Good morning poplar branch standing upright
The flesh lives on
O day
While the bone must end standing upright
For the sake of the oppressed eyes may I reach my end standing upright
A slave awaiting the moment of command
A POEM OF ADMONITION KHOJAH BAHIRA SANG
TO WIDAD AT THE HAMMAM
“As WIDAD SURRENDERED to Suad’s hands while she put on the final pieces of jewellery, Khojah Bahira said:
“‘Come on, we’re late, it’s already past twelve.’
“‘Of course, ablaya, we’re ready,’ Widad replied, gazing in wonder at herself in the mirror.
“Bahira went out into the garden and began barking orders at Aisha and Faridah. The two women lined up the bags and the suitcases, which had been stuffed to the gills. Suad crouched in front of Widad. She was mesmerising, a woman unlike any other.
“‘Soon you’re going to be famous, Widad,’ Bahira said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Everyone’s going to know you as one of the most beautiful women in Aleppo. Women will gasp at your charms. Your name will be on everyone’s lips.’
“Widad smiled as she examined herself a second time. The four women had taught her what it meant to be beautiful, what it was that made her so beautiful. Suad’s cheek was still caressing hers, two faces joined together, imprinted on the surface of the mirror.
“‘You’re pretty, too,’ Widad told Suad, trying to be nice.
“‘Who, me?’ Suad asked. ‘I’m a dog compared to you. It doesn’t bother me, though. Every gasp that escapes from a woman’s mouth when she sees you is for all of us.’
“From the courtyard she could hear Bahira telling them to hurry up. Just then Widad kissed her and got up. Soon after that the carriage delivered the five women to the Balaban hammam.
“Now that her love had been well and truly accepted, Khojah Bahira decided that the time had come to bring Widad out of her forced isolation and present her to the women of Aleppan society. She no longer feared that someone was going to steal her away. Bahira had been nervous that Widad might get scared and possibly even run away if she confessed her love. But Widad accepted it with an open heart. When Bahira kissed her for the first time, she responded in kind.
“Bahira spent the entire day in Widad’s room. They held one another in bed all day long. They cried together, too, their tears running together. The women always had something to cry about. Ever since Widad accepted her Khojah’s advances, being apart from her had become difficult. Bahira wasn’t satisfied with just embracing and kissing her sweetheart, and Suad was forced to bring their lunch and dinner to Widad’s room on a serving tray so Bahira could feed Widad by hand. When Suad left the room she would report to Aisha and Faridah that things were going as well as possible. Joy spread through the Farafrah house. The women started playing cheerful music underneath the window that looked down on the courtyard. Aisha danced even as she banged out the rhythm. That night Bahira guided her sweetheart back to her room so that she could sleep in her bed with her, at which point Suad reclaimed her own room.
“At first Widad was embarrassed whenever Bahira stroked and kissed her in front of the other girls. But modesty cannot destroy passion, and since they all lived in the same house, freely entering each other’s bedrooms, everyone had to accept public displays of affection. There was nothing more natural than seeing couples in a romantic situation, caressing. At first she was embarrassed whenever Suad would come into her room for whatever reason when the two of them were in bed together half naked, or, shall we say, with very little on. Bahira didn’t like her body to be separated from Widad’s smouldering body. She didn’t see the need to move away from her if Suad or Aisha or Faridah walked in. She always had to sit next to Bahira whenever they were in the courtyard or some other room together. To sit beside her also meant touching her the same way Aisha and Faridah did right in front of her. Meanwhile Suad would go around serving all of them because she didn’t have anyone.
“Within a few days everything began to feel normal to Widad. She started to appreciate the pleasure she and Bahira enjoyed, which only made her find Bahira even more beautiful and pleasing. She started to feel a lump in her throat if her ablaya neglected her for even a moment when she was engrossed in a conversation or busy with something else. As the days went by, Widad stopped feeling any shame when the two of them went into the bath together or came out at the same time. Bahira had become her ablaya, which, as we already mentioned, was the most natural of things in the Farafrah house.
“Widad was ready to move on to the women of Aleppo. She had become aware of her self-worth and the extent of her beauty and gracefulness. Even more important, she had learnt how to show it all off naturally, without going too far or not far enough. She learnt how to speak and laugh properly, how to style her unruly hair, how to walk in high heels without falling, and how to touch her face without ruining her makeup. In Aleppo high society she would meet elegant and privileged women from the upper crust who were beloved for their musical talents and their passion. Daughters of pashas and beys and aghas and effendis. Wives of merchants and factory-owners and large landowners and distinguished bureaucrats. She might come into contact with the wives of the governor or the mayor, the head of the Chamber of Industry or Commerce, government officials or judges and court employees. For all of these reasons, Khojah Bahira was careful not to let Widad mix with the people until she was fully put together. She also wanted to detonate this secret weapon in the faces of all those other women when she revealed to them that she was her new abalaya.
Bahira had reserved the Balaban hammam for precisely this purpose, sending invitations to all the women who would be interested, especially women of a certain disposition. Suad attended to Widad’s makeup while someone else took care of the food and sweets that would be on offer at the hammam. Apparently word about Widad had already spread among the women, and tongues wagged in telling the tale of a dangerously beautiful woman whom the Khojah had taken as her new lover. Curiosity was at its peak by the time invitations to see Widad actually arrived. On the appointed day, cars and buses, both public and private, started to deposit women at the hammam, clogging the streets leading to Bab al-Hadid and the Serail near the citadel. Some women had to walk a great distance on foot. Other Khojahs were also invited. Of course, Khojah Samah, Bahira’s rival in music and in love, was among those invited. Bahira wanted to make it clear Widad belonged to her, and there was no point in trying to win or steal her away from her.
“So that’s why Khojah Bahira had that party?” I asked the old man.
“Exactly. Her aim was to have a reception, to invite all her friends and clients, most of whom were also banat al-ishreh, in order to introduce her new girlfriend, who at that point was as unknown to the community as the community was to her. Presenting Widad was a little bit like announcing an engagement.”
“Were all the women present necessarily of the same… orientation?”
“For the most part. There would have been quite a few women who hung out with them but who weren’t banat al-ishreh themselves. They would have found a certain pleasure in that, even if they had no zdeeqa themselves.”
“A zdeeqa is a kind of girlfriend, right?”
“Correct. The invitation would be addressed to the ablaya and her zdeeqa. You’d see them sitting two by two.”
“But why have it at the hammam? Why wouldn’t she invite them over to her house?”
“It had become customary to hold such gatherings in the public hammam. Things happened more organically in those spaces, without disturbing children and husbands, many of whom would have had no idea that their wives might be going to the hammam for reasons other than to bathe. There’s another important reason as far as the banat al-ishreh are concerned. It’s totally natural at the hammam for a woman to take off some or all of her clothes and to wrap herself in a towel. This was a preferable situation since it made it easier for them to caress one another.”
“Please, continue,” I encouraged the old man.
“When the bus with Khojah Bahira and her women reached the edge of the government building, the road from there to the Balaban hammam was totally cleared of other buses and cars so that their vehicle was able to drive right up to the door of the bathhouse. As as it came to a stop, Suad and Aisha and Faridah hurried inside carrying the packages and musical instruments while Bahira and Widad waited in the bus for a sign to follow them inside.
