That night, and those that followed, the husband and wife went to bed in silence, lay with their backs to each other, and neither slept a wink. They both thought of the same incident, and that “incident” was something terribly confusing — like a shadow on water — elusive and unattainable. They did not know where to start or what to say. For the time being, they preferred not to speak about it at all. But both, in their loneliness, reviewed what had happened, moving from one night to the next, from here to there, from what he had said to what she had said, only to reach a dead end. Malak-Azar cast her eyes to the distant past. She started from the day they had first met and moved forward, pausing on small differences, on potential misunderstandings, on forgotten quarrels and reconciliations, making shortcuts, going back, opening the dossier on some incident, analyzing it, speculating, only to reach a wrong conclusion that led nowhere.
Fearing an interrogation and a confession (to what sin?), Amir-Ali used every excuse to stay away from his wife. He knew that what had happened that evening had nothing to do with her. He did not understand it and he did not want to think about it. He was sure that any explanation he offered, to himself or to his wife, would be premature and unfounded. Time eventually unveiled the secrets of unexpected happenings, things that at first appeared mysterious and hard to fathom, and Amir-Ali preferred to wait and allow things to take their course, and the reason for the incident to be eventually revealed to him.
Malak-Azar, in contrast, was angry and restless and could not understand his stubborn withdrawal and his strange behavior. Silence had built an invisible wall between them, and their conversations and smiles had become phony and artificial. They both feared that something terrible was going to happen and neither wanted to face the bitter reality. With concealed embarrassment, they kept their distance. Neither one had the courage to express their confused thoughts and unknown fears. They did not want to believe that something uncommon had entered into their ordinary and uneventful life. They did not talk about it, and this “refusal to talk” was like a wound that moved through their bodies and souls, causing them pain. Each expected the other to step forward and explain, and the other would not, out of excessive pride or caution.
Malak-Azar expected her husband to open up his heart to her like a sensible boy, to talk about his problems and ask her, as always, for guidance and help. But to her astonishment she saw that Amir-Ali, with the persistence of a stubborn child, was doing his utmost to blur the subject and avoid telling her what was going on in his heart. The thought of Amir-Ali keeping something secret from her was killing her. How was it possible? Were they not, the two of them, like one soul in two bodies? Amir-Ali’s silence was unforgivable. And unfathomable. She felt humiliated. She felt that by covering up his ailment, Amir-Ali was insulting her. This man was hers inside and out and had no right to hide anything from her. And this was something he had never done until that day Never.
Insomnia was Amir-Ali’s latest unusual affliction. As soon as he closed his eyes, his brain would set to work and a series of confused images would appear behind his closed eyes. He had become conscious of his body and constantly watched his arms and legs. His hands, which until recently had served him like a faithful nanny, combing his hair, carrying food to his mouth, buttoning his shirt, washing his body, and tying his shoelaces, the hand that wrote, caressed, and was ready to serve him obediently, had become, for some unknown reason, a nefarious enemy that obeyed someone else, some unknown and invisible being, and God only knew what lay in store for him. Anything could happen. What if he, without wanting to and unconsciously, took Malak-Azar’s delicate throat in his hands and strangled her? What if he picked up the metal vase on the table and smashed it on her head? Or took a kitchen knife, slashed her body, and cut off her head? The agony, the sorrow, and the shame of such acts were bad enough, but worse yet was the explanation: How on earth was he going to explain his actions? Would he say, “My limbs are out of my control, and my brain is receiving orders from someone else?” No one would believe him. His being found guilty was a foregone conclusion and his fate was clear: execution or the lunatic asylum. He would most probably be executed, hung from the construction crane in front of their house.
All night long he would struggle with these horrifying fantasies and flutter under the sheets, rolling from side to side, sleepless, troubled. There was no doubt that these things would not happen. It was impossible. He had a sensitive and delicate soul and a big, kind heart. But after that night’s incident, he had lost confidence in his sensitive soul and his kind heart. At night, he tucked his hands under him and woke up abruptly with the slightest movement of his body. One night, two nights, two weeks, two months, how long could he allow this to go on? The most sensible thing to do was to put distance between himself and Malak-Azar, for a short time, mind you, and sleep in a separate room. In the boys’ room, or in the spare bedroom. It made no difference. Anywhere.
