I imagined him getting up from his bed.
"I'm glad you called. Where are you?"
"I didn't see you today at the Refugee Office."
"I was there yesterday and met with the Australian delegation."
"Congratulations."
"It hasn't been finalized yet. The process is long, and this interview doesn't mean final acceptance."
"I hope that what happened to me never happens to you."
"No, I've been officially accepted as a refugee; if Australia refuses me, I'll simply be transferred to another country. And what did they tell you?"
"They haven't decided yet."
"Listen, I want to see you-that is, if you want to see me, of course."
I said hastily, "Of course I do. I need some help understanding a few things."
"So let's meet tomorrow morning at ten in front of the Roman Theatre in Hashemite Square."
We ended our conversation at that point, and we had still forgotten to ask for each other's name.
WHY WAS I GOING TO SEE THIS OTHER MAN? Did I need someone to support my soul, inspire patience in me, and protect me from shattering loss? Or did I need a stick to guide my steps along the unknown road and its obscure twists and turns? I repeated these questions hundreds of times during the night. I was filled with sorrow. Darkness besieged, ambushed me, wresting me from sleep, and I felt helplessly off balance. I asked myself what I was looking for. The wind blew at my door, shaking it violently and filling me with anxiety. Defenseless, I fought off thousands of fingers, peeling them away from my throat, only to have them grab my neck once again. I severed them from my neck, only to feel them approaching my heart, playing with its pulse, leading me to the brink of the precipice.
That will be my constant state in exile, especially if I can't find anybody to whom I can express my sorrow.
Are you sure?
Not completely.
What do you want exactly?
Perhaps I need a man whose fingers will warm me up and pull out the roots of my exile.
Which man?
I don't know.
Here you are. You don't know, and in order to know you have to watch your step.
I was confused and agitated as I went to meet him. There was nothing tying us together except exile. On my way to Hashemite Square, I rearranged words in my mind. I hesitated and stopped halfway. I knew I had to rein in my horse before it bolted.
You aren't the type whose horse will bolt.
Is this a compliment or an insult?
Choose whichever fits you.
I don't know which one fits me.
I arrived at Hashemite Square, and there he was, waving; I walked toward him with confused feelings. I sat in front of him in one of the cafes. I felt safe and at the same time cautious-safe because he was a fellow countryman carrying the odors of the two muddy rivers, but cautious because something still unknown was digging into my soul. Perhaps my confusion came from my natural lack of confidence, thanks to my grandmother's constant advice: "Beware of men; don't trust them. Take and don't give. Hold the stick from the middle. Don't lean too far to either end; otherwise, you'll be lost. Take your time before you announce anything so that the man doesn't feel as if you have thrust yourself upon him."
Grandma, I haven't taken anything, and I haven't given either. I've learned not to trust quickly, as you advised; my relationship with Youssef took a long time to form, even though he was my cousin. It grew gradually, with no place for passion; meanwhile, my soul was longing for an indomitable burning love, a tempestuous love like those I read about in novels. My meetings with Youssef were unadventurous. They were permitted because of our kinship and thus had become ordinary. And although that relationship didn't resemble those in my dreams, I held on to it, clinging to its threads. It was falling apart now, while I was thousands of miles away, as if our time together hadn't tightened our bond as much as I or we had hoped. Was it the war and the long years of military service that had carried him to death's threshold? Or was the nation's destruction over the past thirty years ruining intimate relationships, love, happiness, and personal contentment? Yet Nadia had also loved at the same time and under the same circumstances. She had also been in exile and had suffered perhaps more than I did, yet here were her love letters despite the fact that she didn't know what had happened to her lover. What was the difference? Did I have a heart of stone? I didn't know how to explain or categorize my feelings. Sometimes it seemed as if I were waiting for a man I still didn't know and that he would not come. Sometimes I would long for Youssef, and sometimes I would feel free of any obligation to him. But he still remained the first man in my life. So why did I walk toward the other one? What type of relationship would bind me to a man whose name I didn't even know? Was my story with Youssef over?
The waiter put two Cokes and two glasses on the table between us. I fidgeted, feeling doubtful as I stole a glance at him. But that feeling vanished as soon as he spoke because I had curbed the suspicion I felt at our first meeting. Perhaps I was merely embarrassed.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know."
"We are in a public place."
"I know that."
"And we are foreigners here; no one is observing us or counting our breaths."
I didn't reply to this.
"Your voice is distinctive on the phone."
"And now?"
"It is still distinctive. But when we don't see things, we feel them more, which means we can see things with our feelings."
The image of Samih fell between us but quickly disappeared.
"Are we going to speak like strangers?"
"You're right."
"My name is Moosa Kadhim. And you?"
"Huda. Huda Abdel Baqi."
"You give the impression of calmness at first."
"Then?"
"There is a sleeping volcano behind your appearance, which might explode at any time."
His assessment was right. Although I seemed calm and even submissive, something was churning inside, to the point that I sometimes felt like a wild cat who wanted to bite everything and would devour herself when she couldn't. I could have turned into a furious tiger, but my fury couldn't find a way out. It was suppressed inside my soul, burning my nerves at night as I tossed and turned.
