The Long Way Back

by Fuad al-Takarli

  He was standing in the doorway, smiling. He greeted Munira and her mother. Munira sat up, withdrew to a corner of the bed, and returned his greeting, arranging her hair.

  “You’re a ray of sunshine, Karumi,” shouted Umm Hasan. “Welcome, welcome.”

  He was pale, exhaustion written all over his face. He handed Safiya the bag of pastries and her two coins.

  “Aunt, here are the pastries. They’re on me this time. Here’s your money. See, I haven’t broken into it. Just tell me when they’re finished, and I’ll be happy to get you more.”

  “God bless you dear! Why were you late?”

  He turned back and hesitated slightly before sitting down, and she noticed a barely perceptible change come over Munira. Her expression softened, and in some vague way she seemed to relax. Safiya didn’t hear what the two of them said to one another, as she was distractedly opening the paper bag and taking out the pastries.

  She gave Umm Hasan her share, then as she was returning the coins to her purse she suddenly heard Umm Hasan talking about Adnan’s visit and raised her head to listen. Abd al-Karim was smiling foolishly uncomprehending, and Munira was staring at the floor looking a little flushed, or so it seemed to Safiya. Munira’s mother sighed several times. Awkward moments of benefit to nobody. Safiya broke the silence by asking Umm Hasan when lunch was, and Abd al-Karim inquired about his mother and sister, and his nieces. When he was told his mother was downstairs, he stood up hesitantly and went out. Munira smiled at him as he left, then lay down again, and her mother lit another cigarette. Umm Hasan looked from one to the other without a word. They were silent, each busy with her own thoughts.

  Safiya couldn’t properly make out the low voices coming up from the courtyard. More than an hour to wait before Midhat and his father came back from the office. This was the hardest time of day: you couldn’t eat or sleep or talk. This waiting made prisoners of them, and they didn’t know what to do with themselves. She rested her left arm against the pillow with her cheek in her palm. She couldn’t even snatch a nap because no one would wake her and that might mean she missed lunch, and then all would be lost.

  She heard the noise of the two little girls coming up from the ground floor, and they rushed in together shouting. Safiya straightened up attentively. So Madiha was back at last. Now she would pick up some snippets of news from the outside world, although Madiha wouldn’t come upstairs until she’d helped her mother prepare lunch. That was just as well. She couldn’t let Nuriya work on her own all day, and perhaps they’d be able to organize the cooking more quickly together. This waiting was unbearable, especially for people of her age. On top of that, she and Umm Hasan did not even know for sure what they were going to be given to eat. This was unacceptable. They should at least be asked their opinions on the subject.

  She suddenly heard the big door downstairs slamming with unusual force, rattling the windows, then there was the thud of a heavy body followed by screams from Nuriya and Madiha. She looked up and saw both Munira and her mother getting to their feet. Her heart was pounding, but she said nothing.

  “God protect us,” whispered Umm Hasan.

  They heard Nuriya call hoarsely, “Madiha, Karumi’s fallen. Run and get some cold water. Hurry, dear.” Then, unsteadily, “What’s wrong, son?”

  Munira, pale-faced, was on her way over to the door. She stopped and leaned against the wall for a moment.

  “Go down and see what’s happened to the boy,” Safiya shouted at her. “Lord, what’s gone wrong now?”

  The noises coming from down below—Nuriya wailing, the children screaming and crying—appeared confused and troubled like echoes from a shattered world. Munira pulled herself together and ran out. For a second Safiya glimpsed the anguish in her eyes. Her mother followed her without any apparent haste.

  Umm Hasan started to get up too.

  “Where are you off to?” asked Safiya. “Go back to bed.”

  Umm Hasan arranged the pillow and sat back in her bed muttering, “I’m worried about Karumi. God protect us.” Then she began playing with her toes again. “I don’t think we’re going to eat till the late afternoon today. What do you think, Safiya?”

  Saliya didn’t answer. She was listening dispiritedly to the sounds from below. Abd al-Karim hadn’t been right since his friend’s death several months ago, but he was still a young man with a healthy body, and his family ought to find out why he had collapsed like that in the courtyard in the middle of the day, when only a few minutes before he’d been talking and laughing, the object of admiring looks from his pretty cousin.

