The Long Way Back

by Fuad al-Takarli

  Sana looked at Munira and tried to signal to her surreptitiously.

  “Is something wrong?” Sana’s mother asked Munira.

  Munira shook her head vaguely Sana’s mother rose to her feet with some effort, and Munira didn’t look in Sana’s direction as she took her arm and went out with her. Sana had to tell Munira that the letter would reach Uncle Midhat tomorrow, as her father had said, and that she shouldn’t worry. But they never left her alone with Munira. In a while she would try and see her in her pretty bedroom with its soft blue light and describe to her how she had handed over the letter to her father. But Auntie Munira seemed busier than usual, as if she’d forgotten that she had entrusted her with a very special mission, which she had carried out faithfully and at some cost to herself. They always grew suddenly preoccupied like this when somebody brought them a piece of news. It occurred to her that her father’s visit might have some connection with their present air of distraction. Another thought pleased her, which was that her Uncle Midhat was at her father’s and could come back to them any day. So he hadn’t gone away and nothing awful had happened to him, as she had vaguely felt it might have. Perhaps he would soon be back.

  “Are you still here, Najiya my dear?” she heard great-grandmother Umm Hasan ask.

  “Yes, Mum. What is it?” answered Munira’s mother.

  “Nothing. I was just asking, dear.”

  Sana was sitting in an old chair with a red blanket thrown over it, Her eyelids grew heavy and her head spun. She closed her eyes for a moment and was almost sucked down into a whirlpool of languor. She wasn’t going to be able to talk to Auntie Munira on her own tonight. She got up out of the chair and went to lie down on her bed. Euphoria spread through her body as her limbs relaxed, and she delighted in the cool touch of the cover on her arm. She would see her tomorrow and tell her what had happened. Tomorrow, for sure. And she would laugh as she told her how she had pulled her father’s tail. The tail of his jacket. Auntie Munira would laugh, too, and Sana would be so happy to see her laughing. So happy.

  Chapter

  Twelve (1)

  Brief Shining and Survival

  His own scream woke him. He opened his eyes in the gray darkness, jaws trembling and heart thudding. As he sat up in bed, a cold tear ran down from one eye. He was breathing hard and fast. He wiped his damp face and neck. From the start he had known that he was dreaming and told himself that he would soon wake up. And yet, despite this, he had seen her in front of him. He had seen her when he was dreaming, aware that he was dreaming, and had pointed a knife at her. She was submissive and docile, accepting the mad thrusts of the knife which tore at her flesh and caressing his other arm very gently. So he had screamed and covered his face with his hands, emerging defeated from hell. Then he wept. His chest exploded with sobs like the waves of the sea, his tears running out between his fingers and the sobbing rising from deep inside him. He wanted to take his hands away from his face and force himself to calm down but, in the darkness of the bare room, he seemed to have lost all resolve and willpower, and his tears continued to flow. He had stabbed at her chest and stomach and head. He recalled that he had begun to cry as he committed his illusory crime. The only thing which had really frightened him was seeing her caress him. She had not stopped him doing what he was doing, but had caressed him with understanding and affection. He screamed, suffocated by a great anguish which had taken hold of him by the throat and pressed down on his chest. Or perhaps he hadn’t screamed, but had been on the point of exploding or dying of asphyxiation.

