Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (21 page)

The rain knocked on the door and played slowly on
the window while I fell asleep. I would tell him that I
had been double-checking with myself. He would not be
angry with me; he loved me. We would be together. Sleep
conquered me.

That night I ran on an endless carpet of grass and
flowers crossed by streams and surrounded by fern and
oleander trees. My steps were followed by music. I walked
proudly to an unknown place that only my dreams' memory recognized. I walked while the streams murmured and
colorful birds hovered with synchronized songs. The blue
sky was embroidered with white clouds. A cart drawn by
a golden horse came out of the diaphanous cloud. It halted
near me, and from behind its velvety screens I could hear
a voice calling me. Like a light bird, I jumped into the
cart. The roaring wind pushed the cart mercilessly, and
it flew far away. I screamed with all my force to the wind:
"Stop your fury and cross the wide deserts! Take me back to Iraq's border or strike out these arid, infested times so
that innocence may reveal itself!" The horse neighed and
reared as if in danger, his coat turning from a transparent gold into a shining light. I rubbed my eyes and awoke
exhausted, as though returning from a weary journey.

THE suN's RAYs showered on the buildings. The air was
filled with the scent of flowers. The streets were clean,
and the morning just beginning. I prepared my words. It
had been a month now. I would tell him that my feelings
had been mixed. He knew that. Before I left for the telephone booth, I put my camel-bone necklace around my
neck. I dialed the number.

"Yes?"

"Sorry, I think I have the wrong number."

I dialed the number again, and the same voice
answered.

"Yes, who is this?"

"I'm sorry. I'd like to speak to Moosa."

"Moosa left. He went to Australia five days ago. I'm
his friend Faisal."

A bitter silence passed. He interrupted it, asking,
"Are you Huda?"

"Yes, I'm Huda."

"He asked me to take care of you. If you need anything, call me. Think of me as your brother."

"Thank you."

"Moosa called yesterday. Once he's settled, he'll send
his address. Do you have a phone number?"

"No, I'll contact you. Thank you."

At the first sign of spring, Moosa had left for Australia. We hadnt bid each other farewell, and I didn't have any explanation for what happened. I was bitter. Painful
words took over and began to whip me. The other woman
inside me awoke and began oppressing me.

"The opportunity was there, Huda. It knocked at
your door more than once, but you were preoccupied,
busy. You spent your days asking sterile questions, falling into the well of memories, and distorting the present.
Everything else changed taste and color except you. You
looked at Moosa's feelings as though you controlled destinies. He was bored with your mood changes and your
agitated feelings. He departed without a word of farewell, leaving you with a store of memories. Don't say you
loved him. You were always looking for a love that didn't
exist. You are a swaying soul. You have the same mood
fluctuations as the river that witnessed your birth, and
you will never enjoy the taste of love. Train yourself from
now on to erase your wounds and keep the memories, but
be careful not to get hurt."

I found myself in my cold room, my teeth chattering. From afar, I could hear a cat's mewing, asking for
help. While I was moaning under the blankets, trying to
restrain my feelings, I said to myself, "You have nothing
to lose in exile; you already lost everything when you
left."

The other woman attacked back, shaking me. "You
are a scattered woman, difficult to put together."

I said to her, "But I carry in me feelings of love that
I'm sure one day will overflow."

She yelled at me, "Stop it!"

The mewing of the cat outside the door became inaudible, and my body relaxed, but my head was crowded
with tens of faces wearing Moosa's features.

THERE WAS A VASE with artificial flowers on a rectangular table. Three persons were seated at this table: the
translator, the American delegate, and I. I looked at the
American: a sharp face with piercing blue eyes. I tried to
find in them something that would assuage my anxiety.

I was shaking. The American's questions came at me
through the translator.

They were mostly the same questions that I had
answered in my first meeting with the relocation official.
The American delegate wanted to be sure about what I
had said. I answered carefully and didn't lie, didn't falsify any claim.

