True Arab Love

by Issa J. Boullata

  TRUE ARAB LOVE

  STORIES

  ISSA J. BOULLATA

  Copyright 2016 © Issa J. Boullata

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

  Cover design: Debbie Geltner

  Book design and typesetting: WildElement.ca

  Author photo: David Boullata

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Boullata, Issa J., 1929-­, author

  True Arab love / Issa J. Boullata.

  Short stories.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-988130-07-1 (paperback).—­ISBN 978-1-988130-08-8 (epub).—ISBN 978-1-988130-09-5 (mobi).—­ISBN 978-1-988130-10-1 (pdf)

  I. Title.­

  PS8603.O9388T78 2016

  C8139’.6

  C2016-902307-9

  C2016-902308-7

  Legal Deposit, National Library and Archives Canada et Dépôt légal, Bibliothèque et archives nationales du Québec, 2016.

  Linda Leith Publishing acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and of SODEC for its publishing program.

  Linda Leith Publishing

  P.O. Box 322, Station Victoria

  Westmount, Quebec H3Z 2V8

  Canada

  www.lindaleith.com

  For the three Barbaras I love:

  my mother,

  my daughter,

  and my niece.

  Where three persons of one name happen to be in one place at the same time, there is a hidden treasure.

  —Arab adage

  CONTENTS

  Without a Court Trial

  Bar-­room Confessions

  Third in Command

  Harvest of the Years

  All is Vanity

  True Love, Mad Love

  A Retired Gentleman

  Oh, Saleema!

  Acknowledgements

  WITHOUT A COURT TRIAL

  “Only tell me, sir, if you please. What is the crime I have committed against the state or the military governor, that you should arrest me and my friend?”

  These were the first words he uttered after he had regained his ability to speak, following the surprise that had tied his tongue and paralysed his thinking when he saw he was being led with his friend Abdallah to the military jeep parked in front of the restaurant.

  The soldier did not answer him, for he was implementing an order given him by the military governor himself a few moments before. He motioned to the jeep driver to set off.

  The driver asked, “Where to?”

  The soldier said curtly, “To the prison.”

  The military jeep drove on, in the dark of the night. The city streets were empty and frighteningly calm. No noise was heard except that of the running motor and the jeep’s rattling as it moved.

  He looked at his friend Abdallah and could hardly see his face in the dark. But he saw his eyes shining as though imploring him and saying, “Please, restrain your heroics, Hamdi. Let’s see what is going to happen to us now.”

  Hamdi, however, could not keep quiet. He repeated his earlier question to the soldier and added, “What have we done that has offended the state or the military governor?”

  The soldier turned to him, training his gun in his direction, and said in a firm tone of voice, “Please keep quiet. I’m only doing my duty.”

  Hamdi fell silent, feeling subdued, while the military jeep drove on in the quiet streets toward the city prison. He wondered how the situation in the restaurant could have been transformed so quickly that he hardly knew what had happened.

  Abdallah had decided to emigrate to the United States and had two more days before leaving the country. He had quit his job, sold his furniture, and completed all travel arrangements; he had bought an air ticket and obtained an American visa after successfully passing a medical examination. All his friends had given him private little farewell parties in their homes in the preceding few weeks, for they had not dared give him a public party under the conditions of the Jordanian military rule, during the few limited hours in the day when the curfew was lifted. As for his friends Hamdi and Jamal, they had delayed giving him a leaving party until the curfew order had been finally rescinded on that very day of that beautiful Spring of 1957. So they had invited him to a final supper in his honour at a magnificent restaurant.

  The three friends arrived at the restaurant at 8.00 p.m. The maître d’ led them to their reserved table and seated them with visible civility and wished them a good dinner and a happy evening.

  There were only a few other diners that evening; they were all enjoying the rescinding of the curfew order as though they were birds trying their wings and flying for the first time after long detention in their cages.

  When the military governor entered with his commanding officers—to have dinner there—nobody paid much attention. They all seemed to be continuing to enjoy their regained freedom of movement outside their homes, or they were pretending to be indifferent, as though things had become normal again.

  The military governor and his company headed for a large table that had been prepared for them, and the maître d’ hovered around them. They sat and drank wine before, during, and after dinner, and they talked endlessly. Their presence in the restaurant sparked off furtive looks in their direction from the diners.

  As for the three friends, Abdallah, Hamdi, and Jamal, nothing could distract them from the subject of the long-­standing friendship which united them with one another. They recalled old memories, going back to their childhood, boyhood, and early youth, when they were growing up together in the same neighbourhood and the same school; and they hoped their good relations would continue after Abdallah’s leaving for America. They drank ten bottles of beer to this friendship and dined on delicious grilled meat.

  After midnight, when they turned around, they noticed that all the other visitors had left except for the military governor and his commanding officers. They lowered their voices in conversation as they suddenly felt the influence of the old terror they had experienced from childhood on, with regard to everyone in power over them in their private and public lives. Their laughter froze, their jokes faded, and each of them restrained himself and could not act naturally. Each one felt he was now alone, face to face with authority in all its stark military might, despite innocent appearances. Each one felt that that authority was counting his every breath and heartbeat, and listening to his every whisper.

