Mother of All Pigs

by Malu Halasa

  “You might think about losing the beard,” Hussein suggests evenly.

  11

  “How can people survive without na’ bat ma’?” Mother Fadhma asks the tanker driver, as she unlocks the gate.

  She has chosen her words with care. Just as the Bedouins have hundreds of names for the desert, farmers who live and fail by the seasons know the secret syntax of water. If she wanted to be accurate, she shouldn’t have said na’ bat ma’, pure spring water, but ma’ raked, stagnant water. The liquid from the tankers tastes metallic as though left in an iron pot baked by the sun. For the past few weeks she has been living with even worse ill-smelling water, the dregs from the cistern. Suddenly she recalls water cool, fresh, and running—ma’ jary—moving in hypnotic rivulets or chains—salsabeel ma’. Her memories are so vivid she can almost taste it. She would gladly climb into the undergrowth and search for the mountain path to the old springs. When she was little such a journey took a few good hours. In her current state of health it would probably last longer than a day and a half. During her lifetime the village had grown into a town and with it a demand that neither the springs nor communal cistern could meet. As a result, every house and refugee hovel became prey for the jackals who own the water trucks.

  “We have small children,” she adds, hoping the driver is listening with his heart. She is keen to avoid sounding critical of his services, but at the same time she needs him to be aware of the stakes involved. In the future she hopes he will remember the Sabases kindly and bring water without delay.

  The dirty keffiyeh that the man is wearing has left a grimy oil-colored ring around his neck. He throws his still-burning cigarette butt to the ground and gruffly unhooks the hose from the truck. Dragging it through the front yard toward the side of the house, he informs her, “If you have complaints, call the company. Rely on them and see how long it takes.”

  Fadhma hides her disappointment. She should have recognized the kind of man he is—more than likely a terror in his own home, a belittler of women. His threat against her own family leaves her cold, and she positions herself on the front terrace of the new house and watches him climb the metal ladder to the roof. Despite his deplorable attitude, the water inconveniences facing Fadhma today are nothing compared with those of the past. She remembers droughts and famines. During her childhood there were times when a mouthful of water would have been the sole contents of the massive earthenware pot that stood, constantly sweating moisture, in the corner of her father’s house. Her life had been shaped by the toil and disappointment of trying to keep the pot from drying out completely. Somehow she succeeded, just as other women have done, against all odds, for thousands of years. A trail of water jars could be traced back to the brilliant moment when God told the prophet Musa which rock to strike with his rod, and the children of Israel were saved.

  The miraculous Ayun Musa, named for the prophet’s springs, was seven kilometers from the village. On one side of the rocky crevices from where groundwater emerged, grape vines grew on terraced plots. On the other was a clear, breathtaking view over the dry brown hills and mountains to the river valley, which stretched past Jericho to the Dead Sea. Fadhma’s earliest memories were of waking before light and walking with her mother and aunts to fetch water. Even as a toddler, they made her carry a small goatskin bag that gave off a musty odor and felt rough against her skin. When she cried and begged them to carry her, they laughed: “Only birds fly to the springs.”

  She no longer complained after her feet became hard. The easy camaraderie of her female relations and friends turned a disagreeable chore into a pleasure. No matter how early they arrived, other women were already there, dark shapes against the gradually brightening sky. It was an unlikely place to be schooled, but in the half-light, soothed by the sound of running water, the women talked freely. Between Fadhma’s Christian kinfolk and Muslim neighbors there was universal disagreement on all matters, from the relative powers of Christian saints—because Muslims prayed at certain shrines—to the best methods for baking bread. However, on one point they found consensus: the different standards of behavior expected of men and women. It was a certainty the little girl pondered as she watched her snide younger brother, Za’atar, rule over their father’s meager store. Worse yet, he was allowed out whenever he liked, while she, sequestered and protected by her family, was permitted to follow only the one path that led out of the village to the springs, and when she was really lucky, her mother and aunts tarried longer in the mountains, gathering fresh herbs for za’atar.

  “To be free!” The lament echoed in the stony clefts of Ayun Musa as women of both faiths adjusted their clothing and headscarves before carrying their heavy loads back to the village.

