In the forest where
none can pass but you, I track you through the dark looped tunnel. I can hear you panting heavily, gusts of your
hot breath touch my skin but I can never reach you. I stretch my arm towards you; my muscles ach
with it, my pulse quickens, the veins on my wrist pulsate loudly with the need
to feel you. I keep crawling behind you
trying to keep your pace but sweet starts to bead on my forehead and seep into
my eyes. My heart drums heavily; my
chest feels like an old accordion struggling to stretch. I long for more
oxygen; I pause to take a deep breath, I try to draw in a whole lungful of air
but it feels like steel splinters piercing through my lungs. Suddenly there is more light than my eyes can
handle; I squeeze my lids shut and slowly open them to adjust to the light;
there is more space to move and air to breath but you are gone. I rise on all
fours; I stretch my back upwards like a cat in the sun; every muscle and tendon
ach with the attempt. I force myself into standing; my feet squawk and my knees
shake under the weight. My body feels funny erect after all that crawling, my muscles
are tense; my shoulders are stiff and clenching. I look for you in all directions,
there is no trace of you, only the pain intensifies in my neck with every move.
I think I will lose you forever; I will never be able to reach you or touch you
again. With these thoughts the pain
gets wilder, creeping slowly from the right eye, to the right ear, then passing
quickly from the back of the neck to the other side of the head; I feel you in
my bones, defying, accusing and mad at me. The pain stretches its paws to cover
the back of my head, rushing towards both shoulders. It feels like soft yet
heavy liquid cement passing through tubes in my head until it hits splashing on
the open surface of my shoulder plates and upper back. It changes instantly
into thick sheets of hard concrete spreading layer upon layer forming a stiff
heavy bulk that makes the slightest movement a torture. For a moment, I think I
will never be able to move from that
spot. Then, I can hear your voice, sweet
and tender like always, calling my name. I turn around but there is no trace of
you; your presence permeates every cell in my being; I feel you under my skin.
Here you are walking slowly behind me, the way one creeps away from an animal
that might attack. You look at me with scared eyes. Do you think I might hurt
you? I turn around; I reach for your hands but you take a step backward, out of
my reach and run towards the tunnel again. I try to move; I drag my feet
through the dirt; I am heavy and aching; the blood vessels in my temples jump
with rage; my hands ball into fists. That concrete plate on my back stretches
to cover my chest. I stoop; I crawl slowly towards the tunnel, hoping to get a
feeling of your breath around me.
السبت، 2 نوفمبر 2013
الاثنين، 28 أكتوبر 2013
Excerpt from The Scent of Paper as it appeared in The writer's drawer Edited by Beryl Belsky
The Wedding
Excerpt from a novel-in-progress, The Scent of Paper, by Abeer Elgamal (Egypt)
Hala ran from the front door to answer the phone, but the ringing stopped before she could reach it. She had come home after driving the children to school and attending a meeting in the department. She hated it when Salem assumed she was still out if she failed to pick up at once. He called every now and then, making it impossible for her to complete any task without interruption. She threw her keys and handbag on the sofa and sat down on the rocking chair, moving nervously back and forth; she knew he would call again soon. Part of the chair's base was on the wooden floor while its front rested on the carpet. With every movement it produced two different, though equally annoying, sounds, and it threatened to plunge backward at any moment. She had just received the news: the university had withdrawn the scholarship from the English department. There was no way she could go to the States for her PhD. It was the end of a dream she had worked so hard to accomplish.
It was her day off and she had planned to be alone with Salem. Things had gotten worse lately as she was preoccupied completing the requirements for the scholarship, and she hoped she could do something to amend matters. She could not bear Salem's silence and his moods; his sarcasm and bitterness cut through her being every day and she blamed herself for not trying hard enough to soothe his worries about their future.
She sat there, waiting for him, dreading the storm, anticipating what shape his eruption would take this time. She knew it would not be like the previous ones. There would be something more violent than breaking things or burning her diary or throwing stuff on the floor. That scholarship meant so much to him; he counted on it more than she did; it could have been a safe escape from the tedious life he had been living since those problems started at work. It would have given him a pretext to skip the family obligations that were starting to weigh heavily on his shoulders, with one unmarried sister, Maha, and a widowed one with four children, with all their problems. One question kept circling her mind like a whirlpool: How can I tell him this? A feeling of heaviness and stagnation took over her body as she continued to rock herself back and forth on the chair, despite the dizziness she started to feel.
