by August Li
“Always? You mean that you can remember.”
“No,” Janan said softly. “That’s… it’s something I feel is essential to me. Something at my core. God is loving and forgiving, and he wants us to be happy. If we can find happiness, I think he’s pleased. Trying to do good is what matters. All the world’s great belief systems agree there. God should be a reason to rejoice, never an excuse to feel anger or resentment toward others. Ha. Listen to me lecturing on as if I know what I’m talking about.”
His words reassured Isra enough to ask, “What about those who refuse to obey God? Do you believe there is hope for them?”
“I believe there could be. Imagine if a man had never heard the Quran, but he still helped his neighbors, loved his family, and lived well with his heart full of kindness. The God I believe in would not turn him away. Do you ask for a reason?”
“It’s an interesting topic.”
“It is,” Janan agreed. “It can bring out the best and the worst in people. I… I don’t believe God would look unkindly on us. For our feelings.”
“No. I don’t imagine so,” Isra said. “Others would disagree.”
“There are places in the world where—”
A shrill cry cut Janan off just as they reached the crest of a hill. The path down the other side was steep, and from where they stood, they looked out over a vast plain dotted with scrub brush. A nearly full moon had risen, and it washed the land in silver and quartz pink light. The scream sounded again, and Janan grasped Isra’s sleeve and moved closer, his stick held close to his chest. “Was that a woman?”
Isra chuckled. “Look.”
He pointed at the two small shapes darting from bush to bush, chasing each other and yipping.
“Fennec foxes,” Janan said with delight. Isra had been teaching him to identify the tracks of different desert animals, and he’d expressed his desire to see one of the small big-eared foxes, but so far, he’d been disappointed.
Isra took his hand. “If we’re quiet, we can get a little closer.”
Janan nodded, and they picked their way a little farther down the trail until they found a flat rock where they could sit down. Isra put an arm across Janan’s back, and the other man relaxed against his side, his hand draped over Isra’s knee. As the moon climbed higher in the heavens, they nestled together and watched the little foxes play. Isra explained how mated pairs stayed together for life, how their kits often remained a part of the family.
“Intelligent creatures,” Janan remarked. “Their hearts are so much like our own.”
“It’s late.” Isra tilted his head to the side so he could rest his cheek on the top of Janan’s head while Janan rested on his shoulder. “We should find a place to sleep. There are some ben oil trees at the base of the hill that will provide shelter.”
Janan stretched his arms over his head and yawned. Then he stood and offered Isra his hand. They traveled the mile or so to the thick old trees and found a place beneath an arched branch, where the long seed pods hung down and the moonlight shone through the leaves to dapple the ground black and silver. Janan had learned the ways of the desert well, and he helped Isra clear away twigs and gravel and dig a shallow depression—just wide enough for the two of them to lay side by side. Then they positioned their packs to use as pillows, drank some water, ate some of the dried apricots they’d bought in the city, and covered themselves in their cloaks, both of them lying on their backs.
Janan turned to his side, and Isra flipped to face him, nuzzling in and wrapping his arm around Janan’s waist. Janan did the same, tucking his head beneath Isra’s chin, his lips brushing Isra’s throat, his warm breath raising goose bumps over Isra’s skin.
Isra felt the lean muscle of Janan’s belly and chest against his own, the heat radiating through the cloth that separated them. Sparks danced along his body everywhere they touched, and his hand trembled as he moved up Janan’s back, over taut cords of sinew. With a whimper, Janan curled his body to press a thigh between Isra’s legs. At the same time, he angled his face up to graze his warm, dry lips over Isra’s with a touch as light as the wind in the brittle desert grass. It drew a groan from Isra against his will, and he pressed in just a little to feel the plump swell of Janan’s mouth. Janan’s lips parted a fraction, just enough for their lips to interlock. They stayed that way for a few heartbeats, breathing each other’s air, before Isra pulled away.
“What’s wrong?” Janan asked, sounding a little out of breath.
“It… we shouldn’t. Not until we know.”
“Know what?”
“That you don’t have a wife and a family,” Isra said, arguing against nature and his body, very nearly losing the battle and giving in. “That’s not a meaningless detail.”
Janan groaned and closed his fist in the back of Isra’s kaftan, and Isra knew exactly what he struggled with. “You’re right. I can’t betray someone who trusts me, even if I don’t remember him… her. Though it’s hard to imagine feeling this way… this strongly for someone else.”
“It wouldn’t be fair to anyone involved,” Isra said, dragging the back of his hand over Janan’s smooth cheek and soft, springy whiskers. “I don’t want to have this if I have to give it up.”
“No.”
“Tomorrow we’ll look for our camels, and then we’ll go to the place where my uncle’s family graze their herds this time of year. He’s the leader of our clan, and he can get the word out to ask after anyone who might know of you. We’ll have our answers before long. We’ll know, and then….”
Instead of answering, Janan turned in Isra’s arms so his back was to Isra’s chest. He pulled Isra’s arm over him and kissed the knuckles before holding the hand against his chest. Isra curled around him and breathed in the scent of his hair. He tried to stay awake in case this was the only chance he’d have to hold Janan this way, but he could only resist nature so long, and sleep eventually pulled him into a dreamless void.