"We're all dying volcanoes," I said to Moosa. "I'm hoping I find a refuge to keep me from erupting and burning up. Tell me, what should I do if they reject my appeal?"
He opened a Coke can and poured some in my glass. The foam spilled over.
"Give it some time. Why are you so nervous?"
"What if they reject me?"
He opened the other can and poured some Coke in his glass.
"The reason why you felt you needed to leave Iraq was based on a little exaggeration by the regime's people. There are no secret inks, no modern machines, and no handwriting experts to trap you. They circulated this information to scare people."
"What has happened, happened. I'm not here to analyze what I left behind. I'm in trouble, and I have no one to turn to."
He lit a cigarette and began to smoke. Then, as if lifting a weight from his chest, he said, "If you want, we can make a deal."
I was taken aback, and my heart sank. I prepared myself for the unknown. I looked into his deep eyes, searching for the answers.
"We can get married so that your name can be added to my file and you can be safe here. Then you can emigrate with me to the new country."
I had never expected such a thing. When he said "a deal," I had thought he wanted a bribe, like many others would have. I shivered, perhaps from surprise or perhaps because of the chilly wind that was agitating everything around us.
After I absorbed what he said, and we exchanged glances, I said, "If you want an immediate answer, I have nothing to say."
He slowly inhaled his cigarette and said, "Of course, you'll need some time to make a decision. Think about it and feel completely free to accept or reject the offer."
I couldn't
sleep that night. I kept hearing unknown species of insects buzzing. The wind blew through the tree branches. The door's groaning harmonized with my soul's moaning. I looked at all sides of the situation. At first, I felt neutral, then I felt confused, but later on I began to lean toward the idea. Moosa was still a mystery to me, though. I wasn't in love with him, for my heart was still attached to Youssef. And even if I had been free of feelings for Youssef, I wouldn't be able to fall in love just for the sake of a dubious bargain that came at the wrong time and in the wrong place. I felt split into two persons: one wanted an unknown adventure, and the other was holding back; one asked questions, and the other answered them as she shrank inside her cocoon:
My heart is still guarded.
Don't hide behind transparent veils; you have no choice, no other escape.
Perhaps there is light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps Youssef will show up.
Remember, here you are a woman in exile from the Land of Holy Men, and tunnels might lead to other, darker, tunnels.
But I don't know him.
You'll get to know him. In the beginning, men are like locked trunks, and only women who wish to can have the keys.
I want a man I can love, not marry.
You won't find the love you want, so embark with the first captain you encounter in exile.
Every time I felt sleepy, a thorn would pierce me into alertness. Moosa, are you the captain who will lead my lost ship to the safety of land? Or are you just a piece of driftwood that I will hold onto in a stormy sea that will soon engulf me? I knew that the piece of wood would not save me from drowning, yet I would eventually reach out to it, just not this quickly. Yes, I will announce my consent to his proposal because perhaps the piece of wood will turn out to be a skiff that will save me from sinking. My grandmother would say, "In front of the man you want, pretend to be hesitant; that will earn you respect and put you in a high position in his heart." And you, Moosa, do you love me? Or do you just think of helping me out? And if it is love, why do you call it a "deal"? Why don't you declare it or hint at it?
When Moosa had presented his proposal, he hadn't been persistent or obstinate. As soon as he had made the offer, he had moved on to another subject; he had begun to talk about himself.
"When I arrived in Amman, I worked in a restaurant and then in a bakery while receiving help from my brother in Australia. I had encountered hardships in the refugee camps and during my flight to Iran after the failed uprising."
He had taken two puffs of his cigarette and continued. "My life is a chain of failures for which I am not responsible. In my childhood, my mother died of electrocution. My father remained faithful to her memory and did not take another wife. I wished he had because my two brothers and I could have escaped his holding his 'great sacrifice' over our heads every time we wanted to choose a different path than what he wanted in life. And in my first youth, I loved our neighbor's daughter, but I was too shy to tell her; I was surprised-after more than a year of silent love-when she married a wealthy man, although she had known about my feelings. Perhaps she had become tired of my silence. Anyway, it was a teenage love. Fate played a game to deprive me of ever enjoying my true love, for it was born during times of war, trenches, fierce battles, death, and loss."
Moosa had spoken about his life with pain and sarcasm. But he would soon dispense with both as though he wanted to be done with his memories. In an attempt to give the present an importance it didnt deserve, he'd said, "I don't hold on to the past much because the present is more worthy of interest."
Despite this statement, Moosa hadn't seemed optimistic. I felt that he had contradicted himself. My relationship with him didn't seem to be anything more than a temporary friendship dictated by the circumstances of exile. Otherwise, how could I explain the longing I still felt for Youssef?
"You have to think seriously about the present," he'd continued. "I assure you that together we will wipe out these days' wounds."