  Years passed, and still the water flowed. The goatskins were replaced by tins and then by plastic buckets. Finally there was a plan to pipe the springs into the village. Many feared that Ayun Musa would dry up when the pipe was laid. Perhaps modern convenience would end that which God provided so abundantly. However, when the final piece of tubing was in place, the water ran as freely as the blood of the sacrificed lambs that consecrated the project. The new water supply was the biggest change the village had ever faced. The women now met around the modern, brick-lined cistern, but they still liked to gauge the day’s weather by the feel of the first temperate hours. In the early coolness, there was also time for news.

  “Hottest before noon.” An old woman sniffed the air and spoke with the confidence of an experienced meteorologist.

  Nobody replied, but the water, ropes, buckets, and rustling clothing made noises that Fadhma still hears in her dreams.

  Another younger woman spoke. She was frightened: “You heard them in the valley last night?”

  There were low murmurs of assent.

  Water and food—these were always Fadhma’s immediate concerns, not fighting across the river. All of them had seen the refugees and heard their stories, but the village, in the midst of a drought, had its own problems. With no pasture, the sheep and goats starved. After the carcasses were stripped of their hides and the little meat there was, they were burned, and the stench of singed hair and horn hid in the folds of the villagers’ garments.

  Fortunately, the surrounding hills and mountains were like a sponge. Even in the driest seasons, the little water that was there collected in underground wells. In time, the trickle to the cistern would stop, but the women knew other secret locations. For Fadhma, the natural catastrophe took precedence over the man-made one. The conflict was like a distant storm, an unfulfilled promise that only benefited others. Its consequences arrived in the village indirectly, if at all. Still, the meaning of the woman’s words was not lost on her and lingers until today.

  “Our only hope is our children.” Absentmindedly Mother Fadhma bends down and pats baby Fuad’s head. His appearance on the front terrace draws her from her reverie. Straining backward against the railings, she checks the progress of the man on the roof. Then motioning to Muna to watch the little boy, the old mother moves ponderously through the house toward the kitchen. When Samira finds her at the stove, making tea, she pleads, “Mamma, that man doesn’t deserve a thing. The water companies make a profit out of something we all need.”

  Fadhma continues to prepare the traditional glass of compromise and hospitality, which only upsets her daughter more.

  “Sooner or later there will be a war over who controls the river, and then that terrible man and his bloodsucking company will cheat us again. Meanwhile everyone dies of thirst. Is that right or just? And”—she can’t stop now—“he’s been rude at every house up and down this street and at every one he has been given tea. Why not bake him a wedding cake? You reward someone when he comes on time, not when he’s holding us ransom.”

  Mother Fadhma waves her hand as she would at a fly and answers from a store of proverbs she employs on such occasions: “When your hand is floured, don’t meddle in men’s business.”

  However, as she sets out the tray her hea
rt bursts with pride. All on her own, with no prompting from anyone else, least of all her mother, Samira has become a true daughter of Ayun Musa. “Maybe I should do us all a favor and use rat poison instead of sugar,” Fadhma muses out loud as she stirs the sweet tea with a spoon.

  Samira doesn’t respond; she has already left the kitchen in a huff.

  When the tanks are full and the driver is by the truck winding back the hose, Mother Fadhma appears with the glass on a tray. She makes her request even more deferentially than before: “Do not let us go without for so long again. Yani, I am old and unimportant, but think of my grandchildren.”

  The driver takes the hot drink from her. “You’ve heard the rumors? If they start fighting over the river, the cost of water is going up! Up! Up! Who knows how often it will be delivered?” Leering at Samira, who watches them from the window, he raises his glass in a toast—“Al-hamdu lillah—thanks be to God”—and declares in a voice loud enough for the neighbors to hear, “There was a time when your daughter would have brought me tea herself.” He shakes his head. “These young women, so liberated nowadays!”

  Wordlessly Mother Fadhma stares past the grubby little man and his godforsaken truck. If the opportunity ever arises she—not Samira—will give this bonehead a sound thrashing.

