The Sea Is Not for Me

I am not going with you. I said it just like that, planted on the couch in front of the television. I held my breath, ready for what came next. How would he behave when angry, this man who was now my husband? I’m not going with you. I’m not leaving this room. You can go alone if you want. I’ve had enough of going out. I want to stay here, in this lovely room. I want to collect all the papers and scraps and bits of fabric and hide them in jam jars.

“You go.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not leaving here.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“But I am.”

“Don’t you like the sea?”

“The sea is not for me.”

Yesterday you said, You’ll love the sea. Why wouldn’t I love it? The sea deserves to be loved, and I would have loved it more, if it had been about more than me sitting on a beach chair for hours, drinking piña coladas and watching you swim—on your belly, on your back, on your side—before everyone: freestyle, the butterfly, the frog. The frog? Are you sure you didn’t make these names up? Soaking wet, showing off in black swim trunks. You put the towel on your head and exclaimed, The water’s amazing! Amazing! You quickly took a sip from your glass then went back, jogging. You went back in and I waited and watched. You waved to me, so I waved to you. It took tremendous effort to smile. Smiling exhausts me. I don’t want to smile. I don’t want to wave. This is a stupid game! You dove then your head came up and you shouted in disbelief, A sea turtle! A giant sea turtle!

“Well, I’m sure it’s very exciting for you, the sea and the turtles and the sea urchins. . . . I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself a lot. But I . . .”

The long hours of sitting, gazing at your sheer delight, while starving inside. I smiled and waved like an idiot. I acted as if I were there, in the sea, with you. Me swimming and playing? You had said to me, It wouldn’t be proper for you to go swimming. Your clothes would cling to your body. I’m a jealous husband. You said it like you were boasting.

A few years back, Saqr reprimanded me because I wanted to touch the sea with my foot. My bare foot. Today too I can’t touch the sea or baptize myself in its waters, for the same reason, with the exception that you’re not using the sacred as your crutch: you just decide and that’s it. Nothing has changed. Only the beard is missing. I started looking at people and people looked at me, at my fully clothed body, at their fully naked bodies, the shiny, tanned, and oiled bodies, free as the sand and the wet sea air, the tropical palms, and the cocktail glasses. Even then I was still okay with things. If only, if only you hadn’t waved your hand and pointed out, time after time after time—you in your swimming suit, with your firm torso and naked stomach—if you hadn’t pointed at a lock of hair that had crept out of my hijab: Careful! Your hair is showing!

Faced with all your nakedness, faced with the irrationality of it all, I was furious and could no longer smile.

“You go. Have a nice time. I’ll stay here. I’ll watch a film.”