On the Weave of the Sun Page 3

  After dinner, he felt ashamed to kiss my hand and say, “God bless your hands, Dalal.” I carried the plates to the kitchen, while he was sipping the coffee I made for him. My tears dropped, as I heard her lecturing him like a teacher with an obedient student,

  “You know that drinking coffee after 8:00 p.m. is not healthy and we ought to get to sleep early.”

  More tears dropped, seeing that he had put the cup on the table, like a child fearing scolding from his mother.

  She looked at me with her blue eyes and said firmly,

  “I made him refrain from smoking and drinking coffee, Dalal. Don’t waste my efforts.”

  She said that without the faintest attempt to fake a smile, like I was nothing more than a waitress in a cheap restaurant. I thought of letting my nails work on her white skin in a fierce attempt to win back my husband, but instead, I looked back at him. He seemed like a quivering cat on her lap. I saw him walking toward the bedroom, as if my coffee was nothing but sleeping syrup, and she followed.

  They locked the door of my bedroom behind them. Half an hour had passed, but it felt like three months, and nothing happened. She had not come out, nor had he, and I had not walked in!

  1 A pilgrimage to Makkah.

  1 A pastry pudding with raisins and coconut steeped in milk.

  Disappearance

  Written by:

  Hasan El-Biqali

  What had happened was that Hajiba 1 El-Mahmoudi disappeared.

  Later, a police investigation team, consisting of a detective and an officer, came to her house and asked the usual questions in such cases, with coldness matching that of rain that had been falling indifferently,

  “Who was Hajiba El-Mahmoudi?”

  “Why did she run away?”

  “Where did she go?”

  Then, they promised to continue their investigation later on and they hastily headed back to the station.

  She was a fairly beautiful woman, with an innocent-looking mole on her right cheek, and eyes that had long lost their shine over the passing years. Every March, she used to eagerly wait for the International Day for Women, but then afterward, all she would hear around her were the same commanding verbs: “clean, wash, come, stay, shut up, eat, don’t eat, don’t be late …”

  On a Sunday, a very ordinary Sunday, the sun rose from its east perch, as the media broadcasted the usual bland news footage of wars, obscenities of politicians, and an update on the global warming issue. One of the children called out,

  “Mom.”

  The pressure cooker answered with its rhythmic noise and smell of overcooked food. She was not in the bathroom, not in the kitchen, not on the roof, and not in any of the rooms. She neither went shopping in the local stores, nor visited any of her neighbors. She was not in the hospital, and no one had phoned her. The world suddenly felt like a hot sauna bath or a giant virgin womb, full of emptiness. Her kids had sunken eyes, like someone suffering from an eye infection, and her husband drowned in a shallow stream of helpless questions and their conflicting answers. In a moment when his soul struggled in a flood of yearning, he found himself mumbling, like a child still breastfeeding,

  “Hajiba, my date branch, ripened through our sunny years, what windstorm swept you away from our palm?”

  She was always there, before her husband went to work and certainly before her kids fancied their worlds. They all watched her pacing steps around the house, trying to maintain its orderliness. She had just prepared lunch, niçoise salad, mutton, and a beans dish, and some hot bread, and then she cut herself a window into some inviting horizon and disappeared.

  “Mooooom!”

  There was only the sound of the cooker, the memory of a fulfilling meal, and stinging questions—only a sharp-cutting heartbreak and sobs.

  Her husband suffered long, lonely nights before the shocking truth dawned on him. For a quarter of a century of their marriage, he had never thanked her once, or romanced her with words that would add meaning to her life and nurture the roots of her love in the deepest part of her heart. She was simply there as part of life, doing the job of a woman. He was there, too. Then the kids sprouted one after the other. In the meantime, Hajiba prepared the meals, washed the clothes, cleaned the house, eroticized his bed at night, awakened the children for school with a smile, waited for them at the door when they returned home, and, above all, stood sentinel for them.

  No one helped her, and no one cared for what made her happy. For them, she was there, part of household management, playing the role of mother, and they were there too, playing their parts. No one noticed the broken look in her eyes. The eyes that used to charm the anguished stopped looking the same. But who cared for what made her sad? Who would fire her up again with passion?

  “Mooooomm!”

  The cry was like a thread of light overcome by darkness, much like an endless question.

  Somewhere in a country, far and vast, someone bold enough would meet a woman who looked like Hajiba, only livelier and radiating with joy.

  “Excuse me, are you Hajiba?”

  She would answer, with a sweet laughter,

  “Hajiba who? I am Safira 1, what would you like to drink?”

  That same someone would then mutter the name of a drink, in a state of vertigo, for the woman standing in front of him, serving the customers their drinks and her smiles, looked incredibly like Hajiba.

  There would be other people who would claim to have seen Hajiba in sporadic places, sometimes as a barmaid at a distant inn, other times as a hired weaver in a textile mill, and occasionally as a beggar in the streets of towns.

  The one thing for sure was that her disappearance opened a wide door to a forked fate!