  Safiya was sitting with the family in the alcove in the late afternoon, a little apart from the rest on one of the comfortable sofas, observing what was happening and wondering about what was not happening. The sun had not yet set, as it was towards the end of June, and they had only just finished their post-lunch tea. Her glass was still on the table next to her brother’s and her nephew Midhat’s. Lunch had been late that day and for this reason she had not eaten a pastry with her tea so as not to spoil her appetite for dinner. The doctor had come more quickly than they had expected and given Abd al-Karim a cursory examination. Watching from a distance she had had no confidence in him, although she could not have said why. She was told he had prescribed a tonic and a tranquilizer to be taken one after the other. When he’d gone they had put a bed for Abd al-Karim out on the gallery where it was cooler, close to the alcove where they often sat, and his mother squatted down near him, her eyes never leaving his pale face with its prominent cheekbones.

  She heard her brother Abu Midhat saying her name and turned towards him.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Did Mr. Khali’s children marry before the family moved away from Bab al-Shaykh?”

  “The boys, Hashim and Qasim, weren’t married because of their older sister Rahmat. The family wanted her to marry before them.”

  “That’s it,” said Abu Midhat. “Of course. Rahmatallah, their older sister!”

  She was gratified by his faith in her.

  “Their cousin Salim came to see me,” he went on, passing his yellow prayer beads through his fingers. “He had some business with us at the Land Registry. He said Qasim married a few years ago and had his own house, Rahmatallah died after her brother’s marriage, and Hashim still lives with his mother.”

  “Midhat, my dear,” said Nuriya to her son, “won’t you go and see what Munira and Madiha are doing in the kitchen? They’ve been heating up that tinned soup for an hour!”

  Midhat stood up without a word and went out.

  “Why did Rahmat die?” Safiya asked her brother. “She was a strong woman. She had a temper, even if her name did mean mercy. But she worked in the house from dawn till dusk and went out visiting in the evenings. Every evening the same. She never failed the other women. She’d sit herself down with them and sometimes talk about Hashim, sometimes Qasim, wanting to marry them off and yet not wanting to. She died at the right time!”

  “Does anyone not die at the right time?”

  “I suppose not. That’s what I meant.”

  There was the sound of steps along the gallery and Munira appeared, followed by Midhat. She was carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of soup on it which she put gently down on the table by Abd al-Karim’s bed. Nuriya got up to help her while Midhat went back to his place. Munira was in the same dark dress she had put on that morning, and her hair was tied back. Her face was radiant, and her movements graceful. She sat down opposite Midhat and said in a low voice, still smiling, “Madiha made this soup, you know. I just carried it up.”

  Abd al-Karim sat up in bed with his mother’s help, and Safiya heard him saying, “Thank you, Munira. I don’t know when I’ll be able to serve you like this. Perhaps it’ll never happen.” His voice cracked. Munira looked upset, and the smile disappeared from her face.

  “What are you talking about, Karumi?” said his father. “You’re only human. Everybody gets ill sometimes. It would be strange if they didn’t!”


  Safiya noticed Midhat looking at Munira.

  “Whenever he talks like that, I can’t see for the tears in my eyes,” said Nuriya.

  Midhat was examining Munira with an obvious gleam in his eye. Safiya hadn’t even seen him talking to her before, but the way he was looking at her intimated that he liked doing it and dreamt of it.

  The sun cast its fading red rays high up on the walls, and calm reigned inside the house, interrupted only by the clatter of dishes in the kitchen as Madiha and her daughters washed up the lunch. They were late today because of Abd al-Karim, whose unexpected relapse had saddened them all: they felt indebted to him for the many little services he performed and the happiness he gave them. They would never enjoy seeing him lying there like that, not exactly ill, but not well either.

  “Where were you today, Karim?” Midhat asked his brother.

