Love in the Kingdom of Oil (2 page)

The women stopped moving and watched the woman. Their eyes sparkled through little slits. But the woman went on her way with the chisel in her hand, thinking of nothing except her research. She stopped a moment to wipe away the sweat with the sleeve of her gown and gazed around her. The pipes wound away endlessly, and the road descended to the lake. She took out of her bag a small map that she looked at for a long time, then raised clouded eyes to heaven. At that moment a little girl from the village passed by. She was wearing a black
abaya
and nothing was visible of her apart from two little eyes. The woman asked her the way, but the child shivered and moved away quickly. Confusion appeared on her face, and she became perturbed.

The view stretched away to the horizon and some birds hovered. The movement of their wings and the blue of the sky behind them brought some of her confidence back. The road in front of her appeared to be firm, but the ground became increasingly damp and soft under her feet. The village appeared to plunge into the depths of the lake.

From the place where she had stopped, she gazed around her. What village was this? She moved her feet to continue on her way but a sudden gust of wind came along and almost snatched her off the ground. It would have done so had she not dug in her feet and caught hold of a wall, which began to shake under the weight of her body.

She straightened up to the sound of voices muttering. She saw the child standing a long way off talking to another little girl. They put their heads together and looked in her direction. The woman wanted to call and ask them the name of the village. She called out in a loud voice. She saw them turn round, then realised from their bent backs that they were two old ladies.

She looked at her watch. It was ten past seven. She beat the ground with her chisel and a question occurred to her, ‘Was it really possible for goddesses to live underground, or could that not be simply a ploy to draw her to this place?’

She closed her eyes as if asleep. She saw the square room with its corners bare of furniture and the wooden double bed with a pale yellow cover on it. There was a stain of old blood on the cover. There was a shelf on which there were some books about archaeology, a small stone statuette of the one-breasted god and a picture of the god Akhenaton with two prominent breasts and two large buttocks.

From behind the smoke of his pipe, her boss would steal a glance at her. He believed that the male god could have a breast or two but he did not believe in the existence of goddesses, and if there ever happened to be one, she would be the wife of a god and not a goddess in her own right.

Her male and female colleagues in the department believed the same as their boss did. They had come to the archaeology department in despair. They pursed their lips when they pronounced the word
archaeology.
They were attracted by mummies more than by living beings. Their eyes dropped as if gravitating to the depths of the earth. They walked in almost the same way. Their necks appeared twisted and their eyelids hung over their eyes. They had beak-like noses and fat dangling buttocks from sitting long hours behind a desk.

She lifted her eyes to heaven. She saw stars and planets fixed in the places that they had occupied ever since she was a child. Her aunt had pointed at a star so far away that she could scarcely see it. That one’s Mars, and there are Mercury, Jupiter and Saturn. And that one over there is the mistress of them all, Venus.

* * *

Her eyes were fixed on the star. Suddenly the movement began. Venus moved from its place and crossed the heavens. Its tail stretched behind it long and slender. Then the stars began to move away from one another, moving here and there and taking on the appearance of animals. There was a star resembling the bull, the lion, the whale and the scorpion.

The earth also began to move under her feet. She gazed around her. A man was walking a long way away with his back bent and his head wrapped in a white headcloth.

‘Is it an earthquake, uncle?’

‘No, it’s the bull shaking his horns and tossing the earth from horn to horn.’

The man’s voice was as clear as if he was speaking directly in her ear. Nevertheless, it seemed as if it came from the bottom of a well. He was walking slowly away and all she could see of him was his bent back. He gradually disappeared in a cloud of mist.

She called out to him at the top of her voice, but her cry dissipated.

Then a muffled laugh rang out. It was the childlike old lady standing in her
abaya.
Her little eyes sparkled from inside their slits.

‘It’s not the bull, sister.’

‘What is it?’

The diminutive old woman disappeared in a cloud of smoky dust. The woman stood with her feet fixed to the ground. She held the strap of the bag and began to pull on it. All she could do was stand firm in the face of the crazed movement of the earth.

