The Sand Fish

by Maha Gargash

  “Nothing I do is good enough for her,” Noora continued.

  Jassem twisted back to Noora and whispered, “I know, I know.” Then his voice grew louder, more stern. “Not the way to talk about our Lateefa. She’s older than you are, and you should know to show some respect.”

  “That’s all I ask for, some respect,” said a meek-voiced Lateefa.

  “Respect, that’s all. Do you understand?” Jassem said, still speaking to Noora but looking at Lateefa. And then his hand snuck behind his back and groped the air. And Noora understood. She had stood up for him and he wanted to show his gratitude. So she slipped her hand into his. But she felt more—so much more—in his steady grip. It was a warm, protective squeeze, with just the right amount of pressure to make her feel special. “So do we agree?” he said. “No more fighting?”

  “We agree,” said Lateefa.

  “Yes, we agree,” said Noora.

  47

  Of course, Noora knew that that would not be the end of it. Lateefa would be looking for retribution. And it came, three days later, with Lateefa’s declaration that Shamsa had asked for a divorce and Jassem had agreed.

  Noora gasped. It was an important piece of news and very unexpected. They had just settled around the lunch mat, under the arcade that hung over the kitchen and family room, and were waiting for Jassem to join them.

  “Well, why are you so surprised?” Lateefa said, before stretching out her foot to squish the tiny, orange ants that always arrived with the scent of a meal. Those that did not meet an instant death writhed to escape with whichever part of their bodies they could. “I was sure she would do that,” Lateefa continued. “You see, her pride was injured.”

  Of course, Noora knew it wasn’t uncommon for a woman to ask for a divorce. What puzzled her was that Jassem was agreeing to it. Almost two years since she’d first set foot in Leema, and still the memory remained as clear as rinsed glass. How angry he was at Shamsa’s abandonment even then! His hurt pride had bubbled like boiling water as he carried it through the market. Along the way, he had poured it on the unsuspecting madman. It had taken no more than a dagger look to make Shamsa’s loose tongue twist back into her mouth, harmless as a snake coiled in a frozen pit. He had made it clear that Shamsa belonged to him. And yet, now, he was setting her free so quickly. None of it made sense.

  Lateefa caught her thoughts. “It is surprising, I must say,” she said. “Why did our husband agree?” She retrieved her foot out of the ant slaughter and brushed off the few victims that clung to her big toe. “Pah! We don’t really have to worry about her. Less food to cook.” She reached out for a piece of radish and, tilting up her burka, tossed it into her mouth.

  How harsh of her to speak that way! Noora felt she needed to defend Shamsa, even though, through all their days together, they had been rivals. Still, they’d shared something: the lack of choice. Weren’t they both thrown under the same roof and into a life not of their selection? But then, wasn’t that the fate of all young women? Something in Noora, an emptiness, expanded in what space was left in her belly as she struggled to find a sympathetic remembrance. When she could not, she said, “I thought you liked her.”

  “Hmm…” Lateefa let the muffled crunch of teeth on radish fill the silent space between them before speaking. “I suppose our husband is relieved that she chose to leave on her own. I mean, why would she stay? What’s the point in the end? You see, unlike you, she has a rich family that wants her. Unlike you, she really does not need the security of this house.” A croaky groan lingered at the back of Lateefa’s throat. “Yes, I suppose there’s no reason to keep her.”

  No point in keeping her? Noora thought of Hamad and his warning. Was she next? “Well, I suppose it is just like me. Once I deliver this child, you won’t need me anymore.” That’s what Noora was thinking. She realized that her thoughts had fallen out of her mouth only when Lateefa shrieked and the disintegrated radish splattered into her burka and bounced back to dribble down her mouth.

  “Jaaassem!” Lateefa cried. “Come and listen to what this ungrateful woman is saying about us.”

  Noora’s hands turned into butterfly wings as she tried to calm the older woman’s unexpected outburst. All the while, she resisted the urge to reach out and twist the burka off Lateefa’s face, see what was behind it. Was this genuine hurt or, as she suspected, another of Lateefa’s tricks for sympathy?