Salem called again and she grabbed the telephone instantly. She did not dare tell him the news over the phone. Instead she said that her mother had volunteered to take the children from school to sleep over and to take them to the club next morning. His voice on the other end was tired and confused, with the sounds of heavy machinery in the background. She repeated what she had said to make sure she got the same answer more than once. Strangely, he did not seem to mind her arrangements. Maha was not coming over that weekend; she was in Alexandria with Laila since her husband had died and it would be the first time in three or four years they would spend the weekend without her. It was a shame she would have to tell him the bad news then, when they had it to all to themselves…
What had happened to the Salem she had fallen in love with? When did all this start? At the wedding and the three months of frustration that followed? Or on the first night, when Maha had stayed over, to the dismay and anger of her mother? Automatically, her hand reached out for the diary, hidden under piles of books, and she began to write:
Salem invaded me from the first moment. I liked his self-confidence and the authoritative way he spoke to me, looking directly into my eyes and exploring me from inside. He accused his mother of not informing him he had such "beautiful relatives," referring to me and Mother, the first time we met. It was mid-year vacation, and we were visiting my grandparents in Mansoura, just me and Mother because Ahmed was on a trip to Luxor with the university. Even Mother, who was rarely impressed with anyone, liked his way with words. It was the first time we had ever met, but he began using the term " we": we are going to do this, and we will go this place and so on, as if he could decide for us, as if we belonged to him. Mother believed that his education abroad had certainly done him good. I knew later that our meeting in the club was not accidental. His mother, a distant relative of my father's, had seen me once in Cairo on a family visit and had called Aunt Ameena to arrange a meeting. It was my first year after graduation and I had spent a turbulent summer trying to get the job I wanted in the department, until I finally did so in September. They were supposed to come and visit us in Cairo but Mother, who had not seen him before, did not want to have any obligations towards them if they made a formal proposal. Besides, she knew how I felt about matchmaking, after I had refused her best friend's son a few months before. She believed then he was a perfect suitor and accused me of being a romantic and naive girl who did not know what was good for her; she even blamed father for not supporting her.
Salem was different. He kept calling me every day, inviting me to go out on our own. It did not feel right and I said no every time until he stopped and was satisfied with long phone calls. He was working in a big company and everyone kept stressing what a brilliant engineer he was. There were no mobile phones then and he had to use the land line. We talked for hours and he asked me all sorts of questions, thousands of them, and somehow I enjoyed how he invaded my life. I looked forward to the time I would finish teaching, and rather than hang out with Deena and Nesreen or go home and read a book or talk to Ahmed on the balcony, I'd pick up the phone when he called and allow him to go deeper and deeper into my being. He never contradicted me; he read me like a map with all its details, and I loved it. He made me feel I was the center of his universe. When I asked him about himself or his job, he said nothing mattered to him anymore.
Strangely, Mother knew it was him who kept me on the phone for hours, and she did nothing about it. Then one day she said, "Salem and his mother are coming on Thursday to see your father. If you want me to turn them down, say so now. We don’t want to lose all our friends because you refuse their sons!" She was as matter-of-fact as ever, but she did not hide a sense of cheerfulness, mixed with her usual pride. I kept silent. He did not call that day and I was angry he had not told me he was proposing formally. I was confused: why did he have to be so mysterious and secretive? It was obvious it was only a matter of time before he proposed. I was waiting and I wanted to hear it from him; I wanted him to ask me and I wanted to say yes, before anyone else knew what we were planning. My anger faded away when they came. We were engaged on that very first visit, without a party, without even telling Uncle Mahmud or my friends or anyone.
His mother insisted we get married as soon as possible. Mother did not like to be rushed into any decision, but she managed to accept this without a big fuss. Ahmed was happy for me and said he would finally get rid of me, but I knew it would not be easy for him, or for me. From that night on, Father never went to bed before spending an hour or more with me. He said that I had become a guest in his house and he had to make sure I was perfectly satisfied. I waited for him, no matter how late he came from the clinic. His hug made me feel protected, like the times when we were young and he would come to check on us before he slept.
I was already considering wearing a hijab before I met Salem, a stylish and modern one. The idea became more appealing when Salem encouraged me, or rather, pushed me into wearing it. He said he would not share my hair with anyone, and that if he spotted any man looking at me he would kill him. I loved his aggression with words: I will kill; I will tear; I will smash. I never took them as real signs of violence. I loved his strength and decisiveness and his ability to lead anyone to the conclusion he wanted.
Uncle Mahmud was in Paris, then, attending a conference. He was thrilled about the news of the engagement and the hijab. "I will go with anything that makes you happy, my little princess," he said over the phone. The silk scarves he brought me were the most beautiful gift he had ever given me. I loved to wear them. They were so soft and kept sliding away from my hair, and Salem would watch me push my hair under them and smile. "You look more attractive in a hijab. Where can I hide you from eyes? Maybe I have to eat you all up and bury you inside me," he always teased. Indeed he did this, but in a completely different sense.
The wedding hall radiated with her happiness. She chose baby orchids and white pearls to decorate everything, the kosha (wedding throne), the guest tables, the buffet. And Uncle Mahmud insisted on paying for them, as part of his wedding gift to her. Her dress and her flower bouquet, which she had no chance to throw to the girls at the end of the party, had the same theme. It took Hala, Deena and Nesreen endless visits to the dressmaker to get the dress and veil embroidered the way she envisioned it: three different sizes of pearls alternating with lace orchid flowers threaded through the corsage and the train, small ones on top, bigger ones following. The veil had the same pattern; it was made up of three layers, all embroidered like the dress's train. Hala's mother Nahid checked with the hotel every day to make sure everything was going according to plan. It was perfect: the scent of the flowers, the reflection of the tiny white lights on the pearls, the soft music and the lovely couple dancing in the center with all eyes focused on them. Salem, handsome in a black suit, white shirt and red bow-tie, whispered something into Hala's ear as he pulled her closer to him. She blushed as she caught sight of Ahmed, looking distracted at the farthest end of the hall. I know how he feels; he has been avoiding me for a long time for fear of this moment. I was too busy to notice his withdrawal; how I will miss you, brother.
