Awatef winked at me and said, ‘Come on, let’s run away.’
I wanted to put the idea out of my head because I knew that this time I wouldn’t come back. Ibrahim’s family wouldn’t even try and fetch me back. The scandal of my running away to have the baby in my aunt’s house still occasionally cropped up in conversations and caused a stir. But all the same I took down a small suitcase from on top of the chest and put Muhammad’s clean nappies and a packet of dried milk in it. I whispered to Awatef, ‘You take this and I’ll carry Muhammad.’
Without hesitation Awatef nodded her head, stifling her laughter. We held our breaths and went along on tiptoe. We didn’t talk until we were just a few metres away from our house. The first words my aunt spoke when she saw us were, ‘O Tamr, O Awatef, you’re the colour of turmeric.’
* Taj means ‘crown’ in Arabic, and Taj al-Arus ‘the bride’s crown’.
5
Women normally flocked to my place in the afternoon and at sunset with their children and their relatives, bringing lengths of material and cuttings from fashion and hairdressing magazines. But during this month of Ramadan, I opened from nine in the evening and was closed all the afternoon just like the other businesses. I stayed in the shop from the morning onwards, the hair dryers idle around me, the clean towels folded one on top of the other: around the walls were photographs of hairstyles, a nature scene, and in the middle of one wall there was a clock which wasn’t working; Filipino music played and a smell of food made its way down into my lungs. I felt hungry; the seamstress and the stylist were in the kitchen cooking, singing along with the cassette tape and writing letters. I wondered anxiously how I was going to get back to my brother’s house in the early morning; the place wouldn’t close before five and sometime tonight Jameela and her six daughters were coming to have their hair done before they went away the following day. I couldn’t sleep in the shop: my brother’s orders. ‘Sleep by yourself in the same place as the Filipino women?’ Perhaps I would ask Jameela to accompany me to the house to keep Rashid quiet.
I forgot what was troubling me as the women came cheerfully pressing on the doorbell, knocking at the door, and sat down, chose fashions, posed in front of the mirror, went into the other room to have their dresses fitted or stuck their heads under the sprays in the basins to have their hair washed. They left their abayas flung down on the chairs, all except the client waiting her turn, who kept hers around her shoulders. I sat at my table content at the throngs of women around me, the heads under the dryers and the money in the till, already more than I’d expected to take that night.
I got up from the table and walked proudly around, at ease with every step I took now among the women who sat waiting to be called, as if they were in a government clinic. I’d felt that I had to open up a place like this to establish my independence, and I’d become well-known among families here and in other areas. The old women who accompanied their daughters, just to watch, made me pleased because the fact that they came and sat there in my shop meant that they trusted me and gave my venture their blessing.
Gradually I became unafraid of the morning and of Rashid. The door bell rang insistently. Before I opened the door I asked as usual, ‘Who is it?’ and heard my mother’s voice reply. I turned in delight to the women sitting behind me and said excitedly, ‘It’s my mother and my aunt.’ To myself I added, ‘My aunt must have convinced Rashid.’
I turned the key in the door and before I opened it, I said to the women, ‘Veil yourselves. My cousin will carry his mother in.’
They rushed into the inner room while the women under the dryers threw their abayas over the hairdryers so that their heads and the dryers were hidden from view. When I saw that my son Muhammad had come to help his cousin I was overjoyed: I cried, ‘God protect you from the evil eye; stay alive for me, Muhammad,’ then I laughed at myself for what I’d said. My aunt didn’t want her son and Muhammad to lift her out of the wheelchair on to the ground where I’d spread out a mat in the twinkling of an eye: ‘I want to see Tamr’s place,’ she said to the men, ‘So goodbye to you.’
I locked the door behind the two of them and bent eagerly to kiss my aunt who took my face in her hands, saying, ‘I said to Rashid, let’s go and give our blessing to our darling Tamr’s new place.’ I wriggled free from my aunt’s hands and went up to my mother to kiss her, and joked, ‘Crown of the Bride and Crown for my Head, welcome. What do you say? Shall we take my aunt around and you can both give me your blessing for opening this place?’
