The President's Gardens

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The President's Gardens Page 14

by Muhsin al-Ramli

“Zakiya was with me in the house most of the time, while Isma’il lived out in the room that had been their parents’ house. During the day, Zakiya would go there to clean and tidy things up, and at night she would sleep in the house with us. It went on like that until they reached sixteen or so. I don’t remember when exactly, but Zakiya became a fine young woman with a full bosom, and she had much of her mother’s beauty. But she sometimes went about all disheveled, not taking care of her hair or clothes or doing anything to adorn herself. If she hadn’t been slow, the men would have fought each other to marry her! I looked after her as best I could—bathing her and changing her clothes—and one day, I suddenly noticed that her belly was bulging. At first, I thought it was normal since she had always been a bit chubby. But after I had observed her closely, and later when I felt her, I realized she was pregnant, maybe even in her third month. I informed the mayor of my suspicions, and he told me, ‘Confirm this with her in your own way. You’re a woman—you know how to do it.’

  “I chose a moment when she was in a good mood and took her away from the children she was playing with in the sand. I always used to tell her, ‘You are all grown up now! Don’t play with the little children!’ But as you know, she was still a child at heart and in her mind, even if she had a woman’s body. Anyway, I took her aside and began to ask her questions: ‘Has someone been embracing you, some man or boy? Has one of them been touching you here?’—pointing to her breast. ‘Have they been doing anything like this, or like this?’

  “She hesitated at first. But when I employed a certain amount of compassion and more persuasion, combined with a little pressure, she suddenly surprised me by innocently confessing and describing the pleasure she experienced: ‘Oh, yes! Jalal loves my breasts very much. He tells me I’m pretty and uses his tongue to play with my nipples. He says it’s a game he likes, and I say I like it too. He says, “Don’t ever tell anyone about this—this is our secret, just you and me.” He gives me candy and money, and if I refuse, he doesn’t give me anything.’ ‘And does he put his hand here, and does he . . . ?’ ‘Yes . . . yes . . . yes, oh yes!’

  “Oh, what a tragedy has befallen you, Umm Jalal! What a scandal! I ran to the mayor and told him. Dear God! It was as though I were splashing his face with boiling oil. He went crazy and kept asking me if I was sure, which I confirmed. ‘Prove it!’ he said. ‘Give every detail!’

  “It was dusk then, just as it is now. Jalal wasn’t home. He used to get dressed up and put on his father’s cologne to go out for the evening. It was said he had had flings with more than one of the young women in the village—the beautiful ones, that is. That delighted his father’s sense of masculinity and made him spoil Jalal all the more. When he came home from his trips, he would always bring Jalal more cologne, clothes, and new shoes. He gave Jalal money, spared him every kind of work, and just wanted him to continue his studies. But it would never have occurred to him or to anyone else that Jalal would interfere with poor Zakiya! The two of them were brought up together like siblings! Leaving aside the fact that she didn’t look after herself and was a half-wit. Maybe that’s precisely what led him to do what he did with her. Who knows! They were adolescents, and God has His reasons for His creation.

  “We had a secret room, a cellar or basement—whatever you want to call it—six feet long and six feet wide. The mayor had dug it under our bedroom to hide money and weapons. Never very much, three or four chests, but whatever was valuable and secret. The door leading to it was very small and hidden by a long mirror—I’ll show it to you—and no one ever knew anything about it.

  “The mayor waited until everyone was asleep. When it was past midnight, he told me, ‘Go to Jalal. Wake him quietly and whisper that I want to talk to him about something important. Then bring him to our bedroom here.’

  “I begged him to reason with Jalal and not to hurt him, for I knew the mayor’s nature. I said to him, ‘He’s a child!’ He said, ‘What kind of child would seduce an innocent girl!’ Sparks flashed in his eyes and so much rage burned within him that if he were faced with a ferocious lion at that moment, he could have torn it apart with his bare hands. ‘Calm yourself,’ he said, but I couldn’t. I kept insisting and pleading until he exploded, throwing recriminations in my face, saying it was all the result of the deplorable way I raised my children. He said the responsibility of watching over them and knowing what they were doing fell upon my shoulders since he was usually away. In a moment of rage, the mayor was just like everyone else, casting blame about, usually on the person closest. ‘No!’ I protested. ‘It’s because you spoil him!’ Of course, it wasn’t the time for debating things like that. He ordered me to go, and if I didn’t, he would go himself and bring back a handful of Jalal’s long hair. The mayor had never liked Jalal’s long hair since he didn’t consider it manly. However, he let it go seeing as this was a fashion among all the young men at that time.

