Season of Migration to the North

by Tayeb Sali

  The sighs of the unhappy in the breast do groan

  The vicissitudes of Time by silent tears are shown

  And love and buried hate the winds away have blown.

  Deep silence has embraced the vestiges of prayer

  Of moans and supplications and cries of woeful care,

  And dust and smoke the travelers path ensnare.

  Some, souls content, others in dismay.

  Brows submissive, others …

  Mustafa Sa’eed had no doubt spent long hours searching for the right word to tit the metre. The problem intrigued me and I gave it several minutes’ thought. I did not, though, waste too much time on it, for in any case it is a very poor poem that relies on antithesis and comparisons; it has no true feeling, no genuine emotion. This line of mine is no worse than the rest, so I crossed out the last line of the poem and wrote in its place:

  Heads humbly bent and faces turned away.

  I went on rummaging among the papers and found some scraps on which had been written such phrases as ‘Three barrels of oil’, ‘The Committee will discuss the question of strengthening the base for the pump', and ‘The surplus cement can be sold immediately? Then I found this passage: ‘It was inevitable that my star of destiny should come into collision with hers and that I should spend years in prison and yet more years roaming the face of the earth chasing her phantom and being chased by it. The sensation that, in an instant outside the bounds of time, I have bedded the goddess of Death and gazed out upon Hell from the aperture of her eyes — it’s a feeling no man can imagine. The taste of that night stays on in my mouth, preventing me from savouring anything else.’

  I became bored with reading the bits of paper. No doubt there were many more bits buried away in this room, like pieces in an arithmetical puzzle, which Mustafa Sa’eed wanted me to discover and to place side by side and so come out with a composite picture which would reflect favourably upon him. He wants to be discovered, like some historical object of value. There was no doubt of that, and I now know that it was me he had chosen for that role. It was no coincidence that he had excited my curiosity and had then told me his life story incompletely so that I myself might unearth the rest of it. It was no coincidence that he had left me a letter sealed with red wax to further sharpen my curiosity, and that he had made me guardian of his two sons so as to commit me irrevocably, and that he had left me the key to this wax museum. There was no limit to his egoism and his conceit; despite everything, he wanted history to immortalize him. But I do not have the time to proceed further with this farce. I must end it before the break of dawn and the time now was after two in the morning. At the break of dawn tongues of fire will devour these lies.

  Jumping to my feet, I raised the candlelight to the oil painting on the mantelpiece. Everything in the room was neatly in its place — except for Jean Morris’s picture. It was as if he had not known what to do with it. Though he had kept photographs of all the other women, Jean Morris was there as he saw her, not as seen by the camera. I looked admiringly at the picture. It was the long face of a woman with wide eyes and brows that joined up above them; the nose was on the large size, the mouth slightly too wide. The expression on the face is difficult to put into words: a disturbing, puzzling expression. The thin lips were tightly closed as though she were grinding her teeth, while her jaw was thrust forward haughtily. Was the expression in the eyes anger or a smile? There was something sensual that hovered round the whole face. Was this, then, the phoenix that had ravished the ghoul? That night his voice had been wounded, sad, tinged with regret. Was it because he had lost her? Or was it because she had made him swallow such degradations?

