25

We visited Sanour two or three months later and discovered a transformed Hasna. She had replaced her black dress with a white one, embroidered on the top and bottom with peasant designs. She covered her head with a white cloth and wore a large felt hat on top. She moved around the farm followed by a number of workers who carried metal wires and poles, to either replace the old ones or simply reinforce them, for a better and more resistant fence.

Standing under the light of the sun, in this new attire and the strange hat, she looked like a character in a painting by an Indian or Mexican artist. Though she looked funny, one couldn’t help but admire her, as I deduced from my grandmother’s question when she leaned on my shoulder and said, “Look how beautiful she is in her peasant dress! Would you like me to have one made for you, Nidal?”

I did not reply, busy as I was, searching for a beloved face among the workers, behind the wires, and under the trees—a face that had left me but was still enticing me in my dreams, like a wandering vision that had not settled down. Sometimes he would return in my dreams, reviving my hopes, and at other times I would be overwhelmed with despair, and I faced the morning with a sulking expression and a cold heart. I was still hoping he would return and find me here, at the farm, behind the gray horse, sitting on top of the rock, as the sun set on the pond, spreading its purple across the horizon. I kept hoping and dreaming, but it never materialized; it remained a dream among other dreams.

When Hasna saw us standing there, observing her, she rushed to greet us and tried to kiss my grandmother’s hand in the peasant tradition. My grandmother quickly withdrew her hand and repeated a few times, “May God forgive me.” She was quite pleased, however, with the gesture: it made her feel that the woman had not forgotten her and still viewed her like a mother. It also meant that she was not trying to act superior, though we had heard that she was the only one who counted here, while my uncle retreated to the mosque and no one thought much about him.

My grandmother decided to have my uncle marry Hasna. My uncle Amin had explained to her that her son was depressed, and consequently had lost his mind, finding solace only in the mosque. He had lost his direction and his harbor in life, ever since the revolution left him and he abandoned it. This explained why a woman was able to control him. After a time of reflection, my grandmother thought that the solution was for him to marry. She was watching the woman with a critical and curious eye, whispering in my ear, “Is she beautiful?” I would nod and say, “Yes.” She would then ask, “Is she hardworking?” I would nod and say, “Yes.” She would then ask a question that did not require an answer but was pronounced in lieu of a comment: “She is a widow!” I did not answer, but she continued, “He is divorced.” She went on, listing the virtues of the woman, mainly to convince herself that she was making the right decision, and that the woman deserved to be her daughter-in-law, despite her peasant status and lack of good ancestry after she had lost all the male descendants of her family. She then rectified her position when she recalled what had happened to the woman’s husband, her uncle, and her brothers, and said, “How terrible! May God help her. She will soon forget. She has certainly forgotten.” I did not comment, and she went on: “She is wearing white, which means that she has forgotten.” As I still did not make any comment, she continued, hopeful and stubborn: “She is wearing white. This means that she has forgotten them; if she has not, may God help me make her forget.” At that moment, I smiled in secret because I knew that I would be watching a battle between two strong and stubborn women—one more stubborn than the other. I was waiting for the critical moment with apprehension because I knew my grandmother’s stubborn character and Hasna’s strength.