She raised her eyes to the horizon. Expanses of black stretched in front of her like an endless desert. The sand was moving, black in colour, and the wind was very dry. The surface of her tongue was cracked and her eyes were searching in the darkness for a drop of water. She noticed something moving, a small snake resembling a chameleon. Its eyes sparkled as it crawled along in its black skin. Its movements were graceful and its steps light and joyful as if it was rejoicing in its ability to change colour.

Her hold on the strap of her bag relaxed. Perhaps standing firm was not what was required. She abandoned herself to the wind, an attitude that her body was not used to at first. It appeared to be heavy. Then it became lighter. She closed her eyes in something resembling surrender. A new sensation began to flow into her, one of embarrassment. It was hot. At every step, black dust stuck to her shoes. She stopped for a moment. She knocked her heals against one another. She undid her plaits from around her head. She shook them out. She knocked one against another. Black particles flew around her, sticking to her nose and her forehead as if attracted by the smell of sweat.

She squatted without letting her bottom touch the ground. She did not want to dirty her cloak. She opened the bag and took out the chisel. She struck the ground a number of times, but the smell was unbearable. She put a handkerchief over her nose. Her neck was bent downwards. The earth stretched in front of her, and the darkness was becoming thicker. She was walking down the slope. Anybody who saw her would not have thought that she was walking. Her hand bumped into a mud wall. It resembled the walls of the village houses. She heard voices inside. She was standing, resting her hand on the wall. Her other hand held onto the chisel, and she was panting.

A door opened in the wall. It made a noise like the squeaking of a water wheel, rusty metal hinges or the creaking of old wood. A young woman appeared in a black
abaya,
carrying on her head a massive earthenware jar with a bloated stomach. The skin on her hands was cracked. Her feet were large and shod in leather shoes. The colour of her heels appeared to be black. Her head was wrapped in a black scarf tied in a knot above her forehead. The earthenware jar on her head was tilted, filled up to the brim, on the verge of toppling but not actually doing so. She twisted and turned her head without holding the jar with her hand, but not a drop of water escaped from it.

The woman was gazing at the chisel in her hand. She had never in her life seen a woman carrying a sharp instrument. She took a step back.

‘It’s only a chisel.’

‘What’s that, sister?’

‘I dig up the ground with it and search for goddesses.’

‘What?’

‘The goddess Sekhmet for instance.’

‘Sekhmet!?’

The woman was overcome with perturbation. Her body began to shake. But the jar remained fixed in its place, sitting composedly on her head.

‘Give me a little water please . . .’

‘What?’

‘Water . . . water . . .’ she repeated, beginning to scream. The woman stood staring at her through the slits, wide-eyed, as if she was watching a sheep bleat. At that moment there was another gust of wind, which almost tore her from the ground. The woman stood shaking her head, with the jar sitting firmly on it.

‘Who are you?’

She saw doubt in the woman’s eyes. She took her identity card out of her bag: name, sex, eye colour; profession: researcher in the archaeology department; of spotless reputation, married, no children. Her confidential files were unsullied. Her insurance premiums and taxes had all been paid. She had no debts and no police record. And until now no judgements had been issued against her.

The woman gazed at the identity card as if she did not know how to read. She considered her photograph, which was fastened with a pin.

‘Why don’t you veil your face? Have you no shame?’

She returned the identity card to her and then turned away. She walked slowly away down the track. She sucked with her lips and clicked her leather shoes. Her black heels kicked the dust into the air. On her back was a protrusion resembling the hump of a camel. Around her had gathered other women with jars on their heads. They all put their heads together. Whispered mutterings went round the group. One of them jumped up. From afar it appeared to be the diminutive one. A moment later she returned surrounded by a number of men. They were wearing baggy
jallabas
.
³
On their heads were white headcloths.

