One Thousand and One Nights

by Hanan al-Shaykh

  I replied that I had forgotten to do so, and showed her the handkerchief with the gazelle embroidered upon it. My cousin examined it carefully and then asked if she could keep it. I readily agreed and when the time came for me to go to my beloved, Aziza reminded me that I must recite the lines to her. I had to confess that I had forgotten them, and so she repeated them to me, over and over.

  I made my way to the garden, murmuring the lines to myself so as to memorise them. There she was, waiting for me. We flew into each other’s arms and then she threw herself on my lap, until we groaned with pleasure, and then we ate and drank and then started to make love all over again, until the break of day.

  Before I left her, I remembered to say the lines Aziza had taught me:

  “Lovers, in the name of God,

  Tell me how can one relieve this endless desperation?”

  Hearing these lines, my beloved’s eyes filled with tears, and she said back to me:

  “He should conceal his love and hide

  Showing only his patience and humility.”

  I reached home, overjoyed because I had remembered to carry out my cousin’s wishes, but I found Aziza ill in bed with my mother sitting beside her, trying to console her.

  “Did you say the lines to her?” Aziza asked immediately, even though she was very unwell.

  I answered her happily, “Yes,” and she said this back to me:

  “He should conceal his love and hide

  Showing only his patience and humility.”

  Hearing my words, my cousin writhed in her bed like a snake. My mother shouted at me, “Have you no shame, you selfish, frivolous and feckless young man! How dare you spend the whole night out of the house and then return without asking after any of us—not even Aziza, who is in such poor health!”

  I could think of nothing to say, other than that every breath I took was for my beloved, and so I remained silent. When my mother finally left us, Aziza told me the answer I was to give to my beloved:

  “He tried to show fair patience but could only find

  A heart that was filled with unease.”

  I recited these lines to my beloved that night, after another reunion which words cannot describe. My beloved wept, just as she had the first time I’d recited Aziza’s lines to her, and answered with these lines:

  “If he cannot counsel his patience to conceal his secrets

  Nothing will serve him better than death.”

  When I returned home, Aziza was not waiting for me, but lay in bed, while my mother tried to get her to eat and drink. I noticed how pale my cousin was, how her eyes had sunk into her face and how emaciated she was. I felt great pity overwhelm me and so I approached her bed as she whispered to me, “Aziz, dearest to my heart, did you recite the lines to her?” I nodded, assuring her that I had done as she wished, and recited the answer:

  “If he cannot counsel his patience to conceal his secrets

  Nothing will serve him better than death.”

  How I wished then that I had remained silent, because she fainted when she heard my words. My mother came in and sprinkled rose water on her face and revived her. I sat beside her, trying to comfort and soothe her. Aziza smiled at me with the utmost tenderness and made me memorise another couplet for my beloved that evening.

  “I have heard, obeyed, and now must I die.

  Salutations to she who tore us apart.”

  After we had made love later that evening, I recited these lines, and my beloved cried out loud in sorrow and said, “Oh God, the one who spoke these lines has died.”

  She wept and asked who this person was. “My cousin Aziza,” I explained, “who lives for our union and who was waiting for me to come back from the hammam on the day our contract of marriage was to be signed, while I sat before your window, hypnotised, as still as a statue with a bird perched on its head.”

  I told her that Aziza had been the one who had deciphered all of the signs and messages, and that it was she we must thank, for it was only because of Aziza that I had reached the garden and consummated my desire for her.

  My beloved sighed and spoke as though addressing Aziza directly, “What a pity, Aziza, that you so regretted your youth.” And then she urged me, “Go and see her at once, before she dies.”

  I hurried back home, greatly distressed, and when I reached our home I heard great cries and wails and weeping and I was told that my cousin had died. My mother attacked me, weeping. “May God never forgive you for her loss and regard you as solely to blame for Aziza’s death.”

  We attended her funeral and buried her, and my mother never ceased to ask me, “What have you done to cause her to die from pain and grief?”