After about twenty minutes, the meeting was over.
The translator informed me that my relocation in America depended on the delegate and that they would be in
touch soon.

"Congratulations."

I heard that comment from many people as I walked
out, but I left the office without responding. Something
inside was squeezing me. I said to myself, "I should have
changed my answers; perhaps the American delegate
will reject me."

Scared, I walked to the bus stop. I was so perplexed I
almost crossed the street without noticing the traffic light.
I was absentminded and not focusing on anything. Truncated images of faces and stories from different times got
mixed up with the noise of the cars and the clamor of the
street.

I went into my room and closed the door carefully. I
was afraid. I tried to rid myself of the idea that something
was following me. I took off my clothes (sweaty in spite
of the cold air) and slipped into my bed. The American delegate's face with its blue eyes jumped out at me. He
kept asking me the same questions, and I kept giving the
same answers, but distorting them a little bit by changing the dates. He was looking at me distrustfully, so I
implored him, "Please-I'm not good for America."

His face sharpened, and he didn't say a word. I was
the one talking. I raved, I prattled, I turned the answers
upside down. He held his head, clenched his fist, and hit
the table, yelling, "You are rejected!"

AMERICA DIDN'T REJECT ME. When I received the
Refugee Office's answer a week later, I just said, "Thank
you." My feelings were neutral. I wasn't happy, but at the
same time I didn't plunge into sadness. I said to myself
again, "I have nothing to lose; I've already lost a lot. Perhaps it is only politics that has depicted America as a
monster devouring the world."

Contrary to my previous habits, I wasn't exaggerating my fantasies about how horrible things might turn
out. I was following the invisible stream that determines
the steps and draws the itineraries of our lives. I was able
to remove my mask in Amman's streets and walk naturally, without asking myself so many questions. Even my
grandmother's voice had ceased to repeat her warnings
to me. Youssef was becoming just part of the past. And
Moosa, I found out through him that I had only liked the
idea of being in love, as if I had wanted to avoid falling
into the void.

WHILE I WAS HAVING COFFEE, Samih said, "You'll be
off for a few days."

"What do you mean?"

"The Ministry of Culture has chosen five lute players,
including myself, to participate in a festival in Cairo. It's
the first time I will travel outside Jordan."

"I'll miss you. I will really miss you. I've gotten used
to these feelings, poetry, music, and conversation."

"I won't stay too long. But you should prepare yourself for an intensive schedule before I go. I would like to
listen to more of al-Sayyab's poems. This poet awakens
in me deep feelings that I can express only with music. I
have in mind a project about al-Sayyab's exile. For that I'll
need your help."

"I'll help you. I'm sure this project will be an important transition in your artistic career."

"In addition to what we have here in the library,
Samiha can provide you with books about al-Sayyab."

He seemed about to say something, but he kept silent,
so I asked, "Is there anything you want to say?"

"I wish you could take off the mask that keeps you
from seeing the truth."

I didn't understand and was confused, but I said,
"Sometimes we need masks to protect ourselves. That
doesn't mean that we don't see the truth."

"Sometimes, but not always."

"Our emotional state is what determines truth. If I'm
down, do I want the whole world to know about it?"

"Only if the mask doesn't become the rule."

"I promise many things in me will change."

"Get ready for the new experience awaiting you in
America."

"I look forward to it."

I DIDN'T VISIT MOTHER KHADIJA AGAIN and would never know what happened to her.

One day I found myself in the Hashemite Square,
where she usually sat with Umm Hashim. They weren't
there. I walked downtown, looking at tired Iraqi faces.
Near Restaurant al-Quds, I saw Umm Hashim; she was
putting her money in her wallet. I picked up some incense
sticks and gave her money. She didn't look at me.

"How are you, Umm Hashim?" I asked.

As soon as she lifted her eyes, she began imploring
me to take back the quarter of a pound.

"No need to be generous, Umm Hashim. Tell me,
where is Mother Khadija?"

"Oh, she left a while ago. As soon as she felt better,
she decided to go back to Iraq. She said she wanted to die
there, although she has no children. But she left a message for you."

