Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (15 page)

But I would never go back. A pain-filled voice came
as if from the depths of my throat: I will never return.

Two days after Hani left, I paid a visit to his mother,
then again in another five days. Between Hani's departure
and his return, my imagination hid behind hope's veils,
which had often lit my way, only to fall away time and
again, plunging me back into the darkness of this endless
tunnel. My days were filled with thoughts of the possibilities and the impossibilities; I withered until the day Hani's
mother informed me that Hani had come back at dawn. I could see him at four that afternoon, after he'd rested from
the difficult journey from Baghdad to Amman.

I was agitated, alternating between hope and despair,
fear of the known and the unknown, happiness and sadness. This was how I waited until I could see Hani.

"Youssef is fine. The phone numbers changed a long
time ago." He pulled an envelope from his pocket. "This
is a letter he sent you."

He gave me the letter, and my fingers shook as
I touched it. I would have left immediately if doing so
weren't rude. A shiver ran through my body, but I managed to control it. Hani took two hundred dollars from
his wallet and handed it to me, saying, "It's from your
grandmother. Your house is still being rented."

I drank the coffee that Hani's mother offered me
as we exchanged small talk and compliments; then I
excused myself and left.

The cold air played with my hair on the street. I threw
my body onto the bus's seat as if doing so would shake
the unseen accumulated dust from it. I didn't know how
I felt as I opened my bag many times to make sure that
the letter was still inside. The time stretched on and on,
and the traffic signals played with my nerves; whenever
the bus approached an intersection, the light turned a red
that resembled war's blood and death. I eventually got off
the bus and ran as though someone were chasing me. In
my room, I opened the letter.

My dearest Huda,

What you should know is that I didn't deceive you,
but rather that I did the impossible, so that you'll remember me as your savior and liberator. I carry your memory like a gentle breeze that greets me in the heat of the unceasing wars and bullets. Everything, my dear, has changed
in us; as we have put up with miserable conditions, even
our feelings have suffered from the virus of indifference.
Memories can no longer rekindle our passion when its
flame dies. Memories have become a toy we use to flirt
with the present out of fear of the future, but it's a destructive game. Huda, I know staying in Baghdad is hard, but
exile will be even more difficult. I'm a man who deluded
himself that his roots were shallow and could be easily
pulled out so that he could be transplanted somewhere
else. But this illusion has vanished, and I have discovered
that my roots run deep into the earth. They plunge into it,
and it grips my feet. For this reason and after much thinking, I have found that resistance within the homeland
is more likely to change the situation. I hope that you'll
enjoy your life as much as you can. Right now I have no
phone; I'll try to reach you through Hani. Perhaps things
will change, and then our life paths might change too. My
mother and your grandmother say hello to you.

Youssef

Youssef's peaceful and quiet face shone in my mind.
Then it was suddenly severe; his gentle eyes became like
those of a wildcat stalking a victim. My fingers began
squeezing the letter as my spinning head replayed the
written words. Youssef hadn't written "my love," but
"dearest" and "dear." How the heart can change! It was
strange that I wasn't crying, but disappointment filled my
soul. Life had changed indeed, and the heart was no longer
the center of affection. Hani told me what Youssef hadn't
written in case the letter was opened at the checkpoints: "Things are very bad in Iraq, and people are on the rim of
a volcano. The regime will fall, and you will return."

Youssef was keeping me in limbo, waiting for the
uncertain fall of the regime, and he had opened the door
for me to go to the other man. I found myself answering
Youssef's letter with words that my heart couldn't utter.

Dear Youssef,

From now on, I have to look for some blank pages
where I can record a new memory of the coming days
without you. You are cutting the thread that might have
brought us together again. I'll also need a skin that never
knew the blows of separation. I yearn for a new song
away from old streams and plaintive southern melodies.
I'll try to embark to the ports of oblivion before I drown
in the sea of remembrance. Only now do I realize that the
distance between us is wide and impossible. Don't worry,
I'll find another place where I can write down lighter
memories for a heart torn by exile. I pledge that I won't
fall in love because that's a frightening, difficult thing.