  1 A female’s name which means cloaked or covered.

  1 Wearing no veil.

  A Luminous Woman

  Written by:

  Sherif Saleh

  There was a silvery light, from an unknown source, in the room, along with a freckled and lonely woman. She was tightening her eyes, so it was not possible to tell their color, but probably they had a silver shine to them, matching that of the lonely light. A lonesome window was closed in the room, and a clock was ticking from somewhere, with a perpetual monotony—tick … tick … tick …

  She had been standing there in the room for a while. Then, she decided to take off her black velvet jacket, revealing a blouse of a blended green and yellow color, crowned with a large collar. She took it off, too, and looked somewhat taller in her high heel shoes and slender legs. Her body was still great, despite the gray strands of hair above her ears.

  She opened the window, and the lonely light was quick to change its color, just as the air in the room was trading its smell with the wind outside.

  “Was I late for you, Darling?”

  As if talking to someone in the room, she asked, and then started wandering around, disturbing the fragile peace forged between the thin layers of dust and the room furniture. Whether lying in the open atop the commode or hiding behind the desk, she knew where to find them.

  Fetching wilted flowers from under the bed in the corner, she murmured,

  “He used to love these flowers.”

  While still on her knees, she threw them into the wastebasket. Standing slowly, holding onto the bed frame for support, she glanced at his stretched body and, on the spur of the moment, leaned forward and kissed his forehead, which was cold as ice. However, just for a second in the frail light, she thought he blinked his eyes.

  He kept his eyes closed, while she was pulling his body to the bathroom. He was heavy, but she maintained her hands firmly under his armpits and pulled steadily, two steps at a time, stopping in between to catch a few deep breaths. She was pulling hard, and her saggy breasts were noticeably shaking through her transparent nightgown.

  She then pushed the door open with one foot, and entered slowly. The bathroom was small, and its walls were decorated with pink tiles and a matching toilet set. She pulled him toward the bathtub, which had alre
ady been filled with warm water. The room was steamy, and the smell of lemon-scented soap had softly besieged the air. She sat down on the edge of the tub and, through the soap bubbles, started rubbing his stiff limbs. Then, she raised his head, opened the water tap, and started washing his restful features.

  Her long fingers were massaging his head, as the flowing warm water was rinsing off the soapy film. His skin looked pale, but soft to her touch. Now, she was drying and perfuming his most intimate part, when suddenly she laughed. It was much smaller in her hands, but looked most magnificent with death.

  “Don’t worry. I like it just fine,”

  She said, and then smiled in the midst of her embarrassment.

  Once again, she was pulling him from under the armpits out of the bathtub. His head was down, resting in tranquillity on her stomach, and his full body was quiescent between her wet legs. His feet were trailing on the floor, as she pulled him back to the bed. This time, she had not stopped for breath.

  “We are about to finish, Dear.”

  After carefully placing a bandage over the deformed black hole on the side of his head, she started dressing him in his proud military uniform, still decorated with medals and gold epaulets. She then laid him softly on the bed, and went to close the window, remembering to put fresh flowers in the vase on the commode next to him.

  “Darling, tell me please, which do you like more, my smell or that of the flowers?”

  She said flirtingly, and climbed into bed next to him, after turning on the light.

  Still half-naked, she was breathing heavily, while unbuttoning his shirt. She was clinging to him, and the warmth of her nakedness was streaming into his coldness, desirously devouring her body into his. Under the light, she was there with him, waiting for the first pulse.

  Dominos

  Written by:

  Ibtesam Trisy

  I had just carefully placed another brick in the structure with precision. And in the company of a smile on my face for the path it was paving in the matrix of my life, I collectedly started writing.

  The smell of burning under my skin was overwhelming me, but I ignored the smell and recomposed the final draft of my opening article for The Morning newspaper. Springing out of their lines, my words were streaming toward a dark horizon, mocking my feelings, and overpowering me with their cruelty.

  (I need to show the importance of the existence of women and their effective role in shaping history ).

  My father used to tell me, “It is natural that you get more than what your brother gets, because being a woman, you are deprived of many privileges.”

  Like a rusted metal, my brother’s strong hand encircled the long locks of hair, saying,

  “I will root it out, so you may not look all pretty for an outing.”

  The hair that had remained wrapped around his fingers was still scarifying my neck and slashing my throat. The cold water had turned into piercing thorns and my voice became a whimper. My father’s hand rushed from a far past, chasing away the violence with care blended with another abuse,

  “Damn you. It is not manly for you to beat a woman.”

  He was saying the truth, though! Truth is sometimes devastating. My father himself, the devoted lawman and journalist, who swamped the world with articles about women and their rights and roles in the society, looked at me with affection and anxiety when I finished high school, saying,

  “You have had enough of education.”

  He flooded me with books, opened up his library for me, but locked me up in the house. I was enchained to his kindliness and handcuffed to his tenderness. He bought me a car before he bought one for my brother. I felt like I was handicapped, needing others to stand up and move away from the wheelchair of helplessness.

  (I will first write about the independence of women and how they enjoy natural intelligence, qualifying them to live in the society independently of men ).

  When my marriage set me free of the influence of my father, I started designing my life in a stunningly organized way and engineering my existence the same way I had been living it in my dreams. I must confess, I had been taking advantage of my husband who submitted to my wishes and did not interfere in my life. I did not even feel his presence around.