I felt so grateful to this man who was offering to give me his name, but I still wasp t sure he was going to give me his heart. I thought about this for a long time, and for many nights I slept only with confusion between acceptance and refusal. Deep inside me came a cry that I was betraying Youssef. This painful feeling smothered me, but in an attempt to assuage my anxiety I would assure myself that I hadn't decided yet. I wrestled with the decision in my heart, the two choices changing places every other instant.
I cried out with a voice that was merely a whisper in my bones, "Youssef, Youssef. Nothing comes from you, and nothing goes to you. Where do you stand? I'm getting more and more confused."
I was desperately trying to get in touch with Youssef, but the phone line was always silent. I felt worn out from my days in Amman, as if slow death and moral disintegration had clung to me since my flight here. I'd been looking for guidance, but I had lost it. What was this blind wandering I had fallen into?
SAMIH SUGGESTED that we sit on the balcony. The weather was warm, and the morning wind was mild. I wondered what difference it made whether he sat on the balcony, in the room, or in any other place when he couldn t see. The large balcony overlooked the foot of a mountain covered with red- and green-tiled roofs. Twisted streets crossed the area, and rows of pine trees and cypress surrounded some of the buildings. We sat on a bamboo couch. He surprised me when he asked, "Isn't the landscape beautiful from this angle?" I needed a few seconds to recover from my surprise before I answered, "Yes, it is really beautiful." I wondered how the blind could locate or even recognize beauty.
I was sitting at the other end of the couch, a pile of newspapers and books between us that Samiha had put there before she left. Samih's listening rituals required that I read the newspaper headlines out loud, and if a title sounded interesting, I would then read the details for him. When I read literary materials, he would remind me to read slowly so that he could capture the image in his imagination.
Fianca, a maid from Sri Lanka, put two cups of coffee on the table. I offered Samih a cup, and our fingers touched. This type of contact often happens unintentionally, but on that day I felt that he did it on purpose. I ignored what happened, and I began reading newspaper headlines and titles for him, but he didnt stop me to pursue the details. I had the feeling he was distracted, with no desire to listen. After I finished, he grabbed his lute and started tuning it.
He asked, "Do you like music?"
I replied unenthusiastically, "Certainly not as much as you do. I was born in a time when music was considered vanity, and now we've lost the capacity for the meditation needed to enjoy music."
Then he asked, "And what else?"
"Our life is so noisy with-drums, madness, cries, and songs of past and future wars."
"What about poetry? Aren't you from the country of poetry and poets?"
"We still celebrate what al-Mutanabbi said and what our ancestors left11 But now we have only two types of poems: the first glorifies idols and wars, and the second narrates the defeat of men and the horrors of those calamities. The second type is written outside the country. The era of celebration, music, and poetry is gone, and great artists have gone into exile and begun to write their sorrows from afar. Do you want me to tell you some of what Dunya Mikhail said?"
I explained to him that Dunya Mikhail is a poet from the wartime generation. His fingers fell away from the strings as he listened to "The War Works Hard."
I looked at him. His face was quiet, as if in another world.
I asked, "Are you with me?"
He answered, "Of course. I'm meditating on the poem."
I wanted to ask how he "saw" things around him: the people, the trees, the colors, but I was afraid of offending him. Then he said, "How sorry I feel for what is happening in Iraq."
I didn't comment, and a thick silence fell between us. The lute was still in his hands, but he put it aside, saying, "I have no desire to play."
I guess he didn't want to increase my sorrow. He started talking about a man he had heard about
on television who was living with 25o poisonous vipers and another man who was sleeping with six tigers. I asked myself what this had to do with me.
I said, "How can a person do that?"
He attributed it to man's ambition to know the hidden secrets of the human soul and said that as long as there is a will, man will be able to domesticate the most savage animals.
"But the instinct of fear often dominates man," I objected.
He said, "Sometimes fear is acquired, but, regardless, if man overcomes the fear inside him, he will be able to accomplish marvels. Fear is the first stumbling block, and if man dominates it, the route becomes easier, however difficult it might look."
He took his own case as an example, as if to answer the question I had wanted to ask.
"I was born blind. I do not know the details of faces or colors. What's red, and what does 'blue' mean? How is the day or the night? What do the sea, the sky, and the stars look like? I see them with my heart. You see with sunlight during daytime, and lamps illuminate your nights; I see things through my own inner light, which is difficult to explain to you."
While he was talking, I was wondering how and in what colors he dreamed. But, as before, I left the question unasked; perhaps he would talk about it.
He leaned back and continued. "Smells play an important role in knowing things around me, as well as sounds and touch. These senses are stronger for blind people than they are for the rest of you, who are really occupied with colors, masses, and things you see. This occupation weakens the senses because those with sight focus only on the exterior and neglect the inside, which requires contemplation and a desire to discover. You, for example..."
I had been gazing at a flock of birds soaring and dipping, but I listened closer to him as he said, "I sense that you are a beautiful woman. I don't know what you look like, but I see you with my 'insight! Your depths speak to me. This is not flattery. Before I met you, I had encountered more than one woman at work and social occasions. My music professor a few years ago didn't make me feel she was beautiful, but I could feel the beauty of the professor of musical aesthetics."
Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) Page 9