She screamed and screamed and screamed, to stay alive, to stop herself from going crazy. He stood in front of her, stupefied, panting for breath, then looked down and tried to cover up his bloody genitals. But she no longer saw him. He had left her world forever. She lay on the ground, which was spattered with her blood, and screamed, dry-eyed, in the spring sunshine among the blossoming orange trees.
I sank down and down until I reached the bottom, then came the fluttering of the heart which separates life from death. A tiny pulse, followed by a rush of blood, and I was back in this murky world. The ribbon of sky, shining tenderly above my head, restored my sense of time and place. I breathed hard, to avoid suffocating, and became aware of gentle fingertips touching me. It was Sana, with her round dark eyes and lips tightly closed, begging me for reassurance; the crazy, disjointed whispering and light knocking scared her more than me. Again I saw the crumpled sheet of paper, like a sail, on the dark floor of the passage. Sana rushed and picked it up and brought it to me. We were both equally determined to escape back inside, but when I saw her walking on tiptoe, her head down as if she were avoiding poisoned arrows, I realized that, even though she had nothing to be afraid of, she was more upset than me. In the darkness of the passage, I seized her and held her close.
Later in the hot room I sat on my bed, neither listening to the noise around me not replying to my mother and Aunt Safiya’s questions. I was trying to collect myself, feeling as if I had been picked out at random and crushed between the jaws of a grinder. I was trembling slightly and felt a cold sweat breaking out on my head and chest. Pride, beauty, and insolence no longer served any purpose. The sun had set, and I lay on my bed with the folded paper in my hand. I was not a victim, as tradition required, not an anonymous corpse lying butchered on the side of the road, not a feather in the wind, as they say I was a bit of each of these, lost in the midst of miseries and vile acts which were not meant to be divulged. I didn’t complain because I wasn’t meant to. I preferred to tell myself that the little I had left could have been destroyed too. That was how I learned very quickly to think about what was left and care for it. So I erased some of the big headlines from my life and dragged my shattered limbs along to join the tail end of the caravan, where I would remain. Among the spiritually and emotionally damaged, you could live without pride or glory; among them the future and human aspiration had no meaning, and sometimes you found wonderful small happinesses there.
Madiha and her daughters, my Aunt Nuriya and my mother were gathered round me in the shadows, asking me about the folded paper in my hand, the mysterious visitor, the tea which I hadn’t yet drunk. I sat up to face them, wiping the sweat off my face, and tried to smile.
Before we went to Baquba I used to think of myself as separate from the rest of the world; what concerned other people, determined their destinies, made them live as they did, could not possibly influence the future which I had marked out for myself It was difficult to know where this feeling came from but, relying on my looks and my salary, I thought I could be confident of finding a comfortably-off, well-educated young man as a husband. We had been told, on dubious authority sometimes, that marriage was everything in a girl’s life here, as both a means and an end, and included legitimate sex and children, and other pleasant things besides, and also a man. They did well to keep quiet about the bad side and leave us to enjoy the dreams that always float around these subjects, to hope eternally, since there is no life without hope. A flagrant lie. There are plenty of lives without hope! It may seem impossible to live such a life, but habit and time take care of everything. I for my part was relying on them, and also aiming for a psychological and mental state which could only be disrupted by something totally unexpected.
During my long hours alone before we left Baquba, I began to think what might have happened to me and quickly came to the conclusion that my survival was a matter of pure chance. Also, being able to keep the event a secret had smothered it and transformed it into an obscure incident which meant nothing to anyone else. If it hadn’t been for her feminine instinct, and some signs which I couldn’t conceal, my mother herself could have been kept completely in the dark. As it was, she had only a contused image in her mind: something had happened to her daughter, some kind of physical or mental crisis, but she couldn’t be sure what it was.
Furthermore, I had managed to escape the most obvious outcome of a male-female liaison. I jumped for joy and cried with relief when my period came on time and I saw the first drops of blood. What a violent barometer blood can be, presaging good one moment and evil the next!
This truly drew a line under what had been, and meant I had to make a new start. Without Adnan knowing in advance, I made plans for my mother and me to escape. I begged the school head to accept my exam scripts and marks before the other teachers’ and let me leave early to go to Baghdad. So it was that, one afternoon towards the end of May, my mother and I left Baquba behind us. The fresh, damp air was heavy with the scent of the orchards, and I couldn’t wait to abandon that unlucky town.
I didn’t look behind me as we crossed the bridge and turned out faces to the horizon, and the black, winding road stretching ahead of us. Death, humiliation, and shame were back there, and I didn’t think I needed any of them. But to my surprise I wiped away a tear as the lines of green vanished into the distance. I remembered the songs, the faces, the fresh air, and the countryside, and contemplated the tiny thing which my life had been reduced to now.
