The Jealous

by Laury Silvers

  Holding his hands up to his mother to placate her. “Mother you don’t…”

  “No, habibi,” she interrupted. “Thank God, I understand now. I had a dream.” She reached out taking both of his hands. “More than a dream. I woke in the night and walked out beyond the house to look to Karbala. Light was shining from it, rising from the plain to the heavens. Sayyida Fatima walked out of the light.” She squeezed his hands tightly. “She walked out of the light, but her clothes were light itself, her face was light itself. She spoke to me, and her words were light. She said, ‘Do not let any harm come to my daughter. She was enslaved. She lost her mother. I have taken her as my own. She belongs to me’.”

  Ammar was perfectly still. His mother’s eyes were glistening with tears and joy, a kind of joy that he had never seen in her before. His chest began to burn. Then he heard a voice behind him, “Ya Ammar! I have glad tidings of paradise for you!” He spun around, but there was no one behind him. The door was shut. His brother’s house was closed against the cold. Ammar shook off his mother’s hands and ran around the side of the house. There was no one there.

  His mother called out to him, “My son! My son!”

  Tein was behind him before he knew it. “Ammar!”

  Ammar looked at him wildly, grabbing him. “The voice.”

  “What?”

  “The voice I’ve been hearing behind me. I heard it again.”

  “What’s it saying, man!”

  His mother reached them, taking hold of Ammar again. “What is it?”

  “I’ve been hearing a voice, calling to me, ’Ya Ammar! I have glad tidings of paradise for you!’”

  “My son! Don’t you recognize that as what the angels said to Hurr before he left Yazid’s army to side with Husayn defending the Prophet’s family at Karbala? The promise of paradise! The promise of paradise! He was martyred in Husayn’s cause!”

  He stared at her wide-eyed, unable to speak.

  “This is a call to you to be Hurr. Like Hurr, you must leave your own army to join Husayn. Like Hurr, you must put your hands out to Husayn and beg for forgiveness. Join the fight for justice, my son! There’s time for you and time for Mu’mina. Do not be late!”

  His head started buzzing, he began to feel dizzy. He wanted to put his hand over her mouth, make her stop speaking.

  Her voice dropped. “Sayyida Fatima spoke of you to me. I didn’t know that she meant you when she asked that this girl be protected.” She looked back to Tein, tears in her eyes. “I didn’t know until my Bilal explained.” She squeezed Ammar’s arm again. “Lady Fatima begs you to save her!”

  Tein pulled back and whistled on the inhalation.

  He turned his back on them both and searched the horizon for Karbala. What have I done? Flashes of his fear of the girl rose up within him. He tried to turn away from it. The fear came round to face him. She was a black dog with a scarred face, baring its teeth and crouched before him ready to attack. What have I done? He strained his eyes looking for Sayyida Fatima. Falling to the ground, he begged for forgiveness. He begged her to show him the girl as she saw her, but the scarred face of the snarling dog remained before him. Ammar looked up at his mother, choking on his shame. He was still afraid, but he forced himself to declare, “No harm will come to her.”

  He expected Tein to be triumphant, throwing his guilt in his face. He would deserve as much, but instead, his friend seemed hopeful. Ammar stood, leaving the dust of the earth on his knees and hands, and said to him, “We will do this. We will find a way. I will go see the widow and brother-in-law today. You must investigate the poisons. This is all that matters.”

  Looking out toward Karbala once more, Ammar said, “I’ll hold my hands out for forgiveness, like Hurr, to Ibn Marwan.”

  He faced Tein, but the hope in his friend’s eyes was gone, replaced by profound sadness as if he would weep.

  Ammar touched him. “Tein. I promise, I will fight for her.”

  Tein shook his head at him, as if Ammar did not understand.

