The House of Jasmine

by Ibrahim Abdel Meguid

  Burying the man wasn’t a difficult job. I left Usta Zinhum to handle it and went home. I looked in the mirror and couldn’t ignore the paleness of my face, which reminded me of al-Dakruri’s. I had no time to cook and lived on canned foods, although I often read in the papers that they weren’t well preserved and not fit for human consumption. The other members of the union didn’t help. They only passed the workers’ problems and demands on to me. I had to wait for the chairman of the board of shipyard directors to fulfill his promise to consider “the files” its own department and staff it with two more employees. I would be the head of that department and the supervisor of those new employees. The shipyard had placed an advertisement for these two new positions in the newspapers, and it was going to be a few more days before the promise could be fulfilled. I was waiting for that to happen before I quit the union. Then the chairman wouldn’t be able to go back on his decision. Actually, he could, but I didn’t think that he was going to. God was still on my side. I thought that I could sue the shipyard if the chairman went back on his decision, because I would have the right to keep my new position. Yes, I would defend my rights, because a person who doesn’t defend his rights is worthless.

  The important thing was that my marriage plans developed quickly. I visited Hassanayn at the time that we had set, and found Nawal there visiting with his wife. Before I had had time to think about how I could introduce myself, Hassanayn called to his wife, “Why don’t you both come and sit with us?” She smiled, left the room for a minute, and then came back with a china plate that I had seen before, bananas piled upon it. Nawal followed her into the room and shook my hand.

  Would anyone believe that that was the first time I had shaken hands with a woman? I was thirty-five years old, and had shaken the hands of many of my female colleagues and many of my mother’s female neighbors in the hills, but none of them had made me feel like a man shaking hands with a woman. Nawal’s hand was warm and it trembled a little. My hand was as cold as ice. I looked at her face while she looked down at the floor. She was as small as a cat, and sat with her knees and her legs pressed tightly together. She was pretty, and her eyelashes never stopped fluttering. She must have sensed that I was watching her. She must have been aware of my ulterior motive. Who knows? Maybe she was also looking at me somehow. I wondered whether that year, 1980, was going to be a decisive year in my life.

  #

  It seemed as though I was always trying to remember something, but couldn’t. At work, at home, with Hassanayn, when I was alone with Nawal at her house, I often had the sudden feeling that there was something I wanted to remember, but I didn’t know what it was.

  “We came to celebrate,” said Hassanayn as he opened his arms wide and embraced me. It had been a while since we had embraced. I had heard the doorbell ring repeatedly and thought that it was Usta Zinhum coming to me with a new problem. I decided that I would beat him up, and if I could, throw him and his buddy off the balcony. But when I opened the door I found that it was Hassanayn and Magid. Magid and I embraced several times, and then I went in to get two of the old chairs, which were going to be replaced in a few days, but Magid said, “Let’s go to the café. The café is better.” I realized that I could see a few white hairs among his shiny black hair. I stood in the middle of the hallway without getting the chairs. It was as if Magid had paralyzed me with what he just said. What was the secret of that little, mostly empty café overlooking an ordinary road where cars raced by? I had a lot to talk about with both of them—how Nawal and I were going to buy a refrigerator, how we were going to buy a stove, how we had bought china and kitchenware and chosen some nice simple furniture that we were going to buy in a few days in cash, for I was going to withdraw all of my savings out of the bank. My account was back at a thousand pounds, after having decreased during the election campaign. Nawal’s father and her brothers were going to contribute another thousand pounds. I also wanted to tell them that I hadn’t had time to go by to see Magid and invite him to the wedding, which was coming soon, but that I would have definitely remembered to do so before the wedding date. We hadn’t had an engagement party, but had only exchanged rings in the presence of Nawal’s close family. The wedding, though, was going to be attended by members of both families, and mine was Magid, Hassanayn, and ‘Abd al-Salam.