We reached Baghdad in the late afternoon and made for the old quarter of Bab al-Shaykh, with its ancient houses and kindly relatives. We hadn’t visited them for months, but this didn’t mean the affection between us was diminished. As we sat drinking tea in the alcove, I felt as if I was immersed in the sun’s warmth after the cold of winter. In a way, I felt safe with them. When they told me their son, Abd al-Karim, was unwell I went in with them to see him and exchange friendly words with him. Before I went to sleep, in a room with all its windows open, I cried briefly into my pillow, for different reasons this time: at least I wasn’t going to die here. As I came down from the roof at dawn one day some time after out arrival, it struck me that—given that I had no right to anything and ought to be dead now—the damp breeze I smelled as I stood alone in the empty house was in itself a small happiness of the particular kind enjoyed by the stragglers at the back of the caravan, the rejects, those who really notice the sun, flowers, birds, and kind hearts.
There were other small joys. Conversations with that enchanting imp, Sana, every morning as we ate out breakfast together: bread, cheese, and mint tea under the olive tree. Hours reading in the quiet bedroom with nobody watching over me. Family gatherings in the late afternoon in the alcove to drink tea where, whether anybody noticed or not, I felt relaxed and happy to be with them. Endless contemplation of the sky and the stats as I lay in my cool bed on the vast terrace where the breezes played. Listening with apparent indifference to the veiled conversations of the old ladies and even the childish onslaughts of Aunt Safiya, who didn’t mean to hurt anybody.
One beautiful morning, a few days after the arrival of my official transfer, my mother, Aunt Safiva, and I were in the room we all shared before the sun had got round to its windows. Aunt Safiya, having had breakfast, had sent my grandmother Umm Hasan on some obscure mission to the kitchen, and I was reading, lying on the bed, when I heard her saying to my mother, “Tell me, Najiya, is Baquba dear? I mean the vegetables, the housing, the cost of living? Is it like Baghdad, I wonder?”
“Why should it be like Baghdad? It’s a stinking hole. It’s dead. A graveyard. Why would it be expensive? It’s not fit for human beings to live in.”
“God is great! Why does your daughter live there then?”
“That’s life, dear. Didn’t you know?”
“Not really. God is the most knowing.”
A period of silence. I stopped reading. Then Aunt Safiya’s questions started up again. “Wouldn’t it have been better for you both to stay in B
aquba? What appeals to you about this God-forsaken place? Every day, bang! bang! You never know when all hell’s going to break loose. You could have stayed quietly in Baquba without anyone bothering you and telling you things you already knew.”
A long silence. I put my book down.
“Yes,” said my mother as if she was talking to herself. “He who knows knows, and he who doesn’t know is less useful than a handful of lentils.”
Aunt Safiya stared sharply at her. “There must be some reason,” she muttered.
“Why must there? One of my daughters had some bad luck. Was that out fault? Does it mean we’re doomed to go on living the same miserable life forever? To be cheated of out just deserts, I mean? God wouldn’t accept it. Everyone has heaven or hell ahead of him.”
“God is great. God is great. ‘Lord, defend us from . . .’ I don’t remember how the verse goes. What’s going on, Najiya? Is something wrong? What is it? Tell me, my dear.”
My head spun for a moment, and I sat up on the bed. They both looked at me in some surprise. Their conversation had ceased to be amusing.
“Aunt,” I said, “my transfer to Baghdad has come through and everything is sorted out. Why do you still need to talk like this and ask all these questions? We’re not from Baquba, so why should we live there.-’ What’s there for us? We’re from Baghdad, all out family are here, so we ought to come back here.”
“Yes, Munira, dear. You put it so well. But this man, your Aunt Nuriya’s husband, he hasn’t a thing. You know that. Not a penny. And those cousins of yours—they’re grown men. And people don’t know how to keep their mouths shut. This area—Bab al-Shaykh—isn’t what it used to be. Those who remain don’t fear the Lord, can’t distinguish truth from lies. What is there here for you? Do you think you can find something in Bab al-Shaykh?”
For no reason, or for many reasons, I wanted to tease her: “Do you mean if we’ve lost something, Aunt, we’ll be able to find it in Bab al-Shaykh?”
She raised her arms in the air and let them fall again. “I pity the person who tries to make a living in Bab al-Shaykh!” she exclaimed. “God help him a thousand times!”
“Why are you talking like this, Safiya?” interrupted my mother with a sudden flash of bad temper. “Aren’t we allowed to stay a few days with my sister? Why do you keep on about it? Nobody else cares. What’s it got to do with you?”
I stood up to leave. Aunt Safiya was silent as she scrutinized my mother’s face, uncertain how to interpret her words. The discussion was turning into an excavation of the past, which I hated. I wasn’t scared of Aunt Safiya as a person, but of her instincts. She sprayed us with her bitter truths like polluted rain. Men and the eternal female! I found it strange how much truth there was in her pronouncements. But according to the strict conditions which I had laid down for myself, her words were rubbish and should be disregarded.
