The Long Way Back

by Fuad al-Takarli

  “Where are you going, Madiha?” she asked. “It’s not time for morning tea yet, is it?”

  Grumpily, Madiha told her mother what had happened to the cat and said she was going down to free its head. She was tired, moving her legs as little as possible and supporting herself on the wall as she went down the dark staircase. Her mother had not even seemed surprised, which disappointed her and made her uncomfortably aware of her unenviable position in the house. The courtyard was gray and desolate. She heard the cat’s copper head banging on the ground again, bringing her back to the task in hand.

  “Be careful the cat doesn’t scratch you, Madiha,” she heard her mother call.

  “Shall I come down, Mum?” shouted Sana.

  The cat grew calmer when it heard her approaching. If the damn thing would stay like that for a few more minutes, she could deal with it. She took hold of it by the scruff of the neck and it quivered and mewed faintly. She tugged on the copper kettle with her other hand but nothing happened, and she inadvertently joined forces with the cat to make two more metallic thuds. Its legs were splayed out and its skinny tail was trailing on the ground. She gripped the vessel with both hands and lifted it and the cat high in the air. The cat flailed its legs and began mewing piteously. Agitatedly, Madiha shook her burden again and again, then she had the idea of throwing it across the courtyard. The cat and the kettle rolled along in the shadows behind one of the wooden pillars, then she saw the cat bounding nimbly away and heard the empty kettle continuing to roll in the direction of the middle door.

  “Bravo, Mum,” called Sana, clapping her hands. “How clever you are!”

  “Quiet, Sana,” interrupted Madiha’s mother, “don’t disturb your uncles.”

  Madiha found the kettle upside down by the wall and picked it up and took it into the dark kitchen. She still felt slightly numb as she tipped a bit of Tide into it and began scrubbing it. It was badly dented, and there was a white deposit in the bottom of it. She filled it with water, lit the oil stove and put it to boil. As the asphyxiating smell of oil started to fill the kitchen, she hurried outside and sat on the little bench by the door. She couldn’t see anyone on the gallery.

  “Sana,” she called softly. “Where are you?”

  Her daughter appeared up above. “Wake up your sister,” said Madiha, “and both of you get dressed and wash your faces.”

  “There’s plenty of time, Mum. I’m sleepy Suha hasn’t even opened her eyes.”

  “I said wake her up. She shouldn’t still be in bed. Don’t start annoying me first thing in the morning, when I’ve got five hours of classes in front of me.”

  “Take it easy, Madiha,” came her mother’s voice. “Make the tea, and I’ll go and help the girls dress. Leave it to me.”

  She saw her mother up on the gallery going towards their room, and shivered slightly, drawing her black cardigan more closely round her and pulling her dress down. The morning light filled the courtyard and woke up the birds in the olive tree; their first calls rose joyously in the air. A packet of cigarettes and a box of matches lay on the ground near the bench; she picked them up and lit herself a cigarette. There wasn’t a sound from the floor above: she could still relax for a bit longer, crouching there like a kitten waiting for its masters to wake up. She took a long drag and tasted the acrid smoke, swallowed it, and blew it out through her mouth and nose. She looked all around her. Where had that wretched cat gone?

  They were all asleep still. She had been the only one to think it her duty to go down and put an end to the nonsense in the courtyard. She alone was afflicted with this mysterious illness which made her wait on them all, as if it was a condition of her being accepted back in her father’s house. Although she hadn’t been a lazy adolescent before her marriage, she had never felt driven by this inner compulsion which drove her now. She used to be able to stay in bed, any time she wanted, until nine or ten in the morning and had not felt terrified, as she did these days, if she failed to put the water on to boil before sunrise.

  She could hear her mother and daughters moving around and whispering together in their room. They were best friends, and the age difference didn’t seem to matter; she hoped the affection would last. The kettle was beginning to sing. She took a last drag on her cigarette and threw it away. Then she leaned forward, hugging her legs. Even her cousin Munira was treated as a visitor; they never expected her to do any housework. Still, she might agree to marry Midhat, then she would become part of the household and nobody could go on thinking of her as an honored guest.

