The Lover

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by Laury Silvers


  “Let me braid your hair like that.” Saliha picked up a clutch of hair on the side of Zaytuna’s head. Zaytuna could feel that she took too much to braid and too gently but didn’t say anything. Saliha tried to pick up more and more, braiding it as best she could down one side, but it fell apart. She said, “I didn’t realize it was this hard.”

  Zaytuna reached up and felt what little of the braid was left.

  Saliha muttered, “I’ve got nothing to tie this bit of awful braid with.”

  Zaytuna said, “It’ll be alright, Saliha,” as the tears came down her face.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Zaytuna hit the knocker on the gate to Imam Ibrahim’s house three times before someone answered. A young man opened the smaller door within the gate, one of his students, no doubt. He was too well dressed for anything else. Not like Mustafa. She saw how out of place he must feel in these circles. The Prophet wasn’t like these people. He never dressed in finery. He was our teacher. Our guide. Our beloved. Why wasn’t the Prophet’s example good enough for them? Why did they think they could do better?

  Poor Mustafa, she thought. Then she remembered she was angry with him, pulling herself up to meet it. Wait! Poor Mustafa? The only way he differed from these people was his worn clothing. No doubt he’d find his way into their circles soon enough and be robing himself in silk and brocade and embroidered slippers, maybe even boots in the winter. She muttered, “Uff.”

  The young man said to her again, “Assalamu alaykum.”

  She realized she’d been staring at him and not speaking. She blurted out, “I’m here for the housekeeper, Maryam.”

  “Assalamu alaykum,” the student repeated.

  She wanted to slap him for his pious censure but she needed to get into the house. The best she could do was a sarcastic bow, hand over heart, saying with flourish, enunciating every syllable of the extended reply, “wa alaykum assalam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuhu.”

  “Now, what did you need?”

  She repeated herself, “I’m here to see the housekeeper, Maryam.”

  “Wait here, I’ll get her,” and he shut the door on her.

  Moments later it opened again. Maryam’s eyes widened seeing her standing before her. She closed the door enough so that only part of her body could be seen through it, “What are you doing here?”

  Zaytuna faltered. Any sweetness that she and Maryam had shown each other at the mosque was gone. Zaytuna stumbled over her words, “I’ve been thinking about you since we spoke at the mosque. I mean, I hope you are well. I thought, I thought I would come by to look in on you.”

  Maryam’s face softened only a bit, but Zaytuna saw the door open slightly. She didn’t respond immediately. “I’ve got plenty of work to do, but if you don’t mind chatting while I prepare food. Well, then, welcome.”

  It was a clear dismissal.

  If Zaytuna had cared a thing about propriety in that moment she would have turned around, ashamed. Instead she stepped forward to go through the doorway forcing Maryam to step back and open the door completely as she walked through.

  She followed Maryam into the garden. The housekeeper walked her around the side under the overhang between the two attached houses, past the small well to the kitchen door. The door was open. A small fire was going in the hearth and a pot of water getting started over it. She was surprised the room was not hot, as it should be with even a small fire on a day like this, but a breeze was coming in through the door opened to the central courtyard and the small inner window and out the door where she had come in. She showed Zaytuna to a stool on the far side of the hearth by the inner door across from where she herself had been seated only halfway through peeling a pile of soaked dried fava beans. Maryam went into the pantry and tipped a gleaming copper pitcher over a glass while a thick syrup dripped down its long stem. She then tipped another pitcher, this one much larger and the liquid flowed easily. Maryam handed it to her, saying automatically, “May it bring you good health.”

  Zaytuna responded as she should, “May God replenish your stores.” She held the delicate cup and looked at the way the light from the door and window nearby her shone through it from one angle and the small fire in the hearth, on the far side of the room, from the other, picking up the bubbles, the curve of the blown glass, the light refracting into colours alighting on her.

