Qissat (19 page)

‘Tomorrow I will get up early and do the shopping. Where is the shopping list?’

‘Why are you telling me this? Do you think this interests me, or so much as my fingernail? And …’

She returned to the table and took the list and ripped it up.

‘This is my list. Write your own list.’

His world seems to be balanced on a carpet, which she pulls from underneath his feet in a minute and shakes over the veranda. He did not know what was missing.

Even the beautiful moments of having coffee together became another form of their eternal fights. How did these fights happen?

He feels he cannot find her any more. He tries to give her his love, decency and desire, but always takes fright and draws back. He feels he’s nothing. He is the one that brings her close to tears rather than closer to him. He could not bear to hear her crying. Her tears made him hate himself.

She was at home and might be sad. He wanted to distance himself from the places she might be in, and the places he wanted to take her to.

Truly, he loves her and wants to be hers and close to her, behind her, above her, below her. Then love becomes a race between Torment and Pain. Every time pain recedes so does desire. And every time desire lessens so does his love. His pain lessens, his love lessens.

Then, even the neutral white wall becomes tiring for the eyes that are glued to it unwillingly.

Unavoidably.

She has left.

He always came on weekends to play soccer with my cousins. He was tall, slim, soft-spoken; his name was Sebastian. I could not look at him directly, but when he looked away all I could see were his deep green eyes. My cousin Jamil sensed that I fancied Sebastian. But a ‘good Arab girl’ should not have such feelings for a non-Arab, and why would I even bother going there if I wasn’t going to marry him? It was culture. Our family gave us everything, so we had to give back to them by following tradition.

One Saturday afternoon as the boys were playing, Jamil’s father called him. I could see Jamil wanting to resist, but he didn’t. We were taught to respect our elders’ wishes; so Jamil headed for the car to run an errand for him. We looked at each other and his stare petrified me. What did Jamil think of me? What did I think of myself? Was I bad? And if I was, then why didn’t I feel guilty?

The boys played for another hour, and I allowed myself to look at Sebastian move up and down the field like never before. It was the first time I could see the shape of his chest. His muscles outlined under his tight white shirt, his legs slightly less hairy, slightly less muscular than the other boys. The game ended and my grandmother called me to get water for them. I gave all ten of them a glass, and they kept asking for refills. Sebastian thanked me. I smiled. He winked. I could feel everything move inside of me, and could also feel Jamil standing behind me. I recognised his breathing: it was heavy when he was upset or excited. Jamil was intelligent and had this intense look that many girls liked but he never spoke about anyone. The truth is, he was a bit stiff. Why couldn’t he be as relaxed as Sebastian? I wished he had found a girlfriend, which would distract him from looking after me.

My aunt Samia came out of the house to tell everyone to come eat her
shish barak
that evening. She and my uncle always threw parties on Friday evenings.

‘What’s that?’ Sebastian asked me.

‘You will see tonight,’ I jumped at the occasion to make it official. He was coming.

Jamil told Sebastian to bring his sister Ann, who was a friend of mine. But this was all very new, having friends over. We didn’t really invite foreigners to our family gatherings, probably because we kept to ourselves or they kept away from us. Our families especially did not invite young non-Arab men to our parties because many of the girls in my family were old enough for marriage. This was something Sebastian knew nothing about.

That evening I asked my cousin Soraya, who was twenty-two, to help me dress. She was very tall with black eyes and silky black hennaed hair which fell past her shoulders.

‘So who are you getting dressed for? Roula’s son … Ramzi?’

‘What would give you that idea?’

‘Ya habibi,
he is hot.’

‘I guess … But come on, I can’t be myself with him.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘He is Arab.’

‘Listen, who can ever show their real “self” to anyone …?’

‘I can.’

‘Really, so why don’t you tell me what you are thinking of right now?’

She surprised me. I could not answer because I was thinking that, due to her past, she was not the best person to give advice.