When I first saw my two cousins again, I realized that they were mature young men, and it would be pointless to remember the past and try to change them back into silly young boys. We had grown up, and our relationship had inevitably moved on to a different level. I understood this perfectly, and yet I was reluctant to read anything into Midhat’s meaningful glances, smiles, private words, or obvious liking for me. I was recovering from a sickness which still came back to haunt me and was happy not to have to analyze things. But as we traveled to work together every morning and lived out daily life in the intimacy of the big house, he moved closer to me, to the point of touching me, deliberately or otherwise. I ought to have done the following two things: been honest with myself about what was going on and taken a decision. I did neither. My pleasure at having him accompany me to school was quickly overshadowed by a gloomy anxiety which snuffed out any other emotion. Somehow I felt helpless and did not want to act. Was I not a typical daughter of this country, suspended eternally between death and prostitution?
Then he bared both out faces and stood me naked in front of the mirror without warning. It began in a taxi which we boarded in a hurry, sitting squashed up next to the driver. He told me he had promised to take Sana to the cinema later in the day That fine autumn morning, for the first time, he whispered something in my ear. My only answer was an embarrassed smile, or that was what it was meant to be. He rested his arm protectively along the seat behind me. His fingers rested lightly on my right shoulder, his thigh against mine. I smelt the familiar smell of his toothpaste and felt a slight tickle where he’d whispered in my ear. I had no reason to turn towards him, so looking straight ahead with the same embarrassed smile, I asked him what this had to do with me. He told me Sana refused to go without me, and so the decision was up to me. I saw nothing wrong in this indirect invitation to go out with him, and it didn’t occur to me to refuse outright. First of all, I wanted to go, to enjoy myself, and secondly, at the time I couldn’t think of a polite way to refuse. Similarly I wasn’t particularly conscious of the mysterious relationship between our shoulders touching, out visit to the cinema, and the smiles we got from my aunt and uncle and Madiha when we said we were going. I stifled a premonition that I was hiding from myself things which I understood, or ought to understand, and convinced myself that I was overreacting. However, when he leaned towards me in the dim light of the cinema, asking what I thought about a friend of his who wanted to propose marriage to a girl, but didn’t know whether to talk to her parents or approach her directly, I knew I should have refused his invitation. I felt myself turn pale with fear. God, how terrified I was by those few words, whispered so gently! I remained speechless, staring at the moving colors on the distant screen. I had the impression he was looking at me. Perhaps he was waiting for an answer, but what answer? I spoke to Sana, to take my mind off him. She was sitting at the front of out box, completely wrapped up in the film. She answered me quickly and turned back to the film. I felt him moving his seat closer to mine, then he repeated the apparently innocent question. There was no escaping it. I asked him why he thought I was capable of expressing a relevant opinion on such matters.
You’re sensible. Balanced. Well-educated. Have a different point of view. Moistening my lips, I told him it would be better for his friend to follow tradition and approach the family to ask for her hand. Then I regretted what I’d said. I could possibly escape from him if I acted on my own, bur if my mother or brother were involved, it didn’t even bear thinking of. Hurriedly I said that if the girl was broad-minded, modern in her thinking, and knew what was coming, he could approach her in person, wait for her answer, and be understanding. I was speaking in a whisper like him, out of the corner of my mouth, half turned towards him. All the time my heart was beating wildly, and I had a persistent sense of foreboding. I thanked God that all this was happening in a place where the lights were low and intermittent. Then I saw him move vaguely and felt his hand touch my arm, which was resting on the arm of the seat. For a moment I didn’t know how to react. I was confused, rather than upset. Should I pretend, like all girls do, that I didn’t feel anything, or ask him to explain himself, turn and look at him, move my arm? But he was whispering to me again, asking if I was generally opposed to marriage. I turned towards him, somewhat surprised. He looked handsome: the light was reflected in his eyes and on his hair, and he had an irresistible smile on his lips. It amazed me that this elegant youth was approaching me, talking to me so kindly. His face was flushed, lit up. happy. I couldn’t think what to answer, so I turned away from him. He squeezed my arm gently I murmured that it had nothing to do with me. He asked why.
I had calmed down slightly during this game of words and was in no hurry to answer him, staring straight ahead at the screen, hut aware of the pressure of his hand and his eyes on me. Why did he think that I, of all people, was qualified to talk about marriage? But that wasn’t the question; the question was are you for marriage or against it? Does it bother you that people marry one another, love one another, have children together?
I had no choice but to say I was for marriage, especially as sayin
g I was against it meant nothing in my view. He said he was with me on this and backed me up wholeheartedly Suddenly I laughed at the tortuous way he was conducting the encounter, trying to appear as if he had nothing specific in mind. He laughed with me, and Sana turned round and bombarded us with questions. I drew my arm away, he let go and sat back, and we resumed out normal positions.
I took a few deep breaths. Perhaps I had been wrong to laugh, as the victim. Laughter would allow this earnest suitor to think that his prey was looking for a net to throw herself into, and, Lord, it was the first sign of consent.
I withdrew silently, sitting as far away from him as I could. I wasn’t sad; by nature I was inclined to be cheerful and happy; but the millstone I had chosen to he tied to was dragging me down, away from warmth and life and sweet folly, and I couldn’t abandon it all without regret.
The Long Way Back Page 21