The Sand Fish

by Maha Gargash

  “There’ll be nothing left of that wall if you keep on like that.”

  Yaqoota’s voice at the doorway just irritated her, and she turned her attention back to the wall. “I’m going to use them to practice numbers,” Noora said, ignoring the mess she was making.

  “What for?”

  “It will keep me thinking.”

  “Thinking? What’s the use of that?”

  “What is the use of anything?”

  “Well, if that’s your fun, soon there’ll be no house for us to live in.” Yaqoota snickered and hopped toward her. “You will have picked the walls down. No privacy for you and the arbab. And then what?” Yaqoota leaned over Noora and gaped at her. Her upside-down face was full of mischief. “As if there’s any privacy now.” She plugged her ears with her fingers. “He is making so much noise I can’t sleep at night.”

  Noora pushed Yaqoota’s face away. The slave girl never knew what to say and when to say it. It was true, though. Jassem was taking his duty more seriously. Every night he would order her to close her eyes (so that she couldn’t bewitch him into talking), and he would liberate passionate grunts that competed with the yowls of the cats outside. So loud they were! It was as if he wanted the household to know that he was trying his best.

  Noora pursed her lips and stared at the toenail shells around her. She did not want to talk about it. She feared she might weep if she did, so when Yaqoota did not pursue the subject, suggesting instead that they go and watch the village, Noora was so relieved that she jumped up and pulled the slave girl out of the room.

  These were not ordinary days. There was the dash and hurry, an urgency that wrapped Wadeema as the divers and their families prepared for the Big Dive. Noora and Yaqoota peeped through the entrance of the house and watched children poke sticks at a sack they had filled with sand to become a make-believe shark in a make-believe sea. From behind the palm-frond walls of the homes, they heard the pressing voices of women as they prepared their husbands’ belongings for the three-month-long voyage.

  In the afternoon, those same women would come to visit Lateefa, as they did every day, to talk about the coming Big Dive. They would list heroic tales of accomplishment: whose husband had plucked the largest pearl, whose father had stayed down the longest, whose son had dodged an aggressive shark, whose brother had survived the most jellyfish stings. They were tales of glory, released in an excited flurry of words. Then the women would fall silent, sigh, and shake their heads. Every woman knew that her husband, father, son, or brother might not come back, might die in the sea. Every woman knew that if he did come back, he would arrive home sick and starved.

  “It’s the same every year,” said Yaqoota. “They go and their women wait. And then, when the boat comes back, either it’s good news or bad news.”

  Yaqoota’s words made Noora’s heart sink further. She sighed. “How much hope those women carry in their hearts. How much hope is crushed in the end?”

  “Nothing to be sad about!” Yaqoota slapped Noora’s arm. “It’s God’s will. It is what He has written for them, and they have to accept it.”

  “You are heartless,” said Noora.

  “Look, pretty one, if we sit and wait, we will never get what we want. We have to do what we can to survive.”

  Noora raised her eyes questioningly. They were vague words but seemed full of the weight and value of gold. They were not words to come out of the mouth of a woman, and a slave at that. Was there some wisdom she had not seen in Yaqoota? “What do you mean?”

  “Does it matter what I mean? A woman must do what she can for her peace of mind, that’s all.”

  Peace of mind? Certainly Noora had none.

  “She must find ways to make the passing hours tolerable.”

  Yes, Noora had many slow and miserable hours. “How?”

  “You want me to show you how?”

  Noora’s pulse quickened and she nodded. Was there a secret that Yaqoota had discovered that could eliminate the dejection she consistently felt?

  “You ready to start right now?”

  Noora nodded again.

  They set out straight away without too much thought on whether they would be missed. Covered from head to toe, they stepped over the mangled remains of the make-believe shark, which the children had abandoned. At first, Noora followed Yaqoota with nervous steps, turning her head this way and that, unsure as to whether anyone could identify her. She knew that as a respectable wife she should not be wandering aimlessly with the house slave in Wadeema’s streets.

