The Sand Fish (27 page)

S
he was stuck in a dream.

Her feet sank deep as she staggered up a massive hill in a vast desert of undulating, golden dunes. The faster she climbed, the deeper the sand shifted around her ankles, and those velvety caresses trapped her calves till she slumped with exhaustion.

That’s when she spotted the sand fish—that haunting sand fish—at the top of the hill, its head raised to the sky, taking in all that sun. It did not sink, just stayed where it was. After all, that’s where it belonged.

Then the ground shook around her. The pounding stomps of a figure hurried past her; man or woman, she could not tell, for this figure was swathed in layers of cloth as it headed for the sand fish.

She gathered her strength and uprooted a foot. Then the other, and up she went, suddenly so spry, so alert, in a tiptoe
scurry over the steep slope. All the while, she kept staring at the figure’s feet, plump with spite, closing in on the sand fish.

She was crying. It was crying.

The foot rose and came crashing down. But the sand fish had vanished, leaving behind only the twirl of its body print on the face of the sand. A little distance away, it emerged.

It was crying. She was crying.

The foot was raised high once more, a shadow over her head. She dove again, wriggling her body, feeling another wriggle inside. But the quake was above her and burrowing through.

She was crying. She was crying.

She flapped her arms and kicked her legs, swam deeper and deeper, till she could swim no more. All those tears were clumping the sand, turning it into gobs of mud. Even the foot was struggling.

Soggy mud, sticky mud, heavy mud.

She was crying, sodden and damp. The wetness seeped out of her eyes, her face, her body. The wetness was everywhere.

Noora awoke in a shudder, her head still hazy with sleep, breathless from that dismal dream. So quiet, so still, so dark, save for the dwindling flame of the hurricane lamp hanging on a nail in the wall. The shriek of a mynah broke her daze.
A morning bird at night?
She tried to piece the logic of it just as she heard it flutter away, and the room blanched in a bolt of lightning. There was a puddle around her.

It was happening. It was coming.

The thought sent tremors through her just as a ripping spasm gripped her insides. Her scream was swallowed by the growling sky.

Rain was coming. It was coming.

The pain subsided. She gasped for breath, but her head was
brimming with the fear of knowing that the next contraction would be worse. Why was she alone? Where was Lateefa? What should she do? Where was the midwife? What had she said? “Walk, walk, walk!”

Noora stumbled off the bed only to double over as another gnarled wave traveled through her body. Was it signaling the beginning of a life or the end? What had the midwife said? “It’s all in God’s hands, whether you live or die.” Would she die?

There was no time to think. Her labor started following a furious pace, rushing with the dash of the thunderstorm. She squatted. What had that midwife said? “Sit, sit, sit on the sack and hold on to me!” There was no time to grab the sack, so she clutched the bedpost and became one with the bursting clouds.

She roared with the storm, howled with the wind, screamed with the smacks of thunder. Her tears fell like the pelting raindrops, and when the hail came and knocked on the roof, that signaled the last stage of delivery.

And then she could not think anymore.

S
o quiet now. How quickly you calmed down.”

She paused and glanced over her shoulder, through the door, at the fit of panic in the courtyard. The hurricane lamps jerked like bright yellow fish on the surface of a black sea. There were stomps filled with the squish and slop of wet sand. Round and round, back and forth, they paced with urgent voices: concern in Jassem’s, agitation in Lateefa’s, madness in Yaqoota’s.

“What should we do? What should we do first?” said Lateefa.

Noora turned back to her baby. “You hear her? That’s the one who barged in just moments after you were born.” She patted flat the shock of black hair and guided the dampened piece of cotton round the face, along its gurgling mouth and into the dips of those eyes, struggling to stay open. “Did you see her?”

“The midwife, we have got to get the midwife immediately!” cried Lateefa.

“Do you remember her? Did you see how she rushed in, stood there not knowing what to do, before she ran out again? She had wanted to touch you before me. But she arrived too late. I touched you first, remember that.”

“We have to wait till this rain stops a little,” said Jassem.

“Wooo,” wailed Yaqoota. “If we don’t hurry, she’ll die, the baby will die.”

“Don’t listen to them,” Noora whispered to her child. “Nothing will happen to you. You are blessed,
masha’ Allah
, you’re blessed.” She dabbed the baby’s feet—a boy—with the last piece of cotton, her hand still shaking with this delicate task. How fragile he was: the soft spot at the top of his head, the racing breath in his tummy, the curl of his spine, the tiny limbs that would not stay still, those twitching fingers that were already groping the air. How had she managed to wipe him clean without hurting him? Then again, how had she managed at all?