  ‘I used to find her at every party I went to, as though she made a point of being where I was in order to humiliate me. When I wanted to dance with her, she would say “I wouldn’t dance with you if you were the only man in the world.” When I slapped her cheek, she kicked me and bit into my arm with teeth like those of a lioness. She did no work and I don’t know how she managed to live. Her family were from Leeds; I never met them, not even after I married her, and I know nothing about them except for the odd bits she used to tell me. Her father was a merchant, though I don’t know of what. According to her she was the only girl among five brothers. She used to lie about the most ordinary things and would return home with amazing and incredible stories about incidents that had happened to her and people she’d met. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t have a family at all and was like some mendicant Scheherazade. However, she was exceedingly intelligent, and exceedingly charming when she wanted to be, and wherever she went she was surrounded by a band of admirers buzzing round her like flies. Deep within me I felt that, despite her show of disliking me, I interested her; when she and I were brought together at some gathering, she would watch me out of the corner of her eye, taking note of everything I did and said, and if she saw me showing any interest in another woman she was quick to be unpleasant to her. Brazen in word and deed, she abstained from nothing — stealing, lying and cheating; yet, against my will, I fell in love with her and I was no longer able to control the course of events. When I avoided her she would entice me to her, and when I ran after her she fled from me. Once, taking hold of myself, I kept away from her for two weeks. I began to avoid the places she frequented and if I was invited to a party I made sure before going that she wouldn’t be there. Nevertheless, she found her way to my house and surprised me late one Saturday night when Ann Hammond was with me. She heaped filthy curses upon Ann Hammond, and when I tried to drive her away with blows she was not deterred. Ann Hammond left in tears, while she stayed on, standing in front of me like some demon, a challenging defiance in her eyes that stirred remote longings in my heart. Without our exchanging a word, she stripped off her clothes and stood naked before me. All the fires of hell blazed within my breast. Those fires had to be extinguished in that mountain of ice that stood in my path. As I advanced towards her, my limbs trembling, she pointed to an expensive Wedgwood vase on the mantelpiece. "Give this to me and you can have me," she said. If she had asked at that moment for my life as a price I would have paid it. I nodded my head in agreement. Taking up the vase, she smashed it on the ground and began trampling the pieces underfoot. She pointed to a rare Arabic manuscript on the table. “Give me this too,” she said. My throat grew dry with a thirst that almost killed me. I must quench it with a drink of icy water. I nodded my head in agreement. Taking up the old, rare manuscript she tore it to bits, filling her mouth with pieces of paper which she chewed and spat out. It was as though she had chewed at my very liver. And yet I didn’t care. She pointed to a silken Isphahan prayer-rug which I had been given by Mrs Robinson when I left Cairo. It was the most valuable thing I owned, the thing I treasured most. “Give me this too and then you can have me," she said. Hesitating for a moment, I glanced at her as she stood before me, erect and lithe, her eyes agleam with a dangerous brightness, her lips like a forbidden fruit that must be eaten. I nodded my head in agreement. Taking up the prayer-rug, she threw it on to the fire and stood watching gloatingly as it was consumed, the flames reflected on her face. This woman is my quarry and I shall follow her to Hell. I walked up to her and, placing my arm round her waist, leaned over to kiss her. Suddenly I felt a violent jab from her knee between my thighs. When I regained consciousness I found she had disappeared.

  ‘I continued in pursuit of her for three years. My caravans were thirsty and the mirage shimmered before me in the wilderness of longing. “You’re a savage bull that does not weary of the chase,” she said to me one day. “I am tired of your pursuing me and of my running before you. Marry me.” I married her at the Registry Office in Fulham, no one else attending except for a girlfriend of hers and a friend of mine. As she repeated after the Registrar “I Jean Winifred Morris accept this man Mustafa Sa’eed Othman as my lawfully wedded husband, for better and for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health ..." she suddenly burst into violent sobbing. I was amazed at her express
ing such emotion and the Registrar stopped the ceremony and said to her kindly “Come, come. I can understand how you feel. Just a few more moments and it’ll all be over.” After which she continued to whimper, and when it was over she once again broke out sobbing. The Registrar went up and patted her on the shoulder, then shook me by the hand, saying, "Your wife is crying because she’s so happy. I have seen many women cry at their marriage, but I’ve never seen such violent weeping. It seems she loves you very much. Look after her. I’m sure you’ll both be happy.’ She went on crying till we had left the Registry Office, when suddenly her tears turned to laughter. "What a farce!" she said, guffawing with laughter.