  This is too much for a chat in the café, Magid, I thought, so why do you want us to leave? I have found Nawal to be quiet and tender. I want to tell you how I kissed her for the first time, and how she was surprised and confused, and how I have tamed her so that she now puts her head on my chest and nestles like a bird, and how my arms can almost cover her up. Here we are, going to the café to chat about the same old things.

  “Is it really December already?” I asked, and Hassanayn smiled at my question and said, “You are already starting to see the days differently.”

  “It is hard to believe that this is December in Alexandria,” said Magid. “It rained constantly last December, and January too. Alexandria has gone crazy.” Then he laughed and added: “So, you’re finally getting married, Shagara.”

  He rolled the dice and threw them on the backgammon board. Once again, I had the feeling that I was trying to remember something but couldn’t. I lit a cigarette and smiled as I rolled the dice in my hand.

  “What’s up?” Magid asked, having noticed my absentmindedness.

  “I was thinking that I wish my mother were still alive,” I said. Then I threw down the dice and went on playing. I didn’t know what had made me say that, but Hassanayn patted my shoulder, and blushed. Then he said to Magid, perhaps to change the subject, “Have you seen the house of jasmine lately? It was pulled down, and now there is a vacant lot in its place.”

  I was suddenly depressed. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I last walked down that street. My feet just got used to their new route. I tried to concentrate on the dice as Magid played.

  “We saw it on our way here,” Hassanayn said to me. “I’m sure you know the house.”

  So he knows the story of the house, I thought. Magid knows it, too, and so does the rest of Alexandria, just as ‘Abd al-Salam said.

  “If Magid got married, and ‘Abd al-Salam returned and got married as well,” I said, trying to get the conversation on to a lighter subject, “then we could all have children who would grow up together.”

  “Allah! Allah!” cried Hassanayn, “You are as good as Hassan al-Imam.” We all laughed as loudly as we used to, but it was not long before we were silent again. Then Magid said, “Not a single word from the American woman.”

  His statement surprised me and Hassanayn. We had forgotten about the American woman and her promise to Magid. I looked down at the dice on the board and could feel that Hassanayn was looking at me.

  “Dr. Musa has written to me a few times from Kuwait, trying to tempt me to join him there,” Magid went on, “I’m seriously considering going.”

  It became impossible for me and Hassanayn to go on ignoring what Magid was saying. He was holding the dice in his hand and waiting for our comments. I wanted to say something, but felt that if I opened my mouth, I would scream. I looked at Hassanayn, who was blushing and looked unhappy. Hassanayn took a letter out of his pocket and said that it was from ‘Abd al-Salam.

  #

  “War has broken out between Iraq and Iran, as you probably know. You must have read about it in the papers or heard about it on the radio and television news. I can’t believe that you’re so busy that you haven’t had time to write to me for so long. My only explanation is that you have separated. If so, then I wish each one of you all the best with his new life. Who knows? Maybe you really don’t have time.

  “Anyway, I’m sure you know that I have a lot of experience with war by now. It seems to be my destiny. God created me, and said: ‘You, ‘Abd al-Salam, are going to be a warrior,’ and so He gives me an opponent everywhere, even when I don’t really know it. So far, I’m still not sure exactly who my enemy is. What is certain i
s that I’m a brave warrior, and this is enough for me to fight any war. I’m the bravest warrior in the Middle East, and if there is no war, then I will have to start one. I must be the bravest warrior in the world. I have volunteered to fight in the Iraqi army.

  “Don’t be surprised. I know that people travel to make money, and then return home, but I’m not like them. I’m different. I’m a warrior first and foremost, and so war follows me wherever I go. Must the best years of my life be spoiled? This is my destiny, and I cannot fight it and become like everybody else.

  “I know very well that if I’m taken prisoner, the Iranians will kill me as a mercenary, and that if I get killed, the Iraqis will consider me to be a martyr and glorify me. I know that, and I’m comfortable with it. What bothers me is that I don’t know what you will say about me. What will my own people say about me? If you asked me, I would tell you that I don’t like death and I don’t care for glory. The problem is that you are so far from me, and that I still don’t really understand what the word ‘homeland’ means exactly, so please forgive me.”