  Munira hadn’t given a straight answer so far and seemed unaware that everybody knew and was waiting to hear what she said! Yes, Munira was pretty, but she herself had been just as pretty when Husayn approached her family asking to marry her. All the same, they hadn’t given her any time to think or express an opinion. As if he was the Aga Khan, when he was only a branch manager of the Rafidayn bank and couldn’t even express himself clearly half the time. She hadn’t been against the idea of marrying him, but her parents’ eagerness to settle the affair quickly had made her feel aware of what a huge burden she represented to her family.

  The kettle’s familiar song grew louder. She rose to her feet disconsolately and went in to make the tea and prepare breakfast. Their first years together hadn’t been that bad. A normal Iraqi family life. Work, food, sex, visits in the neighborhood. She had bled in the train to Basra; the color of the blood on the white sheets had particularly alarmed her. She didn’t know how she’d survived when the fool had sex with her a second time before they arrived, and she bled even more violently. She hadn’t been fully aware of what was being done to her—she was twenty-two years old and had never seen a man’s genitals even in her dreams. So she believed that everything had happened properly and according to the rules, despite the pain and terror and revulsion and embarrassment.

  As she put the milk to boil on the stove she heard rapid footsteps behind her, but didn’t pay any attention. Then she heard Munira’s voice. “Good morning, Madiha.”

  She turned round with some surprise and saw her in her nightdress. “Good morning. What woke you, Munira? It must have been all that racket.”

  Munira took a bottle of water from the fridge and helped herself to a drink. “No, really, Madiha. But every day I say to myself I’m going to get up in the morning and come down to help you with the breakfast. I’m sorry”

  She was wearing a blue robe over her white embroidered nightdress.

  Madiha smiled at her. “Why, Munira?”

  The robe was wide open at the neck and part of her right breast showed.

  “Why be in such a hurry to wear yourself out? Don’t you want to break yourself in first?”

  “What? Break myself in to what?”

  She paused with the glass of water in her hand. Madiha was embarrassed that Munira didn’t pick up what she meant immediately. She had no make-up on her eyes, but the contrast between their light color and the blackness of their lashes gave them a particular beauty. Madiha returned to her task unenthusiastically. “To work, my dear Munira. To work.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Don’t delude yourself. What else have we got to look forward to?”

  Madiha didn’t see Munira as being of more than average intelligence, but she sensed that she shrank away from their world, obviously preferring her male cousins’ company to Madiha’s, spending hours talking and laughing with Abd al-Karim, or going out with Midhat and Sana to the bright fights of Bab al-Sharqi, or to the cinema. Anyway, who could blame her if she liked talking to young men?

  Madiha could see her out of the corner of her eye, standing contemplating the olive tree.

  “Munira, I was wondering,” she said, “didn’t you get a reply from your brother Mustafa yet?”

  Munira glanced rapidly at Madiha and the breakfast table, then turned back to the olive tree. “No, not yet.”

  Madiha put the teapot down next to the other breakfast things and went towards her. She wasn’
t meaning to say anything in particular, but she took hold of both of Munira’s hands. “Look, Munira, it’s not because Midhat’s my brother, but I do know him well and I know he’s a good person. I mean, I don’t know how to convince you, but I swear to you, you’ll be very happy with him.”

  She saw a faint smile on Munira’s lips, but a few moments later her eyes seemed to fill with bitterness and anxiety.

  “I know, Madiha, I know,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, as if she hadn’t spoken for several days.

  “Then why haven’t you given him an answer, my dear? Why leave him to suffer like that? He doesn’t know where he stands.”

  Munira’s fingers tightened round her hands, then relaxed again. She gave her another quick look, then turned back to stare at the olive tree.

  “Perhaps you’re thinking to yourself that I’m the last person to advise people on marriage,” went on Madiha. “But. . .” she felt a sudden pang of sorrow, “you see, Munira, nobody knows as well as I do, especially now, the value of marriage and independence. You create your own world and there’s nobody looking over your shoulder. Still, if God didn’t intend you to be happy, there’s nothing you can do,” she finished flatly.

