*
Looking up from her pillow, Maryam asked, “Where’s Amira? Why isn’t she back with my coffee?”
We heard her laughing in the corridor.It didn’t sound like she was coming inside any time soon so I went out to find her. Maryam stumbled after me. Amira was sitting on the floor with a middle-aged maid in a headscarf. She was looking down at her phone and explaining, “No, sister, it’s not like that. Now look, not everyone on Twitter can see your daughter. Her friends can see her and her friend’s friends and their friends, you get it?”
“What’s going on here?” I said.
Laughing, Amira said,
“I’m teaching Warda here about Twitter. Come over.”
Maryam and I sat down next to the woman. She didn’t seem very interested to see us. Trying not to laugh we pieced together a story from everything Amira was saying. It seems the maid had a daughter studying computer engineering who’d told her about Twitter, and when her mother was trying to figure out just what Twitter was all about she stumbled on the profile picture of her daughter without a headscarf. The picture made her very uncomfortable. Warda’s daughter was due back at the hotel in Alexandria any time now. She poured us each a coffee from her thermos. Maryam and I lit up a cigarette and joined the conversation in the corridor. Warda was a very anxious mother. “Sister, I can’t look after this girl on my own. I tell her not to go, and she races off anyway. I’m terrified something is going to happen to her.”
With every sip of coffee I could see Maryam’s face soften and soon enough she was back on earth and consoling Warda. “Sister, there’s no need to be afraid. Nothing’s going to happen. She has friends there. And you can see how Twitter helps. You write and the words come up right away on the screen. And your friends know where you are and how you’re doing.”
It wasn’t long before Warda was edging closer to Maryam – she was after all an Egyptian.
“Why did she put a picture up without her headscarf? Isn’t that shameless? Did she go to Tahrir to find a husband?”
“Sister, if she’s going to find a husband it’s better she find him in Tahrir Square. Forget about it, don’t let it bother you.”
Taking her phone, Maryam looked at the picture of Warda’s daughter.
“Looks like she has a head on her shoulders. Nothing’s going to happen to this one.”
I had a look, too. The picture was heavily photoshopped, real chic, hair blowing in the wind, a big smile. She was a beautiful young woman – it was that kind of picture.
“She’s smart,” said Warda, her chest suddenly expanding with pride. “She’s always first in her class.”
“She wouldn’t be in Tahrir if she didn’t have brains.”
A little embarrassed to reveal that she’d been keeping an eye on us, Warda said, “Your older friend, she left early with Firdevs Hanım. They went to the cemetery. Firdevs told me. It seems the older madam’s daughter has died. God bless her soul. She died young of course.”
We looked at each other in shock. Lilla hadn’t even told us her daughter was buried in Alexandria and she certainly hadn’t told us that she was going to her grave that morning.
“They should be back soon,” said Warda. “It’s been a while now.”
Amira asked, “And when will your daughter be coming?”
“She’s already on the way. How I’ve missed her. But I’m going to be real angry when she gets here. This is simply unacceptable. No such photos like that without a headscarf.”
“They’re starting a revolution, sister! I’m also Muslim but forget about headscarves and all that for now. Does she normally wear one?”
Warda was defensive “I thought she did … but now with Tahrir and everything I have no idea what she’s up to.”
No sooner had she finished speaking than we heard hurried footsteps at the end of corridor. Straightening her back, Warda said, “There she is. That’s how she runs up the stairs.” Here eyes flickered and her entire face was lit up with joy. But the moment her daughter appeared at the top of the stairs Warda stamped out her joyous expression, clasped her hands and slipped into angry mother mode. Emotionless, she said, “Welcome. What took you so long?”
The girl stopped in her tracks as if she had just hit a wall. She was a tiny little thing, her head wrapped tightly in a scarf. Her eyebrows were thick, unplucked. Above her lips was the shadow of a moustache, unwaxed. Her arms looked like little bundles and so did her legs. Her backpack only made her little round body look more like a ball. There wasn’t a trace of that super-chic Twitter profile photo. She looked like a fun, free-spirited girl who was holding it back in the face of her mother’s authoritarianism. Without saying a word she kissed her mother who promptly poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her daughter like it was a form of punishment.