  ‘We spent the remainder of the day drinking. No party, no guests — just she and I and drink. When night brought us together in bed, I wanted to possess her. “Not now” she said, turning her back on me. “I’m tired.” For two months she wouldn’t let me near her; every night she would say “I’m tired" or “I’m unwell.” No longer capable of taking any more, one night I stood over her with a knife in my hand. “I’l1 kill you,” I told her. She glanced at the knife with what seemed to me like longing. "Here’s my breast bared to you,” she said. “Plunge the knife in.” I looked at her naked body which, though within my grasp, I did not possess. Sitting on the side of the bed, I bowed my head meekly. She placed her hand on my cheek and said in a tone that was not devoid of gentleness: “My sweet, you’re not the kind of man that kills.” I experienced a feeling of ignominy loneliness, and loss. Suddenly I remembered my mother. I saw her face clearly in my mind’s eye and heard her saying to me “It’s your life and you’re free to do with it as you will.” I remembered that the news of my mother’s death had reached me nine months ago and had found me drunk and in the arms of a woman. I don’t recollect now which woman it was; I do, though, recollect that I felt no sadness — it was as though the matter was of absolutely no concern to me. I remembered this and wept from deep within my heart. I wept so much I thought I would never stop. I felt Jean embracing me and saying things I couldn’t make out, though her voice was repellent to me and sent a shudder through my body I pushed her violently from me. “I hate you," I shouted at her. “I swear I’ll kill you one day.” In the throes of my sorrow the expression in her eyes did not escape me. They shone brightly and gave me a strange look. Was it surprise? Was it fear? Was it desire? Then, in a voice of simulated tenderness, she said: “I too, my sweet, hate you. I shall hate you until death.”

  ‘But there was nothing I could do. Having been a hunter, I had become the quarry. I was in torment; and, in a way I could not understand, I derived pleasure from my suffering. Exactly eleven days after that incident — I remember it because I had swallowed its agonies as the man fasting swallows the agonies of the month of Ramadan when it falls in the scorching heat of summer — we were in Richmond Park just before sunset. The park was not wholly empty of people; we heard voices and saw figures moving in the evening glow. We talked only a little and exchanged no expressions of love or flirtation. Without reason she put her arms round my neck and gave me a long kiss. I felt her breast pressing against me. Putting my arms round her waist I pulled her to me and she moaned in a way that tore at my heart—strings and made me oblivious of everything. I no longer remembered anything; I no longer saw or was conscious of anything but this catastrophe, in the shape of a woman, that fate had decreed for me. She was my destiny and in her lay my destruction, yet for me the whole world was not worth a mustard seed in comparison. I was the invader who had come from the South, and this was the icy battlefield from which I would not make a safe return. I was the pirate sailor and Jean Morris the shore of destruction. And yet I did not care. I took her, there in the open air, unconcerned whether we could be seen or heard by people. For me this moment of ecstasy is worth the whole of life.

  ‘The moments of ecstasy were in fact rare; the rest of the time we spent in a murderous war in which no quarter was given. The war invariably ended in my defeat. When I slapped her, she would slap me back and dig her nails into my face; a volcano of violence would explode within her and she would break any crockery that came to hand and tear up books and papers. This was the most dangerous weapon she had and every battle would end with her ripping up an important book or burning some piece of research on which I had worked for weeks on end. Sometimes I would be so overcome with rage that I would reach the brink of madness and murder and would tighten my grip on her throat, when she would suddenly grow quiet and give me that enigmatic look, a mixture of astonishment, fear, and desire. Had I exerted just that little bit more pressure I would have put an end to the war: Sometimes the war would take us out. Once in a pub she suddenly shouted, “That son of a bitch is making passes at me." I sprang at the man and we seized each other by the throat. People collected round us and suddenly behind me I heard her guffawing with laughter. One of the men who had come to separate us said to me, “I’m sorry to have to tell you, if this woman’s your wife, you’ve married a whore.” He didn’t say a word to her. “It seems this woman enjoys making violent scenes." My anger transferred itself to her and while she was still guffawing with laughter I went up to her. I slapped her and in her usual way she plunged her nails into my face. Only after a lot of trouble was I able to drag her off home.

  ‘She used to like flirting with every Tom, Dick and Harry whenever we went out together. She would flirt with waiters in restaurants, bus conductors and passers-by. Some would take courage and respond while others would answer with obscene remarks, and so I’d get myself into fights with people, and exchange blows with her in the middle of the street. How often have I asked myself what it was that bound me to her! Why didn’t I leave her and escape? But I knew there was nothing I could do about it and that the tragedy had to happen. I knew she was being unfaithful to me; the whole house was impregnated with the smell of infidelity. Once I found a man’s handkerchief which wasn’t mine. “It’s yours,” she said when I asked her. “This handkerchief isn’t mine,” I told her. “Assuming it’s not your handkerchief” she said, “what are you going to do about it?” On another occasion I found a cigarette case, then a pen. “You’re being unfaithful to me," I said to her. “Suppose I am being unfaithful to you,” she said. “I swear I’ll kill you," I shouted at her. “You only say that,” she said with a jeering smile. “What’s stopping you from killing me? What are you waiting for? Perhaps you’re waiting till you find a man lying on top of me, and even then I don’t think you’d do anything. You’d sit on the edge of the bed and cry.”