  “When Jalal entered our bedroom, he was rubbing his eyes, half asleep. The mayor closed the door behind us and spoke to Jalal in a voice that was remarkably controlled and calm, though I knew he was suppressing a terrible rage. He said, ‘You are my eldest son, and I want to show you something important.’ He removed the mirror, which opened up like a door. Behind it was a door made of two thick pieces of iron and wood, followed by stairs leading down below our room to another door of wood and iron. Of course, the boy’s drowsiness evaporated when he saw that the mirror was a door and behind the mirror was a locked door. The mayor opened it and said, ‘Go in.’ Jalal bent his head and entered. I went to follow him, but the mayor pushed me violently back and shut the door behind them. I sat on the bed, sobbing silently.

  “Then I remembered he had twenty pistols down there that he intended to take to the Kurds on his next trip. My heart sank—I was sure he would kill Jalal. I hurried over and put my ear to the cellar door. I didn’t hear anything that was going on or what they said, of course—it was for that very reason that he made the double set of doors. But the keyholes and the tiny gaps under the door brought me the sound of muffled blows, like a stone falling to the muddy bottom of a deep well. I heard what seemed to be screams, but they seemed far away, as though coming from behind a mountain. I decided I would scream and pound on the door if they were inside for too long. Even if it was only a single minute, it seemed to me an eternity of terror. When the mayor came out, panting and with disheveled hair, his hands and clothes were stained with blood. I burst into tears. ‘You killed him? You killed my boy?’ The mayor said, ‘If only I had. But I will. I’ll kill him, this disgrace of a son.’

  “I plunged into the cellar, stumbling and falling down the stairs without really noticing, until I found myself at the bottom beside Jalal. He had lost consciousness and was swimming in his own blood, his clothes torn, with bruises covering his body and blood dripping from his wounds. I held him to me. He was breathing, thank God. I wasn’t able to carry him, of course, so I hurried up to bring water and rags—anything to treat him with. I found the mayor washing in a basin and changing his clothes. ‘He acknowledged it,’ he said. ‘He confessed his crime. This disgrace, this bastard!’

  “Then he passed me the keys and said, ‘Listen. I’m going now to Sheikh Zahir to seek his counsel on the matter. You, wash your son. Even if you washed him in all the seas of the world, it wouldn’t be enough to cleanse our shame. And don’t you dare tell anyone anything. Don’t you dare let him leave! If you do, I’ll kill you.’

  “Zahir was the mayor’s friend, and they knew each other inside and out. The mayor couldn’t go a day without seeing him, and they would usually travel together. They shared secrets, laughter, business, memories, everything. To give you an example, among the secrets that Zahir told the mayor was a story about him and Suhayl the Damascene from the days of the war in Palestine, despite his vow to keep it hidden. This happened when they were enjoying an evening of drinking and one story led to another. Zahir made us swear not to reveal it to anyone.

  “The mayor returned with
in an hour, accompanied by Zahir. I had done what I could to wash Jalal, change his clothes, apply a compress to all his bruises, and bandage his wounds. I didn’t know if any of his bones were broken, so I tried to move him as little as possible. He looked like a corpse—oh, Jalal, apple of your mother’s eye!

  “The two of them went into the divan. The mayor had calmed down somewhat. Zahir said, ‘Can I see the boy?’ I looked at the mayor, waiting for his answer. I didn’t expect him to let anyone know about the cellar, but it appeared he had already revealed this secret to Zahir. Or maybe it was Zahir’s idea in the first place, and maybe Zahir had his own private cellar in his house too. Who knows? The mayor gestured for me to accompany Zahir while he remained in the hall. On our way, I asked Zahir not to let the mayor hurt Jalal any more, for I knew the influence Zahir had over him. He said, ‘Don’t worry. It was a fit of rage, but now it has passed.’