  I went home at the end of the evening thinking of what ‘Abd al-Salam wanted from us or what he was doing to us. I felt a sudden nostalgia for a walk on the street of the house of jasmine to take a look at it, even after it had been demolished, but I couldn’t do it. ‘Abd al-Salam’s letter had left me quite sad. What exactly does “homeland” mean?

  I wanted to write to him. I had a particular thought which I wanted to share with him: If you die, ‘Abd al-Salam, I will never have any rest. I’m bound to you with an umbilical cord. People do travel far, but only to make some money, return, get married, and settle down. You almost said that yourself, ‘Abd al-Salam. Then they have a homeland, even if it’s small. Yes, marriage is the homeland, and people make their own homelands. I will be married in a few weeks, and will have a homeland. Oh, ‘Abd al-Salam, what a liar I am! Now you have made me wonder how many years of life have passed while I was in exile. Where was homeland before? Marriage by itself cannot make a homeland at all. . . I will not write to you, my friend.

  It was almost midnight, and it was starting to rain.

  Epilogue

  I stood on the balcony looking at the sea, which had awakened as early as I had and invited me to look at it. The sea is always relaxed and relaxing. It doesn’t share anyone’s anger or joy. There was only a single lonely ship in the distance and it appeared to be the master of the universe.

  I will teach my son to swim in you in his first year. From the very beginning, I will let him face the waves, for we only have bad times ahead. My son, read this book of mine to learn all about your father, and don’t blame me. My story was never the story of a marriage, or else it would have been a big farce. Search for the secrets hidden between the lines. My marriage to your beautiful mother was the easiest thing I have ever done. . . Don’t forget that my father, your grandfather, planted my seed but it took twenty years to sprout. But you were different. You put an end to my fear and announced your arrival on the first day. It was as if you had been hidden in some secret corner of the universe waiting to jump out in the dark, as if you had been sitting at the feet of God, and no sooner did I plant your seed than you jumped out, almost exploding from your mother’s belly. Remember that you are different from me, even if you are my offspring, and don’t be like me. . . I am certain that you are a good son. And don’t blame me. This house is from another house which I had sold by force, so it may be haram. This is furniture bought with money made by force as well. Read so that you will learn, and don’t blame me. The most certain thing is that you are all halal. And don’t ask how your father managed to preserve his sanity and not go crazy.

  I jumped up in the air and ran in to the kitchen where Nawal was, with her big round belly, fixing a delicious breakfast.

  “Breathe in this air,” I told her as I put my hands, which I had cupped as if I were carrying water in them, to her nose. She looked at me in surprise, then laughed and stepped back.

  “Breathe in this air quickly,” I said again, and this time I was also laughing. I saw her molasses eyes gleam with surprise.

  “You’re nuts,” she said.

  “You don’t understand. Come on, quick.”

  “Shagara, have you lost your mind, sweetheart!”

  “Breathe. Then I’ll explain.” I brought my hands closer to her nose, and she couldn’t retreat any further because of the kitchen wall behind her. Her belly prevented me from bringing my body too close to hers, but my hands were right in front of her face.

  “Deeply,” I said, and she took a deep breath. I felt the air flowing out of my hands, turning them cold as ice. The teapot was boiling on the stove, its cover rattling with the steam.

  “I talked to my son on the balcony,” I said. Her eyes became wider.

  “Then I gathered my words from the air into my hands, and wanted to send them to him. Was there any other way of doing it?” Nawal kept on laughing gaily.

  “You are really nuts,” she said. “And how do you know it’s a boy?”

  “I know it is,” I replied. “I will call him ‘Ali, tell him to name his son Muhammad, and he will tell Muhammad in turn to name his son Shagara. This way, there will be another Shagara Muhammad ‘Ali in the third generation. Shagara will then have a son named ‘Ali, ‘Ali will have another Muhammad, and Muhammad will have yet another Shagara, and so the names of my grandfather, my father, and myself will be repeated once in every three generations.”