“The outer courtyard of the hammam was full of women, seated two by two on cushions lined up on benches or on the floor, which had been covered with cloths. They took off some of their clothes or stripped down naked and wrapped themselves up in towels. Some of the women there had fancy titles with particular rings and echoes to them:
“Fadila Khanum, wife of Nu’man Beyk, who had inherited from his father 6,000 hectares and a spacious konak in the village where he would spend most of his time in spite of Fadila’s hatred of the village and her particular love of living in Aleppo. Her zdeeqa Waheeba Khanum, the respectable woman married to the head of the lawyers’ guild who dreamt of being elected to Parliament. Fadwa, wife of Professor Nazem, the litterateur and poet who taught Arabic literature. Umm Saadeddine, wife of the Board of Directors of the Ghazal cotton and spinning company of Aleppo. The wife of the district governor of Minbaj. Adeela, wife of the personal translator for the French High Commissioner Comte Damien de Martel, and her ablaya. Saadiyeh, wife of the editor-in-chief of Voice of the North magazine. Umm Umar, wife of the esteemed head of the Syria Social Club who brags about his wife’s relationship with the wife of the governor. Sumaya, wife of the governor. Amina Khanum, wife of the president of the association of literary clubs in Aleppo, and eloquent spokesperson simultaneously both for and against the French, depending on the circumstances; her girlfriend, the very skinny daughter of the assistant to the head of customs. Umm As’ad and her ablaya Dalal. Mounira Khanum, wife of the owner of the Phoenicia Glass Works, well known for her good looks and her high morals. Miss Yusra, wife of the owner of Sarah’s Scents Workshop for all kinds of colognes and face creams and hair-styling products. The wife of the owner of the National Factory for Shirts and Socks, and her girlfriend Iftikar, wife of the owner of the Imperial Sawfar Hotel. And other wives of high-society men, in addition to Khojah Samah and her new Jewish ablaya Raheel.
“Joyful, chattering, giggling and singing, some leant against one another and others clung to the woman next to them. They flirted with their girlfriends, affirming their affection. When the attendant opened the door, Suad and her two friends appeared, and the hammam sprang to life with ululations, the mood becoming more and more excited. These three women took up their designated place next to their friend Bahiya, the heavy-set oud player who had arrived there before them and started to play a medley in the style of Ali Darwish. The women all knew that the time had come for Khojah Bahira to arrive with her fresh discovery. All eyes were staring at the door. It was only a matter of minutes before the door swung open and Khojah Bahira swept in holding Widad’s hand.
“What happened was more like magic than reality. Suddenly all the idle chatter ceased, the musicians stopped playing, and not a sound could be heard. Everyone watched the two women as they strode towards their designated spot, which was adorned with roses and furnished with satin. It never occurred to the women to cheer. They just stood there, frozen. It was simple: all eyes were locked on Widad’s extremely sweet face, which exuded youth and innocence.
“Seeing confusion in the eyes of all the women present, Khojah Bahira felt the thrill of victory. Silence was an even surer sign of her success. Meanwhile, Widad shyly watched what was going on. It was the first time her beauty was being put on display before women who were experts in matters of female beauty: the banat al-ishreh have a greater passion for women’s beauty than men; they celebrate and lust after a beautiful woman. She took strength from Suad’s eyes and her smile, letting go of her embarrassment entirely. When the two of them sat down in their special place, like a bride and groom, Khojah Bahira lifted her hand, signalling for Suad to strike up the music. At that moment the women returned to their senses and began chattering once again.
“They cheered the music enthusiastically as it began again, applauding at every opportunity. Then Raheel stood up and approached Bahira and Widad, kissed them both, showered them with blessings, and, standing in the middle of the room, started to dance. She wanted to demonstrate her friendship for her old ablaya in spite of everything that had happened; also for simple Widad, who couldn’t be faulted for having taken her spot in Bahira’s bed. Raheel danced joyfully. Bahira silently watched her dance, holding Widad’s hand.
“After leaving Bahira’s, Raheel had joined Khojah Samah’s group. She started dancing at parties organised by her new Khojah. Samah invited her to live in her house in the al-Jumayliyya neighbourhood near the train station. Samah dumped her ablaya as soon as Raheel arrived to replace her in the beautiful Khojah’s bedroom. Nobody ever shed a tear for women who dumped each other like that. It was like a little light sweeping. Anyone could take another’s spot in those ablayas’ lives, their bedrooms and their families. The whole thing wasn’t much more than temporary jealousy, which would dissipate as soon as the jilted lover became involved in a new passion. When Raheel became Samah’s ablaya she told her all about Widad and how beautiful she was. For some strange reason Raheel didn’t detest Widad; she would talk about her and her beauty with admiration. And because Samah was one of Bahira’s fiercest rivals, she asked Raheel all about Widad: whom did she look like, what did she look like, what colour were her hair and her eyes, how did she walk, what were her talents? And so on and so forth. She was so consumed by curiosity that she even dreamt about a young lady who looked like Widad. This all took place without Raheel becoming envious at all. When the invitation to the hammam came from Khojah Bahira, Samah was delighted because it would afford her the opportunity to meet Widad face to face. To be clear, let me just say that Raheel did feel some passing jealousy when she saw Samah scrutinising Widad with her discerning eyes. At that point some of the guests cast inquisitive glances at Raheel because they realised that Widad had taken her place with Bahira. Which is why, as I said, she got up and congratulated the two women before proceeding to dance.
“In such an atmosphere, Khojah Samah had to be on her best behaviour. She had won Raheel but now felt jealous that her ex-lover now had a more beautiful ablaya than her. She stood up and wrapped the towel around her beautiful womanly body once again. She had been reclining in her seat, having loosened the towel to reveal her milky-white breasts and thighs, exposing herself at one and the same time to Widad and Raheel, who by that point was dancing seductively. Samah picked up the bag she had brought with her and walked back towards her ex-lover’s group. Samah’s movement got the women all riled up. Her stories with Bahira were legendary. She climbed up on the dais and kissed Bahira on the cheeks and embraced her with exaggerated affection, before sending Widad a powerful glance.
“‘I’m Khojah Samah,’ she said. ‘Maybe you’ve heard of me, maybe you haven’t. Whatever the case, you’ll be hearing a lot about me from this day forward. Let me give you a kiss.’
“After planting this kiss on her, she embraced her, trying to pull Widad’s body closer, kissing her on the neck and then moving away. This all took place within earshot and in view of Khojah Bahira and the other guests. Widad’s face turned beet-red as she looked over at Bahira, who winked at her to indicate that everything was fine. Samah opened her small purse, pulled out a gold necklace encrusted with emeralds, and held it up high for everyone to see. At that point she came up behind Widad and fastened it around her neck. She congratulated them both and then stepped off the dais and returned to her seat.