  Munira turned towards her and gripped her by the arms, her eyes full of affection. Madiha saw her lips trembling slightly.

  “Don’t blame yourself for what happened to you, Madiha,” she said. “Please. You’re the victim of circumstances. I know all about it. Don’t torture yourself” She lowered her arms suddenly and as she turned away, Madiha noticed the light reflected in her tear-filled eyes. “But please leave me alone now. Let me rest. What have I done? I wish you’d all leave me alone.”

  She starred to walk away, but stopped after a couple of paces and turned back to Madiha. “Madiha, you know, my brother must be going to reply soon. But please help me. Make them be patient.”

  A mask had descended over her lovely tearful face. Madiha was shocked by her reaction and didn’t know what to say or how to sympathize. She watched her sadly as she walked along by the west wall, thin, listless, her loose hair hiding her pale face. It struck her that, yet again, Munira hadn’t helped her make breakfast. Then she caught sight of her mother and her two daughters ambling along the big gallery and remembered that she wasn’t dressed yet and it was getting late.

  Madiha stood beside the lighted stove waiting for her mother to talk. Nuriya was sitting on the little wooden bench in the kitchen doorway, smoking calmly. About an hour before, maybe less, they’d been washing up together and she’d told her mother that the school caretaker, Jasmiya, had come to her that morning in school to say that one of her relatives had heard that Husayn had been ill for ten days and was in a serious condition. Since then, her mother had been sitting on the bench, chain-smoking. She appeared distracted and annoyed.

  “What do they mean by serious?” she asked at last, in a low voice. “Has he got a cold? Everyone’s got a cold. Just because they call it influenza now, so what? It doesn’t make it any more serious.”

  She looked inquiringly at Madiha, who didn’t answer and seemed even more irritated by the news than she was.

  “Do what you want,” continued her mother. “If you want to go and see him, go. Good luck to you. Take the girls with you. I can’t come though—but do you know where his aunt’s house is? I’ve heard it’s behind the Café Yas on the other side of Bab al-Shaykh.” She inhaled deeply. “If he’s going to die of a cold, there’s not much we can do.”

  The sky was black, heavy with clouds, and the air was cold. Madiha had felt more depressed by the hour since the woman caretaker at school had told her about her husband’s illness. It wouldn’t have bothered her to learn that he’d dropped dead in the street, but the feeling that he was still alive, on the brink of the abyss, reawakened something in the depths of her, a pounding in her heart mixed with a profound pity that ate into her soul. When he used to come home to her, ill after nights of drinking, she treated him like a motherless child. Afterwards she realized that nursing him made her happy. She had never really been worried about him because she knew he was physically strong and she’d enjoyed him being confined to bed, dependent on her. Then the sexual explosion as he recovered always surprised her. It wasn’t a painful experience, and yet it resembled a rape. After that the animal escaped from its cage again. She sighed. She no longer wanted to remember all the details of the sex they’d had during their life together. Sometimes it had been extraordinary, but what remained was no more than vague sensations and indistinguishable images, which drugged the body pointlessly.

  Her mother roused her from her thoughts. “Take some fruit with you. Go in time to come back before sunset. Do you want—I mean— shall I come with you?”

  “No, Mum. Let me go for an hour and come straight back. Just to see what state he’s in. Why fruit?”

  “No reason, dear. But it’s not nice to go empty-handed. A gift from you and the girls.”

  Madiha didn’t reply and went off upstairs.

  She told her daughters to get ready to go with her. She had been reluctant to take them at first, but supposed their presence might relieve the pressure of what could be an unbearably embarrassing situation. They washed their faces and combed their unruly hair, a little surprised and full of excitement. She saw her face in the mirror, pale and lined, and her doubts returned. In what capacity was she going to see him?