  She looked up at Maryam who still stood over her, saying, “May God reward your kindness.” She took a sip. The water was sweetened with syrup made with sugar, apples, and fresh ginger. Her tongue held it still for a moment, as long as she could, allowing herself to taste the sweetness of the flavours brought out by the sugar, not overwhelmed by it. Who knew that apple could open up itself to another so? Each flavour revealed itself to her as she focused on one over the other. Here the apple was crisp and fresh, there warmly caramel, all the while feeling the heat and sting of the grated ginger on her tongue and in her nose as she breathed in its scent.

  Maryam said, “Ginger-Apple. It’s a favourite in this household.”

  Zaytuna replied, “I’m grateful for it. It’s been a long time since I tasted anything like this. A long time since I’ve tasted sugar.”

  Maryam said, “I didn’t take you for one who had ever tasted sugar.”

  Zaytuna didn’t know if the cut was meant about her poverty or her asceticism, but it didn’t anger her. Zaytuna wanted to say to her, “I don’t want to hurt you,” but if she were right, then she probably would and Maryam suspected as much. She held the glass, looking at it again, and sipping from it.

  Maryam took her own stool before the pile of soaked dried fava beans and began popping some out of their skins and peeling back others. She wasn’t going to speak first. She wasn’t going to have her indiscretion in the mosque brought up. How she fell into admitting anything before this woman, she didn’t know. She watched Zaytuna, all long bones, folded up on the low stool, holding the glass as if she’d never held a glass before and sipping the drink like she’d never had anything but mud in her cup.

  Then it hit her, Zaytuna was there for work. She was just using their conversation at the mosque as a way in the door, not realizing how it sounded. There is no worry here. Maryam sighed and thought, poor thing she looks as if she’d break in two from labour, what could she possibly do for us? She spoke now to bring her in a bit, cover the distance she had put between them. “The Imam likes his sugar. He told me about a drink he had at Muhammad al-Khaqani’s cousin’s house that was made from equal parts sugar and grape juice boiled down with poppy seeds and a bit of milk added at the end.”

  She laughed, shaking her head, “He wanted me to make it for him until I told him how much the poppy seeds alone would cost us. Then he told me how much more he prefers our ginger-apple juice.”

  Zaytuna laughed lightly as she should and shifted in her seat, relieved at the change in tone, watching Maryam’s hands pop the bean out of their casings. They were old hands. Swollen a bit, but the joints seemed fine. She was a tough old woman. But she wondered what would happen to her when those hands could no longer prepare food and mend clothes. She said, “I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind, Auntie. I’ve been thinking about you, and the girl, Zaynab. I thought I’d come to check on you.”

  Maryam’s fingers paused. She said carefully, “I appreciate your kindness, but you can see how I am. The girl is fine now too. We’ll always miss the boy, as one would anyone close to the household, but God’s will must be accepted with gratitude. I don’t feel much like talking about it. But it occurs to me that perhaps you’ve come looking for work. What do you…”

  Zaytuna cut her off, “I was particularly worried about the girl, Zaynab.”

  Maryam’s face stiffened, “As I just said, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Zaytuna stopped and looked down at the glass in her hands, “Let me be honest, then, Auntie. I’m not here for work. I’ll go in a moment, but I need to say this before I do. Layla came to see me the day after Zayd died. She wa
s afraid and told me that she thought Imam Ibrahim had killed him.”

  Maryam’s voice was clear, low but penetrating, “Now listen here. This will be the end of it. That girl—she’s a sweet child—she said as much to me and I put her straight on it. I’m going to put you straight on it. I was there. I saw him walk off the roof. There’s nothing I can do that Layla is so held in grief for the boy that she cannot believe that God would take him from her that way. But I cannot see for the life of me how this is any of your business.”

  Zaytuna kept on, “She seemed to think that the Imam knew that Zaynab was in love with Zayd and killed him so that there wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  Maryam stood up, hissing her words, “Lord! Stop this, woman! Coming here upsetting our home with your idle curiosity and gossip. There is nothing to any of this but Layla’s sorrowful imagination. Get up and leave. Now.”

  Zaytuna remained seated, “She seemed afraid that the Imam would find out that she knew.”

