The Bamboo Stalk (24 page)

Grandmother had another personality that she didn't usually display. One day, by chance and without her noticing I was there, I saw an aspect of her that I will never forget. This severe, overbearing woman, who never let a smile cross her lips, had a strange passion for music. Not the music that I'm familiar with, but a kind of folk music called something like samurai. Khawla told me about it one day. She laughed when I asked her if it was
Japanese and she made fun of my ignorance. ‘You don't understand anything!' she said, the very same expression Merla used to use whenever I asked her about anything I didn't know. It was actually called Samiri, and it involved poetry as well as music.

I was walking past the glass door on my way to the kitchen. The door was half-open and through the gap I saw Grandmother behaving strangely. I went up to the door and peaked through. The television was broadcasting one of these songs. There was an old man sitting cross-legged on the floor, which was spread with red carpets. His face was smooth and soft and he was wearing a white headdress held in place with a thin black ring and a bright blue jacket over the traditional white thobe. He was holding an oud. He was wearing dark glasses although he was indoors in a studio. To his right there was a man playing the fiddle and to his left a man playing an instrument that looked like a guzheng. Around him sat men in white thobes and women wearing strange-looking dresses, each one a different colour but all of them with gold embroidery across the bodice. There were other women wearing black abayas like the ones Grandmother wore when she went out. The musicians played and the chorus sang. Some of them were clapping, while others were singing behind the man in the blue jacket and others were holding strange-looking drums. Grandmother was completely carried away by the song. She was holding her black shawl between her fingers to cover the lower half of her face. Her upper body was swaying rhythmically in time with the song, while her lower half was immobile. Her legs were stretched out on the footstool as always. Her head was bent forwards and swaying in time with her shoulders. She leaned her torso to one side, then slowly reversed and leaned it to the other side, completely enthralled by the song, like a cobra by the flute of a snake-charmer. An
extraordinary woman. Even when she danced, she had an awesome presence. All I could do was hold my breath and watch her perform her ritual.

*   *   *

At first I could only go into the sitting room and the dining room, which opened on to the sitting room, but now I started going into Grandmother's room every day. She covered her face with her black shawl and lay down on her bed, leaving me to massage her legs. I would spend up to an hour there. Then she would start snoring and I withdrew. I spent the rest of the time in the sitting room with Khawla.

Once I was at the top of the stairs and about to go down. Khawla was lying in the sitting room and I could hear her talking on the phone in English, as usual when she spoke to her friends. I went downstairs quietly and as soon as I stepped foot on the ground floor Khawla realised I was there. She screamed. She picked up a cushion that was next to her on the sofa and covered her head with it. ‘Isa! Wait, wait!' she shouted. I turned away as if I had invaded her bedroom when she was changing. ‘OK, you can come now,' she said after putting on her
hijab
. It was the first time I had seen her long black hair uncovered. My sister was beautiful and looked very much like Hind. I sat down next to her on the sofa. ‘Does Islam say I can't see you with your head uncovered?' I asked her.

She locked her fingers together and started to wave her legs in the air like a child. ‘In fact Islam doesn't say that in the case of a
mahram
,' she said.

‘A
mahram
?'

‘Yes, a
mahram
. The husband or people that the woman
wouldn't be able to marry – her father, her grandfather, her brother, her son and some special cases,' she said.

I locked my fingers together and started waving my legs in the air like her. ‘Well then! There's no need for this
hijab
, because I'm your brother,' I said.

She stopped waving her legs and pursed her lips. ‘Not yet,' she said. ‘It's still too early for me to feel we're brother and sister.'

I stopped waving my legs. She turned to me and continued, ‘Even if Father were still alive, he'd need time to accept you as his son.'

I was annoyed by what she said. ‘That's not true,' I said.

She nodded assertively. ‘Marquez says people don't love their children because they're their children but because of the friendship that develops when they bring them up.'

I looked at her like an idiot.

‘Who's Marquez?' I asked.