  “In the cellar, Zahir took a bag with two bottles of medicine out of his pocket. One was liquid, perhaps a disinfectant or something like that, and the other was an ointment. He began pouring the liquid on the wounds to clean them, and he rubbed the ointment into the bruises, which were turning blue. He said, ‘Do this once every day.’ He rolled Jalal’s body over, repeating religious phrases. Then he said, ‘There are no broken bones, thank God.’ At that moment, Jalal breathed deeply and painfully. Zahir went on to say, ‘Don’t be afraid. He’ll heal quickly and be just as he was.’ Then he left us. I put the two bottles on one of the chests and followed him out.

  “In the divan, the mayor told me to make them tea, and when I returned with it, I found Zahir telling the mayor that this incident was the whispering of the devil and the devil’s impetus to strife, for Satan causes strife between a man and his spouse, between a father and his son, and between a human being and himself. Zahir went on to say that the mayor had to act rationally, just as he always did when settling the affairs of the people. The mayor said that if he were to handle this situation like those of the villagers, that would mean making it public, along with the punishment and the resolution. Zahir told him that every problem had various solutions, and that all he had to do now was calm down and find the appropriate one.

  “All this time, the mayor continued expressing his sense of shock, saying he couldn’t bear the hideous shame, which would forever stain his reputation and the reputation of his family and his line. Zahir began citing numerous similar stories, either from history or from his experience, with their equally numerous solutions. ‘For instance, you could marry them,’ Zahir suggested. ‘And then the problem would be solved.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go now, but I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  “After he went, the mayor and I remained silent, not knowing what to say. But I could see he had regained his composure. Then he told me to bring blankets for him to sleep there in the hall. I did so, and from that night up until the day he died, he slept there and didn’t once spend a night with me in our bedroom. Just as he never again looked upon Jalal.

  “A hard week passed by, during which Jalal got better and began sitting up, moving, eating, and talking. The mayor said nothing to me but, ‘Make very sure the boxes are locked.’ As for Jalal, he felt a deep sense of guilt and regret. He cried and wanted to go to his father, or for his father to come to him, so that he could apologize to him in person, kiss his hands and feet, and beg his forgiveness. He loved his father greatly, and knowing that he had disappointed him tore him up inside. I told him that if he wanted to flee, I’d let him, but he refused, saying, ‘I’ll do only what my father tells me, only what seems right to him, even if he wants to kill me.’ Indeed, Jalal thought about killing himself. I calmed him down and told him he had to be patient, that his father would reconcile and forgive him in the end, but that he was angry now, and he was right to be angry.

  “We didn’t say anything to anyone. We told the rest of the family that Jalal was traveling to visit his uncles in Kurdistan for a few days and would be back. A week later the three of us, the mayor, Zahir, and I, were staying up again to discuss the matter. The idea was to arrange their marriage, and the mayor and Zahir told me to go to Jalal and inform him. The surprising thing was Jalal’s absolute refusal. Of course, he was a young man in the prime of his youth, and he couldn’t bear the idea of marrying Zakiya when the most beautiful girls of the village were dreaming of him, and when people considered the two of them to be siblings. Zahir went down to persuade him but didn’t succeed. Jalal answered that he would kill himself if we forced him to do it. The mayor was about to take his turn and go down and beat Jalal like before until he agreed, but Zahir prevented him, saying, ‘You can’t compel him to get married. And then, even if we married them, the child would still be a bastard because he was conceived out of wedlock. What’s more, people would talk when they saw Zakiya give birth seven months after the wedding. The whispers would start: “See how the mayor led this poor orphan to his son like a ewe to the ram.” We have to think of something else.’

  “Once more, our spirits were unsettled. Confusion circled around our heads, and the mayor’s anxiety mounted. Our thoughts kept going around in circles, searching for some way out. The two of them sifted through religious law and common law, traditions and precedents, suggesting various possibilities. ‘We’ll cause her to miscarry,’ proposed the mayor, ‘and the baby will fall out.’ ‘Haram!’ Zahir cried. ‘By this point, the fetus has a spirit, and God has breathed a soul into him. Killing him would be a crime. And if we are able to punish his parents for the sin they committed, what is his sin that we would punish him?’