  He took his hands away from his face, searched in his pocket for a handkerchief, and wiped his face and neck and eves, noticing an intermittent snoring and muttering beside him. The darkness in the room was shot through with light; on the wall near the window the moon cast silver rays. Husayn must have returned without him realizing. He could see him asleep on the sofa, a dark mound standing out from its surroundings. Midhat’s mouth and throat were dry. He pushed back the worn cover and lowered his feet on to the floor, feeling for his shoes. He couldn’t find them and tried again without success. He stood up. His thigh muscles hurt him. The floor was cold. He tiptoed towards the door, wiping his nose, and as he went by the sofa he heard Husayn breathing noisily and mumbling alien words. He opened the door and it squealed like a cat. He turned on the light and looked at his watch. It was a few minutes past four. He stood in front of the basin, and the cloudy mirror reflected his unshaven face and red eyes. He washed his hands and face in cold water and passed his fingers through his unruly hair, feeling how dirty it was. He washed his hands again and reached for the towel. As he was bringing it up to his face, he was overcome by the stench of rottenness it gave off and put it back in its place, He felt the coldness of the floor eating into the soles of his feet as he took out his handkerchief to dry his face. He looked in the mirror again. His features were expressionless; nobody examining his face would ever take him for a man who had been unjustifiably persecuted, although perhaps there was a sort of appeal in his eyes, which he had seen somewhere before. There was certainly nothing in his face to suggest that he could be a killer. On the contrary, the lines on either side of his nose and mouth, the faint twist of his lips, along with the unfathomable look in his eyes, were the signs of a person who was himself heading for destruction.

  A faint quiver ran down his back. Were people’s fates written on their faces? A brief image of the eyes of the run-over dog flashed into his mind. The eyes like glowing coals, distress signals flaring for the last time, receiving no response. He felt annoyed, turned the tap on again, drank some cold water, washed his eyes, dried them on his handkerchief, and went off towards the lavatory. He was seized by a slight fit of vertigo. Coming back, he switched off the light and paused at the bedroom door. The room was hot, the air heavy with the smells of shoes, dirty socks, breath laden with onion and arak. He hesitated before going in, then took a deep breath of the relatively pure air outside the room and went in and shut the door. The smells disappeared after a few paces. His bed was further from the door than Husayn’s sofa, and he began feeling his way towards it. Husayn seemed to be breathing quietly now. He reached his bed and stood beside it. The silver moonlight had retreated into the little window recess. Husayn gave a sudden snore and sighed several times. Midhat raised his leg, about to climb into bed, when he was overcome by an uncontrollable flood of emotion. Her soft gentle hand was back responding to him again, acquiescing to the horror which he had brought upon her. In the faint shadows, it took hold of him like a dreadful reproach, leading him back into his dream, into the crazed state he had been in when he was stabbing her. His whole body trembled, and a brief sob burst from him. He clamped his mouth shut, then tried to stand up straight, but his legs refused to obey him and he fell like a log on to the floor beside the bed.

  He did not feel great pain and had let his arms go loose at his side as he fell, surrendering to this unexpected collapse of his body. The cold floor stung his back and he sat up and began rubbing his forehead and shoulders until a muscle in his upper arm went into spasm. His head was ringing and he understood the nature of the physical weakness he was suffering from now. He had not actively desired it, but had neglected, or forgotten, all the things he needed to do to preserve his energy. Neglect and oblivion were easy where he was currently living. In any case he had hoped that if he were physically weak he would be more relaxed, but now he doubted if this were true: he would still be left with his mind operating on all levels, conscious and unconscious, balanced and unbalanced. He would have had the same dream even on his deathbed. It—this dream and what lay behind it—was what connected him to the depravity and pretensions of his forefathers, their complexes, and their crazy love of honor and killing. It was, after all, the illusory acting out of their will, the deed they demanded from him, and he had done it; what did it matter if it was a dream or reality, since everything would pass, taking him with it?

  He was sitting cross-legged on the floor by the bed in the
dark, unable to see and not wanting to. What did they want from women? What was it they had wanted all down the ages?

  If only she had told him. He struck the floor with his right palm. Precious woman. Beloved female. Wife of his heart. If only she had told him. He raised his hand to hit the floor again, then paused, aware of the tears rising in his chest and threatening to spill out. This terrified him. He put his hand over his mouth, forcing it shut, as if he wanted to strangle his own cries. His heart was pounding, and he felt something pressing on his skull from the inside, pushing his eyeballs out of their sockets. Moments passed; he sat with his hand clasped to his mouth as his breathing regularized gradually and calm returned to him.