  “Shame on you,” Lateefa cried, thumping her chest. “What do you think we are, monsters? Jaaassem!”

  “What is it?” Jassem’s call flew out of his room.

  “Come, come and listen to what she thinks of us,” Lateefa cried, with a voice filled with the wail of a grieving mother.

  As Jassem rushed across the courtyard, Lateefa began blinking hard to break the solid glaze that sat on her eyes. But as always with sly tears, they took their time.

  “What happened?” demanded Jassem. “Didn’t we agree to stop these cat fights?”

  “You didn’t hear what she said,” said Lateefa. “It hurt me so. You didn’t hear what she thinks of us. She said…she said…” And she paused, while a much-desired tear grew in the corner of her right eye. There it lingered, until she squeezed it out with a forced wink.

  The panic rushed up Noora’s spine in waves of prickly heat as she watched Lateefa’s silent tear’s sluggish journey down her cheek and into the half-moon pouch beneath her eye. There it stopped. There it dried. Lateefa wiped it anyway.

  “She said we are cruel, that we would throw her out of the house once the baby is born,” said Lateefa.

  “Is that true, is that what you think of us?” Jassem asked.

  Fury, merciless as a rockslide, rumbled in Noora. Lateefa could twist words all she wanted, but she would not cower. Right there and then, Noora decided she could twist words, too. “Of course not,” she said. “You are my family, my life.”

  “And why would you say what you said if you didn’t mean it?” Jassem asked.

  “It’s just…” And here, Noora paused and gathered all her fears, let them flood her mind. And quickly, her eyes began to moisten. It is so easy when you have a real reason. “Ommi Lateefa doesn’t understand how things get muddled up in the head when you are pregnant. You feel like you’re angry and happy at the same time. You say things without really thinking, so many silly things. And well, what can I say?” She did not need to wink; her first tear plopped heavy as a dewdrop into her lap. Then another and another. “I mean, of course I didn’t mean what I said. You must believe me.” In between sniffles, she caught glimpses of Lateefa’s tilted head. Was there puzzlement behind that burka? Noora didn’t have time to ponder, for she was immersed in this new tactic of playing with words. It was a trick mastered by Lateefa, and Noora was finally giving it a go. “And I don’t blame Ommi Lateefa for reacting that way,” she continued. “How would she know what’s going on inside me? After all, she has never been pregnant.”

  “Enough, enough, enough,” Jassem said. “It’s not good for you to get so worked up.”

  “Yes, enough, enough,” Lateefa repeated, her voice sharp with impatience. “Maybe I did overreact a little. I don’t want you upsetting yourself. After all, you need the strength. The day is coming, very soon. You’ll be giving Jassem his most desired dream, and he will always be grateful to you, as will I.”

  Noora calmed down her snivels with deep and noisy inhalations.

  But Lateefa had not finished. “Of course, once that child comes, you’ll be able to rest, finally. Leave everything to me. I will take care of it.”

  She was twisting words again, this time twirling them tighter than a sailor’s knot. “No!”

  “See, husband?” said Lateefa. “That’s her problem. She has no trust in me.”

  Jassem grunted.

  “It is my child,” Noora said, taken aback by the warble that had suddenly sprung to the back of her throat. She had felt so confident playing the role of the distraught younger wife, and now there was this strange emo
tion surging through her. And her face! Now there were real tears rolling down, full of the spattering sting of sea spray.

  “Look, it’s all early, and everything will work out,” Jassem said.

  “No, no, no, you see, it’s different,” Noora said, taking raucous gulps of air. “A mother always knows what’s best for her child. Ommi Lateefa has never felt a child growing in her stomach. So she doesn’t know. It’s…it’s—”

  “How ridiculous you are sometimes,” Lateefa interrupted.

  Noora continued despite Lateefa’s disdain. “It’s hard to explain, but that child is a part of me.” She was regaining an even breath, the heat of her outburst slightly conquered.