Perhaps it was that life-giving storm. She could still see the blinding flashes of light. She could still hear the rumble of the inky sky, the claps of thunder, that wet-wet hiss of rain, and, finally, the chaotic clatter of the hailstones. All that noise had chased the fear out of her. The sky had ripped open when everyone had given up on the blessing of rain. It had opened up for her and thrown buckets of hope and aspiration. The thunderstorm had rushed her along its hastening rhythm. How urgent, how hurried it was! After all, it was there for one thing only: to be her partner in delivery. Only now was it tapering off to a light drizzle. Why would it stay longer once its task was finished?

The exhaustion washed over her and she willed it away. “You’re blessed,” Noora whispered again and began secur
ing him in the long swathe of cotton. “You will not face what I had to. You will not make my mistakes.” The baby attempted to raise his drowsy eyelids, managed halfway before giving up with a yawn. “Just a little bit longer, and then I’ll lay you down to sleep.”

There was an argument outside, but this time Noora did not look up.

“Go now,” Lateefa ordered.

“Nooo,” cried Yaqoota, and Noora imagined those fleshy lips tightening into an unbending loop.

“All wrapped now.” Noora lifted the baby and stepped softly to the crib.

“Go and get her, I said. We need her here now!”

“Do you hear her? That’s her again. You have to be careful with her. One thing you should know is that she likes to play with words. I’ve learned to do that, and soon you must, too.”

“I’m not going out in the dark,
Ommi
Lateefa,” Yaqoota wailed. “The Bedouins will kidnap me…And you’ll never see me again!”

“I’ll go.” That was Jassem.

“Don’t be silly. This is a woman’s job, a woman’s concern. Yaqoota will go.”

“I will not!” cried Yaqoota.

“You will!”

“Don’t listen to them. One thing you should learn early is that in the end they’re only good at talking.” She rocked her son in her arms, sang softly, “That’s all it is. Just talk, only talk, just talk.”

Outside, there was the shuffle of a struggle. Someone was pulling; someone was resisting. There was a rip; there was a thud.

“Ooo!” screamed Yaqoota. “Did you break your leg?”

Could it be that the woman with careful steps had slipped?

There was a moment of silence before Lateefa hooted her pain. “I can’t move. I need the bone setter.”

“I can’t go to see if she’s all right. I’ve got you now, and,
masha’ Allah
, you need me more than anyone else.” She hugged him closer to her chest. “Tomorrow I’ll bathe you properly, line your eyes with kohl, and put thumbprints of indigo on your forehead, cheeks, and chin to protect you from jealous eyes. Not that you need it. You see,
masha’ Allah
, you’re blessed.”

“The baby, the baby, what’s happening with the baby?” cried Lateefa. “Get the midwife! Get the bone setter!”

“Calm down,” said Jassem. “I’ll help you to your room, and then I’ll set out with Yaqoota—so nobody kidnaps her—and bring them both here.”

“Listen to me,” Noora murmured, as she laid him in the crib. “In the end, this life is the better one for you.”

The baby stirred and gurgled.

“Hush now, hush. Go to sleep.”

I
would like to thank my mother, Maryam, who possesses not only tailoring and embroidery skills, but also layers of wisdom and insight, and my father, Mohammad, for his vivid remembrances of the past. I am blessed to have them.

I am fortunate to have my three brothers, Sameer, Anwar, and Shehab, who carry an unceasing goodwill toward me. I am also lucky to have their wives, Souad, Cyma, and Lamees, who have become the sisters I never had.

My appreciation goes to my special friend, Ali Khalifa, who was with me right from the start when the novel was no more than an idea. With his flashes of inspiration and intuition, he was happy to guide me through the many drafts as the manuscript turned from raw to polished.

I am extremely grateful to all the people who opened their hearts to give me an authentic sense of the past lifestyles of this
region. In particular, I would like to thank the daughter and granddaughter of a pearl merchant, May and Fatma Bilgaizi, for their warmth and honest recollections. A sincere thank you goes to my aunt, Amna, for her sharp memory and vivid ponderings, and Maryam Al-Hashemi for sharing the painful details of past childbirths. A warm mention must go to my grandmother, fondly nicknamed Mama-Hintain, or second-mother, who, during my childhood, told tales as precious as gems. Although she has passed away, her bedtime stories of
jinn
, witches, love, and marriage live on in my mind.

