He clapped his hands as though putting an end to the conversation. "I hope that what I said is clear; I hope that you'll give yourself the opportunity to rid your voice of its sadness and that you'll discover the beauty inside you."
BY THIS TIME, I should have reached a clear decision about my relationship with Moosa. If my refugee appeal was rejected, there would be no other options available. But what Moosa offered was not to be taken lightly. It was an engagement in an adopted country to someone whose character I couldn't even guess at. What unknown ramifications would there be? I hadn't discussed these details with him or even with myself. I also didnt know if my marriage with him would be a formality that would end as soon as its purpose was served. Or had I moved something inside Moosa that made him propose?
What could I do with my shaking heart every time I remembered Youssef? What about my feelings for this man with whom my life had blossomed? Despite his absence, his eyes accused me, looking at me suspiciously every time I got closer to Moosa. Did I love Moosa, or did I just like in him the man I was missing? Which man did I want? Every time I came close to decision, I would get confused again. My memories of Youssef covered a stretch of long years, but where was he now? My view of Moosa was unclear and agitated. I was connected to Youssef by a painful past full of waiting, love, and hopeframed completely by a time of bitter war. But there was nothing connecting me to Moosa. If only someone would answer the phone in Baghdad; if only I knew what had happened to Youssef.
Six months had passed since I had last talked to him. Even Youssef's friend Hani didnt know anything about him; he said he had sent Youssef a letter desperately trying to get in touch with him but hadn't received any reply. My life was poised on a delicate balance; I didn't know when I would be tipped off or where I would be when I fell. My head was spinning, and my body surrendered to torpor. It was past midnight, and I was snatching at foggy visions but eventually fell asleep.
Nadia entered my room, alighting like an angel with two blue wings. She stood at the door and looked into every corner. She seemed wretched and annoyed. She extended a hand with golden fingers, grabbed her notebook off the table, and started tearing it into pieces. In seconds, it became floating particles, falling like dusty snow on a freezing day. Then she disappeared behind a thick fog-I didn't know how it had entered the room. When I woke up, I wondered what this dream meant. Why had she torn her memories? And why had she been so sad and vexed? I then remembered that I hadn't read her notebook for a long time. The morning light crept into the room, and Nadia's annoyed face pursued me all day long, but it didn't prevent me from making my way into those letters filled with impossible love.
Who will convey my letters to you? I'm getting ready to travel. They say that the world has become a village; how then can I explain this burning feeling of separation? And why does the world oppress my heartbeat and cast it outside its borders? I shouldn't believe that the world is within my hands' reach. It is huge, suspicious, and ambiguous, and it never stops separating me from you. Why should irrelevant faces repeat themselves to me, while yours remains scarce? No one conveys my letters to you, but I strive to write them anyway; perhaps by chance they will find their way to you. Despite this distance, your features are still pure and clear to me. Thinking of you makes you wholly present to me, as though we had never separated. Am I also present to you even though I am absent? There are many things I want to confess, my prince. Things are weighing on my chest and growing heavier, but they can't extinguish the passion of my flame. It still glows even as other burning candles of my life go out, dripping and flaring. You are mine. I'm sure about this. But I'm afraid I won't be yours after all this separation. What will I do with my heart then? I'm no longer a queen, as you used to call me. I'm only a wandering soul that doesn't know when it will find its way back to you.
And in another letter:
My Emir ... Despair crept into my soul during my feverish search for you. In a cursed irrational moment, I thought about giving you up. Imagine! I gathered your letters and decided to burn them. That was before I left the country. I stood next to my mother's oven, which hadn't been heated since her death. I put in a heap of wood, poured a little oil on it, and lit it so that it glowed. I extended my hands to grab the pile of letters, but before I threw it into the blue flames, something pulled me back. Was it you standing behind me? I'm completely in love with you, my prince.
When I first set foot in Amman, for a while I breathed in a strange scent. I immediately told myself that it was the smell of freedom and deliverance, but after a few moments I discovered it was your scent. Perhaps I was deluding myself. Anyway, I convinced myself that I was going to find you here. Basra had separated us, but Amman would bring us together. What a false hope! Days, months, and years have passed by; only a few days until I leave for Canada. Right now I feel overcome by despair. Amman hasn't been kind to me, but Canada will be the same. Despair transforms me into pieces of ember and ashes, but I will stay strong. I have to resist until I see you.
Suddenly, I felt as though something had touched me, and I was shaken. I looked around, sweeping the corners of the room, and remembered my dream. It was as though a ghost were sharing the place with me. I set the notebook aside and sought refuge in God. I began thinking about many things-meeting Moosa, calling Baghdad, the Iraqi crowds at the Refugee Office. I saw Abou al-Abd calling out file numbers and Youssef's face. But I was having difficulty picturing him, as if he didnt want to be evoked. Youssef? Have you forgotten me, or do you prefer the hell inside our country? Are you satisfied with what you did when you got me the passport? Are you still waiting for new wars to come? When does your war start, my dear? What will you do if they find out that you played a role in getting me the false passport? Our last meeting was confused, and now I see you in my confused imagination. What's happening inside this room? Breathing and whispering. A heavy weight fell onto my chest, and fear pushed me outside.