‘Listen, everyone criticises me, says I am “used material”. Why? Because I was in love with Brad Anderson when I was sixteen and slept with him and that imbecile Walid told everyone.’

‘I thought …’

‘Even if I slept with half the population, who gives a damn… But I didn’t. The point is, people will always speak and they will always say what they want. Truth and reality are often distant neighbours.’

Up until that moment no other woman I knew had ever been so honest with me. I liked her not only because she was family, but also because of who she was – I had never thought of things that way. At that moment my aunt came in and asked us to help her. Soraya and I looked at each other as if we did not want to part. We bent our heads at the same time and then headed for the door. Soraya suddenly asked me to wait, went to her closet and came back with something in her hands.

‘Before we go out, wear this,’ she handed me a bracelet made of early twentieth-century Palestinian coins. I was touched.

‘Go ahead, wear it. It brings luck.’

‘It is so beautiful, are you sure you trust me with this?’

She smiled. At that moment I knew the courage I found in her would help me reach the next place.

When we got downstairs Umm Kulthoum was on. The stereo. The television. She was everywhere. Her voice knew the way into each one of our hearts. Soraya and I went to the kitchen. My aunt and the other women were humming and singing and they started handing us the food platters so we could place them on the dining-room table. Outside, in the patio and in the garden, my uncles and cousins were either playing
tawoule,
smoking
arguileh,
speaking about politics or their dream of returning to Palestine someday, or telling us the same childhood stories – the girls they liked, their days running in the fields and their anticipation at taking part in the olive harvest. Usually, after they had eaten, they would sit together and just sing Umm Kulthoum’s songs. It was like a meditation. A prayer. A return home.

My aunt Samia told me that the black dress I was wearing suited me, made me look like a young woman but ‘
Laysh,
’ she said. ‘Why don’t you ever put your hair down.’ I did not answer. I had heard it too many times. I have very wavy hair and they wanted me to put it down, but only when I blow-dried it straight. They didn’t want anyone seeing me with wild curly hair and I couldn’t go to the hairdresser every three days, so I kept my hair up.

As I placed the last dish, tabbouleh, on the table, my eyes locked with Sebastian’s. Soraya interrupted by whispering in my ear, ‘What’s he doing here?’

I looked at her surprised, but before I could answer, my aunt called her back into the kitchen. I walked over to Sebastian.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi, you look pretty,’ Sebastian said confidently.

The power he had on me overwhelmed me, so I did not answer.

‘So where are the others? Did Ann come?’ he asked.

‘Yes, she is somewhere.’

At that moment, Ann and Jamil came towards us. My prayers were answered. Jamil was interested in Ann. In an unusually relaxed manner, he told us to join everyone upstairs in the television room.

When we got upstairs, Sebastian asked, ‘Why is this woman with dark glasses on every television in the house?’

‘That is Umm Kulthoum, one of the most well-known female Arab singers,’ I replied proudly.

‘Damn, she doesn’t have a cool name.’

Everyone laughed, but I did not find it funny. I heard someone calling my name, so I went to see who it was. It was Soraya telling me to get her father’s cigarettes from the table in his bedroom, in the first drawer. I went down the long white corridor with ‘Enta Omri’ trailing behind me. A song that takes you to your love. Who was my love? I got to the room, opened the heavy wooden door and headed for the small glass table, but the cigarettes were not in the first drawer, so I opened the drawer below it. The cigarettes were lying on top of a
kuffiyeh.
I could see books and magazines under it and since I loved to read, I lifted the
kuffiyeh.
What I saw took me aback. I sat on the floor for what felt like a very long time. Jamil came in and sat beside me.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

He looked at the open drawer and then looked at me.

‘It’s only soft porn.’

I was not sure what I felt at that point, shocked, disappointed. More than anything, I felt like I knew less and less.

‘It is all so hypocritical, we are told to be pure, stay virgins – and they are looking at porn.’