“Raheel watched Samah overstepping the boundaries. Supposedly they were there to celebrate Widad and Bahira in the forthright announcement of their relationship, an event meant to warn other women against getting involved with either of those two ablayas from that day forward. The women were chatting loudly in overlapping conversations about what they had seen when Samah brushed past Raheel. Now the audience’s attention turned towards them as they awaited Raheel’s reaction. Jealousy among the banat al-ishreh was lethal. Raheel continued her mysterious dance as she crossed the distance to her ablaya and started to undulate in front of her. Her body was twisting like a snake, her arms waving like those of an octopus. Her upper body leant in, as if she were about to pounce, as if she wanted to sting her. Samah was standing upright, hands on her hips. She could feel Raheel’s jealousy, took pleasure in it. Things went on like this between the two of them for a while. Then what happened, you ask? All the women were in suspense about what Samah might do to her ablaya. She pulled her in close, planting a long kiss on her lips that slowed down her mysterious dance. The women cheered for a long time. Samah eventually peeled herself away from Raheel and guided her back to their dais.
“Then the mood started to heat up. The band was playing a dance number by Sayyid Darwish, and lots of women stepped away from their girlfriends to dance alongside the band. Samah and Raheel had stirred up desire among the women. They stopped caring about what was going on as each became more interested in her girlfriend, either dancing for her or else caressing and kissing her. Bahira noticed that the women’s attention had shifted away from her and Widad. There was now more than one dancer on the floor, so she flashed Suad a signal to stop playing for a few minutes, and this made the women stop what they had been doing. Bahira whispered something in Widad’s ear, then stood and went down to the living room. The group went back to playing, ‘I Never Meant to Hurt You/Why’d You Leave Me?’ by Mohammed Abdel Wahab. Widad knew that song well from living in Bahira’s house. She knew how to dance to its rhythm properly. But then she started moving in a way that could not be described as dancing. It was more like movements that thrilled the heart with their tenderness and affection. The women froze and followed every move she made, every flick of her eyes. She was a bashful angel, as soft as a breeze. The resounding music drowned out the cries escaping the women’s mouths despite all their attempts to control themselves.
“The hammam party continued well into the evening. Bahira sang a few odes to Widad. Then Samah sang a bawdy song. They ate and they drank, they sang, they danced and they ululated. Then they competed to be first to present Widad with their gifts. On that one day she took possession of gold necklaces and rings as well as Ottoman and French coins, which catapulted her to the ranks of the elite.”
When we heard the thud of the storm door as it closed, the old man fell silent. Ismail was back from his imaginary errand to get in touch with my family. The old man clammed up because he knew full well that Ismail was dead set against his telling the story, which is to say: the old man was now colluding with me in order to satisfy my desire to hear it. I didn’t tell him about what had happened the night before, how Ismail had threatened me and asked me to leave. I didn’t want to spoil their relationship. It would have fallen entirely on me to find a solution to any bad blood between them.
We heard light footsteps, then the living-room door opened and Ismail walked in. He was sopping wet from head to toe. I had seen him standing out in the rain so that he could convince the old man that he had actually gone to a nearby village to call my family. I already knew the outcome of his errand in advance. Ismail glared at me resentfully. Because he was making a puddle on the floor, he stood away from the rug so it wouldn’t get wet. The old man lifted his eyes, waiting to find out what happened.
“Nobody picked up,” Ismail said in a scornful voice. “I went to all that trouble for nothing.”
“What do you mean ‘nobody picked up’?” the old man asked, looking at me and then looking at him. “You should have tried calling more than once.”
“I tried twenty times. The rain must have knocked out the phone lines.”
A convincing argument. The old man nodded and then asked me:
“You should have given Ismail your address so he could send a telegram.”
“You’re right, my good sir. That never occurred to me.”
I glanced at Ismail, whose displeased eyes were staring back at me. I spontaneously tried to reassure the old man.
“Tomorrow I’ll go with Brother Ismail to do whatever has to be done.”
Ismail was none too pleased with the idea.
“I’ll get lunch started,” he said, casting another spiteful glare my way before turning to leave.
Once Ismail was gone, the old man said, “Ismail has a good heart. Don’t take it personally if he seems not to like you. He doesn’t care for strangers much. I don’t know why exactly, but I can assure you, he’s harmless.”
“He knows you’re still telling me the story. That’s just provoking him.”
“Let’s keep our voices down until lunch is ready.”
“Khojah Bahira started receiving lots of invitations to host weddings and private parties. All the women in the city heard about her after the hammam party, and it seemed as though every last one wanted to see Widad. The women believed she had become the sole property of Khojah Bahira ever since it was announced that she was her ablaya. But it didn’t prevent them from watching her perform and appreciating her beauty. This was why they fell over themselves to invite the pair to their homes, whether for coffee, a party or simply to participate in other gatherings of the banat al-ishreh like the one at the Balaban hammam.
“Bahira begged off invitations to visit other people’s homes. Nobody knew why. I would venture to guess that at first she didn’t want Widad to get a look at her friends’ houses. She wanted her to be familiar with only one house in the city: hers, in the Farafrah neighbourhood. She had brought her into the music group as a dancer, and Widad began accompanying her to weddings where Bahira would sing and Widad would dance. The women of the city had become accustomed to dancers wearing special costumes. Widad would wear a long, frilly white silk dress that extended down to her ankles, and the frills would glide along her shapely body, sending the women’s hearts aflutter. It was as if they were seeing a brand-new kind of dance for the very first time. To be honest, none of them were interested in dance or its technical aspects when Widad was dancing. She hypnotised them with a mysterious and unfamiliar power, which was actually a sort of vulnerability mixed with grace and sweetness. The movements were often barely more than her body folding and vibrating to the rhythm, and stroking her temple with her finger as she held the back of her hand with her other hand. When Bahira asked Widad to descend from the dais to move closer to the women, they could really appreciate Widad’s sweetness and exceptional grace, her shy smile and rosy face.
“When the groom showed up, the dancer would strut ahead of him and guide him to where his bride would be seated, although she would often hop up to get him herself. Widad found the whole performance quite taxing. She wasn’t accustomed to dancing in front of men. But from that point on she had to participate in the wedding when it was time for the groom and bride to leave together. From the first wedding party at the Orange Café, it was clear that all the women had fallen under Widad’s spell, so much so that some would completely forget to ululate. Everything was going very well. Widad loved it, and became ever more rapt in her dancing. Once she leant in close to her Khojah and whispered how much she loved weddings, how much she loved dancing at them. Just then voices rang out announcing the arrival of the groom. This caused quite a commotion throughout the room as most of the women, apart from the groom’s mother and sisters, of course, hurried to put on their headscarves. Widad stopped dancing and sat down to watch it all. This was her first time at an Aleppo wedding. The groom’s mother asked Bahira to have Widad dance for her son when he got there, but Widad refused out of modesty. To show she was serious, she stood by the living-room door, watching as the ululations reached a deafening volume. The groom was an eighteen-year-old boy with a pencil-thin moustache. He arrived in a daze, reeking of sweat: his friends had got him drunk. Widad began walking ahead of him, guiding him towards the bride, whose female relatives had all refused to come down and greet him, when her foot slipped from embarrassment and lack of familiarity. She might have taken a tumble had it not been for the groom’s steadying hand. But then, woozy from all the drinking, he fell down and took her with him. All the women rushed over to pick him up along with Widad, who danced away from them, weeping. He followed after her and for some unknown reason tried to get hold of her again. But Bahira, who had stopped singing, blocked his path. Suad managed to guide Widad into the other room so she could cry in private.
