The Sand Fish

by Maha Gargash

  “Sand fish,” she mumbled.

  He did not hear her. “Why are you doing this? Why don’t you want to come with me?”

  “Because I don’t want to bash my head,” she snapped.

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Hamad calmed his agitation with a deep breath. “Listen,” he said, turning back to face her, “they are only nice to you because of the child. Once you deliver, they will take it and bring it up the way they want to. You will have nothing to say about it.”

  “I don’t want to hear anymore.” Noora said, and plugged her ears. Still, she could hear him and he seemed intent on hurting her.

  “Look what they did to Shamsa,” Hamad continued. “They don’t need her, so she’s sent home.”

  “Shamsa wanted to see her family,” Noora said, the defiance raging in her heart. “It was her decision to go. And she might come back. Now go.”

  Hamad would not go. “And what about you?” he mocked. “Where will you go once they decide they don’t want you?”

  This time, she did not answer. The more she spoke, the longer he would stay. His taunts could go on all night. She pressed her lobes tighter into her ears and began humming, feeling the vibration rush to her head.

  Hamad tried to catch her gaze, but she focused her eyes on the floor. He tried once more, dipping down in front of her, and she swung her head toward the roof. He did not touch her, only swiveled his body around her like a cat cornering a mouse. He wanted to catch her eyes, infect them with the urgency that she knew was throbbing in his. Noora did not allow it!

  She squeezed her eyes shut, and when he started to speak again, her hum grew louder and she began rotating her lobes over her ears, round and round, up and down, until all she could hear was the deafening gush of water that drowned out all the pleas, all the revelations, all the objections Hamad was making.

  She felt as stubborn as a spoiled child, but she didn’t care. Hamad had to understand that he must leave, that her decision had been made, that she would not be going with him.

  And then the room went silent.

  Her hum weakened into a moan, and she unplugged her ears. When she opened her eyes, she found him leaning by the window, facing her but not seeing her. The burning madness was gone and a sullen defeat had replaced it. He was slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out the pouch.

  She took a few careful steps toward him. He was aching; she could see it. The pain sucked his whole face into a knot. She pictured an old rope holding everything in place, keeping his skin taut—a rotting rope that could rip at any moment.

  He did not speak, only opened his hand and watched her stare at the cluster of pearls.

  “I think that’s the best decision,” Noora said, suddenly feeling wretched. “We’ve done enough wrong. One more wrong will not make it better. It will be easy for you to return them.”

  And then, that rotting rope, the one she imagined holding his face into place, snapped. Hamad stomped his foot and flung the pearls into her chest. “You take them back!”

  Noora winced. She heard only the rumble in his voice; she felt only the brisk air he left behind as he stormed past her; she heard only the slaps of his feet as he stomped out of the room.

  And then she picked up the playful clicks of the tumbling pearls as they bounced and bounced on the floor before rolling off.

  43

  Hamad did not try to see her again. He had stormed out of her room and left her with the dilemma of returning the pearls. A full two weeks had passed, and remaining in the oppressive confinement of her room, Noora could not shape a plan of how that could be done.

  She slipped her hand under the mattress and pulled out the pouch. She undid the knot and began counting them again. Once she made sure they were all there, all thirty-seven of them, she tied the pouch and slid it back under the mattress before starting her inspection.

  Noora scanned the room, narrowing her eyes at the dark corners. It was a ritual she followed daily, whenever she was sure she would be alone. Those pearls were as slippery as worms. After Hamad had flung them at her, she had been thorough in collecting them. And still, they continued to torment her. Still, they continued to appear.

  She bent down on her knees and ran her hand in scrupulous strokes along the weave of the palm-frond mat, flicking every snag or tear along the way. Her belly tugged at her spine, heavy as the bloated water skins she used to lug so long ago. She was about to support it when she spotted one: a rebel pearl discreetly lodged in a gap at the base of the bed’s leg.