I didn’t let go of my mother’s arm until she had wheeled my aunt’s chair into the sewing room. They touched all the dresses hanging up there, the sewing machines, the scissors and the clippings of material. My mother shouted, ‘God is great! A headless jinnee!’ and pointed to the mannequin which the seamstress had made out of cloth stuffed with paper and rags because she hadn’t been allowed to buy a wooden dressmaker’s dummy. She began striking it with the flat of her hand until it toppled over. I introduced them to the two Filipinos. My mother smiled at them and said, ‘I wouldn’t like to see them in my dreams.’ Then she added, ‘Poor things. They haven’t much money and they’re far away from home.’ We proceeded to the next room where the Filipinos slept. The two women examined everything, even the calendar on the wall; they fingered the two girls’ letters and their numerous lipsticks, the little magnifying mirror, the rush fan, and their clothes which were folded on their beds. If the stylist hadn’t come into the room pretending to look for something, Taj al-Arus and Nasab wouldn’t have agreed to leave the room unti they’d discovered the secret of the large orange candle burning in the centre of the table. Meanwhile I was keen to know the details of Rashid’s allowing them to visit the shop; I asked them, ‘Where’s Batul?’ ‘She’s coming,’ replied my mother. ‘She’s waiting while Rashid takes Ahlam to her friend’s house.’ Rashid hadn’t commented when Batul had said to him, ‘I was going to take Ahlam with me to the salon, but she’s scared that one of the women’ll see her and like the look of her and tell her son or some other male relative about her. I know these young girls go around in wraps as thick as camel hide, and it’s certainly not because they’re thinking about what’s forbidden and what’s allowed in religion – they just don’t want to get married yet.’
The telephone rang. I hurried to lift the receiver and replied with a smile, ‘Yes, we do henna patterns. No massage. We can do it. Of course, I’ve a Filipino who knows how to do it but it’s prohibited. We’ve got facial masques. Egg and milk, yes. The Filipino girl knows how to do it all. She’s specially trained.’ I replaced the receiver and announced proudly, ‘That was the daughter of the Shufan family. Her mother want a massage.’
When one of the Filipino girls brought two cups of coffee, Nasab refused hers. ‘I don’t want it,’ she said. ‘I’m hot.’ In English I asked the girl to fetch her a carton of juice and my mother exclaimed delightedly, ‘You’ve got a place of your own and you speak English? God is great, Tamr of Tamrs.’ But my aunt refused to let the Filipino pour out juice for her, and she wouldn’t have any tea. She drew me close to her and whispered something to me which made me laugh. ‘O Aunt!’ I chided her playfully. The Filipino girl went off into the sewing room and so my aunt spoke out: ‘Tamr, listen,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing unclean about her sewing. When the other one washes hair, the women should say, “In the Name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful”. That doesn’t matter too much, it’s a minor uncleanness. But to take food and drink from an infidel like her is a huge uncleanness. It’s forbidden. We’re in Ramadan.’ ‘Never mind, Aunt,’ I replied, irritated.
She interrupted me: ‘I know. Ask any man of religion and he’ll confirm what I’ve said, word for word. When I came into the town from the desert I wouldn’t drink coffee or tea, or eat town bread or meat. My husband and his family didn’t understand why. They felt sorry for me and thought I was shy. His sister Zaynab said, “Your wife’s growing weak. She won’t eat.” My husband replied, “She’s weak, is she? Every time
I get into bed with her she throws me out. And when I pick myself up and try and huddle up in the bed with her, I find myself back on the floor.” ’
The women laughed loudly, while my aunt arranged her plait of hair. She sighed and put a hand down to her leg. ‘Where’s that strength gone now?’ My mother reminded her of another story: ‘And when they brought you a nightdress …’ She seemed to be encouraging my aunt, so as to make it an entertaining evening. Nasab laughed and picked up the story: ‘And when they brought me a nightdress I left it where it was. Zaynab said to me, “Put that on.” “Why?” I asked. “Put it on and you’ll see,” she said. So I put it on, and before we went to bed she asked me what had happened to it and I said, “I’ve got it on.” She didn’t believe me and began to look for it under the bed. I lifted up my dress and said, “See. I told you I was wearing it.” She started to laugh. “Take your dress off,” she said, “and just wear the nightdress.” When I asked why that time, she just said, “You win,” in a weary voice.’
