Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (13 page)

The waiter put two Cokes and two glasses on the
table between us. I fidgeted, feeling doubtful as I stole
a glance at him. But that feeling vanished as soon as he
spoke because I had curbed the suspicion I felt at our first
meeting. Perhaps I was merely embarrassed.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know."

"We are in a public place."

"I know that."

"And we are foreigners here; no one is observing us
or counting our breaths."

I didn't reply to this.

"Your voice is distinctive on the phone."

"And now?"

"It is still distinctive. But when we don't see things,
we feel them more, which means we can see things with
our feelings."

The image of Samih fell between us but quickly
disappeared.

"Are we going to speak like strangers?"

"You're right."

"My name is Moosa Kadhim. And you?"

"Huda. Huda Abdel Baqi."

"You give the impression of calmness at first."

"Then?"

"There is a sleeping volcano behind your appearance,
which might explode at any time."

His assessment was right. Although I seemed calm
and even submissive, something was churning inside, to
the point that I sometimes felt like a wild cat who wanted
to bite everything and would devour herself when she
couldn't. I could have turned into a furious tiger, but my
fury couldn't find a way out. It was suppressed inside my
soul, burning my nerves at night as I tossed and turned.

"We're all dying volcanoes," I said to Moosa. "I'm
hoping I find a refuge to keep me from erupting and
burning up. Tell me, what should I do if they reject my
appeal?"

He opened a Coke can and poured some in my glass.
The foam spilled over.

"Give it some time. Why are you so nervous?"

"What if they reject me?"

He opened the other can and poured some Coke in
his glass.

"The reason why you felt you needed to leave Iraq
was based on a little exaggeration by the regime's people.
There are no secret inks, no modern machines, and no
handwriting experts to trap you. They circulated this
information to scare people."

"What has happened, happened. I'm not here to analyze what I left behind. I'm in trouble, and I have no one
to turn to."

He lit a cigarette and began to smoke. Then, as if lifting a weight from his chest, he said, "If you want, we can
make a deal."

I was taken aback, and my heart sank. I prepared
myself for the unknown. I looked into his deep eyes,
searching for the answers.

"We can get married so that your name can be added
to my file and you can be safe here. Then you can emigrate with me to the new country."

I had never expected such a thing. When he said "a
deal," I had thought he wanted a bribe, like many others
would have. I shivered, perhaps from surprise or perhaps
because of the chilly wind that was agitating everything
around us.

After I absorbed what he said, and we exchanged
glances, I said, "If you want an immediate answer, I have
nothing to say."

He slowly inhaled his cigarette and said, "Of course,
you'll need some time to make a decision. Think about it
and feel completely free to accept or reject the offer."

I couldn't sleep that night. I kept hearing unknown
species of insects buzzing. The wind blew through the
tree branches. The door's groaning harmonized with my
soul's moaning. I looked at all sides of the situation. At
first, I felt neutral, then I felt confused, but later on I began
to lean toward the idea. Moosa was still a mystery to me,
though. I wasn't in love with him, for my heart was still
attached to Youssef. And even if I had been free of feelings for Youssef, I wouldn't be able to fall in love just for
the sake of a dubious bargain that came at the wrong time
and in the wrong place. I felt split into two persons: one
wanted an unknown adventure, and the other was holding back; one asked questions, and the other answered
them as she shrank inside her cocoon:

My heart is still guarded.

Don't hide behind transparent veils; you have no choice, no
other escape.

Perhaps there is light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps
Youssef will show up.

Remember, here you are a woman in exile from the Land
of Holy Men, and tunnels might lead to other, darker, tunnels.

But I don't know him.

You'll get to know him. In the beginning, men are like
locked trunks, and only women who wish to can have the keys.

I want a man I can love, not marry.

You won't find the love you want, so embark with the first
captain you encounter in exile.

Every time I felt sleepy, a thorn would pierce me into
alertness. Moosa, are you the captain who will lead my lost
ship to the safety of land? Or are you just a piece of driftwood
that I will hold onto in a stormy sea that will soon engulf me?
I knew that the piece of wood would not save me from
drowning, yet I would eventually reach out to it, just not
this quickly. Yes, I will announce my consent to his proposal because perhaps the piece of wood will turn out
to be a skiff that will save me from sinking. My grandmother would say, "In front of the man you want, pretend
to be hesitant; that will earn you respect and put you in a
high position in his heart." And you, Moosa, do you love me?
Or do you just think of helping me out? And if it is love, why
do you call it a "deal"? Why don't you declare it or hint at it?

When Moosa had presented his proposal, he hadn't
been persistent or obstinate. As soon as he had made the
offer, he had moved on to another subject; he had begun
to talk about himself.

