The Woman From Tantoura (14 page)

Where had all these tears been? My tears flowed for an hour or two. I would dry them, and dry them again. I would blow my nose and then dry my tears. Those who passed by in the Center didn’t notice that a woman was crying in their colleague’s office, or that the crying inside her, even though it was bound by silence, could have been raised to fill the ears of those passing in the street. I
didn’t notice that Abed had left the office until he came back carrying a box of tissues and a glass of water and a sheet of some pills. He gave me a pill and the glass of water and I took them from him.

He sat facing me in silence. Then I noticed my silence, and his, and my tears, and was filled with embarrassment. I wiped my face and got up. I said, “I’m sorry, Abed, I’m so sorry.” I headed for the elevator. He followed me, and we got in together. As soon as the door shut he opened his arms wide and hugged me, hugged me strongly and kissed me. He wanted to take me home but I refused. What happened? I walked in the streets of Beirut, not knowing if I was headed for home or not. Was I walking or scurrying or running? I look back from afar: a woman of thirty-five walking as if she were running, or running strangely and sporadically, not going anywhere. Why? Does she want to flee from her story? From scenes that loomed unexpectedly from their place when Abed appeared days ago and when Wisal’s voice followed him, so that the door that had been closed for years and chained with a large lock opened wide? How had an old, heavy door opened like that, without a sound or a squeak? It opened, and it all followed. Then the boy hugs her in the elevator, hugs her strongly, and she goes to him as if she had been waiting for years. What happened? She kissed him as he kissed her, why did he kiss her and why did she kiss him? She runs from the question, from herself, from Abed who had suddenly appeared to her in the form of a man, as if he were one of her brothers come back from the dead. And does a brother kiss his sister like this, on the lips? She was shaking like someone with a fever. She stopped suddenly on the street, and sat on the sidewalk. She sat for a few minutes or maybe an hour or two. When she calmed down a little she went toward the house.

The children were waiting, expecting their mother to be whole and complete. Here she is standing in the kitchen preparing lunch as if nothing had happened. Here she sits with them at the lunch table. They ask her why she’s not eating. “My head hurts. I’ll sleep.” She sleeps, and at night she says to Amin, “Wisal called me from
Jordan.” The rest of it was on the tip of her tongue: “And Abd al-Rahman kissed me in the elevator,” but she did not say it. Her tongue was tied, as if it had decided in her place not to say it.

What will I do about this kiss? Where will I go with it? I’ll forget the whole thing completely, as if it never happened. I’ll lose it intentionally, and it will be lost. I went to Wisal, I took refuge with her, just as she and her mother and little brother had taken refuge with us one faraway day. I barricaded myself behind her, concentrating on her voice. The voice seemed strong and painfully near. Who said that the telephone can connect us? It does not; it asserts the distance while forcing you to visualize what you know, and you visualize it now on your skin like a knife blade that touches a nerve, that cuts deeply into your living flesh. Her voice came to me close and clear and I was on the other side, like two women divided by a glass barrier, as if it were the barrier separating the prisoner from his visitor, or more precisely, separating one prisoner from another. So be it, I’ll prepare and talk to her as she talked to me. I’ll subdue the lump in my throat and control the tremor and my tears. Tomorrow.

But the following day I did not go to the Center where Abd al-Rahman works, and not on the day after that. I did not go and he did not come. When two weeks had passed without his appearing, Hasan began to ask about him. He took his telephone number and called him. He said, “Mama, I invited him to dinner tomorrow.” I did not comment. I woke up at dawn as if I had set an alarm. The thought of him and his image and perhaps my fear of meeting him woke me. Can things go back to the way they were? How will we bring them back? He came promptly. I busied myself with preparing dinner, and he busied himself, or was busy with talking to Amin and the boys. I didn’t speak to him directly or look at him, nor did he look at me. The evening passed safely. He no longer came to visit us unless Amin or one of the boys invited him. He no longer knocked on the door unannounced, laughing when it opened and saying, “The unwelcome guest has arrived.”