“The women needed to calm the Khojah and apologise to her if they were going to keep her and her band from walking out on the wedding. As they all tried to seat the tipsy groom next to his bride, ululations began to ring out once more. But a row had already broken out between the groom’s and the bride’s families because of the young man’s lack of decorum. The groom’s family chided the girl for her failure to get up and welcome the groom even as the bride’s family expressed their annoyance at the groom’s immature behaviour. The hubbub escalated into a heated argument. On both sides, women with cooler heads tried to calm things down as they got closer to insults. A few members of the groom’s family continued cheering, and an unassuming woman from the bride’s family shouted at them:
“‘What’s going on here? Are you ladies celebrating the fact that your boy is smashed tonight?’
“Those words detonated like a grenade in that atmosphere. The groom’s family exploded in anger, and a fight erupted after one woman pulled another’s hair. Things deteriorated quickly into slapping and biting. Some of the gold jewellery on the brawling women went flying. Khojah Bahira tried singing at the top of her lungs to calm the situation but the women paid no attention. They kept on fighting or joined in if they hadn’t already. Just then the mother of the bride jumped up on the dais and grabbed her daughter by the hand to announce that the wedding had been cancelled: her daughter wasn’t ready to get married. Then the bride’s aunt stood up and slapped the tipsy groom square in the face. The women stormed out of the hall, followed by their relatives.”
I laughed long and hard as I contemplated these events. The old man let me laugh even as a smile flickered on his lips. In a good mood, I asked him:
“Widad must have been mortified that evening, right?”
“Very much so, but once they got back to the house, Suad and Bahira made her feel much better. The Khojah promised she would never make her dance in front of a groom again. Bahira cared about Widad more than anything else, so she made an arrangement with a professional dancer named Malak, who would perform whenever a groom was present, and would take care of the wedding party festivities for both bride and groom.”
“I would think that Widad’s unusual dance couldn’t totally spoil the mood of wedding parties.”
“That’s true. The impact of her dance, which immersed you in sweetness and light, couldn’t be fully appreciated without paying close attention. She required participation and harmony. Khojah Bahira was clever enough to know that the mayhem caused by the groom’s entrance and the accompanying whirlwind of ululations called for a professional and more traditional dance.”
“She didn’t offer the job to Raheel?”
“She knew Raheel would have said no anyway. As I mentioned, she had started working for Khojah Samah, and since she was a jilted ablaya, she would have refused no matter what.”
“Did Widad see any other fights?”
“Fights were always breaking out at weddings. But as you know, one shouldn’t get the impression that our weddings are nothing but disagreements and fights. Anyone who works weddings, though, is bound to come across them.”
“Of course, I understand, old man…”
“Widad would dance until the groom arrived. When he showed up, she would sit down to watch as Malak the hired dancer emerged and put on her show, always decked out in her traditional costume. This solution satisfied everyone, including the wedding organisers. Malak did a fine job performing her duties. Widad would watch the other women hurriedly throw on their veils to conceal their semi-nudity, which would otherwise be revealed in their wedding clothes. The groom would peek through the living-room door until he made his entrance. Malak would dance her way in front of him, through the storms of cheering, all the way to her seat. The young women then started dancing—weddings were an opportunity for single women to strut their stuff in front of the mothers of the bride and groom who were hosting the reception. But things didn’t always go according to plan. Simply put, Widad became quite familiar with a lot of noise as well.
“Some people believe that if the bride stomps on the groom’s foot on their wedding night she’ll always have the upper hand in the marital home. Some would take part in that silly custom ironically while others took it seriously. At one wedding, a rather plump bride was dead set on the idea. She stepped down so hard on her groom’s foot that Widad, who was watching, thought she might have broken his foot. The groom yelped in pain, lifted his foot and grabbed his bride, hopping on one foot as he fought against tears. The music stopped abruptly and Malak stopped dancing. The women’s ululations came to a halt. Nothing could be heard except the sound of the groom whimpering in pain, then cursing and chastising the bride, and then his vow to divorce her. The young man railed against his wife’s clumsiness. He had signed a marriage contract with her without having set eyes on her. He went to sit in his place, all red in the face, and refused to let his bride sit by his side.
“Chaos broke out as the women struck up a debate. The bride’s relatives tried to calm the groom down, but to no avail. His mind was made up. He was going to divorce her. In order to prove how serious he was, he went over to Widad, asking her in an audible voice to marry him on the spot. The young woman froze in horror, ready to leap up and run away, but Bahira intervened, instructing him as firmly as possible to get away from her. The bride was in a sorry state, crying inconsolably over losing her groom right before her very eyes and ears. Tears, black from the kohl she wore around her eyes, streamed down her face and as she wiped them away, her face became monstrous.
“The groom got up once again and asked the young women still at the wedding which of them would like to marry him. He didn’t want to waste the money he had already spent on the party. And lo and behold a woman emerged from the bickering crowd, holding the hand of her daughter, who was barely thirteen years old. She walked up to the dais and presented the groom with her daughter, saying:
“‘This is my daughter Aisha. I consent to your marrying her right now.’
“The groom sized up the little girl. All the other women fell silent, holding their breath while they awaited his decision. He seemed to be looking back and forth at the little one and at his overweight wife, whose face was smudged with eyeshadow, comparing one to the other. He told his mother that Aisha was more appropriate for him. They had to find a suitable dress for her. All the relatives of the overweight bride stormed out in anger and tears, asking the shaykh to conclude a new marriage contract. Bahira had to ask for a larger fee because she would be forced to remain a little later.”
I chuckled as Ismail came in to set the table for lunch in the dining area off the living room. When he saw me laughing, he threw me a spiteful glance and went about his work. Just then the old man fell silent. I got up to stand by the window, staring up at the rainy sky in order to avoid making eye contact with Ismail.
After lunch I felt a sharp pain in my stomach and rushed out of my room towards the bathroom at the end of the hall. It was still siesta time. When I sat down on the toilet I was surprised by explosive diarrhoea with an unnatural colour and stench. I cleaned myself up and dried my hands before walking back out. It occurred to me that I might have been poisoned by wicked Ismail. My head was pounding and feverish, and I became overwhelmed by extreme concern for my health and for my very life. I went back to sit down on the toilet without dropping my pants and tried to think. Had Ismail laced my food with poison? I didn’t feel like making myself throw up, and I tried to avoid rushing to judge Ismail.
I struggled to recall the symptoms of poisoning from cases I had witnessed myself or read about. I felt I would need to pull down my trousers and sit on the toilet because I was sure to have explosive diarrhoea. Perhaps I’d feel slightly dizzy and my heart would start pounding violently. I could hear my voice ringing in my ears:
“It’s burning… Ismail poisoned me.”
Apparently the sound of my own voice convinced me that I had been poisoned. I was instantaneously overcome with panic as I realised that I would have to purge myself right away.