  Nawal was watching me in great surprise.

  “And why all this?” she asked. I kissed her on the cheeks, and grabbed my fishing equipment.

  “What about breakfast?” she cried.

  “I am happy today, and don’t need any breakfast.”

  #

  I went down and saw the expansive space, its arms wide open. All that white mixed with soft blue, I thought. All this sweet air that tempts me to jump up and swim in it. What a fool and a loser I am! I suddenly realized what it was that I had been trying to remember for so long. It was the hundred pounds that I had hidden in a mattress five years ago. That was what I had been trying to remember, what had been distracting me all along. The hundred pounds were now lost forever. I had sold all my old furniture to a secondhand-goods vendor who rarely comes near the sea, and even if I met him, he would probably already have sold the furniture to another vendor. I stopped.

  And what if I had found the money? I bought an apartment without it, got married without it, and will have a son without it as well.

  Twenty years ago, one of our neighbors lost a hundred pounds, so his wife set herself on fire. It was the price of a plot of land that he had inherited. At that time, many people were killing themselves with D.D.T. The husband ran like mad, grabbed a blanket and wrapped it tightly around his wife. The poor man had not realized that their one-year-old baby was wrapped in that blanket, and that he was standing on top of the baby after it had fallen out of the blanket between him and his wife. He didn’t understand why his wife was screaming hysterically as she tried to push him away and grab her baby. He did save his wife, but she lived wishing that she had died, and he always seemed lost and unfocused after that. . . God! These times were long ago. No one would try to kill herself for a hundred pounds today. Besides, it was my fault that I lost it, and I shouldn’t let it spoil such a beautiful day. I walked on, and almost bumped into Holy Yahya coming from the old street on which I never walked anymore.

  “Hey, it’s you,” I said. “Are you still alive?”

  “People like us don’t die Mr. Shagara. I was coming to see you.”

  I stopped to look at him carefully. His clothes were all new and clean.

  “Welcome. Let me walk home with you,” I said, trying to be nice.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I wanted to congratulate you on your marriage, and I also wanted to tell you that if you have any friends who want to buy apartments, I would be happy to help them. You are a good man who deserves only the be
st, and I would be happy to have tenants like you.”

  I was still looking at him. He was talking to me as if we were friends just because I was trying to be nice to him. The strange thing was that he seemed sincere, and really had been coming to visit me. I almost laughed as I remembered Hassanayn saying that Holy Yahya would make a good president of the workers’ union. I tried to imagine him with his tiny figure up to his ears in the workers’ problems. My resignation from the union had come as a surprise to a lot of people and they had tried to convince me to change my mind. Usta Zinhum tried especially hard, but I told him never to try to contact me again for any reason. I was right when I guessed what the chairman of the board would do. He didn’t go back on his decision to make the files into a whole department, and I now enjoy new privileges as head of that department.

  “Are you building a new apartment building now?” I asked Holy Yahya.

  “Yes. On this street, in place of the house of jasmine. You must have heard of it. I bought it and will build an apartment building in its place.”

  I took a few steps backward. There he had spoiled the day for me.

  “I bought it for myself this time,” he went on. He was smiling in great confidence and pleasure.

  “I will try to find some tenants among my friends for you,” I said, trying to get rid of him. Hundreds of tons of stone, iron, and concrete were going to be placed on the most beautiful face I had ever seen. I wondered where that woman with the beautiful face was now. Was it really true that I could have married her? But there wasn’t any woman in the world more beautiful than Nawal. Was there?

  I walked on. I sighed deeply as soon as I had walked away from him and thought of returning home without fishing. What did it mean when a scoundrel like that owned a house older than you or me, as ‘Abd al-Salam had said? But I kept on walking.

  Nothing should spoil my pleasure with the pure happy breeze around me, or with the wide-open space. Let the house of jasmine be owned by all the thieves in the world. There will never be a person as depressed as the owner of that old house.