my wife? And doesn’t Islam require us to treat our wives equally, in every way?”

  The old man nodded, although he seemed to be confused whether to smile or not. When he tried to sigh, it came out as a half-sigh, an emptying of the lungs that stopped short.

  “I treat all my wives well. Each one has her own bedroom. To me, they are all the same. It’s just that some are new and others are not.”

  Finally, Juma released the rest of his sigh. “Yes, I mean, what has Shamsa really
done? Nothing shameful, nothing criminal. All she did was come to visit her family while her husband was away.”

  “I need to get all the women home now.” Jassem spoke slowly, and Noora raised her brows at the softness of his voice, a pleasing tone with the gentleness of a bubbling brook. But when he turned to Hamad, the bubbling brook that had moistened his throat dried again. “Well, what are you looking at? Don’t you have something to do?”

  “I thought you wanted me to come with you.”

  “For what? Get going and bring those supplies for the house. I’ll take the women home.”

  Hamad faltered. “What should I buy?”

  “Can’t you think for yourself? Can’t you carry out a simple task on your own? You know what we need. Now go!”

  “Why that Bin-Surour boy chooses to make him angrier, I don’t know,” Lateefa whispered to Noora. “He knows what our house needs: rice, green limes, onions, lentils, and radishes.”

  21

  With the memory of Jassem’s attack on the madman still fresh in her mind, Noora felt as timid as a rabbit. Her husband was not a man to be meddled with, and quickly she decided it was wisest to stay silent till she got to the house.

  They had picked up Shamsa and were now trotting on their donkeys into Wadeema just as the sun paused over the horizon, its rim oozing into the sky. Through the slits of her burka and the weave of her shayla, Noora followed its line of glitter over the sea, watched it spill at the shore and blush pink the white dunes that rose on the other side.

  In between dunes and sea, Wadeema unfolded in an elongated oval that began with a mosque and a small shop and ended with a large house. Sandwiched between these landmarks were the barasti huts, their coarse palm-frond walls drawing the twists and corners of the streets.

  They passed the pearl divers and fishermen who stood along their path lifting their arms in greeting to Jassem. Women and children peeked through the doorways, trying to glimpse her. After all, she was the new bride who was arriving from faraway.

  Noora heard their talk, too: “Which is the bride?” She knew it was hard to tell. She looked the same as Lateefa and Shamsa, tented from head to toe in their abayas, faces hidden under their shaylas, both legs dangling on one side of their donkeys. She also knew she was a bride who was not arriving as a bride should. There was no family to deliver her and not a hint of celebration. But she did not care. She just wanted a chance to be alone so that she could ponder the design of her new life.

  Shamsa had been the pampered bride. On their journey at the front of the jelbut, Lateefa had gone into an elaborate description of all the special care Shamsa had received when she married Jassem three years earlier. For forty days before her wedding, Shamsa had been isolated in a special room in her home while her family prepared her for her new life. They had fattened her through a daily diet of milk and eggs, and her skin had been pasted with indigo and warss, a plant mixture of shocking green that whitened the complexion. Her hair was sculpted into an elaborate design using nourishing yas leaves. Then, as if that were not enough, her scent was enhanced with a sprinkling of a sweet-smelling powder of rose petals, saffron, and nutmeg. All that beautification had taken place behind closed doors while the villagers concentrated on everything else that needed to be done.

  Noora wondered whether the villagers felt let down at her arrival, cheated out of their celebration. When Jassem married Shamsa, the town had joined to celebrate the event in a glow of collective joy that had lasted a full week. Now she was the bride, and she was entering the home of the richest man in Wadeema in the quietest way possible.

  Then, as if reading her thoughts, Lateefa spoke: “How different this is. No special wedding dress to store in the memory this time.” Her voice wobbled with the quickening pace of her donkey as it trotted next to Noora’s. “Ah, Shamsa’s bridal thoub,” she continued. “What a blaze of color it was: every stripe of the rainbow with cascades of braided silver thread. And if that was not enough—ah, ah, ah, the gold that covered her. So much she had a hard time keeping her back straight!” She chuckled. “You know, all the women of Wadeema joined in sewing it, masha’ Allah. No pay for them, just lunch for the whole week.”

  Noora rounded her eyes with surprise. Was she allowed to talk? Lateefa was ignoring Jassem’s sulk, which had been traveling with them like a dense fog ever since he found out that Shamsa had left his home without his permission. What would he do to her, this older first wife? Would he cane her as well?

  It seemed Lateefa didn’t care. Her cheeriness raced ahead of the plodding donkey as she continued, “And that hair: two thick plaits, masha’ Allah, falling along her cheeks with tinkling gold ornaments attached to them. And the rest: a headful of plaits—twenty, thirty, maybe more—all glossed and shiny. And when she moved, hayh…” She wagged her head with the remembrance. “That’s when the plaits tumbled like this, hayh…hayh…”

  Lateefa paused and waited for Noora to answer, but Noora stuck to her vow and kept her tongue tight in her mouth. The air had suddenly stopped moving, and she felt smothered within the embrace of the layers of fabric that covered her. Was this the sticky touch of the sea?