  12

  In the labyrinthine Marvellous Emporium, among the aisles, cubbyholes, dressing rooms, and special promotional displays, two places remain off-limits to prying eyes. With a bundle of keys in hand, Abu Za’atar checks that no one is lurking in the shadows before slipping behind a tasseled rope with a red-and-white triangle sign warning of MEN AT WORK. He unlocks a set of heavy doors, steps inside, and then closes them with a reverberating thud. A click of a switch and fluorescent lighting illuminates a well-proportioned room. He takes stock of the tastefully arranged menswear hanging along the walls, on the shelves, and in the glass cabinets, with a freestanding full-length mirror in attendance. It’s always the same. If the emporium celebrates unbridled entrepreneurialism with the usual obsessions about acquisition and pricing, across this particular threshold those baser impulses do not apply.

  Had he not glimpsed the stranger with his nephew, there would be no need for him to be clawing through a stash of freshly laundered and starched shirts. Khaki and dark brown, anything with epaulettes, are thrown aside: too militaristic. Frivolous checks and stripes send the wrong message, and powder blue is normally reserved for financial undertakings at the bank or in his own capacity as a loan shark. Abu Za’atar melancholically yearns for what could have been. If he respected his customers and suppliers more, he wouldn’t disguise his true plumage beneath a dirty shirt and frayed apron. But these are the people he pleases the least. In a lightbulb moment he pulls out fail-safe white. After selecting a pair of neutral brown trousers, he changes. A tie is untangled from an extravagant floor-to-ceiling forest of neckwear trees, and in lieu of a silk pocket handkerchief, which would only mislead, he opts for a pristine white cotton hanky, a never-without, as it has proven time and time again. Other manly adornments crowd a cabinet: rings and necklaces, bottled colognes and aftershaves, cover-up sticks to hide gray, blush for color, and embossed cigarette cases. Under the circumstances these too seem inappropriate. He puts on a medium-grade pair of tarnished gold cuff links and a plain black leather belt—nothing too memorable or in your face. As he dresses, Abu Za’atar can feel himself inhabiting the part.

  In the full-length mirror clothes dwarf a body shrunken with age. But leanness too has its advantages; it is something to be pitied rather than envied. A fashionable accessory, instincts tell him, will seal the deal. He kicks off the sandals he’s wearing with brightly striped socks. Giving in to temptation and élan, he decides not on a pair of brogues or desert boots, but on a pair of Cuban heels, which will give him an inch of extra height, just in case he has to lord over anybody.

  This is, for Abu Za’atar, the litmus test of personal armory. With everything on the shelves and along the walls, so soft and well made, he reassesses his choices. He could have opted for something sleeker. But too much sophistication often ruins a mood. While he is a firm believer that all life is seduction, this time he only has to ingratiate himself, make those around him feel at ease enough to confide in him, even when it goes against their best interests. He inspects his reflection again, this time from the sideways and the rear. The last touch is a large, shapeless jacket, fitted at the back, which suggests ambition beyond the ability of its wearer. His transformation into a benevolent dithering relative is complete. It is an idea so preposterous it makes him sneer.

  He takes one last look at himself, transfers his keys to a pocket, and starts feeling underneath the branches of the neckwear forest. Like blindman’s bluff, smothered by neckties and scarves, he finally locates a hidden set of panels. When he clicks them open, the neckwear tree becomes a 3-D sculptural construction with a gap large enough for him to enter through. He thinks of it as being waved in by flags. Inside, automatic motion-sensing lighting floods a cavelike space.

  Along these walls too, items have been exhibited to their best advantage. Abu Za’atar doesn’t have to look at the medallion on a silver chain that he calls the “Arabs’ Shame,” issued by the Israelis after the Six-Day War. He has already memorized its every detail: Moshe Dayan, with eye patch, in front of the Jaffa Gate in the Old City. On the back in Hebrew, Im eshkachech Yerushalaim—“If I forget thee, O Jerusalem”—from Psalm 137, which continues: “let my right hand lose its cunning, let my tongue cleave my palate”—an inscription prescient for its time. Arab cunning and Jerusalem were lost in a matter of a few days. To Dayan’s right hangs the Arabs’ response, a 1973 ribbon-infested medal released by the Syrian government for the Ramadan/Yom Kippur War. And beside them another rarity, a dog tag showing the Shia martyr Imam Hussain, previously owned by a Persian Basiji who fought the Iraqis in the Iran-Iraq War in the 1980s.

