The Locust and the Bird (27 page)

But the driver wouldn’t let me finish.

‘How’s this picture supposed to feed my children?’ he asked. ‘How will it help me send them to school?’

I asked him to drop by my house the next day to collect what I owed, and gave him directions by suggesting he ask for Kamila.

‘Everyone in the quarter knows me,’ I assured him.

But he didn’t believe me.

I insisted I wasn’t mad; it was just that, every time I had any money, it grew wings and flew away.

When I told Father about my plight, the only advice he offered was, ‘You must stop thanking God, you know. If you keep doing so, he’ll assume you’re all right and stop providing for you!’

Being constantly broke did not prevent me from doing whatever I wanted. It certainly didn’t stop me from taking a trip to Syria to visit my half-sister Camelia in Damascus. We had become close since Muhammad died, and she had started visiting me in Beirut.

When we were en route, my children and I were stopped at the Syrian border. Cars were speeding across into Syria, except for the one in which I was travelling. Our taxi driver couldn’t believe I had absolutely no money in my purse, nor could the Syrian customs officer. He stared at us, utterly astonished at my attempt to cross the border without paying customs fees and bewildered at my insistence on telling him about my situation. I explained that I’d been reduced from wife of the Bekaa region bureau chief to a widow in financial distress. When it became clear he wasn’t going to let us across, I started to get angry.

To show my desperation, I climbed out of the car, stood
on a rock and yelled some lines from the Quran, ‘“As for beggars, do not rebuff them; as for orphans, do not oppress them.” ’ Pleased with my skilled oration, I began to imitate the radio announcer at the beginning of a news broadcast: ‘“Brothers in Egypt, in Syria, in Iraq, in Algeria …” ’

The customs official stood there, flummoxed. My children reacted to my behaviour in different ways: some were laughing, others were telling me to shut up.

‘Mama,’ they said. ‘We’re so embarrassed! Stop it!’

But I carried on until I saw the official disappear inside the office and emerge with his supervisor.

Spotting the braid on the shoulder of the supervisor’s uniform, I started up again in classical Arabic: ‘“Brothers in Egypt, in Syria, in Iraq, in Algeria …” ’

The supervisor came over and listened to me. I could see that he understood what I meant, that Arab countries claimed to be united, one nation, yet all demanded an entrance fee. Taking my identity card from the junior official, he went back into the office and stamped it.

As my debts grew more and more out of control, everyone gave me advice about how to economise. The first suggestion was that I stop smoking cigarettes, because they were so expensive, and smoke a hookah instead. So I started having an occasional puff, until one morning I awoke to the delicious smell of frying potatoes. Thinking it was coming from the restaurant next door, I got up to investigate. To my horror, I discovered that the smell was coming from the sitting room. A coal from the bottom of the pipe had flipped out and set fire to the edge of the Persian rug. I was so upset; Muhammad had bought that rug, and I had kept it in perfect condition for years. Now it was ruined.

The second piece of advice I received was that I should marry again. Then someone would provide for us and I wouldn’t need to keep borrowing money. More than one
man came to seek my hand, despite the five children crowding around me. But they all looked like characters from an Egyptian comedy. The sight of each one made me imagine Muhammad shaking his head in sorrow. How was it that these characters were so certain of my answer that they were prepared to propose? I managed to get rid of them quite easily, except for one. He was a man with such an enormous head that I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from asking if the barber ever complained he’d been paid too little after a haircut. He worked with associations and charities that dealt with orphans’ affairs. Before long we nicknamed him Marble Man, because on one visit he complimented Muhammad Kamal for not playing marbles.

‘I can’t stand children playing marbles,’ he remarked.

Who do you think you are, holding forth like that? I thought to myself.

The next time he came calling, there was a bag of marbles waiting for him. As soon as he sat on the sofa my son (prompted by me, of course) emptied the bag on to the carpet and began to play with them. ‘Tric-trac, tric-trac,’ he kept repeating, until the marbles were knocking against the man’s shoes. He even pushed the man’s feet apart to search for a marble that had gone under the sofa. I could see Marble Man getting more and more annoyed, but he tried desperately to keep calm.