Salem did not allow her to think of anything; he was holding her tight, then letting go of her waist to look deeply into her eyes. It was her first dance in public and she was afraid she might look awkward or trip over his foot in the highest heels she had ever worn. Her fears were not justified; Salem was almost carrying her around, lifting her body off the floor. She felt she was gliding.
I was happy. No, no, happy is not the word, elated, soaring above the world, with Salem literally lifting me off the floor and holding me so tight to him that I could hear his heart beating against the music and the clapping of our friends, whenever he bent to kiss me or whisper into my ear. I did not know if people noticed all that or not. Nobody had time to comment; nobody talked about that night ever after. It all went so fast and then came the black out, inside me and out.
I wanted to go on dancing forever. He said he was not ready to stay till the end of the party and that he would take me home when the guests were busy eating. I laughed my heart out. Mother would kill us then, after all the trouble she had gone through to prepare the party the way she believed fit for us. Then Salem's mother Aunt Fatma sent Maha to ask us to sit down and rest for a while, which we did. She wanted me to wear my shabka (present from the groom) early on in the party so that all the guests would get a chance to see it. She handed Maha a tray decorated with lace and ribbons, with the red velvet jewelry box open on it. Then she left Salem's side and stood by me, next to my mother. Maha stood by Salem and handed the shabka to him, piece by piece, starting with the rings. He took such a long time fastening the necklace around my neck. He was facing me and did not see that all the young guests, his friends and mine and Ahmed, had clustered round us with cameras to capture that special moment. Then I felt something falling heavily on the ground and saw Maha dropping the tray and running in front of me to the other side. Father ran towards Aunt Fatma who was stretched on the floor, her head right under my feet. I had never seen mother as devastated as she was that night. She moved quickly behind me, holding me in my chair with all her power, preventing me from standing up, as if she knew I was about to faint. The last thing I saw were Maha's eyes blaming me for their mother's death.
I did not see Salem for three months after that night. He came every now and then and I refused to see him. I could not look him in the eye, until Uncle Mahmud convinced me to go home. He said Salem was a mature man, and a believer as well. There was no way he would blame me for his mother's death. His words touched my heart and I began seeing Salem when he came to visit. In a couple of weeks, he convinced me to go home. Maha was there too.
Ahmed inserted the Quran cassette in the car player, hoping his mother would calm down when she heard it reciting. He had seen his mother angry many times before, but he had never seen her face so red with rage like that night. They had just left Hala's apartment after taking her to Salem, three months after the wedding party. Hamdy could not see why his wife was so upset, which made things even worse for her.
"What kind of people are these? How can she allow herself to be with them on their first night together after those terrible months? How can Salem let her do this? What about her married sisters? Don't they have any sense at all?"
"You just said it. Things have been terrible for all of them, not just for our daughter."
But this is their special night; they are starting a new life. Can't she leave her brother alone with his bride? Haven't they been through enough? Isn't it sufficient that Hala decided to go to her house wearing black in order not to hurt his sister's feelings? She is a bride, for God's sake. Can't you all see that?"
"Mother, I'm sure Maha won't stay over. I'm sure she'll leave soon."
"Why didn't you let me ask her to come with us if you were so sure she would leave anyway? It would have been a nice compliment to drive her home."
Hamdy had to interfere again in his calm, reassuring voice to prevent Nahid's outburst against Ahmed. He knew she would go on blaming him forever.
"That would have looked terrible – for us to ask her to leave. It is her brother's house after all; we are not entitled to do that."
"Poor Hala, how can I help you, my daughter? You have fallen into a deep well! And your father and brother don't even care."
Nahid continued to wail in the back seat of the car, lamenting the bad luck of her daughter until they got home. She wanted to call Hala and make sure Maha had left, but Hamdy and Ahmed talked her out of the idea.
As soon as her parents and Ahmed had gone, Hala began to serve the dinner her mother and Dada had spent the whole morning cooking. The meal was still hot, but Salem and Maha took some time to come to the dining room and it was beginning to cool. She felt nervous; there was something weird about the place; it did not feel like the same warm, cozy home she and Salem had spent days supervising workers over and arranging furniture in. She had to reheat the dishes when Salem and Maha finally came into the dinning table. She felt she was sharing a table with strangers in a place she had never seen before. Maha did not bother to help her clean up after dinner, so she made tea, served dessert and joined them in the living room. She felt they were a united front she could not penetrate. They would stop their conversation abruptly the moment she entered the room. Their other sisters called to say hello to her, one after the other. She felt that everything was prearranged, and that she was excluded from their inner circle; she was the outsider. There was something about them that made her feel guilty, unwelcome, banished, and utterly lonely, in her own home.