  “Part of us, too,” Lateefa said, with a snotty jiggle of the head.

  “Yes, but growing in me.” Now she felt ready as a mother cat, ready to hiss and scratch. But Jassem stopped her short.

  “And made by me,” he said.

  Noora looked up at him, puzzled and irritated at his disruption in the middle of this test of wills between her and Lateefa. She shook her head and frowned. What had he just said? And then it struck her. And there was Lateefa, looking up at him, too, her eyes as dark and lifeless as ash. Lateefa could spill her secret right there and then. And the thought shook the fear back into Noora.

  “What?” he said.

  They looked down and mumbled at the same time, “Nothing, nothing.”

  “Well, let’s eat then,” he said, and he called Yaqoota to bring their lunch.

  While they waited, only the soft coos of roosting pigeons broke the silence that hung over the house. While they waited, Noora tried to understand why, just moments ago, Lateefa had had a chance to reveal her secret and didn’t. Why?

  Yaqoota placed the tray in the middle of the mat. As they burrowed their hands into the rice and rubbed free the fish from bone, Noora remained eagle-eyed with Lateefa. She tried to catch some hint in the older woman’s eyes, but Lateefa kept them fixed on the tray. And then Noora felt her biggest fear melt away as she realized her secret would always remain so.

  Lateefa never intended to let it out, only threatened. After all, what would she say? What could she say? And, more important, would Jassem believe her? Such tales! Certainly, he would take them for what they were: tales of spite and jealousy. Hadn’t Lateefa been showing a lot of jealousy recently? It is all falling into a neat pattern, like the scales on the fish I am now skinning, she thought happily.

  She ate with a greedy appetite. Food had never been so tasty. Of course, there was still that argument they were having, she and Lateefa. It had remained unresolved. She smiled anyway. When that confrontation came, she would be ready.

  But it came right away. And Noora was not ready.

  Halfway through their meal, Lateefa took her time in shaping the next ball of rice that would enter her mouth. And then she sighed, twice, making sure the second sigh sounded somehow more burdened than the first. “I think there is no point going round and round.” She released a third sigh, this one filled with anguish. “This is your child—we all know that—in the body-part of things, the carrying-part of things.” She nodded and paused, for her ball of rice was ready to be devoured. She tilted her burka up and dropped it into her mouth. The mask fell back in place and moved to the rhythm of her chomps. “I think,” she continued, with mouth full, “we have to look at the important things here, don’t you agree, husband?”

  Jassem grunted.

  “Most important of all is that once it is born, it will belong to all of us, so that we can give it everything together.”

  Noora’s mouth fell open to object, but Lateefa cut her off.

  “Shh…shh…Listen to me. We will pour all our love, dear. We will share it. Don’t you think that’s fair, to share it, hmm? As it grows, it will learn more from its father, Jassem, and from me than it will from you. After all, you are just a child yourself, with none of the wisdom or blessings that we have had.”

  “I can give it other things,” Noora said. “I can give it love.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, of course you can. But I think the best thing is that I will be with you always as you do that, to make sure this child follows the good way, the right way. My foot and your foot making the same prints, how beautiful is that?”

  Jassem nodded and mumbled, “That’s very beautiful.”

  Lateefa flipped her palms to the sky. “May this child be born healthy, insha’ Allah. May this child be graced with wisdom, insha’ Allah. May this child follow the moral way, insha’ Allah. God be blessed for all that He has given us.”

  “Amen,” said Jassem.

  48

  So that’s how it was to be: she and Lateefa making the same footprints. Wasn’t that what Lateefa had said? Wasn’t that what Noora had dreamed a while back?

  Noora squinted at the afternoon sky, an oppressive glare of white that seemed to have sucked in the air. Only the clucks of the baby chickens broke the still air. Jassem had brought them to nourish her after the delivery so that she could recover her strength quickly, and there were so many of them running about behind the mesh enclosure.

  “Rain’s coming.” She was thinking it but found out she’d spoken it.