Chapter Seven
THEY FOUND the camels grazing a few miles away and led them back to the cliffside grotto where the saddles and their provisions were stored. Just as Isra said, no one had stolen so much as a grain of rice. Janan had to admit he’d been skeptical of the desert code, but he was glad to see their possessions intact. They spent a night in the crescent of trees, and the next morning they rode north up the wadi.
In three days they reached a towering red rock formation that reminded Janan of a castle except smoothed and rounded by the wind and the sand. At its base stood about a dozen tents, some simple and square, others long and rectangular with scalloped awnings help up by sturdy branches. The sun was setting, the last golden rays spilling out around the edges of the towers of red stone. Fires burned, and lanterns hung on ropes between the dwellings. Just enough light remained for Janan to see the huge herd of goats, sheep, and several camels grazing near a watering hole maybe a half a mile from the camp. It was beautiful, and the savory scents of roasting meat fueled his anticipation. But: “I hope your people won’t mind my intruding.”
Isra laughed bright enough to light up the evening. “These are true Bedouin, not like the cousins in Qena. Hospitality means everything to us. You’ll be an honored guest, and you’re my companion on top of it. Practically part of the tribe.”
Despite his nerves, Janan couldn’t help smiling, put in a cheerful mood by the merry fires and the people milling about them—people who would welcome him among them. “Special occasion?”
“Looks that way,” Isra said. “Come on.”
First they saw to their camels, who were happy to trot off and join the rest of the herd. Then they washed the dust of the road from their hands and faces in the cool, fresh water upstream from the watering hole. Finally Isra announced he would introduce Janan to his people. Carrying their saddles and packs, they made their way through the settlement to the large central tent. It was at least the size of the cousins’ house in Qena, long and rectangular. Though it was made primarily of heavy dark cloth—prob
ably camel hair—colorfully woven tapestries hung over much of the front, some pulled back to offer tantalizing glimpses into the spaces beyond. In the center, a spacious room stood open. Elaborate carpets covered the ground within, and some comfortable-looking cushions formed a ring in the center. Blue glass oil lamps hung from the smooth branches that served as rafters, and sandalwood incense burned in a brass censer.
When Isra announced himself, the two men seated inside rose and came to meet them beneath the awning. Janan remembered Salih, who’d been kind and provided Malika. Next to him stood an older man, probably in his sixties, whom Janan could only describe as striking. He had the longish nose and heavy-lidded eyes that seemed a strong trait in the clan, and age had accentuated his sharp bone structure, just as his silver hair and white whiskers emphasized his dark skin. His brown eyes glittered with welcome and a hint of mischief, and it was easy to see that beneath his blue-and-white striped jubbah, he had the physique of a much younger man.
Isra hugged both men and kissed their cheeks. “Janan, this is the patriarch of our clan, my uncle, Jibril al-Muhibb.”
Janan grinned at the laqab al-Muhibb: the lover. With the patriarch’s looks and charm, he wasn’t surprised. “I’m honored to meet you and grateful for your hospitality.”
“You’re welcome to share all that we have,” Jibril said with a warm smile and a pat on Janan’s shoulder.
“You remember my brother, Salih.”
They embraced, and Janan said, “Good to see you again.”
“And how’s that ill-natured camel of mine doing?” Salih asked.
“A fine animal,” Janan said. “I can’t thank you enough for all of your help.”
Salih waved a hand. “I did little. Tell me, have you and my brother had any luck locating your people or learning what might’ve happened to you?”
“That’s a large part of the reason we’re here,” Isra said. “We’re hoping to ask for the help of the clan and the tribe in finding Janan’s family.”
Jibril nodded. “If there’s anything we can do, we’ll do it gladly. But now is not the time for this talk. My thirteenth son took his second wife today, and that’s something to celebrate. We’ll feast and drink coffee and smoke, and then we’ll talk about business. Now, rest and refresh yourselves. The meal will be ready before long.”
“I’ll show you a place where you can sleep and store your things,” Salih said. “With so many relations here for the wedding, space is limited, but we always manage.”
He led them to a room near the far end of the long tent and pulled aside the tapestry to let them inside, where another colorful curtain further divided the area. He guided them to the left side. Some plain rugs covered the ground, and the stack of fringed cushions, the lantern, the ceramic water jug, and the washbasin filled most of the space, though Janan and Isra had room to sit their saddles in the corner, and he estimated their dry goods would fit as well.
“This is more than adequate,” Janan said. “It’s beautiful.” He didn’t add how much he looked forward to relaxing next to Isra on all those colorful pillows. It seemed better than a palace.
Salih laughed. “You’ll have to share this place with two of Jibril’s other sons, but they’re quiet young men for the most part. And now I must leave you so I can get ready for the party myself. I’ll see you again soon.”
“Thank you again,” Janan said.
“You seem to be a good friend, a good companion to my brother,” Salih said with what seemed to Janan a knowing expression. Then he left them alone.
Isra stepped closer to Janan and touched Janan’s lips with the pad of his thumb. The firelight from the lantern reflected in his eyes, and he looked pleased. “Well, welcome to my home. I hope my kinsmen will be able to help us.”