The voices of the women remained a low hum, no more than a whisper. The men’s voices rose. They were all speaking at the same time, moving their arms in the air, beating the ground with their feet. A thick cloud of dust arose. Then the voices all suddenly stopped and silence fell. All that could be heard was the barking of a dog a long way off. She turned to go on her way. She quickened her pace. However, the voices followed her. A man with a black
keffiyeh
⁴
round his neck ordered her to stop. On his face were black spots like freckles.

‘You, woman!’

The word ‘woman’ pierced her ears like a sliver of glass. The muscles of her face stiffened. What gave a man the right to order her to stop by the side of the bridle path and then pour invective upon her? She turned her back on him and continued on her way. He followed her, beating the ground with his feet. His voice never stopped repeating that ugly word.

He stretched out his long arm like a wooden staff and seized her arm. He put his mouth to her ear and cried, ‘Woman!’ A pungent smell erupted from his mouth and a stream of black saliva escaped from the side of it. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am a respectable researcher and . . .”

‘Where are you from?’

She turned round and signalled with her head to the track from which she had come. It looked like a long dark subterranean vault, blotted out by black waters from the flood. She shut her eyes and then opened them.

‘I went on leave and . . .”

‘We’ve never heard of such a thing.’

‘Can I go back?’

‘There is no way of going back at this time.’

‘Can I rent a room until the morning?’

‘Are you alone?’

The man shook his head a number of times. ‘It’s impossible.’

He walked away from her, beating the ground with his feet.

She opened the bag and took out the map. Had she mistaken the place? She crouched down on the ground. To anyone watching her from afar she looked like someone about to sleep. However, she was deep in thought, trying to determine where she was. She came across a spot, which she marked with a pencil. She took hold of the chisel and began to dig.

Her head hung down as she dug, as if she was worn out. Perhaps it was the right place; perhaps a goddess was buried here. However, the darkness was total, and black specks danced in front of her eyes. She cleared away the dirt and noticed something like an ox’s horn. Before she could stretch out her arm she heard voices behind her. A line of men wearing
jallabas
were looking down at her. Their heads were wrapped in white headgear. Behind them was a line of women in their black
abayas.
One of them exposed her bare breast from under her
abaya,
and began to press on the black teat between her fingers until a thin white stream emerged from the opening. Then she took a little child from under her
abaya.
It took hold of the teat between its little jaws and began to suckle audibly.

The voices of the men became as faint as the voices of the women. They squatted on the ground forming a little circle. In the middle of a large stone sat their chief. On his little finger glittered a ring and above his head was a picture of His Majesty. The picture was surrounded by coloured lamps and a loudspeaker like a funnel.

‘On the occasion of His Majesty’s birthday we have been commanded to spend lavishly.’

The voice was the voice of His Majesty. His lips moved in the picture. They rubbed their eyes with their fingers. The corners of their eyelids were wrinkled and bloodshot. They exchanged glances, and repeated with one voice, ‘Able to do all things’. Then silence fell. They all rubbed their eyes, and considered the little black specks sticking to their fingertips. They wiped them off with their
jallabas
and then rubbed their eyes again.

The voice of His Majesty mumbled over the loudspeaker. His words were indistinct, spoken in a strange accent, and nobody understood what he was saying. Their leader shook his head as a sign of pleasure and they all shook their heads. Then his head stopped shaking and their heads stopped shaking too. He jumped up from his seat, and they all jumped up too. He disappeared into the darkness of the night, and the men all disappeared behind him, and behind them went the women.

All that remained was the picture of His Majesty, hung in the sky without columns, and above it the trumpet. One man was sweeping the ground. He approached her slowly. He was the man with the freckles and the black
keffiyeh.
He blew his nose loudly.

‘This place must be cleared.’

‘And where shall I sleep?’

‘Come with me.’

He led her to the track going downhill. He went a pace or two ahead of her. Whenever she speeded up to walk near him, he would let his eyes rest on her, and she would slow down so that she was once more behind him. He went down the incline with his torso leaning forward, scratching his back with his hand.