  His mother nodded to the two of them in gratitude. She stepped between the two men giving them an arm each as they walked through the gate and on to the mosque.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mustafa was just making his way into the courtyard when he heard Yulduz, “Will that woman ever learn to keep out of everyone’s business?” He thought, What has Zaytuna done now? Marta and Yulduz were sitting against the wall, legs out. They were right up next to each other, sharing Marta’s honey-yellow wool shawl around their shoulders. Marta had a pile of leeks beside her and was carving off slices of the white ends with a paring knife; the bits dropped into a basket in her lap. Yulduz was sorting beans and so intent on her work and complaining about Zaytuna that she did not see him come in. Mustafa called out his greetings and bowed his head to them, hand over his heart. “Assalamu alaykum.”

  Marta replied for the two of them, elbowing Yulduz to take note.

  Yulduz looked up, pointed to Zaytuna’s room. “She’s in there, muttering away at God.”

  He looked at her in shock. God protect me from these women.

  Marta returned to her conversation with Yulduz. “Atournia doesn’t mean any harm. She just likes to help, and well…”

  Mustafa closed his eyes for a moment and rebuked himself. They were not speaking about Zaytuna. God forgive me.

  Rhythmic breathing was coming from within Zaytuna’s room, one breath in, one breath out, for every syllable, “La illaha illallah, la illaha illallah, la illaha illallah,” over and over again. He stood still listening for a moment then coughed to let her know he was outside. The breathing continued.

  He said, “Assalamu alaykum,” through the curtain, careful not to look inside. Focusing his eyes on the curtain’s threadbare weave and shredded edges, Mustafa sighed inwardly at Zaytuna’s pious frugality. She should let one of us get her better things.

  “La illaha illa’llah, La illaha illa’llah, La illaha illa’llah.”

  He coughed again and said a little louder, “Assalamu alaykum.”

  Her breathing slowed. She heard him. He dropped to one side of the door, squatting down beside it to give Zaytuna enough time to pull herself back into this world and its cares.

  Umm Farhad yelled from within her room across from him, “You rascal!”

  Farhad tumbled out of his mother’s room with a long piece of floral cloth dragging behind him in the dirt and ran with it out through the passageway. Marta raised her eyebrows and tipped her chin to Yulduz in disapproval.

  “Her good headwrap! Marta, she’s ruined that boy. The poor woman who has to marry him.”

  Marta muttered in assent.

  Umm Farhad stumbled out of the room, bareheaded, hastily pulling a wrap around herself, and ran out after him.

  Mustafa shook his head at Umm Farhad. Thank God, the families in the house he shared had men at the head of each, keeping things under control. It was hard for a woman without a man, but still, he thought, Umm Farhad could do better. God knows, my mother did.

  Zaytuna pulled the curtain aside and poked her head out. She was still on her knees from prayer. They were face to face, only inches from each other. Her eyes were soft. Her skin was bright. The lines that usually drew across her forehead and around her mouth from worry and anger were gone. She said his name, “Mustafa,” and the sound was timbered with care, not the harsh tones he often got from her when she was upset about things and taking it out on him because he was nearest to her, and, he knew, because he was safe.

  He said softly, “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  Casting her eyes down, she blushed. “Mustafa, you can never be an interruption.”

  “I wanted to let you know that I saw Tein and Ammar this morning.”

  Her head shot up, her eyes narrowed, and a wrinkle of worry returned to her forehead. He realized that she had, while remembering God, forgotten about the case.

  “Yes! Ya Rabb! What happened?” She ducked her head back into the room, careful to clos
e the curtain completely, and said, “I’ll be out in a moment.” She came out with a second wrap around her, saying, “That’s better now. Let me give you some water.”

  “Alhamdulillah, I’ve just come from the baths and could use it.”

  “You should have been drinking while there,” she scolded, as she handed him the cup filled with water.

  He took it from her, careful not to touch her hand. “I did, but it was not your water, Zaytuna, and not from our jug and cup.”

  She sat down next to him and took a deep breath. “Before you tell me. I want to say that I’ve been terrible.”

  “What have you done?” He said with concern.

  “I’ve wronged you. I’ve wrong YingYue. I’ve wronged myself.”

  Mustafa became suddenly afraid she’d spoken to YingYue about him. His temper flared. “Tell me what you’ve said, Zaytuna.”

  “No! Nothing!” She pulled back from him. “In me, Mustafa, in my mind, I’ve wronged you in my mind. I’m sorry.”