  These were the inspired beginnings of a carefully curated collection that includes more than military medals. Abu Za’atar particularly relishes the international associations among his array of pistols; carbines; assault rifles; light, medium, heavy, and general-purpose machine guns; grenades and grenade launchers. Two of the vintage machine guns, the Port Said and the Akaba, manufactured by the Egyptians from Swedish designs, saw action against the British at Suez and the Vietnamese by US Navy SEALs.

  A Syrian refugee had approached Abu Za’atar with the sniper rifle, the Yugoslav Zastava M9, employed by Syria’s National Defence Forces. Before money was mentioned, the man took out his smartphone and showed Abu Za’atar a YouTube video. During one of the mass demonstrations in Hama, someone filmed a Syrian army sniper with a Zastava M9 on a balcony. The video ended abruptly as the camera recorded its own clattering fall to the floor, after the person holding it was shot dead by the sniper. Abu Za’atar refused to haggle and paid the refugee’s asking price. The Zastava was given pride of place in the collection, at least until the man returned to the Marvellous Emporium; he claimed he could get Gaddhafi’s pistol. Abu Za’atar, never one to enjoy being taken for a ride, nearly lost his temper. “That’s like promising me Scheherazade’s panties. You’re going to have to be more imaginative than that.”

  The Featherer pauses beside a handsomely attired mechanized robot on wheels, aptly named the Eagle’s Talon. With the facility to travel in all directions at high speeds, the Eagle’s Talon can destroy insurgents’ armored cars at the click of a mouse. Before he owned one, Abu Za’atar researched it on the Internet. Once the piece had been acquired he went back to the Internet café to check its serial numbers. The information had been blocked. It was that rare and dangerous.

  But was it epoch changing?

  One Syrian refugee had placed in Abu Za’atar’s hand a small, insignificant piece of metal that had transformed mankind forever. It was a seven-thousand-year-old copper awl or, as the proprietor likes to envision, a mini-spear used for stabbing, gouging, probing, and fixing. Four centimeters long and a milli
meter thick at the end, it had been recovered from the grave of a woman during archaeological digs in the country next door that were interrupted by war. Her skeleton, adorned with a belt of beads made from ostrich eggshells, was found in a sixth-century trading city, where metalworking began almost a millennium before historians originally thought. The man might have been a refugee, but he had the mind and eye of a university professor.

  In Abu Za’atar’s collection, a special shrine in honor of an ancient woman’s sophisticated metallurgy had been created for the awl. He could have easily spent the entire afternoon wondering about an era when tools were weapons for survival and women, like the one in the grave, were not chattel. He admired age-old traditions and considered adopting some of their codes of practice, such as respecting women and advancing their opportunities, but the perks of traditional and modern patriarchy were too enticing for one man to resist. Abu Za’atar closes the secret panel and withdraws up a passageway that deposits him outside another locked door behind a carefully curtained-off enclosure inside the Marvellous Emporium.

  He picks his way through the aisles, pushing the shoppers, slackers, and kleptomaniacs toward the exit. By the wooden slivers purportedly belonging to either Musa’s staff or Christ’s cross—made by different manufacturers in Guangzhou—he is pinned down by a group of evangelicals. They have a myriad of questions, but his regal deportment silences them.

  “It’s true,” he says, “we rarely close for lunch. However, my American niece has recently arrived and I must go and welcome her.”

  They too are moved out the door.

  By the register, Abu Za’atar stuffs two insignificant baubles lavishly gift-wrapped into a pocket and avoids an unscheduled detour to the booty nest. At such an early stage in the proceedings, he doesn’t want to jinx his plans. Diligently, he hangs the BACK AT… notice facing outward and then, straightening his tie, steps purposely outside to face the dreaded locking up.