  Maryam moved towards her and stood over her, “She should be afraid of the Imam. Her spreading gossip, dangerous gossip, outside this household. I’ve never hit any of the young ones who’ve worked for me, but if she’s going on with this maybe she needs a stiff hand. I can’t hit you, but, walla, I’ll curse you if you carry on with this.”

  Zaytuna panicked realizing she’d put Layla in jeopardy.

  She spoke quickly, “She’s not said anything else. I’ve not heard her say anything since. Auntie, I understand the harm of all this. That’s why I’m here. I’m not here for gossip.”

  “You are here to keep a story alive that should have died with the boy.”

  “Maybe the Imam killed him to protect her? But, also, you, Auntie, you knew that Zaynab’s love for the boy was dangerous, dangerous for all of you. You must have wanted to protect this family, this home, your life here.”

  Maryam’s eyes widened, heat rushing up to her face and mottling her cheeks. Zaytuna noticed for the first time a cleaver on a chopping block within reach of the woman. If she were able to kill a poor boy like Zayd to protect this family, what would stop her from killing her too? She frantically sunk into herself to listen for what to do, what to say. Then she found herself asking, without being conscious of it, hearing her voice speak in a soothing tone, one she was not well familiar with, “Auntie, forgive me, you saw him walk off the roof, all on his own, in truth?”

  Maryam hissed, “Woman, how is this your business?”

  Zaytuna lost the balance she had found just a moment earlier and blurted out in a voice she knew as her own, “Swear that you saw him walk off the roof! Say, ‘Walla’!”

  “Alright, I’ve had enough of this,” and she reached down and took hold of Zaytuna’s arm firmly as you would a child that needed clear direction and pulled her right up off her stool. Maryam’s thumb and fingers dug deeply into her arm. Zaytuna lost her hold on the glass and it fell to the floor breaking into shards. Maryam jerked her toward the door, “Watch your feet on that glass. I’m not bandaging you.”

  Zaytuna struggled to get her balance. They got as far as the kitchen door when a burly young man came in from outside through it. Maryam pulled Zaytuna back out of his way. He was carrying thorn bush branches wrapped in old wool and tied up with straps on his back. He looked at them both and lowered his head, saying, “Excuse me, Auntie.”

  There was the boy as big as Tein that she had seen in her dream. The same exact boy. As clear as day. She exhaled sharply, seeing him before her, then said under her breath, “Subhan’Allah.”

  Maryam said, “Stack it there by the fire, Yusuf. You know. I’m showing our guest out.”

  Zaytuna shook her arm free from Maryam’s hand and called out to the boy, “Yusuf, you were there that night! How did Zayd die?”

  Yusuf shot up spilling the wood around him. Maryam spoke to him through his shock, her voice firm, “Get upstairs, to the roof, now.”

  He stood stock still, his eyes wide, then turned and ran past them out the kitchen door. Zaytuna pushed Maryam aside and ran after him. He ran around to the front of the house, opened the bolt, and was through the gate before Zaytuna could even get past the well. She got to the gate as quickly as she could, but could hear Maryam’s bare feet slapping heavily behind her, then a man’s voice calling from the front door, “What is all this noise?” She didn’t look to see but heard Maryam stop and speak to him, then go inside the front door, shutting it behind her.

  Yusuf was there in the road. He stood at the door of the building just next door. He held the knocker and brought it down again and again, yelling, “Layla! Layla!”

  Zaytuna walked toward him, slowly. She didn’t want him to run. She heard Layla yell back, it sounded like from the roof. On hearing Layla’s voice, he fell against the wall and began to sob, his chest heaving with every breath.

  Zaytuna heard movement behind the neighbour’s door, but it didn’t open. None of this seemed to register with Yusuf. It finally heaved open and a servant came out, Layla’s arm in his hand, she hung off him, not able to get her own balance. He threw her to the ground and shut the door behind him. Yusuf saw and scrambled to his feet to get to her. He picked her tiny body up into his arms and placed her back on the ground standing. She straightened her qamis and felt for her wrap and kerchief but there was nothing there, she stood bareheaded, filled with shame, in the middle of the road. Yusuf untied the sash around his short robe and unwound the dirty wrap he had tied around his waist over his sirwal and put it over her shoulders, covering her head. She held it tight to herself.