  This was so typical of her moods, always recriminating herself for real and imagined sins, to the end of putting herself first. But he reassured her all the same, “God is The Forgiving.”

  She sighed, “Inshallah.”

  “Zaytuna, the girl…”

  She reached to put her hand on his arm, then pulled it back. “I want to say first, Mustafa, whatever the news, alhamdulillah. There is a purpose in this, a plan, an organization to it that we cannot see. We have our footing, we just need to trust it.”

  She was right. Mustafa closed his eyes and took her reminder to trust God. God’s verses of consolation came to mind. He took a deep breath and recited, his voice was thick with feeling.

  Did We not expand your breast?

  And lift your burden from you?

  The burden that weighed down your back?

  And raised you in esteem?

  Surely with hardship comes ease.

  Surely with hardship comes ease.

  So when you are empty, keep working.

  And let your Lord be your longing.

  When he finished, she completed his recitation with the seal, “God Almighty speaks the truth.”

  He took a breath then said, “The news is not good, but we have an avenue open to us.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Tein doesn’t believe that Mu’mina did it at all. Ammar thinks she did, but he is willing to concede it may have been unintentional. That may only be a concession to Tein, though. Her case is being sent to the Police Chief to decide.”

  “I don’t understand. What is the avenue?”

  Yulduz interrupted, “What’s that! How is Tansholpan? What about her?”

  Mustafa answered her. “We don’t know yet, Auntie.”

  “And why not!”

  Zaytuna shot back at her, “Auntie, my brother, the one you doubt so much, is out there right now trying to prove Mu’mina innocent so she and Tansholpan can go free!”

  Marta put her hand on Yulduz’s arm, but Yulduz spat the words at Zaytuna, “If he wanted to protect her then he shouldn’t’ve arrested her in the first place.” She shook off Marta’s hand and pushed her old body off the ground to stand, letting her sorted beans fall to the ground. She yelled at the two of them, choking back tears, “He better get’er free!” Then turned away from them, escaping into her room. Marta got up, gave them an apologetic look, and followed her.

  Zaytuna felt sick. She said to Mustafa, “We’ve only been thinking about Mu’mina.”

  “Thinking about Mu’mina is thinking about Tansholpan. If she is exonerated, then Tansholpan will go free, too.”

  She nodded hopefully. “What avenue have you found?”

  “I am to find Ibn Salah. I mentioned that he is the one who presented her complaint against the Imam in court. He may be able to get her case moved to a religious court, outside of Karkh. I have to go to the mosque where he teaches. Zaytuna, I want you to come with me. I know we can’t be together in the mosque, but I’d feel better knowing you were there. It’s a long walk across the river, so we would have to leave soon, but I can explain everything on the way, and if we find him, we can think it all through together on the way back.”

  Zaytuna held herself back from leaning into him. Is this what it is to love someone? Or is this just who we are? Are we only childhood friends who know each other better than anyone else could? She closed her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “I just need a moment.” She ducked back into her room and pulled her good clothes over her worn ones for warmth and grabbed her slipper-shoes instead of her sandals. Once in her hand she saw the soles were wearing thin. The sickening shame that she was no good rose back up and took hold of her, pushing out the quiet acceptance she’d built up word by word during her remembrance of God this morning. She was torn between wanting to be with him and needing to be alone, to hide herself away. “Go,” she said to herself, and slipped her bony feet into the shoes, pushed the curtain aside, and joined him.

  By the time they reached the pontoon bridge spanning the Tigris between Karkh and Rusafa, they had exhausted all talk of the case and had fallen into companionable silence. The Tigris sparkled in the sun, cold and bright. The usual smell of fish was lost in the breeze. Round wicker boats and skiffs crowded the waters, carrying goods and people up and down the river and through the canals. She could, just faintly, hear music and laughter coming from the balconies off the multi-story homes of the wealthy built on the river.

  They waited their turn to step out onto the bridge, catching their balance as the bridge swayed with the force of the current and the shifting weight of what must have been more than a hundred people walking in two lines in opposite directions, some balancing goods on their backs or heads. Once on the bridge, she slowed to look up at the homes along the water. Men and women leaned on balconies, chatting, and looking out at the river scene. One couple stood too close to one another, half-concealed by fluttering, sheer curtains, and she saw herself and Mustafa, fleetingly, in their places.

