Dates on My Fingers: An Iraqi Novel (Modern Arabic Literature)

by Muhsin al-Ramli

  We got tired climbing the stairs. Since the stairs were old, like the building, they were made of wood and had high steps that were all the more uncomfortable due to how narrow the stairwell was.

  “It’s true, she gets jealous of me! Unfortunately, Laura and I quarreled nine months ago. She got jealous over her boyfriend on account of me. How much do we have left?”

  “Two floors,” I said. “I live on the top floor, the fifth.”

  Panting, she continued, “Uff! Well, no problem. We’re young, and they say that climbing stairs is good for the heart.”

  She grabbed my arm for help and took off with a jump, moving two steps ahead of me, such that her butt was just in front of my face. It was round and luscious. Her tight black pants revealed its details, and the pants seam sank deep between the two cheeks. The outline of her underwear was visible as a bulge, higher on one side than the other. I knew they were white because I could see the tops of them coming out above her pants. She was bending over as she climbed, causing her shirt to rise a little.

  She was breathing hard, but she didn’t stop talking: “I live on the third floor, and we have an elevator because the building is new. I own my apartment, which I bought with a mortgage from the bank on the basis of my salary. I’ve worked in the post office for five years.” She stopped at the top of the stairs. “Uff! We made it! Which of the two is it?”

  “The door on the right,” I said.

  She went toward it and stopped, dropping her black purse from her shoulder and leaving me space to open the door. I inserted the key, saying, “It’s a small, humble abode. But it is enough for me. I’m comfortable in it. After you.”

  I turned on the light for her and she pressed ahead down the hallway toward the living room. She gazed at walls covered in the hundreds of pictures that I had cut out of the newspapers. She said, “Oh! It’s a museum! Very cozy. Are these pictures from your country? Didn’t you tell me you were from Iran?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m from Iraq.”

  She said, “My aunt’s husband is Egyptian. His name is Mansour. He’s a nice guy.”

  She threw her purse on the couch and took off her purple shirt, revealing skin that was as white as the shoulder straps of her camisole. Her breasts looked large, twice as big as Aliya’s. The tops of them were bare, and they pushed up the light, silken shirt. I could tell she was not wearing a bra because the nipples were protruding clearly on either side of the deep cleavage, where a small gold cross hung down between the two domes. She began exploring the apartment, sticking her head out the living room door to look it over.

  “One bedroom—it’s full of pictures too! And this is the bathroom. So, where is the kitchen? Oh, there it is, off the hall.”

  She headed toward it. I turned on the television, lowering its sound. Then I sat on the chair to take off my shoes. I heard her voice from the kitchen saying, “I feel just a little bit hungry. How about you? Do you want me to prepare a little spaghetti with cheese and milk? An Italian friend taught me that. It’s a delicious dish.”

  “No,” I said. “For me, I’ll be fine with a couple of dates and a small cup of yogurt.”

  I joined her in the kitchen. I took down the bag of spaghetti for her, got out a small cooking pot, and lit the stove. She took a glass and used it to carry water from the sink to the pot. Then she came back to break the spaghetti sticks.

  She didn’t stop chatting and repeatedly passed behind me, brushing her breasts against my back on the pretext of how narrow the space was. Or she’d put her hand gently on my back. She opened the door of the refrigerator and bent over, gazing inside, and half of her back appeared, white under the light, white shirt, while her black pants slid further down with the movement of her buttocks. Even more of her underwear’s diaphanous lace was visible, and I could see the fuzz where the line that separated the two cheeks began. Their tops were showing, two round forms extending back and sloping down from her waist on both sides.

  She said, “Here’s the cheese: yes, it’ll work well. And here’s a carton of milk.” She stretched out her arm with each, setting them on the edge of the stove without taking her head out of the refrigerator. “I don’t see that you have any wine. It’s true we drank a lot, but I’m dying for one last glass.”

  “I don’t drink alcohol,” I told her. “But there is some nonalcoholic beer, if you’d like.”