  “Don’t worry,” Yaqoota assured her, guessing her fears. “No one will be able to recognize you, and we won’t be gone for long, anyway.” She paused, before adding, “Even if they look for you and don’t find you, it won’t matter. After all, you’re not the favored one anymore.”

  The truth in Yaqoota’s words stung, but Noora took in a deep breath and willed the nervousness to lift as Yaqoota led her along the edge of the village, where it was quieter. They entered a long and narrow street, lined on each side by barasti huts. Noora picked up bits of the conversations that were taking place within. Through the palm-frond walls, she heard a man assure his wife that he would come back safely, in a hoarse yet intense voice. The wife was quietly heroic, responding with a voice filled with dignity, telling him that she would accept whatever fate this journey would bring. Noora stared at the ground and slowed her walk, as if she were in a trance, listening to the somber mood, surrendering faith, and choked sobs that floated out from within the barastis along the length of the empty street. It was Yaqoota’s shrill voice that shook her back to the moment.

  “Women passing through!”

  Noora looked up and spotted a man who had entered at the far end of the street and was walking toward them. In an instant, the man stopped, averted his gaze, and paused to the side. He pulled in his limbs so that she and Yaqoota could pass by without his touching them.

  Yaqoota grabbed Noora’s hand and pulled her along, and just as they drew close to him, Yaqoota yelled again, “Coming through!” with such force that he stumbled back into the wall of the barasti. His ghitra got stuck in the rough fronds and he jerked his head to the side. It slipped off, revealing an egg-shaped scalp.

  Just as they hurried past him, Yaqoota bent her arms at her sides and flapped them. She bobbed her head back and forth and released a series of guttural clucks. From under her shayla and abaya Noora giggled, but the man could not see the funny side of Yaqoota’s chicken dance. Worse, Yaqoota’s foolishness revealed her identity.

  “It’s you! Yaqoota!” he said, as he fumbled with the ghitra, trying to pull it out of the fronds without ripping it.

  Yaqoota laughed and rushed to the other end of the street, pulling Noora along.

  “And who is the other one?” the man called after them.

  They were running now.

  “I’m sure you are a respectable woman,” he continued, addressing Noora. “Listen to my advice. Don’t go walking with that slave. She will spoil your manners, you hear? Her black blood will lead you to shame.”

  They kept running, past the mosque and the small shop at the end of the village, leaving Wadeema behind, until they reached a long and empty stretch of beach. “How did he know it was you?” said Noora, once her heart slowed and she could breathe steadily again.

  “I am famous,” said Yaqoota.

  It was hot. Under the near midday sun, the water was luminous and the sand shone a fierce white. They removed their shaylas and abayas and bent over to unbutton the ankle bands. With serwals secured in tight folds at the knees, they lifted up their dresses and hopped over the scalding sand and into the shallows of the sea. The warm waves slapped their legs, and they began splashing each other and jumping over every breaking wave, laughing and giggling, giddy with frivolity. It was not long before their energy ran out and they flopped onto the sand to catch their breath.

  Yaqoota reached out to pick something out of the sand and said, “This is the place to find th
em, not dig them out of the wall.” She handed Noora a shell that was shaped like a beetle, its surface smooth, its color a pale pink with leopard spots. Noora placed it in the middle of her open palm and stared at it before raising her eyes to the rolling waves, which ended with soft slaps on the shore. She felt the distance between her past and present spread as wide as the sea before her. She began stroking the shell with her index finger and thought of Sager and the pebbles he used to collect for her. And it made her sad. It made her want to talk about her feelings.

  “I hate him,” said Noora. She meant Jassem but was thinking of Sager. “He makes me feel like I am his dog, to be ordered around. I hate the way he touches me, gropes me like—”

  “Shh!” Yaqoota plugged her ears. “You can’t be telling me these things. I’m unmarried, never been touched. If I listen to you telling me all these touchy-touchy things, you will make me lose my purity.”