‘Hey there, boy,’ he kept saying. ‘Take it easy!’

Eventually, unable to bear it any more, he left and never came back.

None of these suggestions eased my financial worries. To make matters worse, I was well aware of conversations amongst my family and Muhammad’s about me. ‘Kamila’s no good at managing things,’ they’d say. ‘She’s completely disorganised. All she thinks about is gossiping and drinking
coffee.’ But once I’d finished cooking and washing dishes and clothes, what else was there to do in those long days and nights but welcome female friends, chat, sip coffee and smoke cigarettes? How else was I supposed to forget about love and Muhammad, other than by turning my home into a café?

22
The site of the famous Roman temple to Jupiter, situated about eighty kilometres north-east of Beirut.

‘Baba’s Here, Baba’s Here!’

O
NE DAY, THE
landlady from our house in the Bekaa Valley – where we’d lived during that fateful summer when Muhammad died – paid me a visit. Just the sight of her brought back feelings of overwhelming grief and loss. But I cheered up as I remembered those days, when I’d been revered as the wife of the bureau chief. She invited us to spend the summer with them again, free of charge. The thought of going back to that summer made me happy; it was as though Muhammad might return to me after a long absence. Also, to pass the summer in the Bekaa Valley would be far more affordable than remaining in Beirut.

So, with the arrival of summer, my children and I got on the bus and headed for the Bekaa Valley. But, as soon as we travelled through the mountains and down into the valley, my head began to pound and I bitterly regretted my decision.

‘Where did Baba crash?’ my children kept asking. ‘Was it here?’

Only Ahlam remained silent, closing her eyes to stop herself fainting. When I entered the house I expected Muhammad to appear from one of the rooms; or look down from the balcony; or emerge from behind the leaves of a tree in the garden. When I saw the hook on which I’d hung my dress, still there on the wall of our bedroom, I burst into tears.

‘Oh, Muhammad,’ I whispered. ‘Why did you have to die so young?’

As the days passed, things became easier. I managed to convince myself that I’d turned the page on my life with Muhammad, that he was finally gone. How wrong I was!

One day all five children came rushing in, yelling, ‘Baba’s here, Baba’s here!’ I ran out after them, my heart in my mouth. A car just like Muhammad’s Volkswagen drove up. Out of it stepped Hanan, followed by one of her male friends, who’d been driving the car. I was rubbing one hand against the other, chiding myself for thinking like a child.

‘I can understand why the children thought it was him,’ I told Hanan. ‘But what about me? How on earth could I rush out, believing Muhammad was back?’

I began to rent the same house each summer, bringing my widowed friend, Umm Bassam, whom I’d met through another widow. She had become one of my very closest friends. We became a large extended family, both in Beirut and during summers in the Bekaa Valley, ferrying our children with us everywhere. Umm Bassam was my exact opposite: competent and good at keeping track of her money. She taught me how to play cards. To avoid gambling with money, we used packets of bread to lay stakes. No matter how hard I concentrated on the cards, she always won. It aggravated me so much that I once dreamed that I asked her to show me how to win, just once. ‘Wet your pants,’ she answered, ‘and I’ll let you win!’ It didn’t seem particularly strange in the dream. But the next morning when I awoke, I discovered I had indeed wet the bed.

The Widows’ Club

E
ACH MONTH, WHEN
I went to collect my benefits, I was struck by the similarities between my complaints and those of the other widows. We all shared stories of how people took advantage of us, exploiting our situation and our loss. So I decided to found the Widows’ Club. It quickly grew to include divorcees, like my poor friend Fadila, who’d been married for just two months before her husband divorced her. We allowed unmarried women to join as well. It became a club for women who felt they were in the way of their married friends and a burden to their families. I was constantly astonished at how many widows and unmarried women there were in Beirut, and how many men there were seeking their affections!