  “Where?” she asked, not changing her position.

  So I bent over behind her, resting my hand on the bare spot of her back, my face close to hers. I pulled out a can for her from behind the bag of pita bread, and she turned her face and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Thanks! Why don’t you drink alcohol? Mansour drinks. Are you very religious?”

  “No,” I said. “Yes. To a certain degree. But I’m not a fanatic.”

  She said, “I don’t believe in the existence of God. But I respect the views of others.”

  I didn’t want to talk more about that subject, which I knew backwards and forwards. Otherwise, I would have asked her about the cross that she wore. I already knew the answer would be along the lines of “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a universal, traditional symbol.” Or that it was a gift from her mother or her friend. Or because it is beautiful and simple. And further justifications like that, which didn’t point to the secret truth of the person’s religiosity. At the same time, I had no desire for her to ask me, like everyone else did, about the superficialities of Islam which were the extent of her knowledge: marriage to four women, the veil, the beards, and all those other topics that I had grown tired of debating and explaining, especially when someone you’ve explained everything to comes back two days later with the very same questions.

  “I believe in God,” I said, “and I respect the views of others.”

  She may have sensed my lack of interest in discussing it, so she changed the topic: “You’re good at Spanish. How many years have you been here in Spain?”

  “About five years,” I said.

  She kept moving, brushing against me. “And you don’t have a fiancée or a girlfriend?”

  I said, “Female friends, yes: the co-workers that you saw with us at the club. But no fiancée.”

  She asked with a seriousness overlaid with humor, “Surely you are married in your own country?”

  I responded in a similarly facetious tone, “Yes, four wives and forty children!”

  She laughed. Then she covered the pot and said, “Come on, let’s sit in the living room for a while until the water boils off, then we’ll add the chunks of cheese and some milk. The food is going to be delicious!”

  I sat on the couch, and she came and sat next to me, pressing against me and setting her can of beer on the table in front of us after taking two sips. When she saw me staring at the television screen, she said, “There’s nothing good on TV now.”

  True, there were just late night shows advertising different kinds of cars and modern exercise equipment. So I turned it off, and she wrapped her left arm around my neck and reached her right hand to my shirt. She opened the buttons and said, “Why don’t you change your clothes? Make yourself at home.”

  She laughed, pulling me toward her, toward her lips, and we began a long kiss, our tongues, our lips, and our quick breaths intermingling. All the while her hand played with the hair on my chest and moved further down. I had been thinking of her voluptuous breasts since I saw them bouncing in the club. I wanted to know what it was like to touch large breasts like that. With my lips still on hers, I made a move and slid my hand under her light undershirt.

  Oh, how nice it was! Soft, my fingers sank into them, and my hands cupped all the way around. I felt both nipples standing erect. My fingertips brushed the ends of them. Then my fingers circled around on all sides. The warm place between the breasts, where they pressed together, made me shudder.

  The shudder passed through my body, and my loins tightened. Her fingers descended toward my waist, and she clung to me all the more, melting into m
e with her eyes closed. I don’t know how long we continued like that, but when we stopped and I looked at her face, I found her smiling, blushing. She was even more beautiful with her shining eyes and her deep passion.

  I said, “Make yourself at home! You can change your clothes too, if you want.”

  We went off to the bedroom. I opened a dresser and took out for her a pair of my pajamas. When I turned around, I found that she had taken off her pants. I saw her white underwear pressing into the fullness of her butt and thighs, also white.

  “Just the bottoms,” she said. “I’ll keep this shirt of mine.”

  I changed clothes too, keeping my back toward her so that she wouldn’t see the taut erection in front of me.

  We felt comfortable and free, such that she began to move more confidently and spontaneously between the living room, the bathroom, and the kitchen. She brought me back an open cup of yogurt with a small spoon inside. She gave it to me and sat on my lap, filling it up with her butt. I reached around with one hand, which I moved in a circle, caressing it on all sides. She leaned against my chest and kissed me from time to time. I started touching her breasts again, on top of her shirt … and underneath.