"What message?"

"She said, 'Don't ever travel to America."'

"And what do you think?"

"Frankly, my daughter, I have another opinion."

"What is it?"

"Anyplace in the world is fine for us as long as we can
live with dignity. Our life has become bitter. Go wherever
you go, and God protect you."

DATES DON'T MEAN ANYTHING when they don't leave
a mark in the memory. Throughout the journey of our
lives, some dates get inscribed, and others are erased. The
dates that remain are those of birth, death, the first shiver
of love, big joys and deep sadness, the last glance before
departure, the last waves, and tears of farewells. Some dates are like pins poking the skin, producing the nervous prickling of fear. Some engrave themselves in the
footsteps, on the walls, and in the heartbeat, whereas others spring up to hammer the head again and again during life's journey.

March 4 will remain engraved as the birth of my new
life. It's the day I would be leaving Amman for America.
Here I was packing up my life into a bundle of thrift-shop
clothing smelling of mothballs. I would also take a few
Arabic books that I would need there, before I learned the
new language. One bag would be enough; I would be getting rid of many things. I didn't get the time to participate
in Samih's project. He called Samiha yesterday and said
that he would be late. I sorted my papers-pages onto
which I had transcribed my pain, papers with addresses
and unimportant notes. I wouldn't need Nadia's diary. I
didn't wish to carry sorrows, but my hand wouldn't let
me tear it up. I would leave it there, on the table or under
the bed, or perhaps I would bury it so that it would live
longer, under the grape-seed tree. I wouldn't need her
small bag with her personal belongings. I hadn't opened
it when I picked up her things, so I opened it that day: eyeliner, a notebook, and a leather wallet. A photo of Nadia
was in one of its pockets, a gloomy photo of a sad woman.
I couldn't look at it long, lest I fell into a fit of crying. But
as soon as I examined the other pocket, I almost fainted
from the surprise. My body tingled, my joints weakened,
and my fingers went numb. A cry was stifled in my chest.

In the other pocket was a photo of Moosa. I could see
it clearly; I wasn't dreaming. It was Moosa, although he
looked a few years younger. I looked at the photo-it read
"Your Emir." I remembered the letters that she began repeatedly with "My Emir." I could hear his voice saying,
"I fled with my brother's identity. I wanted to preserve his
memory. That's why I kept his name." I hadn't thought
then to ask him about his real name.

My body was still absorbing the effect of the surprise.
After a few minutes, I rushed to the phone booth and
called Faisal. I wrote down Moosa's address.

Don't worry, Nadia, your letters will reach him. I sent
the diary in an envelope without my name on it. I just
wrote on a small piece of paper, "Nadia died, and this is
what she left for you."

That night Nadia came to me in my dreams. She
wasn't angry or annoyed. Her face shone, and her soul
was settled. She waved at me and disappeared.

Fate had been kind to Moosa; they didn't meet again.
How would his days have been if he had had to take her
to the grave after this great love? Time had played its
game with them. One after the other, each of them had
come to Amman but had never met. After such a separation, though, her letters would still find him. I wondered
how he would receive their abundance of impassioned
feelings.

I didn't ask myself whether what I did was the right
thing to do, but I did wonder what would have happened
if I had found out about Moosa after I married him.

I would have fallen into endless sadness if not for an
instant in which I felt that I was no longer the same person. I was no longer an easy prey to sorrow, and memories couldn't scare me. Another face, perhaps a new mask,
was on me. Nadia's letters had inflamed me; they made
me seek refuge in Moosa and escape my bitter memories,
but without any consideration of my real feelings.

I brushed off my hands and began putting my things
in order. March 4 would separate the two stages of my
life. On that day I could begin looking at Amman's streets
with affection, paying attention to their details, filling my
chest with the city's air. I could feel the market's crowdthe same crowd I used to avoid. Strangely enough, I didn't
grow nostalgic. Where was this strong sense of resolution
coming from? Only eight days before I traveled.