The Sand Fish

by Maha Gargash

  “Afra.”

  Noora grinned and secured her shayla around her head. “You’re going to make me messy, too,” she said, lying on her stomach.

  “Arms out, straight in front of you,” ordered Afra.

  Noora did what she was told.

  “Now swim!”

  Noora clamped her eyes and mouth shut and, headfirst, slid down the dune. Sand everywhere! It trickled into her nostrils and seeped into her ears, snuck into her shayla and collected in her dress. Every time the sand tried to swallow her, she tossed it to the side with broad strokes. She was swimming, faster and faster. She could see the world slide past, even though her eyes were closed. Only at the bottom did she let the sand drown her. And then she heard the mothers call their children back to the barastis. Noora did not open her eyes, just flipped onto her back and opened her arms and legs like a star, listening to the children’s hollers as they rushed back home.

  What an exhilarating feeling! That plunge down the dune seemed to free her after all those months in Wadeema of watching how she talked and walked. She yawned and stretched her arms tight to the fingers, lengthened her feet to a point. She stayed that way for a long time before relaxing her limbs. And that’s when she felt a darkness creep over her face. She snapped open her eyes to find Hamad standing over her with crossed arms. She sat up instantly and squinted.

  “What cheek you have,” she scolded. The sun was behind him, and she shifted to one side so that she could see his face better, find out whether he was smirking. “What nerve, coming out of nowhere like that…like a, like a…”

  “Like a thief?”

  She shook her head and frowned.

  “Like a ghost?” He grinned.

  “Worse than a ghost! The rudest…most disrespectful of…of…” Again, the word would not fall off the tip of her tongue. Her shayla had somehow twisted around her neck, and, as she loosened it, she felt the sand plop out of it. What a mess she was!

  “Well, this ghost just came down to thank you for the lovely work you did with that bodysuit. My father kept asking me which tailor I took it to, and every time I had to disappear, pretend someone was calling me or needing me urgently.”

  “Well, I’m sure that wasn’t so hard for you,” Noora said, “seeing as you are so talented at disappearing and appearing.” She stood up and shook free the rest of the sand from her dress, brushed off the grains that caked her face, all the while half-listening to Hamad thank her once more.

  “I feel I have to do something for you in return,” he said. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing,” Noora said. “Just don’t make problems.”

  31

  The dunes sped along with her till she left them behind and soared into the sky. Even though she tightened it on her head and secured it under her arms, her shayla ballooned and flattened—again and again. Noora could not get enough of the swing. She heard the tired pieces of rope grate the leaning palm they were slung over, but she just kept going higher. How liberating it felt! She always arrived before the children to enjoy it on her own. “Hamad fixed it for us.” That’s what Afra had told her. But Noora knew better. As the afternoon air raced over her face, she smiled. She knew he had hung the swing for her.

  There he was, like every afternoon, crouched on the top of the dune, watching her. And she let him. She would not slow down because caution did not fit with the reckless informality of swinging. He was rewrapping his ghitra now, a graceful flick of his arm, which she trapped in her mind with a quick twist of her head. And the ease of his gesture surprised her once more, as did everything else about him lately.

  Something was happening. Hamad was changing. No longer did his shoulders creep up to his neck with frustration. Nor did his mouth pout with that angry sulk she had gotten used to seeing in Wadeema. And his eyes…those unfathomable eyes no longer glanced at the ground. Hamad kept them open, let the sun burnish them russet.

  Perhaps it was the informality of not having walls to box you in. Maybe it was because Jassem wasn’t with them. Perhaps it was all that emptiness around them. Whatever the reason, every move Hamad made exuded an ease that was not there before.

  The children were coming. She heard their voices before they appeared at the top of the dune. Noora slowed down. Her turn on the swing was coming to an end. She watched the girls huddle around Hamad and drag him down the slope, their excited squeals begging him to “hang another swing, please.”