  Abd al-Karim stopped drinking his soup and was silent for a few moments before answering, “I went to the university They said I had to provide a medical certificate so I could resit the exams. I didn’t feel too good. It was very hot.”

  “Who came to visit you at midday?”

  Abd al-Karim looked vacantly at Midhat as if he didn’t understand the question.

  Their mother intervened: “Drink your soup, Karumi dear. It’ll get cold.”

  Then she turned to Midhat: “Let him rest, Midhat. He hasn’t got the strength to talk much.”

  “I know, Mother. But I wanted to find out whether Adnan came to see him.”

  “Adnan! What do you mean, Adnan?” said Abd al-Karim in a jerky, lifeless voice. “Adnan didn’t come to see me. It was Fuad’s father.”

  “Why did Adnan come then?” Midhat asked his mother.

  Munira was staring at her hands, which lay in her lap.

  “Fuad’s father wanted to talk to me,” went on Abd al-Karim. “I was with Fuad—that night.”

  “That’s enough, Karumi,” interrupted his mother. “Don’t wear yourself out.”

  Abd al-Karim looked at her for a long time without saying anything, then handed the bowl of soup back to her. He turned away from them and lay facing the wall. Safiya noticed Midhat watching with a preoccupied air. Nuriya picked up the tray and turned unhappily to her husband: “You see how they torment me?”

  “Why don’t you drink your soup, Karumi?” exclaimed his father. “It’s very good for you. It’ll build you up.”

  Abd al-Karim did not answer his father, and silence descended briefly on the gathering. Nuriya went off downstairs. Midhat turned suddenly to Munira. “Sorry for asking, Munira,” he said, “but did Adnan come to see you?”

  There was an unaccustomed gentleness in his voice. Munira raised her eyes to look at him. “What did you say?”

  Large, brilliant, golden brown eyes. She continued to look at him without saying anything, almost defiantly.

  “Did Adnan have some business to discuss with you?” persisted Midhat.

  They exchanged chilly glances. Safiya noticed Munira’s obstinate expression.

  “Why hasn’t he been to see you and your mother before?”

  Midhat’s father broke in unexpectedly: “Tell me, has Adnan left school yet? Is he working with his father in the greengrocery business now?”

  Midhat turned to him impatiently. “I don’t know for sure, Dad,” he said, “but I don’t think he’s passed his third year exams.”

  “That’s odd! How old is he? Safiya?”

  She was following their conversation intently, so she answered at once, “Eighteen. He’s Maliha’s oldest child.” Cautiously, she addressed Munira: “That’s right, isn’t it, Munira?”

  Her irritation was plain to see. She looked coldly at her. “Yes,” she said.

  “Then why’s be driving about in a car and disturbing the peace if he hasn’t even got a school certificate?” demanded Midhat’s father. “What kind of a world are we living in?”

  Safiya answered him: “God made them rich, Abu Midhat. Why shouldn’t he drive a car and make as much noise as he pleases? Not so long ago his father was a peasant and worked for Hajji Muhammad, running hither and thither with holes in his sandals. So what? Look at him now. He’s a businessman, and his stomach’s so big you’d think he was an Arab shaykh!”

  Midhat laughed, and even Munira smiled. “Have it your own way, Auntie,” said Midhat. “But you know there aren’t any shaykhs left. Haven’t you heard what out president says?”

  “Every time I say anything you quote that madman at me.”

  “Mad or not, he’s governed us for four years now, and maybe there’s nobody better around.”

  “What do you mean, son?” said Abu Midhat. “That’s not the calculation you should be making. You should count how many years he’s got left, how many months, maybe even days, then you’ll be able to tell what kind of a hell he must be living in.”

  “No, Dad. If we did that, we’d all be in hell.”

  “Yes, you’re right. If you could work out how much time you had left, life would be unbearable. Our lives are in God’s hands.”

  “What am I alive for then? Let me live my own life as well as I can. I mean,” he turned to Munira as he spoke, “even if our lives are in God’s hands, my life belongs to me. It’s in my hands. Nobody’s got the right to ask me to explain what I’m going to do with it.”