  “I have done nothing, mother,” was my answer.

  But my mother continued to reproach me, saying, “I don’t believe you. Tell me what went on between you, because as Aziza lay dying she opened her eyes and asked me to tell you that she would never blame you and that she prayed that God would not punish you, since all that you had done was take her from this world to the eternal one. And she asked me to urge you to say to the one whom you visit each night, ‘Loyalty is good; treachery is bad.’ She hoped that these words would help you and as she died she said that she felt pity for you, in this life and in the next.”

  She wailed and moaned, and added, “My Aziza left you something, but she made me promise that I would give it to you only when I see you wailing and mourning for her.”

  And yet, despite my great sadness for my cousin, I found myself hurrying at the usual time to the garden, with nothing in my heart except passion and desire for my beloved and nothing in my mind but her beautiful face and lovely body. As soon as she saw me entering the garden she asked about my cousin and I told her that she had died. She pulled herself from my arms, saying, “You caused her to regret her youth and you killed her.”

  But I assured my lover that I was not responsible for her death and I repeated Aziza’s instructions, saying, “Loyalty is good; treachery is bad.”

  When my beloved heard this, she wept, saying, “May God Almighty have mercy on Aziza, for she saved you from me even after death. She knew that I intended to harm you, but now be assured that I shall not.”

  I was surprised and shocked by her words, and so I asked her, “Hurt me? But are we not lovers, does each of us not feel only compassion and loyalty to the other?”

  “You’re so young,” she answered, “and your heart is innocent, while we women have our wiles and tricks. You must promise not to trust any woman, young or old, except for me, especially now that your cousin is no longer here to protect you.”

  Then she asked me to take her to Aziza’s grave and she carved these words on my cousin’s headstone:

  “I passed an ancient grave

  On which grew seven red anemones.

  ‘Whose tomb is this?’ I asked

  And the Earth replied,

  ‘Tread carefully, a lover lies here.’ ”

  She then distributed alms for the soul of Aziza to the needy and the poor.

  A year passed, and yet my beloved waited for me each night as if on a hot griddle, while I would pounce upon her as if I was an eagle. We would cling to each other and make love with great fervour, and we rarely mentioned poor Aziza. If ever we spoke of her, my beloved would sigh and say, “How I wish that I had met her and knew her story, for then I would have been more careful.”

  Everything continued smoothly and with great happiness, until one day as I was heading for the garden, an old woman stopped me and asked if I would read to her a letter from her son, from whom she’d had no word since he’d departed on a voyage.

  In spite of my state of great intoxication and desire, I agreed to help her. I read the letter and assured the old woman that her son was alive and well and then I set out once again, but the old woman followed me and asked if I was willing to read the letter to her daughter, because she would refuse to believe that her brother was safe. “Just read the letter out loud from the alleyway,”
she pleaded, “and then my daughter will hear you and believe that her brother is alive.”

  The old woman hurried to the door and opened it and I saw a hand stretched out holding the letter, and a melodious voice called, “Is that you, mother?” But as I drew closer the old woman pushed me into the house and locked the door and I realised that I had fallen into a trap. The girl who stood before me was both beautiful and coquettish. She asked me, in a voice which had now become quite harsh, “Tell me, Aziz, do you love life or death?”

  “Life, of course,” I answered.

  “Great! Then marry me,” was her reply.

  “I would hate to marry someone like you!” I shrieked.

  “If you marry me you will save yourself from the daughter of Alsawahi Aldawahi.”

  “But who is the daughter of Alsawahi Aldawahi?”

  Hearing this, the girl called to her mother, “Come here, mother. He claims not to know the daughter of Alsawahi Aldawahi!”

  She cackled with laughter, and her mother joined in.

  “So you don’t know who she is?” the girl said, still laughing. “She’s the one you’ve been with every night, for one year, four months, and two days, the one you meet each night in the garden and she is the one who kills her lovers, one by one. Why has she not yet killed you? This is what we wish to know.”