I didn't record this letter on paper; I let it loose to
float in my thoughts so that I could make it forgettable.
I "read" it many times and realized that I was actually
writing it for myself, urging myself to take a stand. I
began an internal dialogue, finding excuses and justifications for Youssef; it didn't matter if the dialogue was
naive, tense, and fragmentary, as long as it could lead to
acceptance of reality.

I remembered the last scene we had together. Youssef,
you didn't even give me a chance to bid you a proper farewell; it was as though you were escaping from me. Were you really avoiding me? Was it you who disappointed
my heart, or was it my heart that disappointed you?
Did I have to go through all this to know that feelings
change like seasons? Or was the notion that Huda was for
Youssef and Youssef for Huda just an illusion nurtured
by our kinship and our families' hints? Did we believe
the story, or did we just agree to play along? Let's admit,
my dear, while great distances separate us, that we were
not qualified enough for love, or perhaps I was not qualified to play the heroine's role in your life. In any case, you
are excused, as you cut off your dreams before they can
turn into nightmares.

After that, although Youssef still occupied my room's
walls and corners, infiltrating my bed, stealing my sleep,
he could appear only like a furtive image, and when he
tried to stay longer, he would flicker and disappear.

Two days later I accidentally encountered Moosa at
the Refugee Office. He cast a glance full of reproach at
me. But before he could utter a word, I began defensively
explaining my preoccupation, as though driving away
the accusation that I had been avoiding him. What bound
me to him and made me look for excuses? And why did I
become defensive?

As we entered the Refugee Office, he remained silent.
We chose a corner away from the noise and smoke filling the room. He told me then that he had completed the
medical clearance (the most important step), and he was
there to find out a few things related to his case.

At that moment, Abou al-Abd appeared, calling,
2-42-6."

"Yes?"

"Please, madam."

The residency officer told me that after careful reexamination, the committee had accepted my request. When
I came out, Moosa was waiting for me and congratulated
me even before I told him the news. My eyes were unable
to hide my happiness. Then Moosa was called, and he
went into one of the rooms.

I was filled with joy, agitation, sadness-a desire to
run, fly, escape. People were staring at me, and I realized
that I was pacing rapidly back and forth. When I noticed
what I was doing, I walked outside and sat under the
shadow of one of the trees until Moosa came out. He suggested that we go to one of the cafes. I agreed, and a blissful feeling welled up in me, as though I had just woken
up from a nightmare. As we talked, I scanned his face to
see how he was reacting to my news. I wondered if he had
wished for the opposite of this result. I noticed that he
was sad and disappointed. His eyes were dull, although
they had been sparkling only a half hour ago.

"What's wrong?" I asked him, although I knew the
answer.

"I'm thinking about our relationship."

"What about it?"

"It's between ebb and flow. But I think things will
clear up after today."

"What do you think is going to happen?"

"From the beginning, I left it up to you to choose. It
is true you hadn't yet come to a decision, but this is best
because if you had said yes immediately, I would have
thought that I was a mere bridge to your goals. Now the
situation is different."

"I think the same way. A relationship between two
people has to come from the inside and not from the circumstances surrounding them. I'm really grateful to
you because you tried to help me."

"And now?"

"I need some time to know the nature of my feelings."

"Over the past few days, I've been thinking a lot
about you, and I understand my feelings."

"Don't you also want to give me the opportunity to
understand mine? I'm going through a difficult time right
now."

"What's going on?"

"A dear friend just died in Baghdad."

"Very well, I won't put pressure on you. Understand
that I'll be your friend even if you refuse, and don't hesitate to ask if you need anything."

"I'm sure about that. But I need something else."

"What is it?"

I wanted to tell him that I needed to put my head on
his shoulders and cry into his hands, so that his fingers
would gather my tears and run through my hair. Instead,
I said, "I don't know exactly. Sometimes you seem a mystery to me. I wish to know everything about you before I
go ahead and marry you."