Unlike most of the others, I kept myself aloof from men. There was not a man alive worthy of taking Muhammad’s place in my heart. Each time I rejected the advances of a man who came asking for my hand, I’d think to myself that I’d successfully managed to build a barrier between myself and men. But I’d soon discover how wrong I had been. Wherever I went, male eyes watched me, flirting, like when I was married to the Haji. As a widow, I had the attraction of forbidden fruit; men also saw me as neglected and thirsty for attention. It would only have taken a broom to sweep away all the amorous glances, but I have to admit they made me proud that I was still attractive. I secretly welcomed them. I started to feel like a teenager again.

The days rushed past and responsibilities for the house and children gradually grew less burdensome. There was a song by the singer Najat that went, ‘He lives close by, and I love him, I love him!’ It caught my imagination. A younger man had started paying me attention, and for once I felt interested; he lived in a nice building just a few yards away. I liked the fact that he lived so close and could hear our voices and see us from his apartment; I could hear him on the telephone, his television, even the sound of his refrigerator door opening. But then I saw that he was making eyes at our neighbour’s daughter as well. In a fit of vanity I took out my identity card. I added a tiny stroke to the number 2, changing my date of birth from 1925 to 1935. When I had to show my ID card to collect my pension, the altered date was spotted immediately. The matter was referred to an officer, who made a big deal out of it. I tried to explain, but the officer refused to listen to my excuses.

‘Madam,’ he kept insisting. ‘This is forgery, do you understand, forgery!’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Someone wants to marry me. Don’t you see: I’ve got a fiancé! That’s why I’ve lowered my age. That one little stroke could change my entire life. Please understand how hard things are, with five children, responsibilities and high prices … One little stroke, what difference does it make?’

That had him laughing.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘This time I’ll let you off, because you’ve made me laugh!’

Going out with a younger, educated man proved difficult. When we went to the cinema, I had my eldest son come too. He read the Arabic subtitles out in a loud voice so I could follow the film. I didn’t want my friend discovering that I couldn’t read or write.

A few days later I spotted him at it again, this time flirting with another neighbour’s daughter. In a fury I painted over
the window so he couldn’t see us and we couldn’t see him. When I relented and scraped off the paint, I discovered he’d already moved, disappearing into the vast city of Beirut.

With him gone, I reconnected with Beirut and its clamour; with the children, their schools and their friends. My friend Fadila took me with her when she went out with the man she was in love with, a spiritual healer. We’d go to restaurants or cafés, sometimes with a group of the healer’s friends. I loved it. It was clear to me now that I hadn’t been living a cinematic life, the life I’d imagined I’d had with Muhammad. In the end, what use had it been to me that Muhammad was acquainted with ministers and Members of Parliament, that he could recite love poetry by heart? What use had Muhammad’s huge office been to me, with assistants left and right? During our marriage, my endless pregnancies and exhaustion had left me isolated from friends and relatives. I’d seen the world through his eyes. After his death, it was as if I started out all over again. I had to learn how society was constructed and what went on in shops and offices by dealing with the humdrum business of everyday life.

My favourite times were still the summer months, when we went to the same residence in the Bekaa Valley and I could look out over the hills, meadows and mountains. I also enjoyed the attention we received while we were there; the local men liked the fact that we were from Beirut. Once, when I was out walking with Umm Bassam, I saw a young man gesturing at me from a balcony. The Bekaa Valley was famous for strong summer winds and they were making his clean, loose-fitting white shirt billow. Overcome with delight, I tidied my hair and stared back at the young man. I whispered to my friend, gesturing towards the balcony and warning her not to move forward in case it made him
even more eager. But Umm Bassam burst into laughter; she laughed and she laughed.

‘You’re blind as a bat!’ she said.

The young man I had seen was only shirts and sheets hanging on a clothes line.

The Marriage Season

S
OON AFTER HIS
wife passed away, Father became the first in a series of people to marry. He sent me a proverb as a message: ‘Although he was old and wise, he had far from repented.’ From this I understood that he had married a much younger woman, and she was young indeed, even younger than me.

The second marriage was Hanan’s. The joy of heaven descended on me when Fatima told me that Hanan had married. Hanan had never confided in me or told me what she was up to. But I consoled myself with the knowledge that she had taken after me and done what she wanted, defying the family and her society to marry a Lebanese Christian.