In the morning she felt too embarrassed to go and shower after Salem did. He tried to make it sound normal, and advised her to get used to Maha's presence with them, at least for a while until she could go home and stay by herself. She dried her hair and wore the lovely rose lace dress her mother had suggested for the occasion, and the necklace that came with her shabka. She prepared breakfast and tried to feel at home. When her family came in the afternoon, with the wedding presents, she did not feel like a bride on her saba7ya (day following the wedding, when the bride's parents come to give gifts) . She felt she was performing a role in a play. The house and the people around her were fake; she could not bond with anyone, not even with her own family. All that mattered was preventing any reference to the night before. She made sure she was never alone with her mother because she knew she would ask all sorts of questions. She enlisted Ahmed's help so that Nahid would not embarrass Maha with questions, and he came to the rescue, never leaving his mother's side. Hala sat by her father and felt a sudden urge to put her head on his shoulder, as she did when he would come to check on them every night as children. She wanted to hug him and talk to him about her day like she did then, but there was a glass wall separating her from the rest of the world.
This piece is edited by
Beryl Belsky
It was her day off and she had planned to be alone with Salem. Things had gotten worse lately as she was preoccupied completing the requirements for the scholarship, and she hoped she could do something to amend matters. She could not bear Salem's silence and his moods; his sarcasm and bitterness cut through her being every day and she blamed herself for not trying hard enough to soothe his worries about their future.
She sat there, waiting for him, dreading the storm, anticipating what shape his eruption would take this time. She knew it would not be like the previous ones. There would be something more violent than breaking things or burning her diary or throwing stuff on the floor. That scholarship meant so much to him; he counted on it more than she did; it could have been a safe escape from the tedious life he had been living since those problems started at work. It would have given him a pretext to skip the family obligations that were starting to weigh heavily on his shoulders, with one unmarried sister, Maha, and a widowed one with four children, with all their problems. One question kept circling her mind like a whirlpool: How can I tell him this? A feeling of heaviness and stagnation took over her body as she continued to rock herself back and forth on the chair, despite the dizziness she started to feel.
Salem called again and she grabbed the telephone instantly. She did not dare tell him the news over the phone. Instead she said that her mother had volunteered to take the children from school to sleep over and to take them to the club next morning. His voice on the other end was tired and confused, with the sounds of heavy machinery in the background. She repeated what she had said to make sure she got the same answer more than once. Strangely, he did not seem to mind her arrangements. Maha was not coming over that weekend; she was in Alexandria with Laila since her husband had died and it would be the first time in three or four years they would spend the weekend without her. It was a shame she would have to tell him the bad news then, when they had it to all to themselves…
What had happened to the Salem she had fallen in love with? When did all this start? At the wedding and the three months of frustration that followed? Or on the first night, when Maha had stayed over, to the dismay and anger of her mother? Automatically, her hand reached out for the diary, hidden under piles of books, and she began to write:
Salem invaded me from the first moment. I liked his self-confidence and the authoritative way he spoke to me, looking directly into my eyes and exploring me from inside. He accused his mother of not informing him he had such "beautiful relatives," referring to me and Mother, the first time we met. It was mid-year vacation, and we were visiting my grandparents in Mansoura, just me and Mother because Ahmed was on a trip to Luxor with the university. Even Mother, who was rarely impressed with anyone, liked his way with words. It was the first time we had ever met, but he began using the term " we": we are going to do this, and we will go this place and so on, as if he could decide for us, as if we belonged to him. Mother believed that his education abroad had certainly done him good. I knew later that our meeting in the club was not accidental. His mother, a distant relative of my father's, had seen me once in Cairo on a family visit and had called Aunt Ameena to arrange a meeting. It was my first year after graduation and I had spent a turbulent summer trying to get the job I wanted in the department, until I finally did so in September. They were supposed to come and visit us in Cairo but Mother, who had not seen him before, did not want to have any obligations towards them if they made a formal proposal. Besides, she knew how I felt about matchmaking, after I had refused her best friend's son a few months before. She believed then he was a perfect suitor and accused me of being a romantic and naive girl who did not know what was good for her; she even blamed father for not supporting her.
Salem was different. He kept calling me every day, inviting me to go out on our own. It did not feel right and I said no every time until he stopped and was satisfied with long phone calls. He was working in a big company and everyone kept stressing what a brilliant engineer he was. There were no mobile phones then and he had to use the land line. We talked for hours and he asked me all sorts of questions, thousands of them, and somehow I enjoyed how he invaded my life. I looked forward to the time I would finish teaching, and rather than hang out with Deena and Nesreen or go home and read a book or talk to Ahmed on the balcony, I'd pick up the phone when he called and allow him to go deeper and deeper into my being. He never contradicted me; he read me like a map with all its details, and I loved it. He made me feel I was the center of his universe. When I asked him about himself or his job, he said nothing mattered to him anymore.
Strangely, Mother knew it was him who kept me on the phone for hours, and she did nothing about it. Then one day she said, "Salem and his mother are coming on Thursday to see your father. If you want me to turn them down, say so now. We don’t want to lose all our friends because you refuse their sons!" She was as matter-of-fact as ever, but she did not hide a sense of cheerfulness, mixed with her usual pride. I kept silent. He did not call that day and I was angry he had not told me he was proposing formally. I was confused: why did he have to be so mysterious and secretive? It was obvious it was only a matter of time before he proposed. I was waiting and I wanted to hear it from him; I wanted him to ask me and I wanted to say yes, before anyone else knew what we were planning. My anger faded away when they came. We were engaged on that very first visit, without a party, without even telling Uncle Mahmud or my friends or anyone.