Ingesting a poisonous mushroom in the countryside or in the middle of the forest, far from hospitals and ambulances, was the worst thing that could possibly happen to someone like me. If you pass out, you may die. But if you know you’ve been poisoned and you manage to stay conscious, you have to shove your hand down your throat, press your finger as far down as it can go and make yourself throw up. Then you have to drink a gallon of water and repeat this forced vomiting several times, until your digestive tract is rid of the poisonous substance.
By the third round of my purging process, I saw that I was only throwing up water, which allowed me to relax. I stayed on the toilet in order to catch my breath. The process was so painful, I felt as if my digestive tract was going to come surging out of my body. Once I had calmed down completely I stood up and washed my yellow face, dried it off and opened the door to go out, which was when I bumped into Ismail.
He was just standing there, as if he had been pressed up against the bathroom door. He was blocking my path, fixing me with a wolfish stare. He knew full well what was going on inside of me. With a hint of sarcasm, he said:
“I hope you’re feeling all right, sir.”
“May God protect you.”
“Your face is a bit yellow, though. You were throwing up, were you? I could hear you all the way downstairs.”
I didn’t want to appear weak in his presence, so I didn’t mention the poisoning.
“It seems I’ve come down with some kind of a bug, or maybe I ate too much at lunch and my stomach couldn’t handle it.”
“I know what it is.”
“What’s that?”
“I added some wild herbs to the old man’s food. You pampered city folk are allergic.”
“To herbs?” I asked in bewilderment.
“There are various herbs that grow in these parts,” he said, threateningly. “Including poisonous ones, of course. Thank God you just had an allergic reaction this time.”
So that bastard had poisoned me after all. I was staring him straight in the face, unsure what to do.
“What’s your decision?” he asked me.
“What do you mean?”
“Why don’t you just go home so you can be nourished by your wife’s reliable home cooking and the warmth of her bed?”
“I’ll go when the old man says it’s time for me to go.”
“As you wish, sir,” he said, as if saddling me with the responsibility for whatever might happen.
I started to walk towards my room but stopped and wheeled round to see him staring at me disapprovingly. I moved in close so I could whisper, as he had.
“Why can’t we be friends?” I asked him in a gentle tone full of goodwill.
“But we are friends.”
“Friends? You’ve been threatening me nonstop. Listen, let’s make a deal. I’m in good shape. My work often brings me out to the countryside, into the wild. I know how to flush out poison and how to take care of someone trying to break into my room at night with an oak switch. Anyway, I’m really stubborn and I’m always up for an adventure.” I was lying about this; I’m as skittish as a bunny rabbit. “Just leave me alone, and we can remain friends.”
“How about you just leave, and then we can remain friends, inshallah.”
“Is this because of the story?”
“Why don’t you want me to hear it? What’s the worst that could happen to you?”
He walked away without responding, down to the ground floor. I followed after him. If he wasn’t going to tell me what the whole thing had to do with him, I hoped I could at least get him to give something away. I grabbed his arm to prevent him from going downstairs.
“It’s just the old man’s life story. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, as far as I can tell.”
He moved two steps back up, coming within a hair’s breadth of me. He was visibly upset. He could have taken a bite out of my nose just by opening his mouth.
“Listen up, adventure-lover,” he snarled, breathing into my face. “Don’t forget that you stumbled out of a broken-down car and got lost in the wilderness on a rainy night full of hyenas and wild dogs. I swear I’m going to get rid of you.”
He clenched his teeth as he spat out that last sentence, then wheeled around and started down the stairs. I stood there for a moment before heading back to my room. I needed to think. I stood next to the window, looking out at the grey sky and the torrent of water pouring from dark clouds. I was vehemently against the idea of leaving. I was hooked on the story and couldn’t see a way around it or Ismail at that moment. If I left then, without hearing the rest of the story, I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life. I was going to stay and wrangle with Ismail.
I heard a door close downstairs, and then the house was silent. I expected to see Ismail walking around the side of the house so I looked out the window at the backyard but didn’t see anything. I waited for five minutes and when he didn’t appear, I felt the need to lie down on my stomach to ease the pain of the forced vomiting. Because I make the bed every morning I had to pull back the blanket. When I did, I froze. Right there, on top of the white sheet, was a scorpion as big as my hand. Its tail was curled high above its body, as if it were about to strike. I was paralysed with fear. I had seen my share of scorpions out in the wild, but I had never seen such a gargantuan one. It was reddish brown, though its tail was yellowish and its stinger was white. If that creature had stung me, I’d have been a goner. Thankfully I’d pulled the covers back and seen it before lying down.
It took a long time for me to come up with such a vivid description of the scorpion because I was dumbfounded in the moment, my mind inert. The scorpion spun around and disappeared under the blanket. When it vanished from my sight I snapped out of it and attacked the spot where it was hiding, raining blows down on it, trying to smash it with my shoe. I continued to pound away until I was exhausted. I moved away from the bed and with two fingers I yanked back the blanket to see what had happened. Strangely, I found no trace of it. I pulled the blanket all the way back but the scorpion had escaped and must have been long gone. I searched for it in the folds of the bed, clutching my shoe, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. My fear grew. If I didn’t find it, I’d be staying in a scorpion-infested room. I was in a daze. I couldn’t stop looking at my foot, my hand, my shoulder. I was convinced that the scorpion was creeping up on me. I’d jump suddenly. Finally I retreated to the corner and crouched down, so I’d have a full view of the floor.
I could feel panicked heartbeats pounding against my knees, which were pressed up against my chest. Ismail was seriously trying to kill me, I thought, and I was getting close to giving up. Then I imagined myself fleeing the house, carrying Shaykh Nafeh with me, taking him to my house in Aleppo where we could enjoy the kind of peace and quiet that would allow me to hear the rest of the story without scorpions or poison. We’d be pampered by my dear wife Nadia instead.
Just then I heard the sound of something falling, like a box of matches hitting the bare floor. The scorpion had dropped from underneath the bed and it was now heading towards me, making a scratching sound, its tail curled up, its pincers at the ready. I may come across as a coward but when I find myself up against mortal danger I can be quite courageous; at least, that’s what’s happened in every exceptional situation I’ve ever been in. I crawled towards it on my knees, clutching my shoe, and at just the right moment I swung it down and smashed the creature. I heard a crunch. Yellow fluid came seeping out of its crushed shell—the poison with which Ismail intended to kill me.
I swept up the mangled scorpion and wiped away the fluid with a paper towel before heading downstairs to toss it in the garbage. When I was done I washed my hands with soap and water. The kitchen was tidy and clean, smelling of strong disinfectant. There was a set of shelves along the wall and a long block of shiny marble with another row of cabinets over the countertop. There was a huge refrigerator and a rectangular table against the wall, with a chair on each side. A hand towel hung there. I smelt it: it was clean and smelt of laundry detergent.
I opened a cupboard and discovered that it was full of tin cans. I opened another to find that it was for clean plates. Ismail was very neat, I thought to myself. A stranger like me could feel a kind of calm in this kitchen. I stood there for a moment and then turned to leave when I noticed that the open door concealed another door behind it. I had to close the kitchen door in order to see the other door, and that’s just what I did. The second door was quite narrow, no wider than sixty centimetres, and it didn’t have a doorknob. An old photograph of the Aleppo citadel hung at eye level. I assumed the door would be locked but I mustered up some courage and pushed. It swung inwards, just like that.