  My heart was pounding at what I had heard. “Do you know her, then?” I asked.

  “I know her, just as time knows all tragedies,” was the girl’s reply. “But what I do not know is how you have survived.”

  I found myself telling the girl and her mother the whole story, about my beloved and how Aziza had helped me to be with her. And then I repeated Aziza’s final message to my beloved: “Loyalty is good; treachery is bad.”

  “Now I understand,” the girl said. “Do you know that these words saved you from the daughter of Alsawahi Aldawahi? Listen, you’re still a young man, unaware of the ways of women and the treachery of older women in particular. Let us marry. I shall require nothing of you except that you live with me like a cock.”

  “A cock? But I don’t know how a cock lives!”

  The girl laughed and so did her mother and the girl laughed harder and harder, until she fell down on her bottom, saying, “What does a cock do with his life other than eat, drink and fuck?”

  I was embarrassed and didn’t know where to look. But the girl showed no shame, instead she ordered me, “Go on, prepare yourself to be strong, and to fuck me just as hard and often as you can!”

  Then her mother appeared with the four witnesses. I looked towards the door, thinking I must escape, but the girl said, “Everything is locked tight, even an ant could not get out of here.”

  Her mother hurried up and lit four candles and then a notary drew up the marriage contract. The girl testified on her own behalf that she had received the full dowry payment from me, both instalments, paid the notary and then bade everyone leave. Then she disappeared and returned wearing only a see-through nightdress, threw herself on the bed and began to moan and writhe, murmuring, “I am your wife now.”

  She kept on moaning and writhing until I could wait no longer. I thrust into her and we reached our climax together, screaming with joy and ecstasy until our voices reached the street. But when I woke the next morning I was gripped by fear and panic at what I had done, and I trembled to think that I had stayed away from my beloved that evening. I hurried to dress, thinking all the time of some diabolical excuse for my absence, which would convince her of my innocence.

  But the girl rose from the bed and stood with her hands on her hips, saying, “Where do you think you’re going? Do you believe that entering a bath is the same as leaving it? Do you think that I am like the daughter of Alsawahi Aldawahi—that you can spend the night with me and leave in the morning? Well, I have something to tell you about this house. It is locked up all year round, except for one day.”

  I was mortified to hear this and I looked around to find a way to flee. “If I were you, I wouldn’t waste my time trying to escape, for the house is sealed, the gates, the doors and the windows. But don’t worry, we have enough provisions to last us a whole year. I promise that you shall eat only the choicest delicacies and that the months will pass by in the blink of an eye, if one lives happily, like a cock.”

  She laughed and I laughed with her, and she spread herself out on the bed, moaning, and in this way I was imprisoned for an entire year, which ended with her bearing me a son.

  At the beginning of the new year, the huge gates swung open and the doors and windows were flung wide and men hurried in bearing provisions. I rose quickly to my feet, thinking that I would leave, but my wife made me wait until the evening, saying, “You must leave at exactly the time you arrived.”

  I was terrified that she would imprison me for another year but she fulfilled her promise and let me out, on condition that I would return before the gate was closed. She made me swear an oath on the holy Qur’an, the sword, and the promise of divorce, that I would not be late. I hurried immediately to the garden and found the gate open and my beloved sitting with her head on her knees. She seemed frail and sick but she was happy to see me. “Praise be God that you are safe!”

  “How did you know that I would come to you tonight?” I asked her.

  “I have been waiting for you every evening for twelve months,” she answered.

  I rushed to her and took her in my arms and she seemed to come alive again.

  “Now tell me what happened to you,” she said, in a voice filled with longing and curiosity.

  I told her everything and she seemed calm and understanding of my situation. And so, lulled into a feeling of peace and security, I told her, “I must return to my wife at daybreak.”

  She fell into a rage and screamed and scolded. “I could have destroyed you at the outset but your cousin Aziza protected you from me.”