  CHAPTER 5

  After considering the matter in a halting, conflicted, and wavering way, I made up my mind not to sleep with Pilar. I would avoid falling into sin that night as far as I was able.

  I had never slept with anyone before her. Yet I wouldn’t let her know that I was still a virgin because she wouldn’t believe me. She would laugh, or she would be afraid, or I don’t know what. I was also afraid of God and Grandfather and Aliya. And my confusion, my lack of experience, and the likelihood of failure.

  I would be satisfied with the kisses I had won from her and my fondling of her large breasts, which were just the kind that I lusted after whenever I saw such a woman pass by on the street in my daily life. Or when they would bare them in the movies or at the seashore during the summer. For I hadn’t experienced anything in my life like Aliya’s amazing breasts: neither large nor small, succulent, firm, and erect—even when she was dead. As though they were created precisely to answer my desire. I wanted them that badly. She used to smear them for me with dates, and I would suck them under the poplar trees and the willows, lying on the sand in the middle of the forest along the shores of our Qashmars Village.

  Pilar finished eating her meal after giving me a couple of bites to try. It really was delicious. (I said to myself that I would try to prepare it later, which I actually did. I even became an expert with the dish, varying the kinds of cheese and milk.) She washed the dishes in the kitchen, then came out and went into the bathroom. She pushed the door shut without closing it all the way. I heard the tinkle of her peeing. Then she rinsed her mouth, blew her nose, and washed up. She came out, gesturing with her head toward the bedroom.

  “Come on.”

  “No,” I said. “I am going to try to sleep a little here on the couch, even if only half an hour. I’m tired, and I usually have a lot of work on Mondays.”

  Her expression changed a little, and she said, “Why the couch? The bed is big enough for both of us.”

  “No …. Whenever I’m tired, I snore loudly. I also don’t want to bother you with my alarm clock.”

  “Fine,” she replied. “Whatever you want.” She came over and gave me a kiss on the mouth, saying, “Sleep well.”

  Then she disappeared into the bedroom. I closed the door after her, turned out the light in the living room, and lay down on the couch.

  I wasn’t actually very tired because I was used to sleeping during the day. I also wasn’t sleepy on account of how hard my heart was beating from having a woman in my house, especially after all those kisses and caresses. I wanted a little time alone to go over everything that had taken place. This always happened with me. After any exciting event or conversation, I would go off by myself for a while to recall it all, contemplating it, enjoying it, scoping out its horizons. My fist squeezed the erection under my pajamas, and Pilar’s smell filled the place.

  But what had happened brought me back to Aliya. I was always coming back to her, my first and only love story since we were kids in Subh Village. Memories of her fed my deepest desires. She was a cousin on my father’s side, and her house was next to ours. We were separated from them by only a low mud wall, which we used to cross by sitting on it and swinging our legs over. Their bread oven was close to ours, so we would gather near our mothers when they baked bread at dawn or sunset. They would talk about the female neighbors, the cows, the chickens, the fields, and the babies while we played around them and took the burnt bread crusts they gave us.

  Aliya was my most beloved playmate: I would take her side in all the fights, and I would give her the best of the clay creations I made. Among these was a horse because she loved horses. I painted it white except for its tail, which was black, just like their horse. Her father was the only one in the village who owned a horse—the rest of us only had donkeys—and he called it “Lion” even though it was a horse.

  When Aliya got bigger, she began riding her father’s Lion. She would shoot off toward the riverbank to let it drink, or she would take it to the field and return with saddlebags full of watermelons and eggplant from her mother. Whenever I saw her passing close by and heading off into the distance, I would remain fixed in place, reliving the scene of her on the white horse, with her long hair, black as its tail, dancing in the wind behind her head like the wings of a happy bird.

  My sister Istabraq was our go-between since, as we got older, it became harder to play together or to get away from everyone else for a rendezvous. Subh Village was an open book, filled with prying eyes: everyone knew everything and nothing was hidden from anyone.