His mother insisted we get married as soon as possible. Mother did not like to be rushed into any decision, but she managed to accept this without a big fuss. Ahmed was happy for me and said he would finally get rid of me, but I knew it would not be easy for him, or for me. From that night on, Father never went to bed before spending an hour or more with me. He said that I had become a guest in his house and he had to make sure I was perfectly satisfied. I waited for him, no matter how late he came from the clinic. His hug made me feel protected, like the times when we were young and he would come to check on us before he slept.
I was already considering wearing a hijab before I met Salem, a stylish and modern one. The idea became more appealing when Salem encouraged me, or rather, pushed me into wearing it. He said he would not share my hair with anyone, and that if he spotted any man looking at me he would kill him. I loved his aggression with words: I will kill; I will tear; I will smash. I never took them as real signs of violence. I loved his strength and decisiveness and his ability to lead anyone to the conclusion he wanted.
Uncle Mahmud was in Paris, then, attending a conference. He was thrilled about the news of the engagement and the hijab. "I will go with anything that makes you happy, my little princess," he said over the phone. The silk scarves he brought me were the most beautiful gift he had ever given me. I loved to wear them. They were so soft and kept sliding away from my hair, and Salem would watch me push my hair under them and smile. "You look more attractive in a hijab. Where can I hide you from eyes? Maybe I have to eat you all up and bury you inside me," he always teased. Indeed he did this, but in a completely different sense.
The wedding hall radiated with her happiness. She chose baby orchids and white pearls to decorate everything, the kosha (wedding throne), the guest tables, the buffet. And Uncle Mahmud insisted on paying for them, as part of his wedding gift to her. Her dress and her flower bouquet, which she had no chance to throw to the girls at the end of the party, had the same theme. It took Hala, Deena and Nesreen endless visits to the dressmaker to get the dress and veil embroidered the way she envisioned it: three different sizes of pearls alternating with lace orchid flowers threaded through the corsage and the train, small ones on top, bigger ones following. The veil had the same pattern; it was made up of three layers, all embroidered like the dress's train. Hala's mother Nahid checked with the hotel every day to make sure everything was going according to plan. It was perfect: the scent of the flowers, the reflection of the tiny white lights on the pearls, the soft music and the lovely couple dancing in the center with all eyes focused on them. Salem, handsome in a black suit, white shirt and red bow-tie, whispered something into Hala's ear as he pulled her closer to him. She blushed as she caught sight of Ahmed, looking distracted at the farthest end of the hall. I know how he feels; he has been avoiding me for a long time for fear of this moment. I was too busy to notice his withdrawal; how I will miss you, brother.
Salem did not allow her to think of anything; he was holding her tight, then letting go of her waist to look deeply into her eyes. It was her first dance in public and she was afraid she might look awkward or trip over his foot in the highest heels she had ever worn. Her fears were not justified; Salem was almost carrying her around, lifting her body off the floor. She felt she was gliding.
I was happy. No, no, happy is not the word, elated, soaring above the world, with Salem literally lifting me off the floor and holding me so tight to him that I could hear his heart beating against the music and the clapping of our friends, whenever he bent to kiss me or whisper into my ear. I did not know if people noticed all that or not. Nobody had time to comment; nobody talked about that night ever after. It all went so fast and then came the black out, inside me and out.
I wanted to go on dancing forever. He said he was not ready to stay till the end of the party and that he would take me home when the guests were busy eating. I laughed my heart out. Mother would kill us then, after all the trouble she had gone through to prepare the party the way she believed fit for us. Then Salem's mother Aunt Fatma sent Maha to ask us to sit down and rest for a while, which we did. She wanted me to wear my shabka (present from the groom) early on in the party so that all the guests would get a chance to see it. She handed Maha a tray decorated with lace and ribbons, with the red velvet jewelry box open on it. Then she left Salem's side and stood by me, next to my mother. Maha stood by Salem and handed the shabka to him, piece by piece, starting with the rings. He took such a long time fastening the necklace around my neck. He was facing me and did not see that all the young guests, his friends and mine and Ahmed, had clustered round us with cameras to capture that special moment. Then I felt something falling heavily on the ground and saw Maha dropping the tray and running in front of me to the other side. Father ran towards Aunt Fatma who was stretched on the floor, her head right under my feet. I had never seen mother as devastated as she was that night. She moved quickly behind me, holding me in my chair with all her power, preventing me from standing up, as if she knew I was about to faint. The last thing I saw were Maha's eyes blaming me for their mother's death.
I did not see Salem for three months after that night. He came every now and then and I refused to see him. I could not look him in the eye, until Uncle Mahmud convinced me to go home. He said Salem was a mature man, and a believer as well. There was no way he would blame me for his mother's death. His words touched my heart and I began seeing Salem when he came to visit. In a couple of weeks, he convinced me to go home. Maha was there too.
Ahmed inserted the Quran cassette in the car player, hoping his mother would calm down when she heard it reciting. He had seen his mother angry many times before, but he had never seen her face so red with rage like that night. They had just left Hala's apartment after taking her to Salem, three months after the wedding party. Hamdy could not see why his wife was so upset, which made things even worse for her.