‘It’s not …’

‘Please, we criticise the West but we are not better.’

‘We have family.’

‘They do too.’

‘Not like us.’

I didn’t respond. So he said, ‘I suppose all we can do is ask ourselves what works best for us.’

We heard a noise and quickly put the
kuffiyeh
back, closed the drawer and stood up.

‘What happened to the cigarettes?’ Soraya asked, looking at me.

‘I have them here,’ I showed them to her. Jamil left and I stayed behind with her.

‘Before we go downstairs, can I ask you something?’ She nodded her head.

‘How was Brad’s family?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I just want to know.’

‘They were wonderful people. Brad was the unworthy one.’

‘But I thought you loved him.’

‘I did. But he just wanted to sleep with me, and he told Walid we were together. Boys are the same in all cultures.’

I did not know what to say but felt I should say something, ‘But in our culture we have family, respect. Look at Sebastian’s parents, they are divorced.’

She walked up to me, took the cigarettes from me, and said, ‘It’s not that perfect,’ and walked away. I understood.

I went back to the television room and sat next to Sebastian this time, unafraid and quite flirtatious. I realised that I did not really know who Sebastian was, but I did not care. I felt strong inside. After dinner, when everyone was distracted, I asked Sebastian to come with me. I knew this was the time to get away. Umm Kulthoum would be on even louder and everyone would be in a daze.

Sebastian walked behind me. I had the power and I liked it. That evening, I learned that men were fascinated by women and that women could seduce. I was in control. The corridor was L-shaped and Soraya’s room was at the end of the hall. When we got there, I told him to stay outside and I left the door half open. I turned the table light on, turned my back to him and started to undress. By now the house was vibrating, the music was very loud, but all I could hear was one voice.

My black blouse had buttons from top to bottom which I slowly unbuttoned. I let the blouse fall to the floor. Then I did something I did not think I would ever do, especially in front of a man, I put my hair down. My long curls rolled down my back, all the way down to my waist. I could feel the fire between my thighs, a trembling. I stood still. This feeling was unfamiliar; it pleased me. Was I allowed to feel this way? I pushed all the questions from my mind and let his eyes penetrate me.

I could feel him moving closer to the frame of the door, waiting for me to call to him. I bent my head backwards and heard his breathing. I wanted more. I knew he wanted more. It was midnight. I turned around, looked at him and said. ‘I always loved your voice, Jamil.’

My brother …

I used to wish I could remain a thing unknown to you, and that you could live your life without a sister whose existence so tortured you that you bowed your head in disgrace at the mention of her name and wished she had never come into being. But I saw you some days ago, travelling through our neighbourhood with restless, anxious and bewildered steps. I recognised your familiar face, and I read on it – from afar – an expression I had expected. I realised that ‘news’ of me had reached you; I felt sure the vile Awad had not let you be and had told you tales about me. Perhaps he had taunted you and gone too far … he injured your pride and goaded you so that the blood surged to your head and that night and the following nights haunted you. You went hungry for a week, or even several, to save up for the price of a gun you’d empty in my head at the first encounter. My intuition proved true when I saw your fingers grip something in your pocket.

It must have been the gun.

Yes, I foresaw all this the moment you left the orphanage where you spent your youth and emerged a new man pure in spirit, heart and gaze, pursuing a living as an honourable person. You wanted a place that would shelter you and your few belongings; you found nowhere but our old alley where we had lived when our father was alive. It was then I sensed the coming of some evil. I knew that Awad would not leave you alone until he had filled your head with his stories about me. The neighbourhood thought itself too respectable for the fun and games of ‘indecent’ women. There was a stain that had to be wiped away, and a tale to amuse the men while they sat around their glasses of black tea in the coffee shop, and some gossip too to set off the women’s prattling tongues each time they stuck their heads out of a window or flocked to a neighbour’s. A tale as juicy as mine was sure to entertain the neighbourhood for many months.