  ‘It was a dark evening in February, the temperature ten degrees below zero. Evening was like morning, morning like night — dark and gloomy. The sun had not shone for twenty-two days. The whole city was a field of ice — ice in the streets and in the front gardens of the houses. The water froze in the pipes and people’s breath came out from their mouths like steam. The trees were bare, their branches collapsing under the weight of snow And all the while my blood was boiling and my head in a fever. On a night such as this momentous deeds occur. This was the night of reckoning. I walked from the station to the house carrying my overcoat over my arm, for my body was burning hot and the sweat poured from my forehead. Though ice crackled under my shoes, yet I sought the cold. Where was the cold? I found her stretched out naked on the bed, her white thighs open. Though her lips were formed into a full smile, there was something like sadness on her face; it was as though she was in a state of great readiness both to give and to take. On first seeing her my heart was filled with tenderness and I felt that Satanic warmth under the diaphragm which tells me that I am in control of the situation. Where had this warmth been all these years? "Was anyone with you?" I said to her in a confident voice I thought I had lost for ever. “There was no one with me,” she answered me in a voice affected by the impact of mine. “This night is for you alone. I’ve been waiting for you a long time.” I felt that for the first time she was telling me the truth. This night was to be the night of truth and of tragedy. I removed the k
nife from its sheath and sat on the edge of the bed for a time looking at her. I saw the impact of my glances live and palpable on her face. We looked into each other’s eyes, and as our glances met and joined it was though we were two celestial bodies that had merged in an ill-omened moment of time. My glances overwhelmed her and she turned her face from me, but the effect was apparent in the area below her waist which she shifted from right to left, raising herself slightly off the bed; then she settled down, her arms thrown out languorously, and resumed looking at me. I looked at her breast and she too looked at where my glance had fallen, as though she had been robbed of her own volition and was moving in accordance with my will. I looked at her stomach and as she followed my gaze a faint expression of pain came over her face. As my gaze lingered, so did hers; when I hurried she hurried with me. I looked long at her white, wide-open thighs, as though massaging them with my eyes, and my gaze slipped from the soft, smooth surface till it came to rest there, in the repository of secrets, where good and evil are born. I saw a blush spread up her face and her eyelids droop as though she had been unable to control them. Slowly I raised the dagger and she followed the blade with her eyes; the pupils widened suddenly and her face shone with a fleeting light like a flash of lightning. She continued to look at the blade-edge with a mixture of astonishment, fear, and lust. Then she took hold of the dagger and kissed it fervently. Suddenly she closed her eyes and stretched out in the bed, raising her middle slightly; opening her thighs wider. “Please, my sweet,” she said, moaning: “Come — I’m ready now" When I did not answer her appeal she gave a more agonizing moan. She waited. She wept. Her voice was so faint it could hardly be heard. “Please darling.”

  ‘Here are my ships, my darling, sailing towards the shores of destruction. I leant over and kissed her. I put the blade-edge between her breasts and she twined her legs round my back: Slowly I pressed down. Slowly. She opened her eyes. What ecstasy there was in those eyes! She seemed more beautiful than anything in the whole world. “Darling," she said painfully. “I thought you would never do this. I almost gave up hope of you.” I pressed down the dagger with my chest until it had all disappeared between her breasts. I could feel the hot blood gushing from her chest. I began crushing my chest against her as she called out imploringly: “Come with me. Come with me. Don’t let me go alone.” “I love you,” she said to me, and I believed her. “I love you,” I said to her, and I spoke the truth. We were a torch of flame, the edges of the bed tongues of Hell-fire. The smell of smoke was in my nostrils as she said to me “I love you, my darling,” and as I said to her “I love you, my darling,” and the universe, with its past, present and fixture, was gathered together into a single point before and after which nothing existed.’