The Patience Stone (10 page)

He puts his gun down next to the door, then, hesitantly, walks over, and stands above her. Inner turmoil has made his breathing all jerky. The woman closes her eyes.

Abruptly, he throws himself on top of her. The woman, struggling to breathe, gasps, “Gently!” Overexcited, the boy awkwardly grabs hold of her legs. She
is frozen, numb beneath the wild flapping of this clumsy young body as it tries vainly, head buried in her hair, to pull down her pants. She ends up doing it herself. Pulls his down, too. As soon as his penis brushes her thighs, he groans dully in the woman’s hair; very pale, she keeps her eyes closed.

He is no longer moving. She neither.

He is breathing heavily. She too.

There is a moment of total stillness before a light breeze lifts and pulls apart the curtains. The woman opens her eyes at last. Her voice—weak but forgiving—whispers, “Is it over?” The boy’s wounded cry shocks her. “Sh-sh-shut … sh-sh-sh-shut your mouth!” He doesn’t dare raise his head, still buried in the woman’s black hair. His breathing becomes less and less intense.

The woman, silent, gazes with infinite sadness at the gap in the green curtain.

The two entwined bodies remain still, fixed to the ground, for a little while longer. Then a new breeze
creates a slight movement in this mass of flesh. It’s the woman’s hand that is moving. Gently stroking the boy.

He does not protest. She continues stroking. Tender and maternal. “It doesn’t matter,” she assures him. No reaction at all from the boy. She perseveres: “It can happen to anyone.” She is cautious. “Is … is this the first time?” After a long silence, lasting three slow breaths, he nods his head—still sunk deep in the woman’s hair—in shy, desperate assent. The woman’s hand moves up to the boy’s head, and touches his turban. “You had to start somewhere.” She glances around to locate the gun. It is far away. Looks back at the boy who is still in the same position. She moves her legs a little. No protest. “Right, shall we get up?” He doesn’t reply. “I told you, it doesn’t matter … I’ll help you.” Gently, she pushes up his right shoulder so she can shift onto her side and free herself of the boy’s broken weight. Having done this, she attempts to pull up her knickers, first wiping her thighs with the hem of her dress. Then she sits up. The boy moves too, at last. Avoiding the woman’s eyes, he pulls up his trousers and sits with his back to her, staring at his gun. His turban has come undone. His face is visible. He has large, pale
eyes, outlined in smoky kohl. He is beautiful, his face thin and smooth. He has barely any facial hair. Or else he’s very young. “Do you have family?” the woman asks in a neutral voice. The boy shakes his head no, and quickly winds his turban back up, hiding half his face. Then, abruptly, he gets to his feet, grabs his gun, and flees the house like lightning.

The woman is still sitting in the same place. She stays there a long time, without a glance at the green curtain. Her eyes fill with tears. Her body huddles up. She wraps her arms around her knees, tucks in her head, and wails. A single, heartbreaking wail.

A breeze flutters, as if in response to her cry, lifting the curtains to let the gray fog flood the room.

The woman raises her head. Slowly. She does not stand. She still doesn’t raise her eyes to the green curtain. She doesn’t dare.

She stares down at the crumpled notes scattering in the breeze.

Cold or emotion, tears or terror makes her breath come in gasps. She is shaking.

Eventually she gets to her feet, and rushes into the passage, to the toilet. She washes, and changes her dress. Reappears. Dressed in green and white. Looking more serene.

She picks up the money and goes back to her spot by the hiding place. Pulls the curtain tight shut, without meeting the man’s vacant eyes.