He smiled and said, "Do I really look mysterious?
Although I know nothing about you, I see you clearly, and
I'm sad you don't see me in the same way. I have nothing
to hide except the past."

"So we need some time."

"With wars, siege, and exile, we have lost a lot of time
already. We have to hold tight to what is left in our small
lifetime lest it slip through our fingers."

"I need to get rid of a few things from the past."

"I'm afraid they'll say it's time for me to go. It's
because of that that we don't have much time left."

"Give me one week."

"I'll wait for your answer."

He looked at me as though searching for something
he had lost.

HE WAS RIGHT, but I was worried and scared. There was
something standing between him and me that was preventing my feelings toward him from growing and keeping me from thinking seriously about my chances as a
woman. I considered the idea of living in a strange country that I hadn't chosen for myself, and my happiness disappeared. When I put my head on the pillow, I could see
the naked women, effeminate men, and Mafiosi that we
had seen in their movies. I could see the apartment where
I would live a lonely life between walls that would be
clean yet empty of life. I would also have to master these
people's language, accept their traditions, and get used to
the taste of strange food. To live in a foreign country is to
tear out your roots, change your lifestyle and your habits,
to become familiar with skyscrapers and the mystery of
forests. You have to reconsider your affections and undo
the threads of your deepest commitments. It means you
have to change your skin. When you finally realize all
that, your country will seem like a dream that you had
on a stormy night and left only a foggy vision. Would Iraq
become a mere dream that had flitted through my mind?
Or would my memory of it be reshaped in the new country? Would my grandmother's and Youssef's faces vanish, and would the Tigris look like a mere blue line on a world map, crossing a homeland drawn on faded paper?
And would my memory slowly fade so that houses,
shops, cafes, shrines, and mosques would end up as infinitely small, almost untouchable dots-or would they all
remain large, clear, and sharp inside my soul? This was
why I should be with a man from my own country-it
would bring me back to balance; otherwise, an obscure
future awaited me. My eyes were still shut as the last of
these images crossed my mind. When I got up, I found
that I was still trying to reach a decision.

THE RAIN that had been pouring down since early
morning forced me to stay in my room. I spent the hours
of the day reading from a collection of Fawzi Kareem's
poems and browsing day-old newspapers. At four that
afternoon, my daily duties began.

Attached to Samih's room was a smaller room where
we would sit when the weather was too cold for the balcony. Everything in this room had an Arabian stylehandmade carpets on the floor and paintings of desert
landscapes with waving dunes, caravans of camels and
running horses decorating the walls. In the middle of the
room, there was a fireplace in which the glowing coals
and ashes were actually made out of metal, illuminated
from the inside by an electric lamp. On another wall were
shelves filled with pitchers, silver bibelots, and small
statues of bronze and ivory. Samiha and I exchanged the
usual greetings. Samih was already in the room when I
went in. We drank the coffee that Fianca had prepared.
Samiha came in and handed me some wrapped-up newspapers, excused herself, and left.

I was tired and depressed. After a few minutes,
Samih said, "You are not with me. You have a problem."

I wanted to cry but held on to what remained of my
will to contain myself. It was amazing how Samih had
such a sharp feeling for things. I envied him.

"How do you know?"

"It is clear from the tone of your voice. If you don t
mind, tell me about your worries."

"Being far away from my family is painful, and this
exile is killing me."

"The worst is when we feel estranged among our
own people."

"Have you known exile?"

"Well, a blind person is an alien, a stranger to his
environment. But in truth I'm in harmony with myself,
and that's what makes me look at things from a different
angle. If I could have seen and looked at the emotional
reactions of sadness, joy, and fear, maybe I would have
suffered much more. But feelings reliably showed me
the human condition in a different way, and I know the
tones of voices even if I haven t seen their owners for a
long time. This is how I can recall my mother's voice even
though she passed away ten years ago, and I feel a longing for the people I know whenever I haven't seen them
for a while: longing but not loneliness."