So this was Ismail’s room. The daylight illuminated it to reveal a carefully made bed and a bookcase with hundreds of books in Arabic, English and French. There was a large armoire and several smaller cabinets. I couldn’t imagine what they contained. I walked over to the bookcase. If it was strange to see so many books in one place, I found it even stranger that they should be in Ismail’s room, in particular. Apparently he could read three languages. He was educated, the bastard. At the side of the bed was a nightstand with a lamp and a book Ismail had been reading, with an ostrich feather as a bookmark. It was Déscription de l’Égypte, written during the Napoleonic campaign against Egypt in 1798. I opened it at the bookmarked page: here was a chapter in which the author described the Egyptian bridal procession, specifically the female dancers who would walk out in front. I returned the book to its place, exactly the way it had been positioned, so that when Ismail returned he wouldn’t suspect anyone had been there. I went over to the bookcase to examine the other titles. I was surprised to learn that he read about Egypt and dance and wedding ceremonies. The shelves contained works of history as well as nineteenth-century French and English novels by Flaubert, Stendahl, Balzac, Dickens, Conrad and others. There were historical books by Durant and Shaykh Kamel al-Ghazzi, the memoirs of Naum Bakhkhash, books about home gardening, a book about toxins, another about fighting snakes and another about mushrooms, and a copy of The Tribes of Syria by Ahmad Wasfi Zakaraya.
I had to squat in order to read the titles on a lower shelf. It seemed that he wanted those books always to be within reach. Most of them were about the arts: The Egyptian Singer, published in 1912 by the Gramophone Limited Company in Egypt, Diwan al-Ataba al-Sharqiyyah, and My Life by the American dancer Isadora Duncan. There was one book that particularly resonated with me: Voyage to Egypt and the Land of the Nubians. The book is a travel narrative set between 1805 and 1828 in Egypt and the Nubian region, and it was dedicated to the Russian tsar. Flipping through it, I discovered drawings of a number of dancers from the region as well as a number of images depicting the lives of the inhabitants.
I had to think through several things right away, the most important being what connected Egypt, dance and Ismail. Did it have something to do with his slightly Egyptian accent? I’d have to postpone my questions until later. Time was short, and Ismail could come back any minute and find me in his room. He would kill me for sure. Walking away from the bookcase, I opened his wardrobe, its chaos in total contrast to the neatness I’d found in the kitchen and his bedroom. There were all sorts of clothes: a Bedouin robe, Arab dishdashas and keffiyehs and other things. As I pushed away a higgledy-piggledy stack of clothes, my hand touched cold metal. Tossing the clothes aside, I saw the barrel of a hunting rifle. It was unloaded. I pulled it out, held it in my hands, and moved to the window to get a closer look. A French model. The two barrels didn’t smell of burnt powder, suggesting that it hadn’t been fired for some time. I noticed a Latin inscription on the wooden butt. I shivered as I brought it into the light: Dr Waleed Fares. Just then I was overcome with incapacitating terror. Fear made me consider getting out of that room immediately, but it also drove me to search among the piles of clothes for rifle cartridges. Maybe he had stashed them here as well. Rummaging around in a hurry, I found a cartridge full of red plastic-tipped bullets. I made sure everything appeared to be back to normal, at least the way I remembered it, and then left the room. I went back to my room, hid the rifle and the cartridges under my bed, and sat down to take a few laboured breaths, nervous about what Ismail would do if he caught me poking around in his room. Some time later I heard the front door close. He had returned.
I sat by the fireplace in the living room, waiting for the old man to come down from his nap. He was taking a long time, so Ismail went up to look for him. I stood up to watch the rain. Where could Ismail have gone in this weather? Where was he hiding out? Maybe there was a shack nearby, or a secret entrance to another room where he was plotting to kill me.
I was confused by everything I had found in his room off the kitchen. But what really disturbed me was the fact that I’d found Dr Waleed Fares’s hunting rifle. The old man had told me that his one-time guest had disappeared after three days without saying goodbye to him or hearing the end of the story. I doubted that Ismail had forced him to leave. It seemed much more likely that he had murdered him and disposed of the body. Today I confirmed that he had been killed. If he had left, he would have taken his rifle with him, since he would have needed it out in the wilderness. The most likely scenario was that Ismail had killed the doctor with his own hunting rifle and then buried him in the garden.
I felt like I had fallen into a trap. I tried to understand how Ismail could hate the story so much that he would threaten to kill anyone who heard it. I felt incapable of making sense of it by way of the books in his library, since I had still only heard a portion of the old man’s tale. There had to be some connection between the story and the subject of dance, which Ismail read so much about. He seemed to mark the chapters that discussed dance. The copy of My Life by the dancer Isadora Duncan and published in the Fifties by the Arab Awakening Publishing House in Damascus, had been read more than any other. And why read so much about Egypt? Had the women in the story travelled there? It wouldn’t have been so strange since they were performers.
Of course, there was the possibility that the library belonged to the old man, rather than Ismail. He clearly had a personal interest in those Khojahs, which could have led him to read widely about traditional song and dance. But this hypothesis fell apart since it was Ismail who was reading the book beside his bed. There were also those pages marked with ostrich feathers that dealt with dance and other rituals. Besides, if the library belonged to the old man, why wasn’t it in his room? Why was it in Ismail’s secret room?
I was convinced the old man could read foreign languages because I had seen pictures of him in Paris; that would seem to confirm that the books were his, and that he had perhaps asked Ismail to move the library into his room so he would have space to decorate the walls of his bedroom with his pictures. But then why wouldn’t he have placed the books on the shelves in the living room instead of filling them with all those curios and the ceramics and china?
All of a sudden I had a terrifying thought that gave me the urge to piss. What if the old man was part of this trap—a strange estate out in the middle of nowhere—and they could use his story to lure in strangers or people who got lost and took shelter with them until Ismail murdered them? I’d heard a peculiar story—I can’t remember where or from whom—that was very similar to the situation I found myself in, and which I’m now relating to you.
Once there was a man driving along a mountain road in the middle of a heavy rainstorm. Quite a coincidence. It was after midnight and dark outside. The windscreen wipers were on the highest setting but the man was still having trouble seeing anything. Things suddenly took a turn for the worse as the car skidded off the asphalt and crashed into a boulder. The man was dazed. The place was isolated, it was pitch-black, and he decided to stay in the car and wait until another car passed so he could ask for help. A long time passed and he started feeling cold. He was wet and the engine was still on when he decided to get out and start walking through the darkness in search of shelter. After a while he saw some light through the trees. He set out in that direction, plunging into the forest. He made it to a house that had been designed by a mountain architect to resemble an ancient castle. He rang the doorbell and an elderly manservant opened the door. He asked if he could come in or use the phone to call his family for help. The butler showed him in and asked him to wait by the fire until his master could join him. The place was full of stuffed animals: heads of bears, deer and wolves hung on the walls. The place was creepy and the man felt uncomfortable. A few minutes later a middle-aged man came in, welcomed him, and invited him to stay the night, after which he would drive him in whichever direction he was travelling. The two of them sat by the fireplace, savouring the warmth and hot drinks the manservant offered them. The important thing is that the master suggested that they play a game to pass the time before going to bed. The guest warmly agreed.