After a few silent breaths, a bitter laugh bursts from her guts, juddering her lips. “So there you go … it doesn’t just happen to other people! Sooner or later, it had to happen to us, too …”

She counts the notes, “poor thing,” and puts them in her pocket. “Sometimes I think it must be hard to be a man. No?” She pauses for a moment. To think, or to wait for a reply. Starts again, with the same forced smile: “That boy made me think about our own first times … if you don’t mind me saying so. You know me … my memories always hit me just when I’m not expecting them. Or no longer expecting them. They plague me, I just can’t help it. The good ones and the bad. It leads to some laughable moments. Like just
now, when that boy was all distraught, and our first, belated honeymoon nights suddenly flashed into my brain … I swear, I didn’t mean to think of you, it just happened. You were clumsy too, like that boy. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know any better. I thought that was how it was supposed to be—how you did it. Although it often seemed to me that you weren’t satisfied. And then I would feel guilty. I told myself that it was my fault, that I didn’t know how to do it right. After a year, I discovered that actually, it was all coming from you. You gave nothing. Nothing. Remember all those nights when you fucked me and left me all … all keyed up … My aunt is quite right when she says that those who don’t know how to make love, make war.” She won’t let herself continue.

She pauses for a long time before saying, suddenly, “Anyway, tell me, what is pleasure for you? Seeing your filth spurt? Seeing the blood spurt as you tear through the
virtuous veil
?”

She looks down, and bites her bottom lip. Furiously. The anger takes hold of her hand, grips it, turns it into a fist, and crashes it against the wall. She groans.

Falls silent.

“Sorry! … This … this is the first time I’ve spoken to you like this … I’m ashamed of myself. I really don’t know where it’s all coming from. I never used to think about any of this before. I promise. Never!” A pause, then she continues. “Even when I noticed you were the only one whose pleasure peaked, it didn’t bother me. On the contrary, I was pleased. I told myself it was normal. That it was the difference between us. You men take your pleasure, and we women derive ours from yours. That was enough for me. And it was my job and mine alone to give myself pleasure by … touching myself.” Her lip is bleeding. She blots it with her ring finger, then her tongue. “One night, you caught me in the act. You were asleep. I had my back to you and was touching myself. Perhaps my panting woke you up. You jumped, and asked me what I was doing. I was hot, and shaking … so I told you I had a fever. You believed me. But you still sent me to sleep in the other room with the children. What a bastard.” She falls silent, out of dread, or decency. A blush appears on her cheeks, and spreads slowly to her neck. Her gaze is concealed behind dreamily closing eyelids.

She stands up, buoyant. “Right, I must be going. My aunt and the children must be worried!”

Before leaving, she fills the drip bag with sugar-salt solution, covers her man, closes the doors, and disappears into her veil, into the street.

The room, the house, the garden, all of it, buried in fog, disappears beneath that sad gray mantle.

Nothing happens. Nothing moves, except the spider, which for a while now has been living in the rotting ceiling beams. It is slow. Slothful. After a brief tour of the wall, it returns to its web.

Outside:

They shoot a while.

Pray a while.

Are silent a while.

At dusk, someone knocks on the door to the passage.

No voice invites him in.

He knocks again.

No hand opens the door to him.

He leaves.

Night comes, and goes again. Taking the clouds and the fog with it.

The sun is back. Its rays of light return the woman to the room.

After glancing around the space she pulls a new drip bag and a new bottle of eyedrops from her bag. Goes straight over to the green curtain and draws it aside so she can see her man. His eyes are half-open. She pulls the tube out of his mouth, takes a cushion from under his head, and inserts the drops into his eyes. One, two; one, two. Then, she leaves the room and returns with the plastic basin full of water, a towel, and some clothes. She washes her man, changes his clothes, and settles him back into his spot.

Carefully she rolls up his sleeve and wipes the crook of his arm. Inserts the tube, fills the dropper correctly, and then leaves, carrying everything she must remove from the room.

We hear her doing the washing. She hangs it out in the sun. Returns with a broom. Brushes off the kilim, the mattresses …

She hasn’t yet finished her task when someone knocks at the door. She walks to the window in a cloud of dust. “Who is it?” Again the silent shape of the boy, wrapped in his
patou
. The woman’s arms fall wearily to her sides. “What do you want now?” The boy holds out a few notes. The woman doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. The boy heads for the passage. The woman comes out to meet him. They murmur a few inaudible words to each other and slip into one of the rooms.

To start with, there is only silence, then gradually some whispering … and eventually a few muffled groans. Then once again silence. For quite a while. Then a door opening. And footsteps rushing outside.

As for the woman, she goes into the toilet, washes herself, and returns shyly to the room. Finishes her cleaning, and leaves.