  If only she had told him. His body was shaking, from the tips of his toes to the hair on his head, like a leaf blown about by the wind at the top of a tree. But despite the shaking he maintained a fraction of equilibrium, just enough will power to ensure that he wouldn’t take leave of his senses again. He relaxed his hand. This was what was new: he would never kill somebody without being aware of what he was doing. This was what was really new. What would have happened if she had told him? Now these words would never frighten him again. He could repeat them to himself in the same form, or a different one, and it wouldn’t matter. What if she had told him everything? Why hadn’t she confessed her secret to him? Why? Why? He was muttering aloud, making a noise as if he had difficulty breathing. He could hear her talking and began to tremble violently again, his heart racing. But it had not happened; she had said nothing. If she had told him, he would have left her. He would still leave her. He felt calmer. He would have saved his own skin. Perhaps she had realized this and had chosen to destroy him slowly, to kill him in several installments.

  The first morning in this rathole of Husayn’s he had woken up late, full of images of her in a long, uncensored dream of sex. To begin with, he had been amazed to find himself there, then, coming to his senses, he had reconstructed the chain of events. Then he had vomited, retched, vomited again, on the floor, in the basin, and in the toilet, until he had almost heaved his guts up, not knowing why he was doing it, unless it was to remove all traces of the erotic dream.

  It was like a slow death, but she hadn’t wanted him to die. What language was she talking for him not to understand her? He was even beginning to doubt if he had heard her right. Had she betrayed him, or shown him a particular kind of trust? Or been insanely provocative? Kill me and cleanse your souls in my blood.

  He hauled himself up, resting his weight on the bed, flung himself on to it and pulled the cover over him. A dull light came in at the window, and Husayn’s breathing was unusually regular.

  Kill me without committing murder; this was obviously how she had thought of the equation. It was acceptable verbally, but unrealizable and inherently ridiculous. People did not die, then come back to life, and it made no difference if the person was a beautiful, beloved woman like her. Even supposing she had been allowed to rise from the dead, would she have come back pure as the morning dew?

  He was sitting up in bed looking towards the small window. He had been here a little while now. He was not thinking about himself. He was no longer able to. Even his food and drink were decided for him by Husayn or those imbeciles who owned the house. He used to think they were a gentle, kindly old couple but they had wanted him out the second day, taking advantage of* the absence of Husayn, who probably cheated them and controlled them in ways Midhat knew nothing of. They tried to drag him along by the ear like a wet dog and put him out in the alley, fie remained silent and withdrawn, thinking about the attacks of sickness which had beset him all the previous day, and the man and his wife didn’t pose any real threat to him. Munira was with him, too, throbbing like a wound that wouldn’t heal; he was busy going through the reasons why he had run away, determined not to see anyone, and when the old man grabbed hold of him by the edge of his crumpled jacket he looked at him and saw, behind the small dirty eyes with no lashes, the caved-in mouth, the henna-stained beard and moustache and the deformed language, profound impotence, thinly veiled by a childish ferocity and hardness. He remembered he had brought some cash with him; he didn’t know if he still had it and reached for his wallet. The old couple were standing behind him, talking angrily about the chaos and filth and drunkenness, and the amount of food consumed, when he found his money. Without answering any of their accusations he took out a five dinar note and offered it to them.

  Husayn turned over on the ancient sofa where he was sleeping. He had furnished it with a pillow and a few blankets, boasting that he never knew when he was going to go to bed or wake up. But he didn’t enjoy sleeping there, cursing the old couple when he woke up late in the morning, and complaining that his bones were broken. Midhat was not offering to swap the bed for the sofa as long as he had any money. What he would do when his cash ran out was another question. It was a problem of crucial importance in his life, which he had no desire to confront. But did he have a choice? For a while now he had dug deep down inside himself like a mole, but not for his own personal pleasure. Nobody could believe that he enjoyed these internal conflicts, as if he gratified himself secretly by banging his head against walls.

  The wall? She was standing by a mud brick wall. No. His breathing came faster. He had dragged her there, had taken hold of her as he was looking into her face, noticing the hint of determination on her full lips. It was not obvious at that moment what he was planning to do. They had walked around for a while, until they reached a mud wall, and he brandished his knife at her. He didn’t see her face from then on, not even the fine eyebrows which he hacked at with the knife. Her eyes were what he loved most in the world, even deep inside his warped unconscious mind. How she smiled when he was kissing her in the corner of her left eye, dark with kohl, and immediately afterwards he began cutting up her chest and stomach, at the foot of that dirty mud wall.