Malak-Azar listened to her husband’s strange proposal and thought she had not heard or understood him properly. She laughed. She touched him affectionately on the cheek and fastened one of his shirt buttons that was undone. It was a clean, freshly ironed shirt, and the soft blue of the fabric went well with his complexion. She chose her husband’s shirts, and his shoes. Embarrassed, Amir-Ali’s head was down and his eyes were glued to the floor. He just kept repeating his brief explanation — with much stammering, coughing, and half-finished sentences — that this, for reasons which he could not reveal for the time being, was in the best interest of both of them. And he could not say more, because there was nothing more to say.
Both of them? Which two did he mean? Were they going to be two separate entities now, a separate you and I?
Amir-Ali could not explain himself. He repeated what he had already said and uttered those final words — “the best interest of both of them” — in a manner that left no room for argument. Malak-Azar died and came back to life. She felt dizzy, and a thousand conflicting thoughts rushed through her head. Each of them in a separate room? One of them upstairs and the other downstairs? For twenty years they had slept together like Siamese twins, joined so tightly that separating them would not be an easy task. It required surgery and it was going to be painful, for both of them; though less so for Amir-Ali. This would not be possible without one of them losing his or her life. It was just unthinkable. News of it would spread. What would people say? A rumor would circulate that they had had a fight, that their relationship had soured. Other rumors would follow with gross exaggerations. Their life story would become a subject for gossip and scandal would follow. Never. It was just not possible. She would not agree.
Amir-Ali was fighting with himself. He thought his wife was right, and a combination of grief and shame settled on his heart. Malak-Azar argued that this kind of separation — sleeping in separate bedrooms — was the beginning of true separation. And she listed so-and-so and so-and-so — couples who had mutually consented to sleep in separate rooms and had ended up divorced and miserable. The third couple she mentioned was a poor example. The man was very happy with his present situation and the woman had found herself a new husband, someone younger than herself, who did not snore and slept snugly by her side.
Amir-Ali laughed sincerely at his wife’s unfounded speculations. He held Malak-Azar in his arms and pressed her to his chest. He nearly succumbed to her wishes and almost told her: “Very well. I accept,” when his eyes fell on a pair of scissors on the table and his heart sank. It was the same thoughts all over again, the same delirium, the same fears. “What if I pick up the scissors and . . .” No, no. He had to get away from her. There was no alternative. He had to sit down alone and collect his thoughts and find the cause of this affliction, this confusion, these sudden attacks of madness, a madness that nestled in his body, in his bones, in the chemistry of his blood.
Without waiting for the argument to continue and, without waiting for anything else to be said, he pushed Malak-Azar aside and picked up his pajamas and slippers.
He took refuge in the guest bedroom, which was large and comfortable, well lighted, with thin lace curtains and devoid of objects and antiques and paintings and mirrors and chandeliers.
The first night was difficult for both of them. After a long period of tossing and turning and feeling guilty and lonesome, Amir-Ali finally fell asleep. He liked the room’s cool air and the empty space gave him a sense of tranquillity. This was the only room in the house where a plant, a living one, had been placed next to the window. (Malak-Azar was allergic to plants and all the flowers in the vases were artificial.) The bed was large and he could easily stretch out his arms and legs. On the second night, he turned on the bedside lamp and read in bed. He drew the drapes aside, flung open the wooden shutters and slept under a bright moonlight, and contrary to his usual habit, stayed in bed until late morning.
Malak-Azar struggled with herself. She would push away the sheet and turn her pillow over and over again. She would feel hot, then cold. She thought she was hungry and craved something sweet. She would go to the fridge and eat several spoonfuls of honey or strawberry jam. She always ate too much and felt nauseated afterward. She would take the bottle of water from the fridge and drink two or three glassfuls, one after another. Her belly would swell up and she would have a stomachache. Then she would return to the bedroom, take refuge in a corner of the bed, pull the sheet up over her head, and try to sleep. But she could not. She would toss and turn until dawn.