Then, in a flat tone of voice, “Meet these sisters. They were just asking me what you were doing in Tahrir. Sister Maryam is from there.”
We looked at each other in disbelief and I even clucked my tongue in disapproval. We all said hello. Sincere and full of warmth, Maryam immediately relieved us of the role of controlling older sisters.
“Sister, how are you?” she asked. “How’s Tahrir?”
The name itself was an icebreaker. Hardly breathing the girl was off and running, “Did you see what happened last night? It was a major attack. But the kids fought back … of course I didn’t go. It was late.”
She looked at her mother. Did she know she was in Tahrir? Turning back to us, she went on, “Later … did you see it? The Ultras came!”
When Maryam heard the name her coffee trembled in her hand.
After describing just what happened, she asked Maryam, “Do you know them, sister? They’re the real thing. I have a friend, Housam. In fact last night…”
She bit her tongue. She’d remembered she couldn’t explain such things in front of her mother. Maryam was breathless again.
“Are you OK?” I asked and she nodded silently. She was trying to keep focused on what the girl was saying.
“The Ultras burst in on the scene. And of course Tahrir went crazy. Everyone up on their feet. I have no idea what we’d do without them.”
“Just who are these Ultras?” I asked. “Ever since last night…”
Quickly Amira filled in the gaps.
“They’re actually fans from a football club. But also a political group. They’re the ones who really got things going in Tahrir and in El Kasbah Square in Tunisia. They do some really crazy stuff. Both really funny and really radical.”
“Like Beşiktaş Çarşı!” I said. They looked at me but the girl was keen to say more about Tahrir and I had to leave it there.
“Sister, Maryam, these Ultras…”
With a knot in her throat, Maryam asked, “Who do you know from the Ultras?”
“Houssam!” cried the girl in excitement and then remembering her mother she added, “He’s a friend from school.”
In a strangely dark mood, Maryam asked, “Was Kamal there?”
“Sister, do you know Kamal abi? He’s a very brave man. He was there last night. In fact he was out in the front.”
Her mother couldn’t help but interrupt:
“How do you know who was there or not?”
Treating her more like an enemy than a mother, she responded, “I keep telling you, it’s all on Twitter. That’s how I know.”
“I know about your photo. You have been far too disrespectful. What is this with you not wearing your headscarf!”
“That’s how it is. You wouldn’t understand.”
She quickly stood up and something fell out of her bag. Before her mother could see it Maryam picked it up and was just handing the object back to the girl when her mother snatched it out of Maryam’s hand.
“What’s this? Have you gone and turned into a thug?”
Warda dangled the slingshot in front of her daughter who only stood taller, “Give me that!”
“What are you doing with this? Are you out there
shooting stones at soldiers?”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’m doing it for you! For women like you!”
“I don’t want a hero. I want my daughter!”
“Here I am. You don’t like it?”
I was a little embarrassed and Maryam and Amira looked tense. We tried thanking Warda for the coffee but neither mother nor daughter even knew we were there any more. Tugging the slingshot back and forth between them, they were pushing the boundaries of good manners. My head bowed and my face flushed, I walked into our room. Maryam and Amira hurried in behind me. Before we could even close the door Madam Lilla appeared in the doorway. On her head sat a hat with an enormous brim. It could have been from a Sixties film.
“What’s going on?” she said, angrily.
“They are having an argument,” I said, “about the square.”
“Hmmm,” said Lilla, turning to me and smiling at my naiveté.
“Poverty puts people on the same playing field. Crushed under the same rock people are all the same. You wouldn’t know it. You’re not poor…”
“Madam,” said Maryam. “This morning you…”
Lilla cut her off. “I did a little shopping. For all of us. We can’t go to Beirut looking like a bunch of bums. I hope you like everything. The bags are ready downstairs. Get your things together. We don’t have much time left. The captain is waiting for us in the marina.”