  What was she thinking, trying to open her heart to this woman with a child’s brain, to this woman who had just made fun of the shape of a stranger’s head by performing a chicken dance? Such matters should not be shared with Yaqoota. In fact, they should not be talked about at all. Noora fell silent and stared at the sea once more, vowing to speak only of simple things.

  “You know,” she said, “I wasn’t always this quiet. I used to have a voice louder than yours.”

  “Louder than mine?” Yaqoota said. “Not possible.”

  “Well, maybe not louder, but as loud. Whenever my brother bossed me, I would fight back. And my father always agreed with me. I did what I wanted. No one could force me into anything. Once, I got so angry at my brother Sager that I left him—just like that. And the poor troubled thing, I think he must have climbed every single mountain to find me.”

  “Hahh!” Yaqoota exclaimed.

  Noora could tell Yaqoota wanted to know more of her true side, which no one in Wadeema appreciated. “Actually, I went and stayed at this village, high up on the mountain, with this kind old woman. The village was called Maazoolah, and by the time you climbed up the mountain to get to it, you could not feel your legs.”

  “Ooh!”

  With Yaqoota’s interest, Noora felt her worth grow. “Yes,” she said, drawing up new memories as she continued, “I bet my brother almost died with worry when I disappeared on him, but I did not care. Everyone in Maazoolah valued me. I sewed for them, for the whole village. They loved me, and when I wanted to leave, they begged me to stay, especially this man, who…” Here, her voice trailed to a halt. Should she go on?

  “A man? Who was he?”

  “No one,” Noora said, remembering Yaqoota’s chicken dance again. “Just an old man whose dishdasha was in need of a lot of repair.”

  Reckless! That’s the thought that sprang into Noora’s head. Why did she have this urge to reveal so much? Perhaps it was Yaqoota’s carefree ways and all that splashing in the water that was creating this need to unburden a load so big, a load that she would have to carry always. She must remember discretion. Lateefa often commented that trying to understand Yaqoota and her erratic ways was a waste of time, that Yaqoota’s mind worked differently. Noora always listened with skepticism. But now she wondered how much truth was there.

  “Old men!” said Yaqoota. “Who wants to hear about old men?”

  “You are right. No one wants to hear about old men.”

  “Let us speak of young men,” Yaqoota said, shifting her eyes toward Noora in a conspiratorial look. “By the way, Hamad wants to talk to you.”

  It was a strange request for a man to ask to see a woman who was not his wife. And yet Noora felt indifferent. She had gotten used to seeing Hamad. He walked in and out of the house so often that he had become more invisible than the mist that the sea spread over the house every night.

  “Let him come,” she said.

  27

  Noora craned her neck out of her doorway. There was a plume of incense spiraling out of Shamsa’s room. It cut through the bars of her window and out into the courtyard, where it hung like a cloud in the still air. These were the lazy hours of the day, when the sun cast its strongest rays and it was still early enough to be smelling nice, but Shamsa was wasting no time in preparing for the night. And that’s how it had become. The arbab had swapped quarters, switched favorites, shifted his visits to Shamsa.

  Noora heard footsteps—she was coming—and pulled back into the dimness of her room. She sank to the floor and held her breath. From under the window, she could see the sidr tree, thirsty under the glaring sun. And then Shamsa sauntered past, made sure to stop by the window and throw a sidelong glance of achievement, just in case Noora was looking. And Noora was.

  It was a brief stop, but it served its purpose: “I have him and you don’t!” Noora could almost see the words form on her lips, rosy with self-confidence. “I have him and you don’t.” It was a simple truth that terrified Noora. Later, as on every night, Noora would toss and fidget on her bed, wonder whether it was the heat lingering in her palms that kept her up or the noise coming from the other side of the wall. She would hop off the bed and run her hands along the crumbly gypsum, hoping to feel some dryness trapped in its surface. But it was always moist, the scent of chalk heavy in it. What was the use of it? It didn’t trap the coolness, nor did it keep the noise out. All those whispers and stifled giggles were the sounds that made Noora’s heart beat with dread.