One night, she got up and climbed the stairs barefoot. Her heart was pounding. She held her breath and stopped behind Amir-Ali’s door. She put her hand on the doorknob and stood there motionless. She wanted to open the door with one movement of her wrist, go in, slip under the sheet and snuggle up to him, so close that he would feel compelled to confess to his mistake. It was a good idea, and yet she could not bring herself to turn the doorknob. Her pride would not let her. They were not speaking to each other. She could not belittle herself. She expected Amir-Ali to come back, humiliated and sorry, caress her, kiss her hands and feet, and beg her pardon. Perhaps he was waiting for her, in need of love and attention. Men were like that. They would make an apparent fuss, but in truth they were like lost children in need of a mother.
Encouraged by this reasoning, she drew a deep breath and turned the doorknob with all her might. The door was locked. No, it couldn’t be. She tried again and again. Her body felt hot all over, as if she had been stabbed a thousand times. By what right had he shut her out? By whose permission and why? She didn’t know what to do. To knock, shout, or break the door down? She was beside herself. Every atom of her love had turned into anger. She banged on the door with her fists and feet. He opened the door, sleepy, yawning, and ill-tempered. Malak-Azar was not used to his frowning and angry face. Her anger gave way to shame and regret. She was confused and at a loss for words. She took a step back, ran back downstairs, went into her room, closed the door, and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, awake. She did not know how to console herself.
She was hurt and humiliated and did not know what was going on. If they had had a fight, one of those fights over nothing that is so common between husbands and wives, if they had had a serious disagreement, fine, it would be understandable. They could discuss it. One of them could retreat from his or her position. They could reach a settlement. Or go on with their quarrel. All these were possible, if only Amir-Ali would offer a clear and logical reason for his actions. But he wouldn’t. He was as slippery as an eel. He played the fool. He talked nonsense. He put on an act. He mumbled. He would kill you with his stupidity, but he wouldn’t talk.
Everything passed in darkness, in the painful ambiguity of conjecture and uncertainty, in vague words and dubious behavior. His words echoed in her ears — the confounded creature! “It is in the best interest of both of us!” What do you mean by that? Explain. Why are you silent? We have shared the same bed for twenty years. Now, all of a sudden, it is in our best interest to sleep apart? Why? And then that absurd behavior. If you have gone mad, okay, I understand. We will go to a neurologist. To an ear, nose, and throat specialist. To a gastroenteritis specialist. To . . . oh, I don’t know. We will go away. We will go abroad and visit the children. We will do something. There is no ailment for which there is no cure.
Malak-Azar’s private monologue went on and on. She was troubled by the distance that Amir-Ali had put between them. She was addicted to this man’s presence, addicted to the scent of his skin, to the gentle rhythm of his breathing, to his cautious and deliberate movements in bed, to the rustling of the newspaper he read before sleeping, and to the slurping sound he made as he drank water when he woke up. She pictured him sleeping soundly (which was not far from the truth), and it made her more restless. She hid her head under the pillow and groaned. She felt like smashing something. She wanted to claw at Malak-Ahu’s face and torment him. She wanted to make him jealous and miserable, to rob him of his sleep.
She told herself that the best weapon was indifference, to act as if nothing had happened. Good morning, dear! Did you sleep well? Fine. What a lovely day! Warm and sunny! What a lovely smell of freshly toasted bread! She told herself, You could even whistle or hum to express your happiness. You could stretch your limbs contentedly. You could lie back in an easy chair and laugh for no good reason at all. You could dress up, carefully put on your makeup, wave good-bye, and leave the house. You could come back late at night and offer no explanation about where you had been. You could say I have already had my dinner but not reveal where or with whom. You could even pretend that you have had a good night’s sleep, better than ever before, and express your appreciation of your husband’s decision. And if all this didn’t work or proved too difficult and painful, if all these games failed to make Amir-Ali jealous and didn’t stir him into action, if he had become deaf and dumb and blind and it was not clear what in the hell was wrong with him, then you could take the porcelain bowl from the bedside table and smash it right on his head.