"What kind of people are these? How can she allow herself to be with them on their first night together after those terrible months? How can Salem let her do this? What about her married sisters? Don't they have any sense at all?"
"You just said it. Things have been terrible for all of them, not just for our daughter."
But this is their special night; they are starting a new life. Can't she leave her brother alone with his bride? Haven't they been through enough? Isn't it sufficient that Hala decided to go to her house wearing black in order not to hurt his sister's feelings? She is a bride, for God's sake. Can't you all see that?"
"Mother, I'm sure Maha won't stay over. I'm sure she'll leave soon."
"Why didn't you let me ask her to come with us if you were so sure she would leave anyway? It would have been a nice compliment to drive her home."
Hamdy had to interfere again in his calm, reassuring voice to prevent Nahid's outburst against Ahmed. He knew she would go on blaming him forever.
"That would have looked terrible – for us to ask her to leave. It is her brother's house after all; we are not entitled to do that."
"Poor Hala, how can I help you, my daughter? You have fallen into a deep well! And your father and brother don't even care."
Nahid continued to wail in the back seat of the car, lamenting the bad luck of her daughter until they got home. She wanted to call Hala and make sure Maha had left, but Hamdy and Ahmed talked her out of the idea.
As soon as her parents and Ahmed had gone, Hala began to serve the dinner her mother and Dada had spent the whole morning cooking. The meal was still hot, but Salem and Maha took some time to come to the dining room and it was beginning to cool. She felt nervous; there was something weird about the place; it did not feel like the same warm, cozy home she and Salem had spent days supervising workers over and arranging furniture in. She had to reheat the dishes when Salem and Maha finally came into the dinning table. She felt she was sharing a table with strangers in a place she had never seen before. Maha did not bother to help her clean up after dinner, so she made tea, served dessert and joined them in the living room. She felt they were a united front she could not penetrate. They would stop their conversation abruptly the moment she entered the room. Their other sisters called to say hello to her, one after the other. She felt that everything was prearranged, and that she was excluded from their inner circle; she was the outsider. There was something about them that made her feel guilty, unwelcome, banished, and utterly lonely, in her own home.
In the morning she felt too embarrassed to go and shower after Salem did. He tried to make it sound normal, and advised her to get used to Maha's presence with them, at least for a while until she could go home and stay by herself. She dried her hair and wore the lovely rose lace dress her mother had suggested for the occasion, and the necklace that came with her shabka. She prepared breakfast and tried to feel at home. When her family came in the afternoon, with the wedding presents, she did not feel like a bride on her saba7ya (day following the wedding, when the bride's parents come to give gifts) . She felt she was performing a role in a play. The house and the people around her were fake; she could not bond with anyone, not even with her own family. All that mattered was preventing any reference to the night before. She made sure she was never alone with her mother because she knew she would ask all sorts of questions. She enlisted Ahmed's help so that Nahid would not embarrass Maha with questions, and he came to the rescue, never leaving his mother's side. Hala sat by her father and felt a sudden urge to put her head on his shoulder, as she did when he would come to check on them every night as children. She wanted to hug him and talk to him about her day like she did then, but there was a glass wall separating her from the rest of the world.
This piece is edited by
Beryl Belsky
الخميس، 24 أكتوبر 2013
Un verbs
Hala wished she could undream that memory and unlive those moments. She wished Salem uncontrolled her waking and sleep.
She wished he unfound her diary, ungot mad at her, unaccused her of being a
selfish wife. She wished she unwoke up to a body as heavy as a sack of sand, to
an untight stomach and unclenched muscles. She wished that sooty stain in the
kitchen sink unplayed on her nerves all the time and that smell of burning uninvaded her lungs when she unexpected.
Every time she came into the kitchen, the
stain bothered her. She untried to clean it; she unused Clorox, unscrubbed it with steel wool and unadded all sorts
of detergents that unscratched her fingers. She unwatched the flames eating up
the pages, line by line, word by word. It unhurt to sit at her desk later and untry to remember all the events
in their engagement that she registered in the diary and unentitled it “Happiest moments of my life”.
What if Salem unrushed into the kitchen
unwaving with her diary in his hand as she just finished the dishes? What if he
unapproached her until their bodies almost untouched and she could unfeel his
hot angry breath on her face? What if he untore the pages and unthrew them in the sink as she unleaned to it
and unstretched her neck back to see what he was doing? What if she unstayed in
the kitchen after he left and uncontinued
to take in the fumes of plastic burning cover? What if she unopened the window or unturned
on the water to stop the burning and the smell?
She carefully pulled herself out of bed, tiptoed to
the kitchen to remove the sooty black stain from the corner of the sink before
making Salem’s breakfast.
I am Becoming....
I feel bloated; I am becoming fat and grey…I look down at my heavy
feet and find no toes. Instead, I see
four huge poles with thick curvy hard skin folds and realize I am becoming an
elephant, huge and tall. My tummy is fat and I feel hungry and thirsty. I try
to find something to eat; I look around and spot a grassy area with lush trees
and the promise of a river or a stream and I heavily move towards it. I am followed by four younger elephants who
lovingly cluster around me. They shout and play as we go and their movements
arises a huge cloud of dust. The
youngest Dumbo tips over a stone as it follows its brothers and sisters and tumbles
and falls down. I raise my voice to yell at the other elephants to take care of
the younger elephant and I come up with a big deafening sound that is not my
voice. I raise my hands to press my ears
and I realize all I have is a long, round elastic trunk that serves as a nose
too. My ears respond to the sudden urge to be covered. Miraculously, they grow
bigger and wider; they feel like huge rubber plates dangling around my head and
the noise does not bother me anymore.