  She heard a man’s voice behind her, “Tch Tch! Get moving, woman!”

  She shook herself back into awareness and prepared to give the man a piece of her mind, but Mustafa was tugging on her wrap, saying, “Keep walking.”

  Once on the other side, they could see the Rusafa Mosque in the distance. As they approached, she admired the mosque’s arched facade, heavily-tiled in blues and greens. Where there was no tile, intricate calligraphy and vegetal designs had been carved into the stucco. There was money here, not just in the estates of the wealthy lining the river, but also in the high-walled neighbourhoods beyond. She could barely breathe from the beauty of it, then instantly felt as though she had betrayed her own Shuniziyya Mosque, more humbly decorated and acting in service to the people of her poor neighbourhood.

  Mustafa broke their silence. “There’s time yet before the call to prayer.”

  The expansive prayer hall felt nearly empty except for small groups of people here and there in study circles and those who came early to rest or have time for contemplation.

  She asked, “Should I stay with you?”

  Mustafa was worried. “I think it’s better if I speak to him alone. I don’t know him or what he thinks about women in the mosque. I’ll tell you everything afterwards.”

  Even though she nodded, he saw her colour rise at the suggestion. She bent over and picked up her slippers and strode to the rear of the mosque without a word. He called after her, “Meet you here after the prayer?”

  There was no answer, just her back to him. Mustafa wanted to run after her and pull her to him. He wanted to apologize for caring what any of these people think. He wanted her by his side when he approached Ibn Salah. He took a step in her direction, then caught himself and stopped. He corrected his wants. Yes, I want her with me. But I don’t want her to talk. And she would not be able to keep quiet. It’s for the best and I’ll apologize later. She needs to understand what this world is like. I certa
inly can’t change it. He sighed aloud in frustration, “Zaytuna,” then looked around to see if anyone had heard him. A man was behind him taking off his slippers but did not look up.

  Near a pillar, a group of students sat around a blind Qur’an recitation teacher. They recited clearly, yet softly in unison; then each one individually, as he gently corrected their pronunciation, their voices were, to him, like bird song. A couple of men in scholar’s turbans stood not far off.

  He kept an eye on Zaytuna as he found a place to pray. It looked like she was heading to the rear wall. What made him think he should marry her? Love is not enough.

  How much easier things would be if he were to marry YingYue. She had gentle manners. They would keep each other on the Sufi path, and she would be a fine wife of a scholar. He would never worry about how she would act in situations like this. He blushed, thinking of her. Her skin was soft and pink like the palest rose. She is so beautiful.

  Yet Zaytuna. Stopping for a moment, he watched her pray her two cycles of prayer in greeting to the mosque. He saw himself following her around in awe when they were children. She noticed wrongs where he saw nothing. When Zaytuna was no more than ten years old, not long after her mother died, they were running in a busy square when she pulled him to a stop. She pointed at an old woman sitting outside a shop, her granddaughter beside her. The old woman had the girl by the hand and was pinching and twisting the bit of fleshy skin between the girl’s thumb and forefinger, smiling, while the girl held her face still from long practice bearing up under pain.

  Zaytuna walked right up to the old woman. He braced himself for the cursing Zaytuna would give her. But when her foot landed firmly before the old woman, without pausing or warning, she pulled her hand back and slapped her across the face. The old woman shrieked and let go of the girl in shock, then quickly recovered. Without moving from her spot, she hit Zaytuna so hard with the flat of her hand that Zaytuna was knocked down and smacked her head on the ground. It all happened so fast that by the time he reached Zaytuna, she was already sitting up on her elbows, getting an earful from the shopkeeper while passersby stepped around her, cursing her for being in their way. The old woman was sitting again as she was, her granddaughter beside her, twisting the flesh on the girl’s palm. But now the girl was in tears. He would always love Zaytuna for wanting the world to be better. But she was still that little girl who didn’t understand how the world worked.