Amir-Ali came to the breakfast table, still sleepy and absent-minded and totally unaware of his wife’s deliberations and plans. He looked at her from the corner of his eyes and sighed with relief. He had expected to find her sad and frowning, but here she was, vibrant and smiling, smartly dressed and made up and in good humor. He thanked his lucky stars for not having gotten involved in an ugly scene of accusations and counter-accusations, and his conscience was relieved. He had a hearty breakfast and failed to notice the burning anger that seethed behind his wife’s seemingly joyful eyes.
The nights that followed were the same. Malak-Azar would struggle with herself. She would get up and walk about, smoke a cigarette, sit up in bed, and stare at the melancholy shadows around her. At last she could not take it anymore. How long could she go on with this game? She realized that she could no longer smile and put on a brave face. She had to go away for a few days.
She packed her bags and went on a short trip with her mother and Uncle G (wanting to say, Dear Hubby, I can do without you, I’m quite happy on my own), and she had a terrible time, much worse than she had expected. She could not forget Amir-Ali, not even for one moment. She walked, talked, slept, went here and there, did this and that, and still Amir-Ali was on her mind and pangs of pain pierced her heart. Pretending to be happy was much more painful than putting up with misery. She had planned to be away for a week, but she could not bear it and returned home earlier. Amir-Ali was not at home. She told herself he had gone to visit his mother. She dialed her number, the old maid answered the phone, and Malak-Azar started inquiring, quite casually and calmly, about her mother-in-law’s health, and then asked the old maid to pass the receiver to her husband. She was told that the lady of the house was not feeling well and that the master was not there.
Never mind! He must be visiting one of his friends. He would turn up sooner or later. He was not dead, after all. Half an hour passed, it was now eight o’clock, the usual time for the master of the house to come home. But he didn’t. He did not arrive at nine o’clock, ei
ther. A series of blurred images passed before Malak-Azar’s eyes, like a confused delirium, and her body began to ache with worry
Where can he be?
She heard a car stop and she jumped up. “Here he is,” she told herself, and her heart began to beat faster. No, it was not Amir-Ali. It was the neighbor’s car. She felt cheated, disappointed. She seethed with anger. She swore at her own weakness. She did not want to be a captive to fear and anxiety, a captive to jealousy, a captive to everything and to nobody. She shrugged. She picked up a magazine and began to leaf through it. She felt nausea rising from the pit of her stomach. She was lying to herself, she was fed up with this game.
She called me. She asked how I was. She beat around the bush. She cast several barbed remarks my way — some of her old and bitter ones — and she chuckled. Then she finally came to the point and asked if Amir-Ali was at my place.
She knew he was not. She was just sharing her anxiety with me. Her bouts of rage and sorrow, and her loud outbursts were mine. She did not need to put on a mask for me and pretend. She was herself. She hung up.
Where in the hell was he? Where? These questions, worries, and inner struggles were new in Malak-Azar’s life. She had believed that her life was in perfect order and that the regimen that governed it was firmly anchored. Such unpleasant incidents always happened somewhere else, to someone else. Death always visited the house next door. Now, suddenly and unexpectedly, something had shifted, was out of place. The ground under her feet was rocking, and a rogue nut had jumped the track, moving out of the rational sequence of causes. She did not know what had gone wrong, or what had been wrong in the first place.
Then came the sound of someone unlocking the front door. Malak-Azar was all ears. It was the cook. Once again she looked at the clock on the wall. Time stood still. The hands on the dial were frozen. She put her hand on the telephone receiver and waited. “Ring, go on, ring, please ring,” she muttered. And the phone rang. She could not believe it. She did not have the courage to lift the receiver. She calmed herself. She wanted to sound cold and indifferent. For a second she thought she should not answer the phone, punish Malak-Ahu and let him know that she too had social engagements of her own and did not stay at home. On the sixth ring she picked up the receiver. Her heart was pounding.
Strange Times, My Dear Page 30