‘What did you eat and drink in the end?’ asked one of the young girls. My aunt drew herself up haughtily, seeing that she’d become the centre of attention. She struck her thigh with the flat of her hand for emphasis and replied, ‘I saw Indians and Ethiopians and I was afraid that the animals hadn’t been slaughtered according to religious law and that the bread had been baked by an unbeliever. I got hold of more flour and made dough, and cooked the bread in the frying pan myself, and I didn’t trust the coffee unless I’d ground the beans. I knew that they were lying to me when they said that my brother-in-law had slaughtered the sheep. I ate it the first day, but not the second, and I told them that meat wouldn’t pass my lips again unless I saw the animal being slaughtered with my own eyes.’ An old woman who’d accompanied her daughter and granddaughter was listening to the conversation. She took out her dentures and polished them on her dress and remarked, ‘I said to my son to get me a human cat like that one there,’ and she waved in the direction of the Filipino girl who was bending to pick up the tray in front of them. ‘He said to me, “What use would she be to you when you won’t even take a drink from her?” “Turn her loose in the valley,” I said, “and she can work the land, use the scythe, and harvest the crops.” ’ ‘What did he say?’ asked my aunt, annoyed at being interrupted.
The old woman didn’t understand; she didn’t even hear the question and went back to shifting her gaze around, intently studying everything that was going on in the shop.
My aunt was playing with the coral in her necklace; between every coral bead silver coins were threaded. She continued, ‘We came from the desert, your father and I,’ and she turned to me. I was busy trying to add and subtract on my fingers. ‘We didn’t know any sweet things except dates. When we saw grapes and oranges we burst out laughing.’ Then she began to laugh and slap one palm against the other. Every time she tried to stop herself she only laughed more and curiosity spread and mounted among the women around her and they begged her to tell them what she was laughing at. ‘Next I found out that the drainage holes in kitchens and bathrooms weren’t for squatting over and doing your business. I was visiting the sheikh’s wife and they showed me the bathroom. There was a white seat in it. I lifted its lid and saw water in the bottom of it. I said to myself, “That’s to protect it from flies,” and washed my face. Thank God I didn’t drink from it. Then I looked around for the lavatory. I got out of the place and went to ask again. They took me back to the bathroom, but this time the Ethiopian maid came in with me and opened the lid of the seat and pointed.’
The women laughed briefly, then were distracted by the hairstyle on Jameela’s daughter. But my aunt didn’t want to be quiet, so she found herself having to direct her conversation to me. ‘Your grandmother wouldn’t leave the desert except on my wedding day, and when your father married Najeeya, poor mother, the heat was enough to dry a gazelle’s tears and she wouldn’t leave the desert. Your father and I looked for her and when we saw that the water had dried up we went from oasis to oasis. She didn’t realize this. She sent us messages – desert lavender and camels’ milk. She didn’t like townspeople; when we were having an argument she would scoff at me for sleeping in a bed, using electricity, letting my voice be carried in and out on a telephone, not knowing the difference between a lizard and a gazelle, nor how to stop a locust sliding around in the cooking fat. “O mother,” I would ask her, “who married me to someone from the town? Who said that she wanted Nasab to live in a house built of bricks, with a television, and to buy seeds and chewing gum from the shops?” ’ Nasab took a deep breath and continued, ‘Even when my father, your grandfather, came into the town complaining about his gut and your father took him to the Sultan’s doctor – as he and the Sultan had become like brothers – your grandfather wouldn’t leave his camel. Your father agreed to tie the camel up at the door of the house. Your grandfather fled from the house whenever Najeeya turned on the radio. He didn’t like sitting at the table to eat: he would put some food on his plate and go and keep the camel company.
‘Poor thing. He didn’t like Najeeya going into the room where he slept; your father had to give him a clean towel and sheet and do his washing for him and bring him his food. Whenever Najeeya wanted to go and visit relations your father lied to him and told him that Najeeya was ill and was going to the doctor, because as far as your grandfather was concerned women were forbidden to leave the house.’