  Shamsa turned and walked back to her room, and Noora rested her head on her folded knees. Was she so naïve, so brainless, to believe that things would stay the same with the arbab forever? He was a man, after all. And he had to do what men were supposed to do: keep his true feelings locked away. For a man to speak of his desires or insecurities was a weakness. That much, she knew. Hadn’t Sager behaved in the same way? Kept his feelings bottled up always? Not a tear had trickled from his eyes as he gave her away.

  And Rashid, too! Noora tried to think of some breeze of an emotion that had settled on his face. He always spoke of his feelings, but now, she finally understood that all that talk was not real. Only words—sweet words, big words, but empty words—mouthed so that he could touch her. And how foolish she had been to let him.

  Noora sighed. The words of men, none of them meant anything. Now Jassem was showing her that he could control his feelings like a man, too, keep them inside. Only her father did not act that way. He had let his passions snap like an old piece of rope tired of tying things in place. But then, he was mad. That’s why.

  She hugged her knees and began rocking. Every time she dipped forward she felt her thoughts twist into a tangle. She remembered the matchmakers. They had insisted she keep her husband happy. “If he doesn’t want you, he can kick you out,” Gulsom had warned. Where did that leave her? What if Jassem decided he did not want her anymore, took her room away and sent her to wander the streets? Would the Bedouins from the distant sands kidnap her and turn her into a slave?

  Yaqoota had gone into detailed descriptions of how they chose their victims. “First, they check if you’re all alone. Then they wait for you in the shadows.” At this point, Yaqoota’s eyes always pulsed with trepidation. “And then, when you don’t expect it, three men surround you and stuff you in a sack. You don’t have a chance of escape because you’ll faint even before you can scream.”

  Every time she swayed back, Noora felt her head touch the wall, tap, tap, tap. But she would not stop. Her mind was choking with that fearful thought. There was her head, held tight in that sack. She could smell the stink of stale dust and old sweat rubbing off its rough yarn. No one would miss her if the Bedouins kidnapped her. After all, she had no family to protect her, to ask after her, to search for her if she disappeared. Tap, tap, tap. And another sound, too.

  The knock on her door was light. Still, it jolted her. Was it Jassem coming to tell her to pack her things and go? She hurried to the door and opened it, saw Hamad standing in the glare, his arms clasped behind him. “What do you want?” she snapped. “Don’t you know everyo
ne is asleep?”

  “Shh,” he said, stepping back and looking around nervously. “Not so loud.” His arms fell to his side, and she saw the white garment in his hand. “This suit will protect my father from jellyfish stings when he goes for the Big Dive. They say your stitches are strong, and I need to make sure the seams don’t come undone.” He spoke quickly, urgently.

  “And how do you know I can do that?” She was annoyed at his intrusion. She was trying to think of a way of escape once those Bedouins abducted her, and before she could do that she had to pass through all that fear, with her head held so tight she could not loosen it from the sack. Now she would have to start all over, from the beginning, when she gets kidnapped.

  “All of Wadeema knows you sew the best,” Hamad said. “But if you can’t do it, just tell me.”

  She expected him to turn around and leave. But he did not. How cheeky he was! She drew her shayla tight over her nose to embarrass him. Still he would not budge, and he kept staring at her under a sun that cast a straw-colored halo around his loosely turbaned head.

  “Don’t you know you are not supposed to come in here,” Noora said. “Look at you, tiptoeing to my door, like a thief, to talk to me. What if someone sees you here?”

  “I know, I know, but look, all the shutters and doors are closed. Everyone is asleep. I just need you to sew this.”

  “Yes but—”

  “I’m not being sneaky coming at this time. It’s the only time I can ask you to do this. If Jassem knew, or even Lateefa, they would refuse. They’d tell me to take it to the tailor.” He shuffled on his feet. “I promised my father I would get this done. But I don’t have the money to take it to a tailor.”