Turning to me, Maryam whispered, “I wonder which one of her old flames we’ll get stuck with this time.”
“Pardon me?” asked Lilla.
Maryam didn’t repeat herself. Looking at that crazy hat on Lilla’s head we could see that she was already having problems coping with her visit to her daughter’s grave. By now we knew her well enough. In weakness she seemed even more magnificent.
Once she left Amira was as curious as a child again, “I wonder what she got for us?”
“Of course, dear! You mademoiselle are thinking about your new little trinkets and not how we are going to be cheated in the middle of the sea,” said Maryam angrily.
Amira was combing her hair in front of the mirror. “That woman is strange. Did you see the hat she wore to the cemetery? I swear she’s like Sophia Loren.”
“Come on,” I said. “It’s not like that. She can’t surrender.”
“Surrender to what?” said Maryam condescendingly.
“To herself,” I said and I stopped. But I suppose the traitor got the better of me and I went on, “Just like you, azizi. Just like you.”
Maryam narrowed her eyes, trying to understand what I was saying. I rushed on. “So who’s this Kamal, azizi?”
Amira’s brush stopped mid-stroke, “Yeeeeees! Of course. Come on. What’s the deal with this Kamal?”
Maryam was short of breath. Amira wanted some answers.
“Now forget all this oh-I’m-having-a-heart-attack drama. You are going to tell us. Was it you and Kamal in Tahrir…”
Exasperated Maryam reached for her trousers and her shirt but Amira wouldn’t let the subject go.
“Just a minute! Is he the one? Tell me right now.” She sat down and took Maryam by the collar. “Yeeees! You got knocked up by one of the Ultras?”
Maryam suddenly caught her breath. Framed in those words her secret seemed lighter, not cracked and faded.
On the other side of the door Warda was shouting at her daughter more loudly than before.
Maryam stood up, flung open the door and shouted, “Enough already! Sister, give me that slingshot. You’re blowing this way out of proportion. And young lady you need to treat your mother with respect. No more misbehaving. You don’t need to get on a high horse because you’re out there fighting for the revolution. I am taking this slingshot. A souvenir from Alexandria.”
She came back inside, slamming the door behind her. She stuck the slingshot in her back pocket. “Come on,” she said, “let’s get out of here.”
“You go, girl,” I said and nothing more. As Maryam walked out of the room I looked at the slingshot sticking out of her back pocket. She looked like a kid from Palestine. I looked at her back. I looked at a woman who only learned how to surrender very late in life.
28
“I’ve come up with a rule, too!” I said as we waited to board the yacht. Ahead of me the captain was helping Madam Lilla climb the gangplank. She held his hand tightly, prolonging the human touch, drawing out his desire. She looked over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. I had interrupted their moment. Maryam bumped into Amira who was right behind me. “The goddess rule … I found my seventh rule. My own rule.”
Amira and Maryam slumped their shoulders; they were fed up with the subject. But I continued, “A goddess will do whatever she was made to do when she came into this world. A goddess never surrenders to her fate, she chooses it.”
Madam Lilla says to the captain, “Please, show us the way,” and with the air of an esteemed passenger aboard a cruise ship she made a faint gesture with her hand to show that we should be left alone. Ever so gently and sweetly, Amira pushed me onto the boat. Behind us Maryam flung open her arms wide and hurried us along. Neither asked me about my rule and the epiphany that brought it on. But now I felt like I was setting out on the Mediterranean with the clarity of a goddess who had chosen her fate; but surely from the outside I looked like a nutcase who thought she was Queen Elizabeth. I was in a good mood. And here’s how I got there.
*
“You never know what a woman might need in Lebanon,” answered Lilla, her eyes twinkling, her lips fluttering flirtatiously. Amira, Maryam and I were standing next to five fully packed, stylish suitcases in the middle of the hotel lobby, looking like three question marks. As Lilla handed out generous tips to the hotel staff in true regal style, Amira whispered to me, “I really want to know. Did Lilla go to the cemetery with that hat or did she buy it afterwards?”