  “They kept at it until, in the end, it was decided that Jalal’s punishment was to be disowned, having been beaten and whipped. He would then be expelled from the village, to return only after many years or never at all. Zakiya would be hidden and held in isolation from the eyes of the people until she bore her child, and then she would be punished. But it all had to be done very quickly and secretly to prevent any scandal and to preserve the mayor’s reputation. They described it as the kind of impurity to ward off, not just conceal. ‘God has commanded us to purity!’ is how they put it.

  “I suggested that Jalal be sent away to my relatives in the town of Ranya in Kurdistan. That way we could visit him and be reassured about how he was doing. Jalal could also continue his studies, and after he had spent a few years there, he could return. But the mayor insisted that Jalal be sent away out of Iraq entirely and never return. He neither wanted to see him nor hear anything about him for the rest of his life. He asked Zahir to take Jalal the next night and hand him over under the cover of darkness to friends of theirs on the border, Kurdish smugglers of weapons, goods, and people. They would take charge of smuggling Jalal into some neighboring country—‘or to hell!’ as the mayor put it. After that, Jalal would manage his own affairs, ‘or else let him die like a mangy dog! Tell him never to come back, never to write us letters or try to get in touch with us. Tell him to forget us forever, as we in our turn will forget him. Starting tomorrow, we will no longer think of him as our son.’

  “How often I cried and begged at that time, but neither tears nor pleas availed me anything. I spent the whole night hugging Jalal, crying and counseling him. He cried only because his father didn’t want to see him or bid him farewell. Have you seen how men are? How much cruelty they have? The two of them were only thinking of themselves, and not about us—me, Zakiya, and you, the unborn child.

  “Zahir carried out the mission to the letter. He set off in his car under cover of night, taking Jalal along with the twenty pistols the mayor had been hiding. They didn’t neglect to take advantage even of that hard moment for their business dealings! They told people that Jalal had gone to finish his education in Russia. After that, we never learned anything else about Jalal, and people gradually forgot about him after various reports reached us, scant and contradictory. I don’t even know where they came from. Among them were that Jalal had crossed the northern border to a neighboring country—Syria, Iran
, or Turkey—went to Germany, got married, and settled down there. Others said that he died in a car accident in Paris, or that he drowned in the Straits of Gibraltar, attempting to sneak across from Morocco to Spain. Still others said he became a religious man in Iran. He went to Afghanistan and was killed in the civil war. He made it to Colombia, joined the militants, and achieved a high position among them. He was a drug-dealer in Brazil, a magistrate in a Dutch village . . .

  “The threads of the story were lost to me—or perhaps I got lost among the reports and no longer knew which of them I ought to believe. Indeed, my heart, which always kept telling me that you were alive, told me nothing certain about him at all. The mayor forbade me even to mention Jalal’s name or to cry over Jalal in his presence. As far as the mayor was concerned, it was as though he had never existed.

  “Nevertheless, the mayor did confess to me, in a moment of weakness before his death, that he never forgot Jalal and more than once cried over him in secret.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Life in the Cellar

  “As for Zakiya—during the first few days after Jalal left, the mayor removed two of the chests from the cellar and left the third there, empty. He also installed a concrete basin in a corner as a bath. He instructed me to make up a bed for Zakiya in the cellar, saying that the empty box was for her clothes and other necessities. He told me to take her down and keep her there, to look after her until she bore her child. Meanwhile, he and Zahir made it known that they had married Zakiya to a Bedouin in the Ramadi desert. People considered that arranging a husband and a family for this sick orphan was a charitable deed since they never imagined that anyone would agree to marrying her.

  “The confinement was hard on Zakiya. It was a tight space with no windows and nothing to distinguish between night and day. She was isolated and saw no one apart from me. Zakiya was a child, used to moving around and playing with the rest of the children. Adjusting to this situation cost her and me a great deal. I entertained her—and misled her—with stories. I taught her weaving and embroidery, and I urged her to make use of the long hours to prepare clothes for her coming baby. I taught her how to make dolls, and I played with her at length until I myself was carried away, delighted with a pastime that had been forbidden to me in my childhood. We made entire families out of reeds. We would take two reeds—the thicker one, about as long as a hand, formed the trunk; another, shorter and more delicate, which we tied on in the shape of a cross, formed the arms. From a piece of old cloth, we cut clothes for the dolls, and we drew faces for them with a stick of kohl. We created an entire world to replace the one outside. Each doll had a name, a job, a family, a house made out of cardboard boxes, and so on.

 

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