  She reached out to pluck it when the door burst open and Yaqoota rushed in. “You are big enough, safe enough!” Yaqoota yelled, flinging her arms in the air. “Finally!”

  “What?”

  “Free, free,” Yaqoota said, and then she stumbled back a step. “What are you doing down there?”

  It was the first time Noora was caught on all fours, her head bent to the floor, her hips high in the air, like a cat about to rub its scent on a tree trunk. She quickly sat up, annoyed. “Why don’t you knock? Must you always scream and shout? What if I were asleep?” She resented Yaqoota’s continued bursting into her room whenever she wanted.

  “But I have news,” Yaqoota insisted.

  “Well, it can wait till I’ve finished,” Noora said, leaning over to get up and picking up the pearl in one subtle swoop.

  “Well,” said Yaqoota, “if you’re going to be like that, I won’t tell you.”

  As Noora shook the creases out of her dress, she pretended she didn’t notice the moping Yaqoota. It took so little to make the slave girl grumpy. Her every feature ballooned. From the corners of her eyes, Noora could see Yaqoota’s generous lips grow close to exploding from under her broad nose in a fierce sulk that sat solid on her bulging eyes. But Noora also knew that she could change all that just as quickly. With Noora’s pregnancy, Yaqoota had become so receptive to her, so eager to get close once again. All Noora had to do was offer a little sympathy and appreciation.

  “It’s good of you to come, but I do need quiet at times,” Noora said. “And I like to get on my knees sometimes and just stretch and stretch and stretch.” She extended her arms to the ceiling. “You don’t know what it is like with all this heaviness hanging on me—ah, ah, ah.” She rubbed her tummy and scrunched her face to exaggerate her discomfort.

  Yaqoota exhaled, and all her features deflated back into place.

  Noora smiled at the result. It was all part of a decision she had recently reached for safe passage over any turbulence that might shake the peace in the household: know your people. She had decided to be clever and to weigh what she said and how.

  She would allow Yaqoota to breeze in and out of her daily life, allow Yaqoota to think they were best friends. But she would be wary of their relationship. Once, not so long ago, Yaqoota had turned sour toward her, threatened to play with her insecurities. Noora vowed she would not let that happen again.

  “So what is it?” Noora asked.

  Yaqoota’s eyes lit up. “It’s all right,” said Yaqoota. “You can go out now. Ommi Lateefa said to tell you that the danger is over and you can roam the house whenever you want.”

  Finally, I will be able to return the pearls, was Noora’s first thought. But she wasn’t about to show her relief. So she yawned and asked, “Danger?”

  “The danger of losing the baby,” Yaqoota said, thumping her head with the cushion of her palm. “Do I have to explain everything? Don’t you know it’s dangerous in the first few months? Mothers lose their babies all the time in the early months, and that is why you weren’t allowed to move so much.”

  “Oh?” Noora raised a brow. “Is that why?”

  “Of course, that is when the body decides whether it wants the baby or not.”

  “Hmm.”

  “So?” Yaqoota said. “Shall we go and look out through the door, watch the village?”

  Noora was about to nod, about to skip carelessly toward the door, when a
somber clarity sank to her feet, kept her rooted in place. Must be clever, Noora thought and yawned again to stifle her eagerness.

  It seemed she was always peering at life. In her mountains, she had caught her first glimpses of Rashid through the gaps of Moza’s stone hut; as a bride, she had watched her brother, Sager, through the slits of her burka as he turned away from her, rejecting her final plea; and on that boat that carried her to Wadeema, she’d peered through the rip in the partition sheet at Hamad, whose child she was now carrying. Then, there were all the other times when she caught life by looking through windows and doors, letting it all affect her own life: the arbab’s moods, Shamsa’s tantrums, Lateefa’s movements in the house—all those glimpses had sent the shivers of an uncertain future through her limbs. Enough, she thought.

  “Or maybe we can sneak into the men’s majlis and watch the fishermen pull in their catch,” Yaqoota said, the mischief twitching at the edges of her mouth. “And what about going to the shore, splashing each other again? Remember?”