“She must have bought it after,” I said. “You know, she doesn’t surrender … That’s how she fights back her sadness.”
“Azizi, look, I’ll say this one more time. If this captain is one of her old flames … we didn’t really ask who he was or who he’s connected to…” mumbled Maryam.
“It’s not the right time,” I said.
Madam Lilla let out a dramatic laugh as she joked with the staff. She was making a serious effort to shake off the dust from the cemetery. Even if we’d had the courage to break up Lilla’s little act in which she played ‘the marvellous woman’, none of us would have wanted to pick up the pieces afterward. In the end we were her travel companions and we would rather have perished in the Mediterranean than plunder the magnificent palace she had built. Then Firdevs Hanım turned up. Ignoring Madam Lilla, who was still carrying on with the staff at the reception, gossiping with the bellboys and fussing over our luggage, she came over to us.
“So it’s time to hit the road.”
“Sadly so,” said Maryam, stuffing her slingshot deeper into her back pocket.
Firdevs nodded. I might have misread those shadows falling over her face if Walid hadn’t showed up rambling on about Singapore and Hong Kong right after her. In her eyes I could see the last ember of ambition going out.
“Don’t say that,” she said. “You could stay.”
Firdevs’ two daughters came to say goodbye, along with some other women. The crowd behind Firdevs grew as she watched us get ready to go. We stood there awkwardly with no baggage, and the crowd of well-wishers continued to grow. It was a strange moment. A thought ran through my head, “she has collected so much along the way that she can no longer move.” I saw the same thought on her face. As the crowd grew, Lilla kept looking back at us and Firdevs but she didn’t come over to us. She didn’t want to speak with Firdevs, who would only remind her of their trip to the cemetery. She didn’t want to accept what they had been through.
Or it seemed that way to me.
Maryam had something to say to Firdevs. Something like, “If I had the courage I would stay.” She took the slingshot out of her pocke
t. It was a keepsake from the Ultras, from a life she could not embrace. Amira was looking at Lilla. She was learning. It looked like she was memorizing the mise-en-scène of the play A Wonderful Woman, which from the outside seemed so flimsy and sometimes so artificial it was embarrassing to watch. Amira felt that one day she might need it.
In the strange silence all of this might have happened, but then again maybe it didn’t.
“When you get back…” Firdevs started to speak to Maryam then hesitated and her words trailed off. Maryam picked them up.
“If I come back, yes, I will let you know. To Cairo … if I come back, I will invite you there.”
“We’re here,” said Firdevs. It seemed strange to think of the idea that there was no other place she could be. But at that point there wasn’t a soul who knew how to reach any one of us. Letters and messages must have been piling up somewhere. Like a wire a thought crackled in Amira’s mind, Muhammed might have come back but she hadn’t received the news.
I had wanted to write so badly when I was sitting on the window ledge in the morning. If I could have just sat down to write I might have been able to tell the difference between what was real and what I was making up.
Madam Lilla called out to us, “Did you forget anything?”
Amira and Maryam went over to her – there was really nothing we could have forgotten. But then I found myself walking to the reception desk where I plucked a cheap ballpoint pen out of a container and grabbed a little pad of Union Hotel stationery and stuffed them into my back pocket.
Firdevs didn’t make an effort to say goodbye to Madam Lilla. Turning around, she walked into the inner lobby, and her entourage moved with her. Meanwhile Walid Bey was still pacing back and forth, barking into his phone. And with that we stepped into a cab leaving behind a life that would go on without us. Madam Lilla hurried out of the door so quickly that she must have felt that sticky, cloying feeling that comes with a settled life. When we all settled into the taxi she changed into the brave commander we last saw while we were setting out into the desert. She enunciated three words for the driver.
Women Who Blow on Knots Page 37