  His legs, lithe as a deer’s, sank into the sand in broad strides, and Noora felt her cheeks light up like hot coals. She blamed it on the swinging and kept watching. “He’s like my brother.” That’s what she whispered under her breath as the swing swayed to a halt. She called him that, too, “Brother Hamad,” as was appropriate.

  She didn’t feel as if she was breaking any rules by meeting him at the palms every afternoon, which is what they called the broad dip from which a cluster of six palm trees sprouted. After all, they were always surrounded by children, and adults keeping an eye on the children made it all right. And no one seemed to care, anyway. Neither Lateefa, who floated out of one hut and into the other with a smile on her face, as if the desert aridity had dried the grumbles out of her speech, nor Yaqoota, who remained in her unending bad humor. They never asked where Noora went every afternoon or whom she saw.

  “I don’t have any more rope,” Hamad objected once they had reached the swing. “Besides, there’s only one bent tree. The others are straight. You tell me, girls, where would I hang another swing?”

  “Next to the first one, next to the first one,” the girls pleaded. “Pleeease!”

  And there was Afra’s voice, always bolder than the rest. “You must make us at least three more,” she commanded. “Fit them next to each other. We will fetch you all the rope you need.”

  Hamad laughed again, and this time Noora joined him while Afra scrunched her nose at them in confusion.

  “You must have been just like Afra,” Hamad said to Noora as they settled to watch the girls. “So cheeky, so bold.”

  “I don’t know.” Noora shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe…a long time ago.”

  “You know, sister, if we don’t watch them, make sure every girl gets her turn on that swing, Afra wouldn’t give anyone a chance,” Hamad said. “Look at her. There she goes again.”

  She certainly had the bullying of the rich in her. Afra was hugging the swing to her canary-yellow dress with one arm and pushing a plump girl, older and taller than she, out of the way. “It’ll fall if you sit on it,” she screamed. “You’re too fat.”

  Noora put on her strict voice. “It’s her turn. She hasn’t sat on it yet. Give it to her.”

  Afra kicked the sand and dropped the swing, rooted her fists to her hips, and warned the girl, “Not very long, though. If it breaks, the rest of us won’t get another turn.”

  Noora nodded her satisfaction. Wasn’t that why they were there, to keep a vigilant supervision over the girls?

  Noora wasn’t sure what she enjoyed more, the swinging or her conversations with Hamad. He let her say what she wanted. And she did, with an abandon that surprised her. Under the saffron sun of afternoon, Noora spoke of her childhood in the mountains, her mother’s fatal illness, her father’s disappearance, and Sager’s selling her off. And when she thought she might have said too much, she would look into his eyes and sigh, content to spot the shine in them that encouraged her. And then she’d have no regrets that she had said too much.

  He spoke, too, but his words came out like the waves of the sea. He would talk a little, hold back a little, then say some more. His voice could be the sea’s soft ripples on a still day or the firm slaps on shore when the tide rolls in with a strong wind.

  “I don’t want to answer to anyone, brother Hamad. I don’t want to be afraid,” she told him one afternoon. She had hopped off the swing as soon as she saw him approach, even though the children hadn’t arrived yet.

  He joined her under the palms and said, “I know what that is like.�
�� There were his eyes, his sun-struck eyes, assuring her that she was safe to let out all that troubled her. She sat hugging her knees, the cushioning of the warm sand around her burrowed feet.

  “How would you know?” Noora said. “You are a man. You can do what you want, go wherever you please. You can decide what to do with your life.” She let out a hopeless sigh. “Me? I belong to Jassem, and he decides my fate. All I can do is wait and see what will happen.”

  He nodded. “True, sister, but don’t think I am completely free here. To live the way you want, man or woman, you need money. And I don’t have any.”

  “But my hus—Jassem…well, he pays you.”

  “Coins,” said Hamad. “He promised to take me with him when he traveled for trade, teach me how to become a merchant. That was four years ago. And still, nothing.”