  No! She would not join Yaqoota. She would stay where she was and plan the shape of her life. It was time to do that.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Noora said. “It’s so quiet here, so peaceful.” She blew a casual sigh. “No, I think I’ll just stay in my room…sew…maybe lie down a little.”

  A week later, the much-anticipated rain arrived. A hard-blowing wind speared the swollen drops sidelong, and they smudged the walls of the house and pelted oblong shapes in the sand that looked like the tiny footsteps of a lame leg.

  Noora lodged her head between the bars of the window and let the pelting drops splatter her face. Although the rain was late in coming, it was just enough to settle the courtyard sand, just enough to wash the dust off the sidr tree and rinse the walls of the house. The gush was short, but it was just enough to tug the faces of Jassem, Lateefa, and Yaqoota into cat-grins as they watched the rain from under the arcade.

  Noora caught all of that through her window, for she remained faithful to her resolution: she would leave her room when she decided. All along, she had been the goat on a rope that Lateefa had led. Now she was determined to change that. For a full week, ever since Yaqoota had announced that the danger was over, Noora had collected all her stubbornness and made it her strength. It was her show of bravery, her own very special triumph.

  Yaqoota let out a piercing whoop and jumped into the middle of the courtyard. Crossing an arm over her chest, she began spinning her head in dizzying circles. The rain clung to her hair like dewdrops as her shayla slithered down onto her shoulders.

  Watching the slave girl’s abandon, Noora felt no envy. Whereas Yaqoota could act like a child, Noora had decided she could not. There was a baby growing inside her, and soon she would give it birth. She could feel the days drawing closer. Her stomach kept growing and expanding. Mothers acted differently. Mothers had responsibilities.

  Jassem and Lateefa remained under the arcade watching Yaqoota’s frenzied dance. They were smiling and making quiet comments to each other. Noora glimpsed them briefly before closing her eyes against the pelting drops. The rain brought newness. It brought cleanliness. It washed past sins away. The rain would make her life better.

  A ray of light pierced the clouds and spread on Noora’s face. When she opened her eyes, Yaqoota was slowing down along with the dwindling drops, stumbling into small, random steps as she tried to stand still in her whirling world. Then the rain stopped. And Yaqoota tumbled to the ground and surrendered to the spinning sky.

  And there was Noora’s baby, circling the inside of her hardened tummy. It twisted and stretched, sluggish as the trickle of thick honey. With its every move, Noora was convinced it was carving a bond between them. It was telling her that they were one.

  And then it kicked. And Noora yelped with delight.

  44

  The rain came and the rain went. It was quick, but somehow, in that short precious spell, it splashed some boldness into Noora. The effect persisted as Noora stuck to her resolution for another three days, after which time she decided it was long enough to prove her point. She pushed open her door and breezed into the middle of the courtyard. She craved the warmth of the sun, and flinging her head up to the sky, she squinted at the blue tinge that lingered in the early morning light.

  “It is a morning of light today, masha’ Allah, clean light after that beautiful rain.” Lateefa’s voice came from one side of the house. Noora had not noticed her. She turned and spotted Lateefa sitting in the indigo shade of the arcade that stretched over the kitchen and family majlis. “I saw you peeking through the window to watch the rain,” Lateefa continued. “Why didn’t you come out and join us?”

  “I was scared of catching cold,” Noora said.

  “No, that wouldn’t have happened if you had stood by my side, safe and dry, under the arcade.” She had a metal tray heaped with dusty rice grains in front of her. “Come, come,” Lateefa said, patting the palm-frond mat. “Sit next to me while I clean the rice.”

  Noora hobbled toward Lateefa and sank in one quick move onto folded knees.

  “No, no,” Lateefa said. “Don’t bend down so quickly. If you sit like that, all the blood will get trapped behind your knees. Let the blood move freely.” She rocked the air with a swaying hand.