The master took out some playing cards and explained the rules of the game. It was like bridge, although the rules were somewhat vague, and the master had to repeatedly explain the possible moves to this man, who was not accustomed to playing cards. At first things proceeded smoothly and the man almost began to understand some of the rules, but the master mysteriously changed the rules so that his cards always beat those of his opponent. The man seemed to be constantly losing. He was always expected to wager whatever he had, no matter how meagre. He felt he should be gracious to his host, and went along with whatever he said, until finally the master won all of the man’s cards, which ended the game. At that point he declared that the rules of the game stipulated that when one player loses all of his cards he must do whatever the winner asks of him. The master’s request was for the guest to work in the house for an undisclosed period of time. If he wanted to win back his freedom he would have to play the same game with the master, with the same rules, until he was able to beat him. But if the man refused or tried to run away, the servant would shoot him. Just then the servant came out with a rifle aimed at the man.
The story goes that the two men continued playing the game until one day the master again changed the rules. You might think that what happened to me wasn’t comparable to what happened to that other guy, but I find many things in common, including the fact that the man was the prisoner of a game whose rules went on changing, whereas I found myself the prisoner of a story that stretched on and on—and might never end.
The sky was starting to darken when I heard footsteps. I turned around immediately, expecting to see the old man coming down from his room, but instead I saw Ismail, alone, and glaring at me with an alarmingly hateful look on his face. I suspected that he had discovered the rifle and bullets in my room, or at least knew I’d found the scorpion and squashed it. He stood in front of me for a long time, shrouded in inky darkness. I was standing by the window, and he could see me more clearly than I could see him. The lights hadn’t come on yet.
“Now look at what you’ve done to the old man, you piece of shit,” he said to me, as if he were surprised I was still alive. “He’s exhausted and can’t come down.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“It’s all your fault. Too much talking has worn him out. If anything happens to him, I’ll kill you right away. I told you to leave but you rudely refused. The problem now is that the old man is asking for you to go up to his room. We’ll figure something out. As friends, like I told you. Now get up there and talk to the old man.”
“What should I say to him?”
“Say whatever you want, you son of a bitch. Tell him a story. But don’t let him open his mouth. I don’t want you to hear any more. I’ll be right there to make sure my orders are carried out exactly. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“You’re a bastard and a loser. I’ll be watching you tonight, too. Tomorrow morning I’m going to take you to the main road so you can get the hell out of here and never come back. I want you to erase from your mind everything you’ve heard here. If I ever find out that you talked about it, I swear to God I’ll track you down in Aleppo and kill you. Got it?”
“I just want to ask: why must this kindly old man be denied kindness? You’re so insistent that I have to go. Apparently you were planning something for Dr Waleed Fares before I got here but then he ran away. Shame on you. The old man is just trying to enjoy himself.”
“Did he tell you about the hunter?”
“He did.”
“Seems to me you’ve heard a lot already. It’s none of your business. Take a look at yourself. You’re healthy. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You should live it. I’m not sure you’ve got nine lives left in you.”
“Clearly you only want the best for me.”
“Come on, go and tell him about your work at the Agricultural Bank. I’ll be along in a bit.”
We could no longer see each other in the darkening gloom. He was standing by the door, and I had to pass him to go into the living room.
“I don’t think I’ll have dinner tonight,” I said, pausing there. “I don’t feel like being poisoned. Don’t charge me for tonight’s meal.”
I felt like he was smiling at me but I might have been mistaken. When I tried to get past him, he caught at my arm so violently, it felt like a hunter’s trap.
“Calm down. Everything’s going to be fine, just as long as you do what I tell you. But if I come up there and hear him telling you that story, I’m going to hurt you. If you refuse to leave in the morning, I’ll kill you. So you can be sure of my intentions, I encourage you to inspect your room. There might just happen to be a poisonous scorpion sitting between your sheets.”
“Thanks for the heads up, but I already found and killed it.”
I couldn’t see the look on his face as I pulled my arm away and left the living room, but I heard him snort. I walked up to the second floor and turned towards the old man’s room. I knocked on the door and heard his invitation to enter.
He was leaning against the headboard, covered with a heavy sheet and a Spanish blanket. His face was yellow, and he was clasping his trembling hands. I felt affection for him and pity for his failing health, and I felt guilty for having exhausted him with storytelling. But the man seemed lonely whenever I wasn’t around. He needed me, and there I was in his room. I had come to entertain him, just as he had requested.
The light in the room was weak, which only made his face look thinner. He was of a more advanced age than I had realised, perhaps ninety years old. He had begun to resemble my own father during his last days. He allowed me to stare at his face even as he struggled to control his shaking hands. He was gazing at the pictures hanging on the wall across from him, photos from his youth. I was totally convinced that his tale was a part of his life. I hurried over to the window where the photo of Widad at the train station hung behind the curtain. I took down the frame and moved back towards the light.
I took a better look at her face, trying unsuccessfully to find some common features between Widad and the old man. But Widad’s face started to look more familiar to me. Where had I seen it before? Seriously, I started to feel as though I knew someone who looked like her, or maybe I knew the woman herself. Bullshit, I thought. It must simply be that I was seeing the picture for a second time, or maybe I had dreamt about it the night before. I put the photo down somewhere hidden, so Ismail wouldn’t see it if he came in all of a sudden. I looked back at the old man, who was waiting for me so he could continue the story. Maybe it wouldn’t be finished that day or the next. Ismail had ordered me to keep the old man silent. The house was full of mysteries, and it seemed the story might explain some of them. Perhaps it would only make them more mysterious. I couldn’t forget that Ismail had tried to kill me, or at least harm me and force me to leave. I found myself telling the old man honestly about my fears.
“I can see that the story isn’t going to be over any time soon, but I’m afraid I’ll have to leave before I hear the end.”
“I beg you not to go. I’ll try to finish within the next three days. Tomorrow you can go with Ismail to the nearest telephone and let your family know that you’re fine.”
“But Ismail himself is the problem. He threatened me. He wants me to leave. He doesn’t want me to hear the rest of the story.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s like this with anyone who knocks on our door. The doctor also complained about Ismail’s threats before he left.”
“Did he actually leave, or did he disappear? Personally, I think he disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“I found a rifle hidden in the house.”
“Ismail got that as a present the first day he arrived here. He received it in my presence. Ismail’s a good person. He just doesn’t want me to tell this to anyone, which is why we’re out here in the sticks, cut off from the world.”
These last few words confused me, and I scrambled around in my warren of thoughts. So where was Dr Waleed, then? Was I to understand that Ismail was unwilling to kill him because he had been given the rifle as a present? It wasn’t true that Ismail was a good person. Maybe he was merciful because he hadn’t killed the old man yet. But what did he mean when he said that the two of them were isolated out there in the sticks because Ismail didn’t want him to tell anyone? That would mean that the servant had some kind of leverage over the old man, that he was able to keep him cut off from the world in this remote place.