  She wasn’t in the mood to talk about her husband. “You don’t need him, brother Hamad,” she said. “You can go and work for someone else. As I said, masha’ Allah, you can manage to do anything if you really wanted it.”

  “I bet the same goes for you.”

  “Hmm.” She smiled and pulled her feet out of the sand, straightened them in front of her and leaned back, supporting herself on her hands. A soft breeze teased the branches of the palm above them, and she watched the ripples of sunlight dance on her feet.

  Hamad said, “How about if I told you that ever since I was a child I have wanted something so badly that I was sure it would happen.”

  “And?”

  “It didn’t.” Hamad blinked at the sun, and Noora was intrigued. She waited for him to tell her more, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked down at his feet and followed the movement of a black beetle with a humped back that was beginning to climb onto his large toe.

  “Well, why didn’t it happen?” she asked.

  He shook the beetle off his foot and took a deep breath. And Noora knew that the biggest wave was about to spill on the shore.

  “There’s a shop in the souk,” he began. “It’s got all those things I wanted to own as a child: the stone that pulls the diver down, the cotton bodysuit that protects him from jellyfish stings, the wooden nose-clips, the leather finger stalls, the basket, and that sharp scoop—you know, the one divers use to pull out the oyster from its shell. And I always dreamed of owning them.” He paused and his lips curled down toward his chin. “I don’t go by that shop anymore,” he said. “You see, sister Noora, it reminds me of my shame.” He sighed. “All those bits and pieces remind me of my uselessness.”

  “Shame? Uselessness?” What was he talking about?

  He flicked the sand with his toes. “You see, I have always wanted to be a diver. When I was a boy, I kept dreaming the same thing. I was on this small boat on choppy water, on a cloudless day, under a scorching sun. It was always full of tired divers.” Hamad wasn’t blinking at the sun anymore. Instead, his eyes remained fixed, defiant, against the afternoon rays. Then he sneered. “It’s a boat of neglect, you see. Why I wanted to be on it, I don’t know.” He raised his brows. “No hope in it; it might as well sink. But then, something happens in this dream of mine.”

  “What, brother Hamad, what?”

  Hamad snorted. “I become the hero! As the divers give up, I take one last plunge into the dark, dark deep. Under I stay for ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine counts—so much longer than any other diver could stay without breath. Then, just as I am taken for dead, I come back up.” Hamad did a pretend-gasp for air and raised his arms with victory. “The divers cheer and clap for me, the champion, as I hand them the biggest pearl they have ever seen. ‘Hamad has saved us,’ they cry.” Although he was laughing, his chin would not stop twitching.

  Noora was laughing as well, even though she knew she shouldn’t. An unfulfilled dream is like spilled milk on dry earth. It sinks instantly and leaves a useless patch to remind you that you can never taste it.

  “What a sweet tale,” he said, and halted the laugh with a sharp snap of his fingers. “All it took was one dive for that dream to disappear. You see, sister, the sea has eaten my father’s health. His eyes are foggy, his skin is like ripped leather, and his bones—well, you can hear those bones crack every time he bends. I have always wanted to save him from all that, and I was always sure I could, sort of turn into that hero in my dreams, the one who would find those riches—to save the whole family, really.”

  Should she change the subject? Yes, no, yes, no? She decided not to. Maybe he would feel better, the way she felt better when she spoke of something that hurt.

  “Two summers ago, I was ready,” Hamad said. “I had been practicing hundreds of times holding my breath in the shallows of Wadeema. Then, once we were out, I stood on the edge of that boat. I remember I was right next to my father, scanning the water for jellyfish. When I saw none, I didn’t even bother pulling on my bodysuit. My father told me not to sink deeper than him.” Hamad deepened his voice. “Don’t think you can beat the sea,’ he said to me. And I was just nodding at him. I couldn’t wait to get in! I’d spotted a dark patch at the bottom—a rock. And I thought, that’s it. The oysters must be clinging to it. Waiting for me.