The young elephants playfully move around me; they race to the stream;
the sounds of their stamping feet and their happy cries make me happy. We reach our destination and they start to
munch on tall green grass. I precede to the stream to drink and I can see my
huge head and tender eyes with tall eyelashes. I throw my trunk into the water and drink till
I am full. I fill it with water and explore the possibility of spraying water
all around. Soon my kids join and we are all wet and happy. I love my new self
and adore my lovely kids; I wake up to
find the Bollywood movie still playing
and my four kids laughing their hearts out as
the movie we were watching comes to
an end, just like my dream.
Smell Memories
Ever since that time when I was five I could never start
reading a book without first smelling it. Even before I sat on the floor and untied
the soft shiny ribbon I knew it was a book. It was one of those children’s
scented books and I automatically sniffed at every page as I climbed Uncle
Mahmud’s lap and started to read: This is Mary’s garden. The smell of wet soil
twirled into my nose, fresh and grainy like rough sugar sprinkled on a cake. I
reluctantly turned the page; I wanted the smell to go for ever but was welcomed
with a sweeter odor, that unidentifiable smell of the little seed Mary held in
the palm of her hand, strong as stone, yet soft as a grain of cooked rice ; the
smell resembled nothing I knew back then.
On the next page a dwarf stalk of green popped out of the soil whose
subtle smell jogged as a baby’s odor. The blooming plant on the next page
fascinated me with yet another smell, fresh as a drop of dew, seducing as a
lollypop, inviting as mother’s hug. The last page popped with a fully grown
pink rose whose aroma danced around me, spreading long curly tails of scent
that totally charmed me.
الأحد، 22 سبتمبر 2013
الأكل تححححفة
رجعت جري
من المطار على المطبخ
لسة لابسة الطرحة
رميت شنطتي على الرخامة
و انطلقت على
الفريزر اشوف
في اية جاهز على
الطبخ
بقالي أسبوع مسافرة و
كنت طبعا مجهزالهم
حاجات كتير تتعمل بسرعة
كل حاجه
في مكانها
بحطة ايدي
طبعا ماحدش
عبر اكلي و قضوها
دليفري
لكن أنا ولا
همني
شمرت و
طبخت بأقصى سرعة
فطست من الحر
و الفرن
وضبط السفرة وانا سعيدة جدا بإنجازتي في
عالم المطبخ
و قدراتي الفذة في اعداد
وجبة كاملة صحية في
أقَل
من ساعة.
ناديت عليهم وانا كلي فخر:
يلا يانوني...
يلا يا علي...
يا عبد الله يلا...
الاكل هيبرد
ولا حياة
لمن تنادي
كل واحد ماسكلي
موبايل أو لاب توب و منهمك فيه
وبما اني أم
زنانة و لحوحه ماسبتهمش الا
لما سابوا اللي بيعملوه و قاموا على السفرة
طبعا أنا
مستنية الله...
ايه الأكل
اللذيذ ده
أو واحشنى أكل
البيت يا ماما!
أو ياه أنا
كان نفسي في رز و خضار
و ستيك!
أو تسلم الايادي !
لكن للاسف سمعوني
كلام تاني
من
نوعية:
ياه يا
ماما ايه
اللي دخلك
المطبخ وانتي
لسة راجعه
من السفر؟
أنتي غاوية فرهدة ليه؟
ماله الدليفري يعني ؟
الوحيدة اللي نصفتني كانت نورا:
الله يا
ماما الأكل تححححفة!
…مش
قلتلكم أنا ماليش حد غير
نوني ترفع معنوياتي!
رجعت جري
من المطار على المطبخ
رميت شنطتي على الرخامة و انطلقت على الفريزر اشوف في اية جاهز على الطبخ
بقالي أسبوع مسافرة و
كنت طبعا مجهزالهم
حاجات كتير تتعمل بسرعة
ناديت عليهم وانا كلي فخر:
يا عبد الله يلا...
طبعا أنا
مستنية الله...
ايه الأكل
اللذيذ ده
أنتي غاوية فرهدة ليه؟
الجمعة، 13 سبتمبر 2013
Burning
I dreamed a memory, and
the remains of it stayed with me in my body. I woke up terrified; my body felt
like a big sack of sand and my head had a buzzing fan that kept rolling until I
felt dizzy. I tried to pull myself out of bed; I could not move a limb; I stayed
there defeated and betrayed by my own body. The smell of smoke still permeated
my nose and lungs; I could even hear the hissing of fire; I tried moving my
head slowly to make sure nothing was burning around me despite the realization
it was only a dream of a memory.