“Ismail tried to break into my room last night,” I told the old man. “He wanted to prove that he’s capable of hurting me. Then he tried to poison me. Apparently he put something in my food. And finally, I found a poisonous scorpion in my bed.”
The old man didn’t react, just kept staring at the designs on his blanket. He was mulling over what I’d just told him. We stayed like that for a while. I stared at him and he stared at the blanket.
“What would you say to going to the city with me?” I asked him. “I’ll take you away from here. I could carry you. You could finish telling me your story in Aleppo without anyone interrupting you.”
He turned his face towards me and gazed into my eyes. It seemed he had already been thinking about the possibility of running away, because after a little while he started shaking his head to indicate he didn’t like the idea. Probably he was imagining being carried on my back as I helped him to escape. Just then I heard Ismail’s footsteps approaching the bedroom door.
Before Ismail came in the old man warned me about something of the utmost importance.
“There are poisonous plants out here in this part of the country. A person should take care not to…”
The servant overheard some of what the old man was saying as he walked in. He glared at us, and I stared right back at him. He knew that our conversation had been about poisonous plants, but that could be the case whenever two men find themselves together in a cosy house on a rainy day. He shut the door and sat down on a rocking chair, his head hidden by the closet. All I could see of him was his jaw, his nose and his forehead. He had come to spy on us, to listen in on our conversation. The old man continued talking as if his servant weren’t there.
“These plants are all around us. People come to think of them as familiar and they nurture them regularly, but they are poisonous, sometimes even lethal.”
“I’m familiar with some of them,” I said. “Some of our colleagues at the Agricultural Bank are agricultural engineers and they’re always mentioning their Latin names, but I tend to quickly forget them. I’m better at remembering numbers and statistics and the value of loans given out to the peasants.
“Haven’t you ever heard them talk about the oleander plant? It’s very common around Aleppo.”
“Oleander, what else?”
“Yes, Oleander nerium. Every part of it is poisonous. It’s a stimulant that causes vomiting and heart palpitations, paralysis in the respiratory system, and then death. You need to be careful. Its poison is extremely lethal. Once these hunters ate some birds that had been eating oleander branches.”
“And what happened to them?”
“Some of them were poisoned and died. A number of beautiful flowers are also thought to be poisonous, such as Sitt al-Husn or ‘Bella Donna’, which causes fever and hallucinations if ingested by a human being. It can result in sudden cardiac arrest. There are also Datura plants that are extremely poisonous to livestock and human beings alike. Consuming just seven grams of its leaves can lead to death. Flowers of the nightshade plant, also known as ‘the drunkard’, can provoke an accelerated heart rate. Consuming a large amount of it can cause insanity, even death. I could rattle off other names such as hyacinth, dieffenbachia, larkspur and the ricin found in castor beans.
“How will I know if I’ve been poisoned by one of them?”
“You’ve got to keep track of your pupils; most likely they’ll become dilated from the atropine.”
I wanted to find out what Ismail had put in my food that had made me feel I’d been poisoned.
“Once after eating I had intense diarrhoea and felt suspicious about what had happened to me,” I told the old man, staring at where Ismail was sitting.
“Maybe you ate some poison ivy leaves. It can cause symptoms like that. If it had been a large quantity, your nerves would have violently seized up, and you would have had trouble breathing.”
Had I seen poison ivy creeping along the side of the house? I had arrived at night and hadn’t noticed any branches climbing up the wall. I tried to remember: maybe there was some on the walls looking out on the back garden. In the long silence Ismail looked over at me. From his stare I became convinced that he had actually poisoned me with poison ivy.
We stopped talking, the old man and I, because we weren’t very good at this game of trying to fool Ismail. Time was passing, and the silence was all-encompassing, except for the rain hitting the window and the sound of water gushing from the gutters outside. How was I going to trick Ismail into leaving us alone until it was time to go to sleep? I exhaled in growing frustration and stood up. I decided to do something. I apologised to the old man as if I were apologising to Ismail.
“Excuse me, old man, I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
The old man nodded permission, and I turned to see Ismail staring at me intently. As soon as I closed the old man’s bedroom door behind me, I could hear the servant starting a conversation, but I hurried to the bathroom instead of stopping to listen. I opened and then closed the door without going in, then tiptoed back to my room. I switched on the lights, lifted up the mattress and pulled out the rifle and ammunition. I flipped open the gun, loaded it with two bullets and closed it again, preparing to head back when something suddenly stopped me. A snake—black, shiny, and terrifying—was slithering out from under my bed. I stiffened and froze on the spot. It was headed right for me, its eyes big and beady, its body thick as a loaf cake. It slithered towards me and raised its head. As it got closer, I had to move or else it would strike me. In a surprising move—more surprising to me than to the snake, to be sure—I lowered the butt of the rifle and brought it down hard on the snake’s head. Its body writhed from side to side. Then I raised the rifle up high and brought it crashing down on it until its head was smashed. I didn’t wait for the rest of the body to stop quivering, but moved away and started trembling as the blood returned to my face, making me unbearably warm. Staring into the mirror, I saw my face turning red and my lips going blue. I switched off the light, gently closed the door, and hurried back towards the old man’s room. I knocked on the door and held the rifle up, ready to open fire. When I heard the weak voice of the old man calling out to me, I went inside. In a single bound I found myself face to face with Ismail, himself now frozen in shock.
I aimed the rifle at his head in an awkward way I’d learnt from the movies.
“Now, you’re going to get the hell out of here, Ismail. You’re going to leave the two of us in peace,” I told him, sucking my teeth in order to let him know I was ready to kill him if he didn’t do as I said.
“You’re nuts,” he said. “Put the gun down.”
“No. Did you hear me? I’m warning you, don’t come near me.”
“All this for a story?”
“Yep, all this for a story.”
I let him see my finger on the trigger and he stood up. He stared hard at me in anger and spite, almost spewing poison. I backed away from him slightly so that he wouldn’t be able to come at me suddenly and grab the rifle, and nodded towards the door. He turned and headed out.
“Can’t you see what your guest is up to?” he asked the old man, who had gone all yellow and was shaking miserably.
“Leave the old man alone,” I commanded. “Get out.”
He left. I inched my way forward without lowering the rifle, ordering him to shut the door behind him. He took hold of the handle and looked at me with an expression I can’t quite describe. But before closing the door, he spat at me; spittle sprayed into my face, and the door was slammed shut. I wasn’t bothered by his phlegm as it dripped down my face, and I hurried instead to secure the lock and rotate my chair so I’d be able to sit there and monitor the door and the window at the same time.
This all happened quickly, and in a way that stunned me more than it seemed to have affected the old man or Ismail. I had to explain to the old man exactly what I had done. His hands started to shake violently. Meanwhile, as I’ve said, his smiling face looked yellow and skinnier somehow.
“Please forgive me, sir. I had to do that. Now you’ve seen for yourself that he’s trying to keep me from hearing your story. Let’s not waste any more time talking about poisonous plants. Once again, I beg your pardon. Please, get back to the story. I really want to hear the rest of it. It’s riveting. I’ll do anything to hear it.”