It was a lovely day. White clouds with golden edges embroidered the sky. The clean streets were lively with movement. I dialed the number at a nearby phone booth, but, as before, no one answered. I walked to the newsstands and read the newspaper headlines, thought about Amman's bookstore, but I already had reading materials in Samih's library-and Nadia's books still locked in their secrets. I headed to the vegetable market and bought bread, cucumbers, and red radishes. As I was crossing Saladin Avenue to Shabsugh Street, I came face-to-face with Hani. We looked at each other for a while as though searching for names.
"Hani, I'm Huda, a relative of Youssef. Do you remember me?"
"Of course I do. How are you? We haven't heard from you."
"I was busy. I've asked about you twice and was told you had returned to Naplouse."
"But I returned two months ago."
"Tell me, have you heard from Youssef?"
"No. I tried to call him twice, but with no luck."
"I've tried many times. I don't know what's happened. I'm very worried."
"Don't be. Tomorrow morning I'm heading to Baghdad to deliver my brother Hussam's application so he can study medicine there. Do you need anything from there?"
"Thank God I met you today then! I'd like to put my mind at ease about my family and their situation. Tell Youssef to write a very detailed letter. Ask him why he's delayed his arrival in Amman. How long will you be there?"
"A week or ten days."
Those ten days took forever, as though the clock had stopped. But then it also seemed as if a flood of days came and went ... day and night... night and day. My throat was bitter, and so was my bread. The hours were like rocks. Stories upon stories sprang from my head ... shining memories ... different faces, streets, and roads ... houses and markets ... A vehement longing would sweep me away as though I were floating into the air, passing over the checkpoints and then falling from the sky into Baghdad, crying with a full voice, "I'm back! Open the doors!"
But I would never go back. A pain-filled voice came as if from the depths of my throat: I wi
ll never return.
Two days after Hani left, I paid a visit to his mother, then again in another five days. Between Hani's departure and his return, my imagination hid behind hope's veils, which had often lit my way, only to fall away time and again, plunging me back into the darkness of this endless tunnel. My days were filled with thoughts of the possibilities and the impossibilities; I withered until the day Hani's mother informed me that Hani had come back at dawn. I could see him at four that afternoon, after he'd rested from the difficult journey from Baghdad to Amman.
I was agitated, alternating between hope and despair, fear of the known and the unknown, happiness and sadness. This was how I waited until I could see Hani.
"Youssef is fine. The phone numbers changed a long time ago." He pulled an envelope from his pocket. "This is a letter he sent you."
He gave me the letter, and my fingers shook as I touched it. I would have left immediately if doing so weren't rude. A shiver ran through my body, but I managed to control it. Hani took two hundred dollars from his wallet and handed it to me, saying, "It's from your grandmother. Your house is still being rented."
I drank the coffee that Hani's mother offered me as we exchanged small talk and compliments; then I excused myself and left.
The cold air played with my hair on the street. I threw my body onto the bus's seat as if doing so would shake the unseen accumulated dust from it. I didn't know how I felt as I opened my bag many times to make sure that the letter was still inside. The time stretched on and on, and the traffic signals played with my nerves; whenever the bus approached an intersection, the light turned a red that resembled war's blood and death. I eventually got off the bus and ran as though someone were chasing me. In my room, I opened the letter.
My dearest Huda,
What you should know is that I didn't deceive you, but rather that I did the impossible, so that you'll remember me as your savior and liberator. I carry your memory like a gentle breeze that greets me in the heat of the unceasing wars and bullets. Everything, my dear, has changed in us; as we have put up with miserable conditions, even our feelings have suffered from the virus of indifference. Memories can no longer rekindle our passion when its flame dies. Memories have become a toy we use to flirt with the present out of fear of the future, but it's a destructive game. Huda, I know staying in Baghdad is hard, but exile will be even more difficult. I'm a man who deluded himself that his roots were shallow and could be easily pulled out so that he could be transplanted somewhere else. But this illusion has vanished, and I have discovered that my roots run deep into the earth. They plunge into it, and it grips my feet. For this reason and after much thinking, I have found that resistance within the homeland is more likely to change the situation. I hope that you'll enjoy your life as much as you can. Right now I have no phone; I'll try to reach you through Hani. Perhaps things will change, and then our life paths might change too. My mother and your grandmother say hello to you.
Youssef
Youssef's peaceful and quiet face shone in my mind. Then it was suddenly severe; his gentle eyes became like those of a wildcat stalking a victim. My fingers began squeezing the letter as my spinning head replayed the written words. Youssef hadn't written "my love," but "dearest" and "dear." How the heart can change! It was strange that I wasn't crying, but disappointment filled my soul. Life had changed indeed, and the heart was no longer the center of affection. Hani told me what Youssef hadn't written in case the letter was opened at the checkpoints: "Things are very bad in Iraq, and people are on the rim of a volcano. The regime will fall, and you will return."