One morning there was a knock on the door. I was cleaning the house, still wearing my nightgown. I opened the door, and Abed was standing there. He said, “I know Amin and the boys aren’t at home. I wanted to tell you good morning, and to have a quick word with you.” He remained standing at the door, and for a moment or two I stood staring at him, not knowing what the next step was. I laughed suddenly, and said, “Welcome, come in.” I said, “One moment.” I changed my clothes quickly and went to him. I said, “I’ll make you a cup of coffee.” The coffee boiled over, so I filled another small pot with water and added three spoons of ground coffee. I stood watching it. Why had Abed come? It boiled over again—had I ever made coffee before? He called from the living room, “Ruqayya, I won’t stay long, I’ll have a quick word with you and leave. The coffee boiled over, didn’t it?” In a voice that surprised me by how loud it was I said, “It didn’t boil over, I’ll be with you in a minute.” The third time. I fixed my eyes on the coffee pot and moved it a little away from the center of the flame. The coffee boiled up, and I poured two cups. I offered him one and then brought in my cup and sat on the facing seat. A sip, then with the second sip the cup spilled on me. I laughed to hide my embarrassment, and said, “I don’t know what’s come over me today.” He laughed, and I laughed. Then we laughed more, and I got up to change my clothes again. When I returned he was standing, preparing to leave; he said, “I have to go to work.” He leaned down a little and kissed my head, and went down the stairs with rapid steps. He did not look back.

16

Beirut (I)

My aunt says that two-thirds of a boy comes from his maternal uncle, repeating the popular saying when she suddenly notices a gesture or a look or a tone of voice in one of the boys that reminds her of her sister’s two sons. She was right, Sadiq resembled Hasan, tall and broad like him. And Hasan resembled his uncle Sadiq, in the shape of his small body, the color of his eyes, his sweetness and calm. He seemed quiet and shy, compared to his big brother—traits he took from his uncle and from his father, since Amin was also like that. As for little Abed, he differed not because of his devilment, for which scolding and punishments were useless, but rather because of his shrewdness, his charm, and the ready answers always on his tongue. His answers would pull him out of any scrape as clean as a whistle, stir up laughter and let him preside over any discussion, even though he was the youngest. He was rambunctious and talkative and always on the move, tirelessly demanding attention. His grandmother would say, “He’s a bastard, that one, he’s a black sheep.” Her attachment to the two oldest boys was obvious, Sadiq because he was the first grandchild to rejoice her, and Hasan because he was “steady and
kind and affectionate.” And Abed? She waved him away, scowling: “Devil take him, you’re no better off with him than without him.” He was also her declared foe: he would not answer her when she called him, then he would say, “I answered, by God I answered, what can I do, she’s hard of hearing!” She would ask him to buy something from the market, and he would go and return. “Where, Abed … ?” “Ah … I forgot!” What had begun as little tricks and a childish retaliation for her preference for his two older brothers went on to set the tone of the relationship between them until she passed away.

When we moved from Sidon to Beirut in the fall of 1970, Sadiq had enrolled in the first year of his university studies, and Hasan was a student at the end of middle school. Two young men, one didn’t need to fear for them. They read the papers and followed the news. We moved in September, when the battles between the fedayeen and King Hussein were in progress. The two boys would follow what was happening day by day, joining us in discussing and analyzing it and in our apprehensions and concern. As for little Abed, he was in elementary school and the news didn’t hold much interest for him since he was busy with soccer, or with the slightly higher grade his rival in class had received. Did I say that Sadiq and Hasan were alert and that one didn’t need to fear for them? I reconsider the second part of the expression. In the next year and the year that followed I became more worried about them. Sadiq would return to the house and I would know from his appearance that he had been in a demonstration. He did not say it but I knew, and sometimes from his pale face I thought it was likely that one young man or maybe more had been hit by army bullets. Or Hasan would return looking wan and quieter than usual, his stomach hurting. I would boil him some sage or mint but the pain would still be there. When his father returned he examined him and found nothing worrisome, but days later Sadiq told me what happened: “It was a physical reaction to something that happened. One of his classmates at school insulted the Palestinians and Abu Ammar, and said that his armed gangs deserve to be burned up. I told him that his stomach hurt him because he didn’t
hit the kid, ‘If you had hit him he wouldn’t have dared to repeat talk like that. Your answer stayed stuffed in your stomach, so it started hurting.’ I told him, ‘If anyone hits you, hit him, and if anyone humiliates you, wipe up the floor with him.’” I don’t agree with Sadiq, for in the end school is not the place for hitting and fighting. I’m afraid of the army’s bullets, of the militias and the Phalange and their evil intentions toward us. I’m afraid of a clash at school that would result in the boy coming home with his blood flowing. I’m afraid of Beirut. When I confide my fears to Amin he says, “We live far from their neighborhoods. And Abu Ammar is an ally of the national forces, and they are getting stronger every day. Not even the army will be able to keep up all this violence, the national forces have militias and we have the fedayeen. Don’t be afraid.”