She opened her eyes wide and, as usual, made fun of my ignorance. ‘You don't understand anything,' she said.

*   *   *

When I was young, I learned a lot from Merla and I put that down to the fact that she was four years older than me. But now that I had grown up, how come I was learning from Khawla, who was two years younger than me? Was I really so slow at understanding things? When I liked the things she said or her answers to my questions, I would say, ‘Khawla! Where do you get these answers from?' She would point to Father's study. ‘From there,' she would say confidently.

‘If only I could read Arabic!' I said sadly.

Her mobile phone rang. She put it to her ear and started speaking in English. When she'd finished her conversation, I asked her why she'd been speaking English. ‘I like it for conversation, more than Arabic,' she replied immediately.

I took the opportunity to show off my knowledge. ‘José Rizal says that anyone who doesn't like his mother tongue is worse than a rotten fish,' I said.

She frowned. ‘And who would José Rizal be?' she asked inquisitively.

I shook my head, pretending to be shocked. ‘You don't understand anything,' I said.

Khawla wouldn't leave me alone that day till I'd told her everything about the national hero of the Philippines. ‘He made that remark when he noticed that Filipinos had started to abandon their own language and adopt the language of the colonisers,' I told her. She showed so much interest that I was encouraged to continue. ‘He was a doctor, a writer, an artist and a great thinker. He was familiar with twenty-two languages. He believed that freedom was life. He criticised Spanish colonialism and called for reforms. He incited revolution against the colonialists. He wrote a famous novel called
Noli Me Tangere
in which he exposed the practices of the Spanish and their appalling violations of the rights of the Filipino people. He followed that up with a novel called
El Filibusterismo
. He wanted to rouse the Filipinos from their subservience to Spain. People related to him and the Spanish resented that. They arrested him. He had been in prison a long time when he was executed. The people revolted and the Filipinos managed to throw out the colonisers within two years and declare independence. Freedom has a price and that price was Rizal.' I
looked at Khawla with pride. ‘In the Philippines they called me José, after him.'

Khawla was enthralled by the story of Rizal and listened to me with interest. When I'd said what I had to say, she said, ‘When Father said he wanted to change reality by writing, he wasn't crazy like Grandmother says.' She bowed her head, then continued, ‘If only he'd finished his novel before he was captured.' She looked at my face thoughtfully. ‘If only people here read,' she added.

*   *   *

The fact that I had good relationships with Khawla and Ghassan didn't stop me from feeling lonely. A kind of barrier stood between us, even if it was a barrier full of gaps. Khawla had the same feeling. She felt alone although she was surrounded by Grandmother and our aunts. When I asked her one day how she fought against this feeling of hers, she surprised me with her answer. ‘Whenever I feel the need for someone to talk to, I open a book,' she said.

I thought a while, then I said, ‘But books don't listen.'

‘When I was little, Miri was the person closest to me. She always listened to me even if she wasn't able to do anything,' she replied. ‘That didn't last long,' she added, bowing her head. ‘My relationship with Miri upset Grandmother. She forbade me from talking to her.' Her smile returned. ‘But I found an alternative,' she continued.

I looked at her inquiringly, encouraging her to continue.

‘If I need to tell someone all the things I'm too embarrassed to reveal . . .' She stopped and smiled and winked at me. ‘Then I tell Aziza,' she continued, ‘she's the one who listens to me best.'

‘Aziza? Who's she?' I asked her in puzzlement.

Khawla walked towards the glass door. ‘Wait a moment,' she said. ‘It's a good opportunity to introduce you to her.'

She came back a minute later with a lettuce leaf in her hand and put it on the carpet in the middle of the sitting room. Then she sat on the sofa. ‘Let's wait a while. She's rather slow,' she said.

We didn't have to wait more than three minutes before a tortoise appeared from under one of the sofas in the corner, the size of an average soup bowl. It walked slowly towards the lettuce leaf in the middle of the carpet. Khawla pointed to the tortoise, turned to me and said, ‘Aziza.'