  Abdallah said in a dry voice, “Let’s leave this place and hope our evening ends well.”

  Jamal said, “Wait for me. I’ll go to the men’s room first to empty some of the beer I’ve drunk, then I’ll join you and we’ll leave together.”

  Hamdi was feeling the pressure of the beer on his bladder too, but he preferred to stay with his friend Abdallah, afraid of leaving him alone in an ominous situation. He hoped nothing would stand in the way of his friend’s leaving for America.

  Then, something happened that had no one had anticipated. And things moved unexpectedly fast.

  The military governor suddenly stood up, and his commanding officers rose to their feet as well. He headed for the door to leave the restaurant with his company. Passing by the friends Hamdi and Abdallah sitting at the table, he gave them a dirty look they did not understand. It was as if he considered their very being there a defiance of his authority. When he reached the door, he said a few words to the soldier standing on guard, and motioned to the table of the two friends in an angry, nervous manner. He then left the restaurant with his commanding officers, got into the car waiting for him at the door, and they all drove away.

  The soldier came towards the two friends and ordered
them to accompany him. Meanwhile, Jamal returned from the toilet and saw his two friends being taken to no one knew where. He was flabbergasted, and stood speechless as he watched them being led to the military jeep and driven away to what he now began to think was their detention. He knew that intervening would not save them from the unjust treatment that had been visited on many people since the recent overthrow of the cabinet, the dissolution of parliament, and declaration of military rule. He saw the maître d’ standing, pale and aghast, watching what was happening as though it were a nightmare. Jamal turned to him, paid the bill, and went home, his bladder saving his skin.

  The policeman on duty in the prison said to the soldier, “I can’t arrest these two men or admit them to prison without a warrant or a written order from the court.”

  The soldier insisted, “This is the order of the military governor himself. Admit them to prison at once.”

  The policeman said, “I’ll do it, but under duress; the prison director will have to look into the matter in the morning.”

  In the morning, when Captain Hamza, the prison director, arrived and learned what had happened, he immediately went to the cell of those arrested. Hamdi and Abdallah had spent a sleepless night—they had been continually getting up to go to a tin container in the corner to empty the beer in their bladders. The other two men in the cell with them laughed at the ironical situation when told the story, for, unlike the new inmates, they had both been accused of secretly belonging to an Arab socialist political party banned by the government, and had spent more than thirty days in prison already without a court trial.

  Captain Hamza looked at Hamdi and Abdallah through the iron bars of the door with some unexpected sympathy. Then he said to the guard, “Unlock the door.”

  The four prisoners were astonished. Hamdi and Abdallah stood up, while the other two remained lying on the thin pad on the floor which served as a mattress; it was as though they were not impressed and were seeing an ordinary, daily scene.

  Captain Hamza said, “Come on. Get out, all of you. You’re free. What are you waiting for?”

  The two men lying down got up, astounded.

  The prison director added, “What’s the matter with you? Do you like staying in prison? I said ‘Get out!’ It’s all over. A coup d’état took place in the small hours of last night, and this morning the new cabinet ordered that all those arrested should be released.”

  The prisoners looked at one another in disbelief.

  Captain Hamza added, “As for the military governor and his company, the new authorities have arrested them and sent them far away to a desert prison ... without a court trial!”

  BAR-­ROOM CONFESSIONS

  I am not fond of drinking, although once in a while I do take a drink or two with a friend when an occasion calls for it. My friend Sam, on the other hand, is the exact opposite. He likes to drink every evening but can refrain when occasion calls for restraint. However, he always prefers to drink with a friend—he hates to drink alone. I am therefore not the ideal companion for him, despite our strong friendship, which goes back to our school days in Lebanon. When he invited me to join him for a drink at a local bar in Montreal, I was surprised. He said that the drinks would be on him.

  Having recently arrived in Montreal from Beirut with his wife Mayy while the uncivil war was raging, he was still looking for a job, and his money was understandably running out. His wife had found a good position at the Bank of Montreal and was beginning to feel at home in the city. By contrast, Sam was still unsettled and disoriented. He and Mayy had no children, but they were planning on having at least a couple, as he once told me in Beirut.

  Sam and I sat at a table beside the window. The street outside was crowded with people as the evening fell on the city. Some customers were dropping in to take advantage of the reduced prices during what is called the “Happy Hour,” between 5 p.m. and 6 p.m. Sam ordered his usual cognac and for me a glass of red wine.

  “There is nothing like Cabernet Sauvignon,” I said.

  “Cognac is quicker,” he remarked.

  “It depends on why one drinks,” I suggested. “I never drink to get drunk.”

  “I never do, either,” he replied. “I drink to while away time, too, heavy time. It seems to me the hours are long and burdensome and empty until I begin drinking with a friend. All my other friends had reasons not to join me this evening and so I am happy that you are here with me now.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Sam,” I said. “But, tell me, how is your search for a job going?”