  She looked up at him, standing before her in nothing but his short robe and short sirwal, “Yusuf, what happened?”

  His eyes filled with tears, his nose running and smearing his lip, he gestured with his head in the direction of Zaytuna. Layla turned and saw her. She said, “Auntie, you’re here!”

  Layla turned back to Yusuf, “This is Auntie Zaytuna! I told you. You have to tell her what you told me yesterday. Auntie Zaytuna can set it right.”

  Zaytuna took a few steps toward the pair when she heard the gate open behind her. Maryam came out. The three turned as one towards the sound of the gate at the Imam’s house and saw the housekeeper standing there. She, though, was looking up and down the road and into the perforated clay screens in the windows on the houses that fronted the street, imagining who was sitting in them now, watching them. She said a little too loudly, with false cheer, “The food is ready now, what’re you all doing in the road disturbing good people? Come inside. My goodness!”

  Layla took Zaytuna’s hand and walked toward the Imam’s house, she gestured to Yusuf, “Come on.” Yusuf fell in behind them and they all went back inside.

  Once in the garden, Maryam hissed, “Get into the kitchen and keep quiet.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Maryam said, “Sit down, all of you. Take care not to step in that broken glass. And keep your voices down for God’s sake.”

  She handed Yusuf a rag to wipe his face then grabbed a broom and began to sweep up the glass while they all sat quietly watching her, wondering what she would do. Zaytuna felt like a child again, afraid of what kind of trouble she was in. Maryam picked up the pieces of glass and placed them in a bucket nearby. She took the straw broom and swept carefully, but still loosening the surface of the pounded earth of the floor in the kitchen. She threw out the fragments and loosened dirt, then pounded the spot on the floor with her heel. She took a deep breath, stood up straight, and faced Zaytuna, cold and furious, “I had this in hand.”

  Layla broke through, “Auntie, this is Zaytuna. You can trust her. She can set this right. I promise.”

  Zaytuna saw Maryam flinch with anger and feared that Maryam would hit her. She moved protectively toward Layla, but Maryam took a deep breath and let it out. Then said, “Layla, my sweet. You don’t know what you’ve done. I had set this right already. It’s not your fault, I understand that. But you need to be quiet now and let me handle this.”

  Layla obje
cted, “But it’s not set right. Yusuf….”

  Yusuf heaved himself up on his stool and spoke, his face swollen from his tears, “It’s not set right, Auntie. I can’t live with myself. I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe from what I’ve done. I’m going to burn in Hell. I already decided once I finish my chores today I would go to the police and turn myself in. Who cares if the police find me and execute me. I killed him.”

  No one spoke. His words sunk heavily into the room.

  Zaytuna couldn’t find her breath. This wasn’t what she suspected, at all. Without thinking she reached out to him.

  He pushed her hand aside, “I don’t know what you can do. I don’t know what anyone can do. I’m going to Hell.”

  Maryam looked at Zaytuna, “Are you satisfied now? Now you’ve got something? Help get this boy executed, will you?”

  Zaytuna was terrified, beginning to understand the lies and secrets as they unraveled before her, and said, “No, Auntie. Never.” She thought of Ammar, then Tein, the bitterness rising up again, then fear, knowing they’d be here today, but when she didn’t know. As sure as she knew anything, this boy was about to unburden himself to Ammar.

  Zaytuna, said, “I won’t tell a soul. But Maryam, the police. They’ll be back later today. I heard...I heard they’ll be back to question him.”

  Maryam’s face became rigid with fear, “How do you know this?” She stood up, “We have to get him out of the house now.”

  Layla ignored Maryam and put her hand on Yusuf’s arm, “Tell her. Tell her everything.”

  Maryam insisted, “There’s no time for this talk now.”

  Zaytuna said to Layla, “Sweet one, I don’t know what you think I can do. I don’t know why I came here.” Zaytuna turned to Yusuf, insisting, “Don’t tell me.” Tears welled up, mixed with anger at herself, she shook her head, standing, and said to him, “You must leave before the police get here.”

 

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