  When I first told Istabraq that I loved Aliya, she was overjoyed and set off at a run toward our uncle’s house. From the window I watched her, the ever skinny and sickly one, as she crossed the mud wall with a single leap and disappeared. Meanwhile, I stayed in my room, trembling. I covered my face with a pillow and squeezed tight. I didn’t know what to do, and my heart was beating in a way that I had never known before, except when I was afraid of Grandfather. Istabraq seemed to take forever, but she returned after half an hour, panting, and closed the door behind her. I wasn’t able to read anything on her face, but I felt that she carried an answer which would bring me joy or sorrow for the days to come.

  She walked around in the room with a deliberate, wicked leisure, interlacing her fingers and cracking her knuckles, one after another. My head followed as she came and went like the pendulum of a wall clock. I grabbed her by the arm when she passed by. I was still sitting on the edge of the bed, too weak to stand because of my trembling.

  I was unable to speak, so I asked the question with a choked sigh, “Ahh?”

  She gave me a look that held multiple meanings. Then she looked toward the small clay jar that I had made, all on my own, which I had painted with decorative flowers, butterflies, and circles inside circles, like eyes. I considered it the best of my artistic creations, my favorite. For that reason, I had put my pens inside and set it on top of the bookcase near the head of my bed.

  “What?” I asked.

  Istabraq smiled and pointed her finger at the jar without uttering a word. I understood that she wanted this jar in exchange for speaking. I tried to play dumb to divert her from it, asking, “So? Did you find her?”

  Her finger kept pointing insistently at the jar. Without getting up, I reached out my arm and turned the jar over, dumping out the pens onto the top of the bookcase. I held the jar out to Istabraq. She glowed and hugged it to her chest.

  “Well? So?” I said, “Tell me, Istabraq! Istabraq, O apple of my eye, God bless you and keep you! You’re killing me!”

  But she maintained her wicked silence and her insinuating smile. Next, she stretched her hand out to me. I didn’t understand. She brought it closer to my mouth, and I knew that she wanted me to kiss it. So I kissed it, but she shook her
head and pointed at the ground. Then I remembered that she had been with us for Grandfather’s nighttime stories about knights of old coming back victorious from battle, who would kneel down on the ground and kiss the fingers of their beloved.

  So that’s what I did, looking up from below at her face, which seemed really high up. Then she collapsed onto my face and hugged my head without letting go of the jar. She rained her happiness and her kisses down upon me and cried out, “She loves you too, Saleem! She loves you!”

  Thus began my first attempts at writing letters and poetry. I decorated the margins of my letters with butterflies and hearts that had our initials on them and were pierced with arrows. I would sneak into my mother’s room when she was away to dab my letters with drops of the perfume my father would bring for her as gifts from his German friends.

  In Grandfather’s stories about knights, he used to say that they were all passionate lovers and poets. The one he liked most was Antara bin Shaddad, whom he hoped to see in the hereafter because Prophet Muhammad had wanted that too. Like me, Antara also loved a cousin on his father’s side, and he would write poetry for her.

  In the same way, I wrote my first poems for Aliya. I described myself in them as a brave knight who didn’t fear death. I would cut off the heads of a thousand of the enemy’s knights with a single blow of my sword. I would wrestle savage lions and crush their heads like eggs in my fist. I would gather stars from the heavens for her and make them into a necklace with the moon in the middle. I would hang this necklace around her neck and force the people to confess that she was the most beautiful woman in all of creation. Likewise, I would expound upon her eyes, even though her eyes were small like the buttonhole slits on shirts, such that her mother used to call her, either playfully or when she was angry, “my little China girl.” Nevertheless, I would compare them to two wide, pearly seas, eyes with the majesty of a lion and the delicacy of a gazelle. Her hair was so silky that silk would be jealous. She was the one who taught the branches of trees to sway coquettishly when the wind blew, just like how she walked. Aliya was queen of the world. No one but me saw her crown, yet I would make them see it by the power of my sword!