  “Oh, it’s going all right, I suppose. I got employers’ names and addresses from the Canadian Human Resources Centre, and I applied for a few jobs and have been interviewed for some. I’m still waiting but I expect that in a few weeks I’ll be employed.”

  The waiter brought our drinks and a bowl of salted peanuts to share.

  “To your health,” Sam raised his glass and eagerly took a long sip of cognac.

  “À la vôtre, my friend,” I said and put the glass to my lips.

  “And is Mayy enjoying her job at the bank?”

  “She is,” he said. “Mayy’s a happy-­go-­lucky person and can easily adjust to new conditions. I can’t. I don’t know whether I’ll ever get accustomed to this Canadian weather with its severe winters or the fast pace of life in Montreal all year round.”

  “I felt the same way when I first arrived here a couple of years ago. But one gets used to it gradually, you know.”

  “What gets me is that my home life is affected by this change. In Beirut, I knew my place, Mayy knew hers, and we lived a nice life together. Here, I don’t know. She holds the purse strings, she does the shopping, she runs the home, she decides how and where we are to spend our evenings ... I love her dearly and don’t dare displease her, let alone contradict her.”

  Sam took another long sip of his cognac, almost emptying his glass. I sensed the tension in his voice and knew he was letting me in on his private life. He often did that in Beirut too, and his conversations used to become more and more intimate with each successive drink. I thought perhaps he now needed to let off steam a little: he was without work, his wife had become the breadwinner in Canada before he had been able to, and so he might have some feelings of jealousy or inadequacy. I thought that was perhaps why he had invited me for a drink, knowing I have always been a good and sympathetic listener.

  “The other day,” he began, “she bought a pair of pink chiffon stockings, those fashionable ones with darker transparent floral designs. I said to her, ‘Mayy, you have enough stockings, my dear. Why do you have to buy more?’ She said, ‘Oh, but these are the latest fashion, Sam.’ I said, ‘Yes, I know. But can we afford to keep up with the latest fashions, my dear, now that we are immigrant refugees in this country?’ She said, ‘Don’t you want me to be like all the other young women here?’ I replied, ‘Of course, I do. But such inessential things can wait until I have a job at least. Can’t they?’ She said, ‘I have a job, Sam. Can’t I spend my money on what I like?’ And she began crying. ‘Come, come,’ I said. ‘Spend it as you like, my love, and I’ll give you more to spend when I have a job.’ I hugged her, dried her tears and kissed her.”

  Sam drank the rest of his cognac in one gulp and ordered another glass.

  “You’re hardly touching your wine,” he noted. “Drink up and let me order another glass for you.”

  “No, Sam. You know I don’t drink much. You go ahead, drink as you wish and let me sip my wine slowly and enjoy your company.”

  He said, “Sorry to bother you with my stories. You’re not married, but I know you understand my situation better than my married friends. I hope I’m not boring you?”

  “Of course not, Sam. You can tell me whatever you want and I’ll listen and respond. I think Mayy is a lovely woman and you are fortunate to have such a wife. Your happiness with her was the talk of the town in Beirut. And I have no doubt it will continue to be so here in Montreal or anywhere. One only needs patience in
such circumstances, and everything will be fine.”

  “I have all the patience in the world,” he said, “and I hope it works.”

  This gave me the first inkling that it was not working, that something was wrong. Sam was fidgety, looking around him and at his watch and drinking big gulps of his cognac. At times our conversation was interrupted by long periods of silence until I started the ball rolling again. He ordered a third, then a fourth glass of cognac while I was still drinking my first glass of wine. I wondered whether he really was in trouble or simply undergoing one of those periods in one’s life when everything seems to have gone wrong, when life seems to have become meaningless, when living seems to be a waste of one’s efforts and a time to regret lost opportunities, when one needs to reorient one’s life and may be liable to make mistakes or even commit fatal blunders. I knew that if this was the case, Sam would be in great need of sincere friends to stand by him and help.

  He turned to me at one point and said apropos of no relevant previous thought, “You know how much I would like to have a child. We once spoke about that and I told you I would like to have at least a couple of children.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “What would you say if I told you I almost had a child?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you see, Mayy became pregnant but did not tell me. Then she decided to have an abortion and also did not tell me. When she was unable to find a gynaecologist, she resorted to a quack who gave her a drug which she took at home to bring on the abortion she wanted. Then she became sick and was forced to tell me. She had to stay in bed for several days and I remained at her bedside and nursed her.

  “When she recovered, we had a talk about what had happened. I said, ‘My dear Mayy, how in the world could you embark on an act as important as this without telling me?’ She said, ‘I did not want to bother you. Besides, my body is mine, nobody else’s.’ I said, ‘No, my dear. When a couple get married, they become one body. As husband and wife we cleave to each other till death us do part.’ She did not agree and said to me, ‘Oh, Sam. Those are old ideas. They don’t work in the New World. Don’t you read the Canadian and American newspapers and magazines? Abortion is a woman’s choice, nobody else’s.’ A woman’s choice, she says, a woman’s choice! What do you think of that, my friend?”