  Nobody had applauded him, nobody at all; and if she hadn’t touched his arm so tenderly everything would have ended peacefully He wouldn’t have shouted or wept, as he was doing now. His tears would have fallen gently, like little streams, as they ought to have done. In complete calm.

  He was sitting on the bed in the bare room with another day breaking outside, wearing the clothes he had been in for over a week now and crying like a child at the images and dreams coming and going in his mind. What did it all mean, anyway? What did anything mean, whether you looked at the parts or the whole? Tears, for example, salt water stored somewhere behind the temples which, when pressure was applied for one reason or another, flowed from channel to channel before finally spurting out of the eyes. How could anybody conclude that this salty liquid, coming from such an unlikely place, was a sign of weakness, defeat, lethargy, loss of willpower, resignation, frustration? What was the salt related to? Heaven and hell? Adam and Eve? Our lathers and grandfathers and what they said or would have said if they’d had time? Did every human act really have an explanation or a meaning, an antecedent, a consequence? Was that why mankind transmitted its fear of certain acts and their significance from one generation to another? Did human beings have any significance, other than that they existed? Did his own life have any meaning? What could shame him? Could he be shamed? Yes, for doing nothing, so they said. What about her, on the other hand? She who had forced him into contact with failure and impotence, what significance did she have? Now that she had lost something, she had acquired a significance which she was lacking before. Was that torn membrane what gave her a meaning? Was it even the key to whether she lived or died?

  He buried his damp face in his hands. Her meaning was in him. He was the one who had imparted those negative traits to her, the sediment of past generations deposited deep inside him, when he held her like a warm bird next to his heart. He had not respected that delicacy and transparency; he had gone ahead at full speed, soiling it, then walked away brushing the dirt off his hands, saving his own skin, emerging from the skirmish with his honor intact. But how had she allowed . . .
Ah, where would it lead him if he tried to fathom out the sources of her pain? Was he really the person to get to the heart of it, acting with discretion and motivated by love?

  He had not said a word to her as he closed the door on her and left her on her own. He was allowed to save himself, wasn’t he? He had slipped out silently, like a thief in the night. Never at any time had he degenerated into screaming and shouting at her, despite all the dirt deposited in him by previous generations. He had just been surprised that she wanted this for him. His head had reeled from the shock. In her clouded hazel eyes he had not detected a single cry for help. Had she despaired of him, even when she was holding him close and he felt her slim arms around him, pressing on his back, or when she covered her throbbing breast in embarrassment? When she was whispering in his ear, his heart? When she smiled at him with all her being, shining on him like the sun, like life?

  He took his hands away from his face. So were they doomed, two hopeless creatures without a future?

  It was growing brighter outside the little window, as the darkness in the room gave way to the murky light of early dawn. She had taken hold of him, with all her womanly affection, and led him towards the abyss. It had been her choice. She had known what was wrong with her and not told him, because she hadn’t wanted to be left alone, wasn’t strong enough to face the world by herself. Or perhaps she had trusted him and loved him, really loved him, and wanted him to understand the plight she was in. Then he would be at the roof of this whole thing. Could she have really loved him? It was a crazy idea. She hadn’t told him. Perhaps she had seen him as a hero. If they loved each other like that, it meant they shared the shame, were bound by hidden ties for the rest of their lives. Had she, too, played with similar notions and married him after making certain calculations? But they had both been damned from the start because they had not broken free of their roots. If they had cut themselves off from these roots they would have been sure of finding a way out. However, she knew nothing of all this, and the person she had taken a chance with was the one who subsequently stuck a knife in her. What difference did it make that it happened in a dream? There was a situation, whether it was in a fantasy world, heaven, or a remote corner of the universe, in which he was able to stab her and carry on until she touched him and said, “Enough. Enough death. Enough purging the shame. Enough of wanting to cleanse the air with your blood and erase the stars with your fingers.”