  She looked at me with eyes filled with all the hatred in the world, and said, “Anyhow, you’re married now and you have a son and so you are of no use to me. By God I shall make that whore sorry—you won’t exist for her or for me, for I shall cut your throat like a goat.”

  I trembled with fright and pleaded with her and begged her forgiveness but she gave a loud cry and ten slaves appeared from nowhere and pushed me to the ground and tied my wrists and ankles with ropes while she sharpened a huge knife, ignoring my pleas.

  “Killing you is the least I can do, as revenge for your cousin.”

  I nearly fainted when I saw the knife in her hand but I went on imploring her, calling for God, but in vain, for she kept on sharpening the knife. As she came towards me God gave me the inspiration to cry out, “Loyalty is good; treachery is evil!”

  When she heard my words, my beloved turned assassin cried out, “Be assured that it is your cousin who has saved you, both in her life and in death.”

  I took a deep breath of relief, but my beloved continued, “I will not let you go in peace, however, I must leave you with a scar that will shame you throughout your life and take revenge upon that whore.”

  Then she ordered the slaves to light the fire and two of them sat down upon me, pinning me still, and then she cut off my penis and I screamed the scream of death and fainted, only to come to my senses when she gave me a cup of wine to drink and said, “Now you may leave and go anywhere you desire.”

  She kicked me hard and I stood up with great difficulty and tottered step by step, how I got there I do not know, to my wife and child’s home. I collapsed at the door, which still stood open, fainted and lost consciousness.

  When I awoke I was lying in bed and my wife was calling out to her mother, “Come and witness this—Aziz is a woman now.”

  I fell into a deep sleep and when I woke I had been thrown out into the alleyway and the gates were securely fastened. I wept and wailed and finally managed to stand, just like an insect with a broken wing. I walked until I reached our house. I could hear my mother inside, weeping, “Where is Aziz, is he dead or a
live?”

  When she saw me she knelt in front of me and kissed the ground, thanking God that I was safe, but I collapsed again, unable to answer her questions, so intense was the pain.

  A few days later I had recovered sufficiently to tell my mother what had happened to me at the hands of the daughter of Alsawahi Aldawahi. My mother thanked God once more that my life had been spared and that I had not been slaughtered. She cared for me and nursed me until I began to regain my strength and health. When I finally left my bed, I gazed at where my cousin Aziza had sat and wept, and recited her poems and waited for my return, all the while eaten with jealousy. My abandonment must have tormented her and yet she bore it in silence and with great patience. I began to weep, crying out, “Aziza, Aziza!”

  “Son, now you deserve to see what your cousin left you,” my mother told me.

  She went and fetched a small box and opened it and took out a handkerchief wrapped inside a piece of cloth, together with a letter. It was the handkerchief embroidered with a gazelle, given to me by the daughter of Alsawahi Aldawahi. The letter was from Aziza, warning me not to return to my beloved if she mistreated me. “Keep this picture of the gazelle,” she wrote, “for it consoled me while you were away from me. I know that you will remember me, but only when I no longer help you, and that you will think of me with love and tenderness, but only when it is too late.”

  When I had read Aziza’s letter I fell into despair and melancholy. I sighed, and asked myself, “Where were my kindness and compassion, my heart and mind, when I saw my cousin engulfed in such grief and sadness? I was preoccupied only with myself.”

  I wept, and my mother wept with me, and I couldn’t sleep for many nights—every time I closed my eyes I saw Aziza waiting for me on the day our marriage contract was to be drawn, I saw Aziza as I kicked her, when she poured rose water to revive me and when she explained and interpreted the gestures of my beloved, and I saw her face, showing forgiveness despite her sorrow, which had burrowed deep inside her soul like woodworm. I watched her as she withered slowly, slowly, for my sake, and her words, “If you asked for my eye, cousin, I would pull it out from beneath my eyelid for you,” rang in my ears.