I am indebted to my friends Mimi Raad and Lina Matta, who immediately fell in love with my protagonist. I thank them for their valuable remarks, diligence, and all the time they spent examining every detail.

My gratitude goes to my agent, Emile Khoury, for believing in this novel and introducing me to the HarperCollins family, which has been so kind to me in its supervision and support. My sincere appreciation goes to my editor, Stephanie Fraser, for her professional guidance and keen observations.

My thanks to Ali Jaber for his infecting enthusiasm and to Samer Hamza, Aliyya Al-Khalidi, Susan Ehtisham, Aileen Mehra, Mike Mirolla, Monica Daniels, and Kawkab Bin-Hafez for taking the time to read my early drafts and to give their comments.

Finally, I am grateful to all my nephews and nieces: Ali, Mohammad, Omar, Ahmad, Maryam, Noora, Soraya, Faye, Maha, Jude, and Mansour. Thank you for bouncing into my work time to provide those much-needed breaks.

Turn the page

FOR MORE ABOUT
M
AHA
G
ARGASH
,
D
UBAI, AND THE WRITING OF
The Sand Fish
.

I
was born in Dubai to a prominent business family, with parents who have always believed that knowledge, experience, and a strong sense of being are the vital elements of personal fulfillment. These values were not spoken of, only understood with every year of growth. They are values that helped me tremendously when I was studying in America and, years later, in London.

America was an eye-opener. Upon first arriving, I was struck by the vastness of it. The highways felt like they would go on forever, and underground parking lots had a sinister mood about them (no doubt because of all the movies I had watched in which they were the most convenient place to carry out a murder). It puzzled me that children would address their parents as if they were in the same peer group and that teachers insisted I do away with the formality of calling them sir or ma’am and use their first names—John, Mary—as if we were best friends. I felt the only sensible thing I could do was to resist this new attitude of informality. As a result, that first year I suffered from culture shock. It was only by the second year that I realized my folly and started to change my approach, supposing that adapting, even temporarily, is always a good thing. From then on, I managed exceptionally well, and even regretted leaving America, where I had made wonderful friends and had exceptional teachers who had taught me to think and express myself.

With my degree in television and radio, I returned to Dubai and, straightaway, joined Dubai Radio and Television to pursue my interest in documentaries. It was a field that provided extensive travel opportunities and opened many doors. I directed a number of documentaries that remain to this day noteworthy resources about various aspects of Emirati culture. During the making of these programs, I traveled to all corners of the Emirates, and the experiences I had are precious, to say the least. I filmed nimble-fingered older women weaving a little girl’s hair into wings to make up the traditional
shoongi
hairstyle, tracked a lone traveler and his camel in the middle of an empty desert while he recited the
tarij
—verses that follow the plod of the camel’s movement and serve to while away the long, lonely hours in the middle of the dunes—and recorded a group
of musicians assembling a traditional drum, chanting together as they stretched the hide over its frame.

Working on these documentaries was very similar to writing this book in that the effort involved me fully in a long and detailed process that, once finished, brought an inner satisfaction and a mountain of experience.

My next project was a little different from the documentaries. This was a cultural television program that consisted of long features on art, culture, nature, and unique people and communities from all over the world. Our team was small, and as a result, I ended up not just directing but also researching, scripting, and presenting. The program aired for five seasons, with features on topics such as India’s ancient science of Ayurveda, a man who had purchased an island paradise in the Seychelles in 1962 for a mere ten thousand pounds sterling, and the khat plant, which sits at the core of social life in the Yemen and imparts a state of euphoria and stimulation when chewed and stored in the corner of the mouth.

For this program, I visited more than forty countries, which have all left invaluable impressions in my mind. I can still trace the beauty of the Simian Mountains of Ethiopia, take in the fragrance of pristine dawns at the bottom of the world in New Zealand, feel the thunderous power of the Nile as it crashes through a six-meter gorge in Uganda’s Murchison Falls National Park, recall with awe the sight of the seventy-five saker and peregrine falcons soaring over Pakistan’s mighty Hindu Kush, as a part of a UAE government program designed to increase their population in the wild. Traveling as I did, my senses were sharpened, and my desire grew to learn more and to probe for more.