Youssef was keeping me in limbo, waiting for the uncertain fall of the regime, and he had opened the door for me to go to the other man. I found myself answering Youssef's letter with words that my heart couldn't utter.
Dear Youssef,
From now on, I have to look for some blank pages where I can record a new memory of the coming days without you. You are cutting the thread that might have brought us together again. I'll also need a skin that never knew the blows of separation. I yearn for a new song away from old streams and plaintive southern melodies. I'll try to embark to the ports of oblivion before I drown in the sea of remembrance. Only now do I realize that the distance between us is wide and impossible. Don't worry, I'll find another place where I can write down lighter memories for a heart torn by exile. I pledge that I won't fall in love because that's a frightening, difficult thing.
I didn't record this letter on paper; I let it loose to float in my thoughts so that I could make it forgettable. I "read" it many times and realized that I was actually writing it for myself, urging myself to take a stand. I began an internal dialogue, finding excuses and justifications for Youssef; it didn't matter if the dialogue was naive, tense, and fragmentary, as long as it could lead to acceptance of reality.
I remembered the last scene we had together. Youssef, you didn't even give me a chance to bid you a proper farewell; it was as though you were escaping from me. Were you really avoiding me? Was it you who disappointed my heart, or was it my heart that disappointed you? Did I have to go through all this to know that feelings change like seasons? Or was the notion that Huda was for Youssef and Youssef for Huda just an illusion nurtured by our kinship and our families' hints? Did we believe the story, or did we just agree to play along? Let's admit, my dear, while great distances separate us, that we were not qualified enough for love, or perhaps I was not qualified to play the heroine's role in your life. In any case, you are excused, as you cut off your dreams before they can turn into nightmares.
After that, although Youssef still occupied my room's walls and corners, infiltrating my bed, stealing my sleep, he could appear only like a furtive image, and when he tried to stay longer, he would flicker and disappear.
Two days later I accidentally encountered Moosa at the Refugee Office. He cast a glance full of reproach at me. But before he could utter a word, I began defensively explaining my preoccupation, as though driving away the accusation that I had been avoiding him. What bound me to him and made me look for excuses? And why did I become defensive?
As we entered the Refugee Office, he remained silent. We chose a corner away from the noise and smoke filling the room. He told me then that he had completed the medical clearance (the most important step), and he was there to find out a few things related to his case.
At that moment, Abou al-Abd appeared, calling, 2-42-6."
"Yes?"
"Please, madam."
The residency officer told me that after careful reexamination, the committee had accepted my request. When I came out, Moosa was waiting for me and congratulated me even before I told him the news. My eyes were unable to hide my happiness. Then Moosa was called, and he went into one of the rooms.
I was filled with joy, agitation, sadness-a desire to run, fly, escape. People were staring at me, and I realized that I was pacing rapidly back and forth. When I noticed what I was doing, I walked outside and sat under the shadow of one of the trees until Moosa came out. He suggested that we go to one of the cafes. I agreed, and a blissful feeling welled up in me, as though I had just woken up from a nightmare. As we talked, I scanned his face to see how he was reacting to my news. I wondered if he had wished for the opposite of this result. I noticed that he was sad and disappointed. His eyes were dull, although they had been sparkling only a half hour ago.
"What's wrong?" I asked him, although I knew the answer.
"I'm thinking about our relationship."
"What about it?"
"It's between ebb and flow. But I think things will clear up after today."
"What do you think is going to happen?"
"From the beginning, I left it up to you to choose. It is true you hadn't yet come to a decision, but this is best because if you had said yes immediately, I would have thought that I was a mere bridge to your goals. Now the situation is different."
"I think the same way. A relationship between two people has to come from the inside
and not from the circumstances surrounding them. I'm really grateful to you because you tried to help me."
"And now?"
"I need some time to know the nature of my feelings."
"Over the past few days, I've been thinking a lot about you, and I understand my feelings."
"Don't you also want to give me the opportunity to understand mine? I'm going through a difficult time right now."
"What's going on?"
"A dear friend just died in Baghdad."
"Very well, I won't put pressure on you. Understand that I'll be your friend even if you refuse, and don't hesitate to ask if you need anything."
"I'm sure about that. But I need something else."
"What is it?"
I wanted to tell him that I needed to put my head on his shoulders and cry into his hands, so that his fingers would gather my tears and run through my hair. Instead, I said, "I don't know exactly. Sometimes you seem a mystery to me. I wish to know everything about you before I go ahead and marry you."
He smiled and said, "Do I really look mysterious? Although I know nothing about you, I see you clearly, and I'm sad you don't see me in the same way. I have nothing to hide except the past."
"So we need some time."
"With wars, siege, and exile, we have lost a lot of time already. We have to hold tight to what is left in our small lifetime lest it slip through our fingers."
Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) Page 10