  The death of my father had ended his reign, but only freed me to face the scarecrow that was persistently sharing my breaths, and I sighed. What pain I was going through!

  (Motherhood has got to have a role in shaping the society in an ideal and perfect manner. Why don’t I start discussing this subject? ).

  While my daughter was still trembling with fever, bleeding, and grieving over her stillborn baby, his iron fist slapped the table, shattering the glass, and insisting,

  “I will not divorce her. Let’s see what you can do about that!”

  She ran to me like the petted lass she was with her long tresses. She was on my lap, crying through her streaming tears, pleading,

  “I don’t want him, Ma. Please divorce me from him and get him away from me.”

  She was back on my lap, a little tot, but I was not able to breastfeed her. My breasts had gone dry and my love was lost in a heap of ash. The pale but gloating eyes of my husband were staring at my perplexity. Well … what was I going to do? It was I who went after the bridegroom—the rich spoiled brat.

  Every time she faced a problem, she came rushing to my womb seeking warmth, safety, and relaxation. This time, I was helpless. How could I get her a divorce?

  (My lecture will be about the strongly bonded family ).

  My eyes were fiery with tears, as I pushed through crowds and nightmares to rush my son to the hospital. I had washed my face off of his ashes. How could I forget the gloomy face of the doctor pulling me aside?

  “You should have brought him earlier. His addiction is way beyond treatment.”

  I fell down on the clean white floor. I wondered if I still had the courage and strength to continue building a structure that collapsed every time I added another brick.

  The phone rang, reminding me of the interview time. The beautiful show hostess smiled, while presenting me to the audience,

  “On today’s show, we are glad to meet Doctor Layla to talk about her successful experience in building a strongly-bonded family through an important and pressing topic, which is the Arabic family and the contemporary challenges. This is Nessrin Trabulsi in the Morning Table show. Welcome to all of you dear viewers.”

  The desk was shaking violently, and the bricks of the structure started falling down one by one. The fatal whiteness had occupied my head wiping out the words, titles, and topics, and only leaving behind a stupid smile on my lips, dignifying me to face the staring eyes behind the waiting and lurking TV cameras.

  As if coming from a deep well, the voice of the show director ordering a commercial break, of a new toy on the market climbed down my ears.

  Girls’ Route

  Written by:

  Khaled Al-Jobour

  I was screaming in protest, as my mother was late in baking the bread, but she resonated along with a sandal thrown in my face, and kicked me out of the house.

  I fought hard to keep my tears and anger inside, and walked out, under the heat of the compassionate afternoon sun toward the sandy courtyard, wedged between the houses. It was there that I saw them playing hopscotch.

  Fatimah, my cousin, was playing, while her playmates where watching attentively. I got closer to have a good view of the scene. It was overwhelming how skilfully she was playing, kicking the hand-carved marker, so it would move from one square to another. Her moves and hops were very pleasing to the eye. Much like a young pony, with each hop, her hair danced up and down briskly, in the comfort of her back, flying around like a free black bird. I pitied the vainly waiting girls, for I knew she was too good to commit a foul in hopping the course, and her turn would never end. They all seemed envious of her, and in their childish way started intoning a rhyme, in a feeble attempt to jinx her, chanting in low voices,

  “Ma
y she fall. God make her fall.”

  Through my peripheral vision, I spotted some boys of my neighborhood coming our way, so I walked their way, pretending to be in a hurry. As we met, they asked me if I wanted to play with them, but I told them I was hungry and would join them once I had lunch. One of the kids pointed at the girls and asked me,

  “Maybe you like to play with them!”

  I felt something roaring inside me and my face blazed with rage. I swore to them that I wasn’t playing with the girls, but was going to my aunt’s house. The boys looked at me in disbelief and somehow I heard the word “tom girl” sneak out of their crowd, but I acted as if I had heard nothing. Reaffirming my promise to join them after lunch, I headed back to my house, thinking to myself that it was my aunt, the bully, who first dubbed me with that offensive nickname and now everybody was using it.

  Pounding the floor with both of my bare feet, I stood before my mother saying I was starving, but she scolded me and said she was not going to bake for me that day. I thought of crying, but quickly dismissed the idea, knowing that my tears had no chance of making her change her mind.

  I stood on our porch, waiting, with my stomach churning. Then, sitting down with my back to the door, I closed my eyes and relaxed my mind; there she was, hopping elegantly. I knew that if we played together, I would beat her even in girls’ games. I always beat her, causing her face to turn red, and tears to sparkle in her eyes. Sometimes, she would explode in anger,

  “You are a cheat.”

  Seeing a cold smile on my face, her face would redden more, giving me a rush, and a desire would overcome me to tease her more. I would clap my hands loudly, dance and laugh, and chant. She would not let me finish the words, and would spring upon me, pull my hair, and strike my head rapidly with both hands, saying,

  “Stupid, stupid, I will not play with you again. Go and play with the boys.”

  But the next day, she would come back with the fire of vengeance beautifying her eyes,