  Munira was watching him in astonishment as he talked. “If you don’t want anyone to ask you,” she said, “then you mustn’t ask anyone else either.” She was more in earnest than he was.

  “No, you’re wrong,” interrupted Midhat’s father. “That’s not how the world works. You’re not hermits. There have to be questions and answers. Our lives are in God’s hands.”

  Munira didn’t reply.

  “So? What do you mean?” Midhat asked her. “Are you talking about people and their freedom?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s a philosophy I don’t know much about, but what you’re saying wouldn’t work here. Everyone questions you and interferes in your life, whether you want them to or not.”

  “I refuse to let them. I can refuse any interference in my life.”

  Safiya noticed how worked up he was. She didn’t understand everything they were saying. The alcove was growing steadily darker and obscuring their faces from one another. She wanted to recount one of her memories to them. She heard Abu Midhat’s voice: “What do you mean, you refuse? Do you mean people can do what they want? God forbid! For example, I’m your father. Am I not allowed to ask you what you’re doing with yourself, for God’s sake?”

  They heard light, rapid footsteps and Nuriya appeared with Sana. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” she cried. “Put the light on, please. For Karumi’s sake.”

  She pressed the switch and the alcove was flooded with light. Abd al-Karim had his head turned towards them and appeared to be listening to their conversation with interest.

  “How are you, Karumi?” asked his mother going over to his bed. “Shall I heat up the soup for you?”

  “No, Mother. Thanks. Not just now.”

  Sana went and sat down beside Munira. “Where’s my mother?” Safiya heard her ask the little girl.

  “In the kitchen with Mum. They’re making the dinner.”

  Munira stood up and Sana did the same,

  “Munira,” said Safiya. “Will you see whether your grandmother Umm Hasan has eaten or not?”

  “Of course she hasn’t,” interrupted Nuriya. “What is there for her to eat? We haven’t made dinner yet, Safiya. If you give me a chance, I’ll go down and help Madiha in the kitchen.”

  Munira went off with Sana, and Safiya saw Midhat watching her as she disappeared into the darkness on the gallery. He wiped his forehead assiduously and turned to his father. “Husayn wants to see his daughters,” he said. “He’s been to see me in the office several times.”

  “I’m surprised he knows he’s got any daughters,” snapped his mother. She was sitting on the edge of Abd al-Karim’s bed facing him, with her
back to the others. “A father who abandons his family for two years,” she went on, “doesn’t have the right to see them.”

  “Why doesn’t he come and see them here?” said Midhat’s father calmly. “He can visit us like anyone else, see them, and then leave.” He was addressing his son as if he hadn’t heard what his wife said. “We’re not denying him his rights,” he continued. “He doesn’t recognize the claims his wife and daughters have on him, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to act the same as him. We’re not denying anyone their rights.” He turned to his sister. “Safiya,” he said, “do you remember what out father, God rest his soul, told Hajji Shakir? He came to ask out father’s advice about his aunt, an elderly woman living on her own who worked as a maidservant and washerwoman. She was poor, and none of her family helped support her. Hajji Shakir had heard that she was working in a house of ill repute and was planning to kill her. A woman of over sixty! Our father said to him, ‘You’ve never recognized your obligations to her, so why are you now asking about your rights over her?’ But the Hajji didn’t take any notice of what he said. He went and killed her, the miserable wretch. An old woman like that!”

  “What happened to him?” asked Midhat with interest.

  “Nothing. His friends had a collection for him in the cafés where he was a regular, they found a lawyer to defend him, he was sentenced to three years in prison, came out in less than two and walked the streets a free man. A poor old woman of over sixty!”

  “He was a hajji too,” commented Safiya. “He’d visited the holy places. But God doesn’t accept a pilgrimage made by someone like that.”

  “Husayn has no rights over his daughters,” repeated Nuriya. “He hasn’t given them a penny for two years now.”

  “Why don’t you let him see them, Mum?” Abd al-Karim asked suddenly in a hoarse voice.

  “What’s it got to do with me, Karumi?” Her voice trembled and she sounded upset. She turned to the others: “God can’t approve of him behaving like that to his family.”