  “Then I locked my nostrils with the nose-clip and filled my lungs with air. And I sank after the divers. Down, down, down, we went. And then I got panicked. I couldn’t tell which of the divers my father was. The water stung my eyes and I wanted to rub them. But I didn’t dare. I was terrified I might mix up the ropes. Right hand to take me down, left hand for up. You see, there were two of them, one attached to the weight that was pulling me down, the other clasped to my left hand—my lifeline. One tug and the hauler on the boat knows he must pull me up.”

  The air felt thin and Noora breathed deeply. What was it like with all that water pressing on him, not allowing him to breathe? She lapped the perspiration that had gathered over her lips with her tongue and waited for the rest.

  “I remember wondering how I was going to collect the oysters if I had this fear of freeing my hands from the rope. And that’s when my problem began.” Hamad paused and pulled his feet out of the sand, took his time as he folded them under him. And Noora wanted to scream at him to go on, tell her what had happened next.

  As if guessing what was on her mind, he said, “Pain, like you wouldn’t believe—all the way inside my ears and under my eyes. I shook my head, but that didn’t help. I tried to pop my ears, but the pain only grew worse.” He cringed and pressed his ears. “It began dribbling into the sides of my neck and throbbing. Argh! Such a throb, behind my eyeballs, everywhere!”

  She could hear the children’s voices from behind the dune and felt irritated at the coming intrusion. She was under the water with Hamad, sharing his pain. She leaned closer. She had to know what he did next.

  Hamad clapped his hands. Noora winced and pulled back.

  “I tried to slow down,” he said, “but that stone was speeding into the deep, pulling me with it. I was so scared. I was kicking and forgetting to yank the rope, and all the time this horrible pain. The water was so thick around me, it was swallowing me.”

  The children were at the top of the dune now, calling to Noora and Hamad. She ignored them. “Tell me, tell me quick,” she urged. “What did you do?”

  “I could have drowned right then, but Allah, He was merciful. I must have been struggling so hard that the hauler understood I was in deep trouble.” He turned toward the children and watched them slide down the dune. As usual, Afra was in the lead. “When I popped up on the surface, I was like a dying fish, belly up and struggling to breathe.”

  32

  Early one morning Noora peeked through Lateefa’s barasti and saw her rummaging through her trunk. One by one, Noora watched her pull out the thoubs, abayas, and serwals. “Where is it?” Lateefa muttered loudly.

  Noora entered and was about to ask what she was looking for when Yaqoota pushed her way past her. “I can’t find it anywhere, Ommi Lateefa,” she said.

  “We probably didn’t bring it then,” Late
efa said. “Your fault for not reminding me.”

  “My fault?” Yaqoota objected, and for a moment Noora was caught off guard by that high-pitched squeal she had not heard for so long. Yaqoota lifted an accusing finger, sharp as a spear, and froze it at the tip of Noora’s nose. “It was her! Not me, Ommi Lateefa. She’s the one who packed your travel chest. She’s the one who forgot your mirror.”

  “It doesn’t matter who packed, Yaqoota,” said Lateefa, quietly. “You should know to check what is in the chest, even after it has been packed. Noora is new in our house. She doesn’t know the things I need.”

  Yaqoota scrunched her nose. “But you’re the one who told her what to pack.”

  “Shh, child! No need to make a storm about this.”

  “But you have your mirror,” Noora said. “It’s right over there, in the corner by your perfumes.”

  Yaqoota waved her arms in the air like an octopus. “Not that one,” she said. “That one is sooo small she has to hold it sooo far to see her face properly.”

  “My eyes,” Lateefa explained. “I can’t see so well if it’s too close. And it’s too small anyway. Even if I hold it back, I can see only this part.” She tapped the side of her forehead. “Or this part.” She touched the opposite side. “It’s the bigger mirror I need, the one with the bronze handle and colored, glass bits stuck in it.”

  Noora pretended to understand the urgency with a bob of her head.