  “Rain? Are you crazy?” Yaqoota had just walked out of the kitchen with a load of dirty trays for washing by the well. “No rain comes at this time, only heat and humidity.” She sniffed the air, thick with the scent of the sea. “It’s going to be a sticky summer.”

  Noora moaned and breathed deeply with another rolling contraction, but she wasn’t going to say anything. Then Lateefa would rush the midwife over to the house. Three times she’d done that and, every time, Noora had had to listen to a detailed account of what she had to do and what to expect. There was pain, obviously, and, most probably, a long and exhausting labor. But the last time the midwife had hurried to their house, she had mentioned death, too.

  “So many die,” she had said, rubbing Noora’s tummy to check the position of the baby. “It starts fine, but then…” She had shaken her head at this point. “Then…we lose the poor mother, and we never know why. In the end, it’s all in God’s hands.” She had paused a long time before shrugging her sadness to the side to lift up Noora’s legs to give them a rough shake. “But not you, insha’ Allah, not you. You are young and strong, and everything seems fine.” She had slid Noora’s legs down and grunted at Lateefa. “Still too early, not ready yet.”

  “But soon?” Lateefa had asked.

  “Very soon.”

  “You must come right away when it’s time.”

  “Well, haven’t I done that every time you’ve called me? Of course, I will come immediately. And I’ll stay on, too, just as we agreed, for a full forty days after. She will need the help, especially as there aren’t any other women in this house who’d know what to do.”

  “Pah!”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” the midwife had said. “You may think you know what to do. But you know only in your head, not with your hands. When to give her the raw egg and garlic mix to speed the delivery, when to walk her and when to sit her on that sack of warmed sand, how to hug her, hold her, rub her, support her…”

  “All right, all right, all right,” Lateefa had said. “But I’ll be there just the same.”

  So that’s how it was to be. Lateefa in the room with them so that she could touch the baby first, so that she could take control right from the start.

  Noora cradled her tummy and shambled back into her room, pausing over the wooden, rocking crib next to her bed. Piled in the middle of the mattress was a circle of clean sand, to be changed every time it got dirty, and stacked at the base of the crib, along with the long, cotton wrap, were the tiny, white gowns, eight of them, that Noora had sewn for the baby. Yes, everything was in place for its arrival.

  She climbed onto her bed and eased into the mattress, tried to forget what was sitting on the chest in the corner of the room. But what if something had gone missing? With sudden alarm, she sat up to check.

>   On the ground, a black stone, to flatten her tummy after the birth, sat next to the sack of sand that was to prop her up into position during the delivery. She began counting the items on the chest. There were the scissors and thread, twisted many times over itself for thickness, to cut and tie the umbilical cord. There was the disinfecting yas powder to dab on the navel and the bowl of water with cotton next to it to clean the baby immediately after the birth.

  Yes, everything was in place for the delivery, even the salt. She cringed. Oh, that chunk of salt—the size of an egg—that was to heal the rawness of her insides right after the delivery. The burn of it! A sudden fatigue overwhelmed her and she slackened back into her bed.

  49

  She was stuck in a dream.

  Her feet sank deep as she staggered up a massive hill in a vast desert of undulating, golden dunes. The faster she climbed, the deeper the sand shifted around her ankles, and those velvety caresses trapped her calves till she slumped with exhaustion.

  That’s when she spotted the sand fish—that haunting sand fish—at the top of the hill, its head raised to the sky, taking in all that sun. It did not sink, just stayed where it was. After all, that’s where it belonged.

  Then the ground shook around her. The pounding stomps of a figure hurried past her; man or woman, she could not tell, for this figure was swathed in layers of cloth as it headed for the sand fish.

  She gathered her strength and uprooted a foot. Then the other, and up she went, suddenly so spry, so alert, in a tiptoe scurry over the steep slope. All the while, she kept staring at the figure’s feet, plump with spite, closing in on the sand fish.

  She was crying. It was crying.

  The foot rose and came crashing down. But the sand fish had vanished, leaving behind only the twirl of its body print on the face of the sand. A little distance away, it emerged.