One of the women opened a bag of ear-rings and bracelets and combs which she’d brought from Beirut. I was glad for her to display them in my place. The women and children fell on them and they were scattered, some on the floor, some picked up by the children, some stuck in hair, or hung on ears. In the twinkling of an eye the women had bought everything in the bag. My aunt was plainly irritated: she wanted to say a lot and found herself with no one to listen to her. So I said to her, ‘And what next, Auntie…?’ and she took a deep breath and laughed loudly to attract attention to herself again, then continued: ‘We missed the desert, the smell of sand and goats and coffee and roasting meat and fires being kindled. But I liked the easy life in the town and quickly picked up the ways of the people, and my mother-in-law was happy with me because I had an enormous capacity for hard work. Although I must say, at the beginning I thought the people odd: they liked useless things and put them in their houses. It was hard for me to eat three times a day, and as for the amount of meat they ate … I refused to take hold of fish without covering their eyes with the edge of my handkerchief. I used to say, “There is no strength and no power save in God,” to allay my scruples whenever my mother-in-law took a needle and thread and sewed up the chicken’s backside after she’d stuffed it with breadcrumbs and rice; it surprised me to see them cooking tomatoes when they were so precious. I’d never imagined that one day I’d move freely in town dwellers’ houses even when my father married me to one; I thought that he’d live in tents with us. But I went back with him, and I could have gone back with one of his friends instead, except that when my father told the two of them that he had a girl of marriageable age it happened to be him who shouted first, “I’ll marry her.” ’
The women were bubbling like a hive of bees. My mother and my aunt laughed secretly at the hairstyles, comparing them to goats’ horns, bananas, roosters’ crests, especially when the woman covered her head and the cover was raised up high. They signalled comments about the Filipinos to one another, wiggling their eyebrows about every time one of the girls passed in front of them. ‘That one’s lust incarnate,’ remarked my aunt, ‘because she hasn’t had a taste of her husband for three months; she’s got children of her own. Every day she has a fight about something. She wants to go out to the shops and Tamr knows that it’s to chat with men of her own type and religion. Tamr said to her, “You’re not going out except with me.” Anyway the neighbours and the shop owners round about are just waiting for a sign: they don’t want a woman to start up in business and they’re watching for evidence in any shape or form to use agains
t her. The Filipino girl knows that.’
I shut the ledger and locked it away in the drawer, then moved my chair round until I was facing my mother and aunt. ‘Guess who came this morning!’ ‘The men who close down shops owned by women,’ surmised my customers. Laughing, I replied, ‘No. Not this time. They came the day before yesterday and asked if we had any men in here. I said to them, “Can’t you read what’s written on the door?” but they asked me again if I was quite sure. So I said to them, “If you like I’ll open the door for you. Wait a minute while we get veiled.” But they didn’t come in.’ My mother and aunt couldn’t guess who’d come to see me and they began to look impatient, so I said enthusiastically, ‘Reehan, Ibrahim’s mother, with her granddaughters. They were going to a wedding. If you’d seen her clothes: they were all silk and her jewellery was Italian and her handbag was real leather. But she was still mean: she asked the price of henna and when I told her she said, “Hell!”, and wanted us to use some that she’d brought with her, but I refused. The Filipino gave her granddaughter a facial – what’s the girl’s name? I remember, Khulood – and for a whole hour Reehan didn’t stop cursing and complaining that the prices were too high while the girl tried to make her be quiet. Anyhow, those are days I’d rather forget.’
It was all quiet in the room except for the sound of my mother’s voice as she spoke to the old woman: ‘And Mauza said, “You can have contact with this other man, Antan, as long as there’s a door between you and he doesn’t see you and you don’t see him. Nobody’ll know and you’ll become a Sultana and your son will be a Sultan …” ’
I rose and went over to my mother, annoyance showing on my face. But the old woman looked confused and I felt reassured; it appeared that she hadn’t understood a single word of what my mother was saying. ‘Would you like to have a dress made, Taj?’ I asked her, relenting.
Women of Sand and Myrrh Page 14