I did everything to remove that stain; that
sooty misshaped stain bothered me like no other, not even the ink stain on
Salem's pants that triggered the first 'good wife sermon' only four days after
our marriage. He had forgotten to place the led on the pen in his pocket and I
failed to clean it. The stain in the corner of the kitchen sink brought all the
incidents back to my mind; I used every detergent, Clorox, steel wool, thick
and thin; nothing removed it. I never knew stainless steel could get stained,
and sometimes I was afraid the stain was only inside my mind, insisting to
appear in front of me whenever I came into the kitchen. It made me feel I was
going crazy and seeing visual hallucinations until Maha asked me about it a
month later. I was grateful I was sane; there was a real stain visible to
others; it was not a projection of my troubled mind! But then the doubt that
Salem had told her about burning my diary tortured me; I felt I was naked in
her presence, knowing that she had access to all my life. The smell of burning of the plastic pink
cover still invaded my nose from time to time, and the hissing of the burning
paper, fading away, line by line, word by word made me feel my whole being was
deteriorating, little by little. The flood of humiliations, the accusations I
was hiding things from him; keeping my life to myself and not sharing it with
him were fiercer. I never tried to hide it; it was always there by my books. I
was sure he had seen my diary before, many times, and read it perhaps. I
sometimes wished he would discuss it with me; I hoped he would understand how I
felt about everything, without having to tell him and be ridiculed for every
word and emotion. Up to that day I had never given up on our
relationship; I was patient and hopeful things would change to the better; I
waited for him to come back to me, wholeheartedly, enthusiastically and bring
me back to the real me. I did not keep a diary again until you and Salma were
born, but that was another story; nothing was about me anymore; there was no
trace of me; it was always about you two. I did not think he would mind it, but
I could not risk telling him. I kept it in the bottom drawer with the babies
clothes, securely wrapped in one of the little soft blankets.
My whole body shook with fear as Salem darted into the
kitchen with my diary in his hand in the same manner mother made her entry into
the balcony years ago. He was furious; I
could hear him breathing heavily as he walked towards me with threatening eyes.
I had just finished the dishes and was still cleaning the kitchen sink; I
turned to face him, leaning my back against the sink. I had started those
dizziness attacks and I could anticipate one so I wanted the sink to support me. He came nearer until he almost touched my
shaking body; I had to stretch my neck up to look at him as he shouted at me
while waving the diary to my face: "how can a married woman find the time
to write such stupid stuff? How can any respectable wife say she feels lonely?
What else do you need more than a husband? Am I a piece of shit in your life?"
He stopped to take a deep breath before
he resumed:" Of course, who am I to compare with your highness little
princess? I am not good enough for you; I am no match for the heroes of your
damned books! Are you still an adolescent? When will you grow up and act like a
respectable wife? How can I trust you to bring up my children if you ever had
the time to get children?"
My
tongue got stuck in my mouth; I could not utter a word; I wanted to tell him I
had always kept a diary, ever since I was twelve; I wanted to defend myself; I
wanted to tell him writing was my only way of combating stress; I wanted to go
as far as telling him I have no one to speak to because he hated my friends, or
even to talk to me yourself. But I just froze there, feeling cold to the bones
and dizzy and wet. He kept showering me with his accusations and then he started to tear the
notebook pages to pieces and throw them in the sink behind me. I felt relieved
that he threw the diary in the sink, not on the floor. Salem had two favorite
insults: the first was the word stupid which he used to describe anyone or
anything that did not live up to his expectations, the second being throwing stuff
on the floor when he got mad at me. Then I would have to take things away, and
put them back where they belonged. Sometimes, the process did not involve only
putting things away, like the time when he threw a dish of foul on the dining
room carpet because it was salty and I had to spend an hour to clean it. I felt
grateful then; I would have been more hurt by gathering the torn sheets form
the floor than by the actual tearing of the notebook I have been keeping since
we got engaged and entitled it "Best Years of my Life". Then he pulled me by the hand away from the
sink and turned me around to face it; the sudden move hurt my elbow and it was
swollen for two weeks. It never crossed
my mind then he would go as far as burning the diary, sheets and plastic cover
and all. The flames raised above the kitchen sink and I kept staring at them
until they faded away. Why did I stay in
the kitchen glued where he left me and took in all the fumes of plastic
burning? Why did not I open the window and go out of the kitchen and close the
door behind me? Why did not I turn the water on to stop the smoke that filled
my lungs and the smell that permeated my soul? See, Kareem? I was confused; but
now I can see I was responsible too, it was not just about your father hurting
me; I did hurt myself even more.
Later, it hurt so
much not to be able to remember what I wrote.
The thing that Salem never understood was that my mind functioned in a
totally different way from his; I was wired differently, my memory and feelings
and reasoning and all. Or maybe he realized it and tried to re-wire me to satisfy
his expectations! He had re-shaped how I dressed and talked and dealt with
people, why not change how I thought and felt too? No matter how important,
happy or traumatizing an event was, I might forget all the details, but never
the emotion or the wound it left behind. I kept asking myself what was wrong
with my memory and wondered why it failed me at the age of 24 when Taita Touta
and Gedo Mostafa remembered old and recent events until they died in their
eighties? Memory is a funny thing; some incidents slipped away instantly and I
could barely recall them an hour later. Others held tight, lurking in a corner
of my mind and popping out when I least expected them; fresh to the extent it
could reproduce the same feelings, sounds and smell
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