Maybe because of this fear Amin suggested that I continue my education, or maybe he noticed that I was becoming more withdrawn and introverted. I didn’t go out or meet any of the neighbors, and even Abed the elder no longer came to the house often; he came only rarely, and on special occasions.

At first I made light of the suggestion, perhaps because I was embarrassed at the thought of going back to school when I had had three children, the oldest of whom was in the university. What if I failed, what would the children say? Amin urged me, and then Sadiq and Hasan took his side. “Why not?” they said, “Try, you have nothing to lose, and besides, you can quit if you find it’s hard.”

I returned to books and notebooks. Instead of one teacher I had two, with Sadiq and Hasan helping me. Little Abed didn’t like being excluded from the game, so he observed, “It would be better if Mama studied by herself, you aren’t teachers, and a poor prof makes for a poor student!” Or the gleam in his eyes would say that he was enjoying the role reversal, and the transfer of the power of right and wrong from here to there. He laughed, and Sadiq asked him, in a tone tinged with rebuke, “Why are you laughing?”

Abed answered, “A funny thought occurred to me. Is it forbidden to laugh?”

I would wake at five in the morning, as usual, and plunge into housework until Amin and the boys woke up. We would have breakfast, and everyone would go on his way. I would spend the day studying until they came back. In the evening I would ask the “two teachers” about what was hard for me to understand.

Amin said that I was making astonishing progress, and that I would be able to take the baccalaureate examination in 1973. But I did not take it.

I had not known the writer Ghassan Kanafani personally, and I didn’t follow what he wrote in the newspapers and magazines. I had never met Dr. Anis Sayegh, the historian and activist, no one had spoken to me about the three Fatah leaders in Verdun Street, nor had I heard any of their names—and if I had heard them I had forgotten them, because I didn’t know the role of any of them or what his position was.

I had read one short story by Ghassan Kanafani that had fallen into my hands by chance, when we were in Sidon. I remember its title: “The Land of Sad Oranges.” I didn’t remember anything of the story other than one line, which read, “When we arrived in Sidon, in the evening, we became refugees.” Who said that, and in what context? I don’t remember. The expression kept ringing in my ears for days and nights, as if it were a line of poetry. I spoke to Ezzedin about the story and a week later he brought me a novel and said that it was the best of Ghassan’s books. I read it in one night: a novel about three Palestinians, a boy, a young man, and an older man, trying to get to Kuwait smuggled in an empty water tanker. The border guard delays the truck and the three die of suffocation inside the tank. The driver delivered them to their death, even though he wanted to help them. The borders killed them. I didn’t read anything else of Ghassan’s, neither books nor articles, and I didn’t follow the magazine where he was the editor in chief; but Ezz knew him personally and talked about him with great admiration. He said, “Do you believe it, Ruqayya, we were born in the same year, and he’s a journalist who publishes his articles in any number
of papers and magazines, he writes stories and novels, he draws, and he’s active in political work, among the leaders of the organization!”

I remember the day clearly. It was a day in July. Beirut was like fire, and the humidity was suffocating. The boys went to Shatila to participate in a summer program. I said goodbye to them in the morning, repeating to them, “It’s very hot today. Walk in the shade, and drink water whenever you can. Otherwise you’ll get sunstroke.”

After an hour or less young Abed rang the doorbell like a crazy person. He rang it continuously, as if he couldn’t wait. When I opened it he burst inside the house, saying, “They’ve assassinated Kanafani. He left his house and got into his car, he turned the key and the car blew up with him and his niece inside.”