"When I arrived in Amman, I worked in a restaurant and then in a bakery while receiving help from my
brother in Australia. I had encountered hardships in the
refugee camps and during my flight to Iran after the
failed uprising."

He had taken two puffs of his cigarette and continued. "My life is a chain of failures for which I am not
responsible. In my childhood, my mother died of electrocution. My father remained faithful to her memory and
did not take another wife. I wished he had because my
two brothers and I could have escaped his holding his
'great sacrifice' over our heads every time we wanted to
choose a different path than what he wanted in life. And
in my first youth, I loved our neighbor's daughter, but I
was too shy to tell her; I was surprised-after more than
a year of silent love-when she married a wealthy man,
although she had known about my feelings. Perhaps she
had become tired of my silence. Anyway, it was a teenage love. Fate played a game to deprive me of ever enjoying my true love, for it was born during times of war,
trenches, fierce battles, death, and loss."

Moosa had spoken about his life with pain and sarcasm. But he would soon dispense with both as though
he wanted to be done with his memories. In an attempt
to give the present an importance it didnt deserve, he'd
said, "I don't hold on to the past much because the present is more worthy of interest."

Despite this statement, Moosa hadn't seemed optimistic. I felt that he had contradicted himself. My relationship with him didn't seem to be anything more than
a temporary friendship dictated by the circumstances of exile. Otherwise, how could I explain the longing I still
felt for Youssef?

"You have to think seriously about the present," he'd
continued. "I assure you that together we will wipe out
these days' wounds."

I felt so grateful to this man who was offering to give
me his name, but I still wasp t sure he was going to give
me his heart. I thought about this for a long time, and for
many nights I slept only with confusion between acceptance and refusal. Deep inside me came a cry that I was
betraying Youssef. This painful feeling smothered me,
but in an attempt to assuage my anxiety I would assure
myself that I hadn't decided yet. I wrestled with the decision in my heart, the two choices changing places every
other instant.

I cried out with a voice that was merely a whisper in
my bones, "Youssef, Youssef. Nothing comes from you,
and nothing goes to you. Where do you stand? I'm getting more and more confused."

I was desperately trying to get in touch with Youssef,
but the phone line was always silent. I felt worn out from
my days in Amman, as if slow death and moral disintegration had clung to me since my flight here. I'd been
looking for guidance, but I had lost it. What was this
blind wandering I had fallen into?

SAMIH SUGGESTED that we sit on the balcony. The
weather was warm, and the morning wind was mild.
I wondered what difference it made whether he sat on
the balcony, in the room, or in any other place when
he couldn t see. The large balcony overlooked the foot
of a mountain covered with red- and green-tiled roofs. Twisted streets crossed the area, and rows of pine trees
and cypress surrounded some of the buildings. We sat on
a bamboo couch. He surprised me when he asked, "Isn't
the landscape beautiful from this angle?" I needed a few
seconds to recover from my surprise before I answered,
"Yes, it is really beautiful." I wondered how the blind
could locate or even recognize beauty.

I was sitting at the other end of the couch, a pile of
newspapers and books between us that Samiha had put
there before she left. Samih's listening rituals required
that I read the newspaper headlines out loud, and if a
title sounded interesting, I would then read the details
for him. When I read literary materials, he would remind
me to read slowly so that he could capture the image in
his imagination.

Fianca, a maid from Sri Lanka, put two cups of coffee on the table. I offered Samih a cup, and our fingers
touched. This type of contact often happens unintentionally, but on that day I felt that he did it on purpose. I
ignored what happened, and I began reading newspaper
headlines and titles for him, but he didnt stop me to pursue the details. I had the feeling he was distracted, with
no desire to listen. After I finished, he grabbed his lute
and started tuning it.

He asked, "Do you like music?"

I replied unenthusiastically, "Certainly not as much
as you do. I was born in a time when music was considered vanity, and now we've lost the capacity for the meditation needed to enjoy music."

Then he asked, "And what else?"

"Our life is so noisy with-drums, madness, cries,
and songs of past and future wars."

"What about poetry? Aren't you from the country of poetry and poets?"

"We still celebrate what al-Mutanabbi said and what our ancestors left11
But now we have only two types of poems: the first glorifies idols and wars, and the second narrates the defeat of men and the horrors of those calamities. The second type is written outside the country. The era of celebration, music, and poetry is gone, and great artists have gone into exile and begun to write their sorrows from afar. Do you want me to tell you some of what Dunya Mikhail said?"

I explained to him that Dunya Mikhail is a poet from the wartime generation. His fingers fell away from the strings as he listened to "The War Works Hard."