Despite having promised to refrain from intimacy, Janan couldn’t resist reaching up to toy with a curl that had escaped Isra’s turban, wrapping it around his finger. “Your uncle seems a wise man.”
“He’s quite respected,” Isra agreed.
“Then we should take his advice and let this go for the night. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”
“Yes,” Isra said. “This will be a wonderful night.”
By the time they’d stowed their provisions and washed more thoroughly, it was time for the meal, and Janan was hungry after smelling the delicious aromas since they’d ridden into camp. In the open space in front of the tents, several more fires had been lit, and mats and rugs arranged around dozens of large platters. Janan and Isra took their places next to Salih and to the left of Jibril. To the patriarch’s right sat over a dozen handsome young men who were certainly his sons, and in between, probably forty other male relatives. The women and children ate a few hundred yards away, in a circle of their own.
After the prayer, Janan couldn’t decide what to reach for first among the bowls of figs, platters of roasted meat, rice, lentils, boiled eggs, bread, various cheeses, greens with herbs and oil, and chickpeas with fragrant tomato sauce. He decided to pace himself and took small fingerfuls of the delicacies, hoping to have a chance to taste each one. Through the many hours the meal lasted, he almost managed, and by the time the coffee was served and the pipes came out, he felt heavy and drowsy and absolutely at peace.
Perhaps, no matter where he’d come from, he’d found the place he belonged. He almost wished he could give up the search for his past, but he could have obligations, family depending on him. Besides, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been working toward something, a goal that might have an important outcome. What would he do if he couldn’t reconcile his former life with the happiness he’d found here, with Isra?
Before he could become too maudlin, several men set up at the opposite side of the circle, one with a stringed rebaba and two others with flutes. Another held a pear-shaped oud; several more situated drums between their crossed legs. As the musician struck up a lively and complex melody on the oud and the rebaba accompanied it with long, lilting notes, the drummers began a sensual, heartbeat rhythm. The other men clapped in time with it, and they also seemed to know the words and accompanied the singer.
In the springtime, rains
Flowers like the desert’s exhale
Perfume on the breeze
My lover’s arms are waiting
Sweet like honey
Waiting
I dream there
In the places of my father’s fathers
In the summer, fire
Heat blurs the horizon
The cats and foxes wait for darkness
I wait to return to my lover
Burning like sun
For the places of my people
Where I dream still
Always dreaming
Autumn and its plenty
The sheep and goats fat
My lover full and content
The cool nights made for lovers
Dreaming as one
The same dreams as our ancestors
Of these places we love
The places of my fathers
Winter is solitude
The desert is waiting
Waiting
My lover sleeps in the wool house
And I dream there too
Together
Dreaming of spring and flowers and rivers
Of sweet camel’s milk
Always dreaming
Waiting still
In these places of ours.
The words took root in Janan’s heart, where he knew they would always live. He would never forget this night, the way he felt happier than he could ever remember being, while at the same time wanting to cry because it would pass too quickly, a fleeting dream. Isra, who smiled at him with lips swollen by spices, would grow old. Would they be together, or would this be only a memory?
The songs continued late into the night, and slowly the men departed for their beds or for the company of their wives. But Janan’s mind kept moving in circles around the words of that first chant. He’d… he
ard poems like it before, been inspired to emotion and rumination by the words of others, changed by them. That realization felt important, integral to his identity. But why? And where? He searched his memories for clues like the ability to play an instrument, but when he reached a certain point—that time several weeks ago when he’d woken in Qena—he hit a wall. He could hear voices behind it, but it was endless and impossible to scale.
Isra rested a hand on Janan’s forearm. “You seem far away.”
“The music… the words. I feel like it’s awakened something in me. Do you think we could walk for a while?”
Isra nodded and stood. They made their way beyond the firelight, walking in the opposite direction of the herd, where the grass and brush thinned to the occasional stunted tree or twisted thornbush. Rock formations stood silhouetted against a crystalline sky, the fat, full moon silvering their edges. Soon the magic of people and words faded away, swallowed by the wild, vast magic of the wilderness.
Janan tried to think of the words to explain to Isra what he’d felt, but words didn’t belong here. He opened his arms and pulled Isra close, flush against him. He pressed his lips to Isra’s neck, tasting salt and feeling the tickle of a few stray whiskers. “I want you,” he breathed.
Isra responded with an anguished groan.
“I don’t just mean as a lover. I want you in my future. I can’t dream or plan without including you, and if that needs to change….”
“Then we need to know soon,” Isra said, as if he could read Janan’s mind. “The waiting is too painful.”
“I almost thought I might remember, tonight at dinner.”
Isra pulled back and held Janan by the shoulders. “Perhaps you can remember more.”
“The memories are there—I feel them—but they’re… walled off. Denied to me.”
“Perhaps you can try,” Isra suggested. “Let’s sit down. Close your eyes and don’t try to push the wall down. We have a saying in the desert that nothing can stay hidden forever. The wind and the sand will wear down any wall. Look what’s become of the buildings of the ancients. Just… see if you can let the memories surface.”