When Sumayya’s husband announced that tomorrow they would make a day trip to the ancient mountainside village and gardens of Misfat al-Abriyin, he had not asked her beforehand what she thought of the idea, or even told her in advance that they were going. The only reason he was telling her now was so that she would know to get herself ready.
They had been married only a few weeks when Sumayya realized that there was never going to be any real conversation between the two of them. Her husband was to be the center around which everything had to pivot. Anything on the margins of his world he was unable to see or hear or think about. Anything outside of his own self he considered utterly peripheral, a distant site, remote from the focus of his concerns. Very soon indeed after the wedding, Sumayya saw clearly that she was one of those distant sites.
The next morning, Sumayya made sandwiches and filled a thermos with milky tea. She put on a long blue tunic over jeans. Before she could wrap her sheela around her head, her husband clapped his hands on either side of her face and squeezed it hard between his palms. Sumayya did not make a sound. He laughed. “My strong little sweetie,” he said. “My pretty doll.” She waited until he removed his hands, and then she silently resumed getting dressed. She got into the car and waited for him.
It was a fresh, brisk morning toward the end of February. Her husband was in a good mood. On the way, he hummed a few of Salim al-Suri’s old tunes, and he reminisced about his time as a student in Australia. Chuckling, he described the bodies of the girls who used to fight for the privilege of devoting themselves to him.
Even as the morning advanced, the freshness remained in the air. Sumayya closed her eyes, hearing what she thought was the sweet, melodic chirping of birds. He gripped her shoulder and gave it a hard shake. Her eyelids flew open. “Don’t go off to sleep and leave me all alone,” he barked. “I didn’t get married and lose my freedom just for the sake of a dumb statuette who has nothing to say.”
The birdsong disappeared. Sumayya stared at her fingernails, noticing how short they were, and how perfectly rounded.
He stopped the car. He selected a tree and stood leaning against it, waiting for Sumayya to spread out the mat and pour the tea. He sat down across from her and began to eat. The leaves on the tree above them were motionless; suddenly, the heaviness of noon had fallen. The light was dazzling. Somewhere, a ewe bleated, and then a flock of sheep followed. There came into view a shepherd girl, her distinctive whistle signaling her sheep, who massed together obediently.
Sumayya smiled at the shepherd girl, but the girl didn’t seem to see her. Sumayya’s husband already understood that if his wife smiled, it must be because of something outside of his control, something apart, a place distant from the center of his self. A silly little shepherd girl could make her smile! He put down his sandwich and began gulping his tea.
Now the shepherd girl noticed them. She was wearing a well-worn blue dishdasha and slippers that were coming apart. But her teeth, as she smiled at Sumayya, were dazzlingly white. Sumayya waved to her. Sumayya’s husband hurled his glass of tea at the tree trunk.
Sumayya shrank back. The veins flared on his temples as he lurched toward her. “Have you forgotten that I like my tea strong? This tea tastes of nothing. Strong. Don’t you understand anything at all?”
They had gone to Thailand on their honeymoon. When papaya fruits dropped onto the hotel room’s glass balcony with a loud thud, the veins in his temples had throbbed visibly. But he hadn’t raised his voice. Sumayya—brand-new bride Sumayya—was bewildered by it. She tried to talk to him about it, to ask what the problem was. He slammed his fist into her mouth.
Before they were even back from Thailand, he had shattered a vase, two plates, a cup, and the little finger of her right hand.
Now he inched toward her, silently. Still seated, she kept pushing herself back, until she felt her spine bumping the tree trunk. Fragments of glass cut her hands. She knew by now that when he was breaking things and the blue veins were bulging along his face, any word she said would cause the next breakage. That it had happened before did not lessen the terror she felt. All she could hope, in this silent tableau, was that he would start to shout or scream, because she thought that was the only thing that might possibly unfreeze her legs. If he screamed, she might be able to run. To flee. But he didn’t raise his voice. Ever.
His eyes were red and his breaths slapped her face. Sumayya, trembling, pressed herself back, harder and harder, against the tree trunk. A sudden gust of wind brought with it the smell of sheep dung. She could hear a crow caw in the distance. The wind grew strong enough to dislodge some pebbles at the edges of the mat. By the time her husband finally stepped back, Sumayya had wet her clothes through.
He stared at the spot on her trousers. He didn’t seem to know what it meant. Looking puzzled—or astonished—he brought her tissues from the car. He tried to dry the spot, and then to scrub her hands free of the effects of the glass shards and the blood. He put his arms around her, and whispered, “Don’t be afraid, my doll. I am your husband. I’m your lover. There’s no reason to be afraid.”