  She sat down on the bed. He hadn’t even told her he was going to leave her. He had been away for a few days, then come back, worn out and broke. The fight between them had ended up with him not talking to anybody for a whole week, eating, smoking, sleeping, and never leaving the house. She didn’t know what had happened to him exactly, whether he’d lost his job or what, and her pride didn’t allow her to ask him for money or try and make up with him. Guessing he had some serious problems that he didn’t want to tell her about, she had decided to contact his friends at the bank, but had never got round to it. Perhaps he had invented the quarrel to hide something more worrying from her. One morning he’d gone out and not come back, then she’d received a letter from Kuwait, in which he told her he was working for a company there and was trying to find a suitable place for them to live. He didn’t give her an address, and a few months later he wrote her a cold, uncomfortable letter which caused her many misgivings. She realized that she should get used to the idea of his being away from her, and prepare herself and her daughters for a different life without him, so she moved into her father’s house.

  She noticed Sana standing in front of her, looking at her inquiringly. “Where’s Suha?” she asked, then was aware of herself sighing.

  “She’s ready to go, so she’s sitting talking to Uncle Midhat,” answered Sana.

  “Why isn’t he asleep?”

  “I don’t know. I saw her talking to him. Maybe she went into his room and woke him up. That’s what she’s like.”

  “Go and call her.”

  She stood up to check on her appearance and saw a lot of white hairs, so she hid some of them and pulled some out. She no longer wondered, at moments like these, why she was doing this and for whom. She changed her blouse and shoes, picked up her abaya and went out on to the gallery. The sight of the dull gray sky didn’t really spoil her mood. The house was empty, which pleased her. She remembered her bag, went back to her room to fetch it, and put a few things in it which she thought she might need, along with some cash. A cool breeze invigorated her as she emerged for the second time. She was surprised to see her daughters standing with Midhat at the end of the small gallery, the three of them looking in her direction. She hesitated briefly, and Sana, holding her uncle’s hand, gave her a broad smile.

  “Let me take you, Madiha,” called Midhat. “I know Husayn’s aunt’s house. I’ve been there once before. I knew there must be some reason why he hadn’t been around. I told myself he must be ill. It’s been two weeks since he came to visit me at the office.”

  Then he walked calmly ahead with her daughters
and she followed behind. Her brother’s wish to accompany them gave her a sense of security. She had the vague feeling that there were no solid grounds for her visit; her sole motivation was pity, but the thought of going alone, or even with her children, was painful. Sana hung back as they approached the outside door and began to walk beside her. Madiha ruffled her hair gently, and Sana looked up at her with shining eyes.

  Before they walked through the Kilani mosque they bought fruit and other groceries. The sun still had not set, and its red rays were catching the top of the minaret and the high clock tower as they reached Café Yas and made for the dark archway leading to the Kurdish quarter. An unpleasant smell of tobacco diluted by water spilt from the narghiles rose up off the ground. Sana held her nose. They didn’t talk much. Madiha wanted to ask Midhat about Munira, to talk about anything remotely connected with her, but he seemed so happy, as he chatted lightheartedly with her two daughters, that she refrained. For no reason that she could put her finger on, she was afraid he wouldn’t appreciate her bringing up the subject.

  They passed into another world when they went through the dark archway. The narrow alleys were uneven and badly lit, the walls so close together that they more or less denied their inhabitants a view of the sky. There were children everywhere, their voices coming from every nook and cranny, and the whole place was enveloped in a smell of cooking, and in darkness and filth.

  She held tightly on to her children and after a few steps turned to Midhat. “Is it far?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “We’re nearly there.”

  He indicated a turning to the left. The light there was gray and the walls dingy and dirty, covered in a mass of drawings and graffiti. She felt as if she was creeping along deep in the bowels of the earth and wondered what she could possibly find in this miserable place.

  They stopped in front of an old black door covered in dust. The bottom of the door had sunk below the surface of the alley. Midhat hesitated and looked across to the other side of the alley then studied the door again. It was in a dip in the ground and had a high step to prevent water coming into the house. Midhat raised the iron knocker and banged on the door, smiling. Nobody answered. This did not surprise Madiha, and she hoped her brother hadn’t made a mistake. Midhat knocked again, loudly. After a few seconds the door moved slowly, without a sound, and an old man stood in the narrow doorway. She felt her heart beat faster, and her daughters clung to her.