  Lateefa’s voice grew bolder. “Then there were goats to be slaughtered, rice to be cleaned, grain to be ground—all that, they did here at the village. Ah, all that chanting between the thuds of their paddles, crushing that grain in those massive containers. Then the cooking of the hareesa porridge. No pay for these men and women, either, mind you, just lunch for the whole week.”

  It seemed Jassem didn’t mind Lateefa’s sudden chattiness after all. He did not even look back at her. Noora watched him trudge on ahead, silent as a sack of rice. Just as well, she thought. She was not ready to handle any more ugly incidents.

  “Then there was the scent of incense everywhere. And singing and dancing,” Lateefa said. “How wonderful, how noisy it all was.”

  A little girl pointed and called, “The bride! She’s the second one in the group.” For a moment, Noora was baffled. How could she tell? Only when she followed the girl’s finger did she realize that it was the henna, faded to a weak brown but nevertheless sneaking up from her soles. The henna had given her away.

  “You’re here!” The shrill voice of a child called from behind the heavy teak door of Jassem’s home, and for a moment Noora was taken aback. She had understood that Jassem’s house was childless.

  The small, arched door framed within the heavy, main door creaked open, and under a graceful porch stood a girl-woman who looked not more than a year or so younger than Noora, with skin more blue than black in the flicker of the hurricane lamp she was carrying. Under her shayla, her frizz was restrained in two tight plaits, and she opened her mouth into an exaggerated grin and repeated, “You’re here, thanks to God. Finally, you are here.”

  “Yes, Yaqoota, we are here—all together, and one more as well.” Lateefa kept her voice low and controlled. Noora understood she was trying to direct some restraint into this excited person, but Yaqoota did not (or would not) understand. Her teeth gleamed as she shrieked a bridal trill.

  Now Shamsa spoke: “You silly slave. Can’t you see we’re tired? Out of my way!” She slid off her donkey and shoved past Yaqoota, half-walking, half-running into the house, the thick bangle on her wrist slamming into Yaqoota’s ribs as her hand slipped out of her trailing abaya.

  “Oof!” Yaqoota’s mouth shrank to a dot. She doubled over in an exaggerated droop but jumped back up right away. And then she let the full white of her eyes pop out. “Shall I go and see what’s wrong with her, arbab?”

  The arbab spoke. “No, leave her.”

  Lateefa puffed her irritation into her burka and muttered, “Never mind her. Come help me get off this silly ass.”

  Yaqoota reached for her hand and, supporting Lateefa’s weight on her shoulder, eased her off just as the muezzin’s voice floated into the air. It was time for the sunset prayer.

  “I’m going to the mosque,” said Jassem. “Make sure all is in or
der by the time I’m back.”

  “You heard him,” said Lateefa, her head nodding toward Noora. “Take the new one to her room. Let her wash and pray.”

  “Yes, Ommi Lateefa,” said Yaqoota.

  “Show her our ways. Everything. You see, she doesn’t know how we do things here, in a proper house.”

  “Yes, Ommi Lateefa.”

  “And then come and rub my back.” Lateefa lumbered to her room. “I don’t have any strength left. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stand straight again.”

  “Do this, do that,” muttered Yaqoota, once Lateefa had left them. “That’s the life you get if you are a slave.” She indicated for Noora to follow her as she stepped into the square patch of sand that made up the open courtyard. They heard a whoop and a chuckle and stopped to look up the sidr tree that rose in the middle. There was a mynah bird swaying on one of its shaggy branches. The sky, luminous with the last of the day’s light, caught only the shine of its orange beak and glossy black tail. “Strange,” said Yaqoota. “What is it doing up so late? Mynahs never come out at this time.”

  It chuckled once more and flitted away. Yaqoota shrugged and swung the lantern to the far corner of the house, to a door under an L-shaped arcade. “That’s the house majlis, the living room, where we sit in the summer.” Her voice had turned sober, lost its piercing edge. She lifted her arm up to the rectangular tower rising above. “You see that? It’s a wind tower. It pulls in the air and blows it into the room.” Yaqoota’s face glistened in the still air. “Of course, it is not working now because the arbab has blocked it up for the winter so that the rain and dust don’t damage it.” She flapped the air in front of her face. “Mind you, it feels like summer tonight.” She swung the lamp to the other side of the house. “You see, there’s another one over there. That one brings air into the men’s majlis.”

  Noora nodded from one wind tower to the other, as if willing it to funnel through a breath of air. The clammy humidity was like another skin.