  That incessant badgering! Lateefa’s was a tender scold, delivered with the soft touch of silk. And yet Noora had to breathe deep to smother the blaze of frustration that prickled her cheeks. She wanted to make a face and stick her tongue out. But it would not do to act unwisely. After all, Noora had decided to be clever. So she loosened her legs and extended them.

  Lateefa returned to her rice, separating the tiny black stones and clumps of dirt from the grains, flicking them to one side with rapid taps of her index finger. “We have to make sure we get them all out before we can cook the rice,” she said, pausing to grin at Noora. “Otherwise, one hard crunch and that will be the end of my teeth.”

  It was an invitation for Noora to join her in this quiet mother-daughter chore. Or was it wife-wife? Whichever it was, Noora would not. Instead, she leaned back onto the prop of her elbows and tilted her head to the side. Then, with the cool-cool glance of a lazy snake, she gazed up at Lateefa.

  The older woman had returned her attention to the tray in front of her, her eyes resting in tranquil arcs. There was serenity in her face, an unruffled peace that came with unquestioned authority. Everything seemed to be going her way.

  The more Noora watched her, the more grew a desire to shake her, to agitate her self-assurance. “You know, you worry so much, Ommi Lateefa,” Noora said. “All this time, you come and fuss over me, but really all is well. Masha’ Allah, I’ve been eating the chicken you bring me every day. I have been drinking the milk. I’ve been resting. The baby’s growing fine. I’m fine. My stomach is as strong as a drum.” She patted it. “In short, there is nothing to be scared of.”

  Lateefa said, “Anything I tell you is for your own good, for your own protection. You should know that by now.”

  “But the danger’s over, remember?” Noora’s tongue flicked with sarcasm. “Isn’t that what you told Yaqoota to tell me? Isn’t that why I can leave the room now to walk around as I please? Danger’s over, but maybe there is another danger I have to watch out for?”

  “Danger’s over, danger’s over,” the older woman began in a mutter under her breath that led to a chuckle deep in her chest. “You were always one full of adventure. I spotted that in you right from the start.” She nodded and tapped the side of her burka. “It was all in your eyes.”

  “Adventure? Is that what you saw in my eyes?”

  “That…and other things.”

  There was the smack of bitterness on Noora’s tongue, which tasted like old tea. “Oh? And what else did you see in my eyes?” she said.

  Lateefa did not look up. She kept her eyes fixed on the rice as she shaped it into a mound. “The thick green of those eyes, ah, t
hey hide so much—just like when you boil sugar. So thick and sticky you can’t see the tiny granules anymore. Of course, the sugar is still there, and it is still sweet. But it has just been swallowed by this new”—she paused, and her forehead creased as she searched for the right word—“thing…Yes, sugar, boiled thick, looks different but still the same.” She nodded briskly and her eyes lit up in silent self-congratulation.

  Noora wasn’t in the mood for Lateefa’s embellished images that went round in circles. “Too much sugar can make you sick.” She let the tip of her tongue rest between her teeth. She was ready to bite.

  Lateefa chuckled again. “Ah ha ha, you have got the wild in you, girl. But I am going to tame it.” She looked up at Noora. “It may take a while, but in the end, you will be as sweet as honey.” She spoke in her usual rose-petal softness, with a touch of the thorn on the stem.

  “You still didn’t tell me what you saw in my eyes,” Noora persisted.

  “Well, I’m not sure how to answer that. I’d describe it if I could. But I saw restlessness, some impulsiveness. And other things. Yes, I saw everything—all that you were capable of.”

  The fury moved about in Noora like agitated bubbles in boiling water, and it kept her from cowering under the drips of Lateefa’s carefully chosen words. All her fears of what Lateefa might reveal evaporated. Noora sat up. Her lips fell open and the words fell out. “Are we talking about my pregnancy?”

  The older woman would not say more; she only scraped any runaway grains into her growing hill of rice.

  “My pregnancy, are we talking about that?” Noora insisted.

  The older woman paused and looked up. It was a brief look but had the force of a door slamming shut. And then Noora knew.