I nodded in delight. ‘Pleased to meet you,' I said.

 

16

On 24 September 2006, Ramadan began. I really suffered during the month – the hunger, the thirst and the people.

Since I was Muslim as far as my family was concerned, I had to fast. And because I was willing to perform any ritual that might bring me close to God, even if I didn't know what religion I was, I had to fast. I envied the Muslims their ability to tolerate the hunger and thirst. It's admirable. But for me it was impossible. I managed to fast five hours the first day, six hours the second day and eight hours the third day. Then I fasted the whole of the fourth day. I jumped for joy when I heard the call to prayer at sunset from the local mosques and on the telephone – ‘
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar
' – marking the end of the fast for the day.

After
iftar
on the first day I fell fast asleep on my bed, almost unconscious. No one inside the house talked. Khawla, Hind and Grandmother sat for hours in front of the television, moving from their seats only to pray. I hadn't noticed they were so interested in television until it was Ramadan. There was also a lot of praying in the month. Even late at night I saw light from the window of Grandmother's room. Khawla said Grandmother prayed all night.

Ghassan had strange rituals in Ramadan. He didn't like to stay in his flat during the day. He would call me after he came out of work. ‘Get changed. I'm on my way,' he would say. We spent the time before
iftar
in a different place every day: the Mubarakiya
souk, the fish market, the meat and fruit and vegetable market, the Friday market, the pet and bird market, the market for Iranian goods.

As usual I looked at people's faces and facial expressions. During the day in Ramadan they looked different. People were tense when driving and honked their horns for the slightest reason. They put their arms out of the windows and waved them angrily. They looked sullen. ‘Ghassan?' I said one day. He turned to me. ‘Does smiling during the day in Ramadan mean you're not fasting?' I asked.

One day, a little before sunset, Ghassan and I were in the pet and bird market and I saw a tortoise just like Aziza. I bought it without thinking. I held it in my hands and began to strike up a friendship. I had a strange need for animals at that time. There were so many animals on Mendoza's land – the old dog Whitey, the cocks, the cats, the birds, the frogs and the lizards, but I hadn't before felt how important these creatures are.

At home I was with the tortoise in my room. ‘
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar
.' It was the call to prayer and time to break the fast. I'd forgotten I was hungry and what time it was. Khawla knocked on the door. ‘Aren't you fasting?' she asked, pushing in the door of my room. ‘It's time to eat.' She gaped in amazement when she saw the tortoise.

‘How did Aziza get into your room?' she asked.

I shook my head. ‘That's not Aziza,' I corrected her.

The tortoise had to have a name, so I made one up on the spot. ‘That's Inang Choleng.'

*   *   *

If I got bored in Grandmother's house, and I often did, I would
meet the servants secretly in the kitchen and chat with them, on my guard against being discovered.

When I saw the conditions the servants worked under in the house I felt sorry for my mother and wondered how she had put up with it years ago. But compared with the fate that awaited her in the Philippines, the hardship of working in Kuwait must have counted as luxury. The servants worked from six in the morning to ten o'clock at night. Babu said that in some of the houses nearby they didn't have set work hours. The hours depended on the needs of the household. Any time someone in the family needed something, they had to be fully prepared to respond. Wily Raju was the one who worked least. All he did was drive Grandmother around if she had to go out, which didn't happen often, and sometimes go out to buy stuff from the central market. In the morning he washed the car and the courtyard and watered the trees in the area opposite the house. I noticed that Raju enjoyed a weekly day off. Babu and his wife Lakshmi had a day off once a month while Luzviminda worked every day.

In one of my furtive meetings with them in the kitchen, I asked Luzviminda why she worked like an automaton without a single day off outside the house. She replied, ‘When I asked the old lady that, her argument was “If I let you go out, how can I be sure you won't come back pregnant within months.” She didn't realise that if I wanted I could do that here, in her house.' Then she started criticising Grandmother.