A Leaf Falling from the Mango Tree

Sumayya stayed next to the tree until her clothes had dried. She wanted to go home so that she could take a bath. But he insisted that they would go on. There was no trace of any smell on her, he asserted, now that the noonday sun had dried her clothes.

She didn’t attempt to argue. He rolled up the mat. She picked up the one unbroken glass and the thermos. They left the uneaten sandwiches for the animals and drove away.

The entire way, Sumayya stared straight ahead. The late-afternoon sky was beautiful and clear, and her husband was silent. When they reached the lovely village of Birkat al-Mouz, at the foot of the Jabal Akhdar, she saw some boys kicking around a rubber ball. In the late-afternoon sun, endless points of winking light reverberated off every kick. Her husband stopped to buy two cups of tea. Slowly, Sumayya read the sign outside the shop. LAHZAT SHAY. A Moment for Tea. She closed her eyes and saw the word Moment magnified. She opened her eyes and continued reading, slowly; it seemed to take some effort. We have: masala chai, rosehip tea, saffron tea, cinnamon tea, zaatar tea. . . Her husband handed her the hot tea. Putting her hands around the paper cup, she felt a sharp sting from the cuts on her palms.

Now the car was climbing the mountain road to Misfat al-Abriyin. A thin white thread of cloud wound and twisted through the sky. Sumayya saw a paper kite that had escaped its owner, floating on its own, high above them. She recognized it, in fact. She and Zuhour had made this kite for Sufyan when he was little. They made it out of colored paper and reeds, and they decorated it with shiny stripes. Their grandmother had fetched from the fields the reeds that made its spine, and her mother bought the streamers that they attached to it.

By the time they reached the village, the thread of cloud was even thinner and Sumayya could no longer see the kite. She got out of the car and walked with her husband. The horizon glowed red. The pebbles jumped from beneath their feet. Her steps were heavy. She was trying to avoid being close to anyone, worried that they would be able to make out her smell. And she was trying to lag behind so that he would not be beside her.

The stone stairs and the little stone bridges seemed like they would go on forever. Her steps grew slower. The sun was setting. She felt utterly exhausted and could barely walk, but she didn’t say anything.

They were getting closer to the fields. She could smell fruit left to rot at the bases of the trees. The sun dropped below the horizon and she heard the call to prayer. She had kept her eyes on her husband’s feet the entire way, always a few steps ahead of hers. He was wearing backless sandals, and the soles of his feet were very pale. She stopped, suddenly. She saw the paper kite, its ribbons still sparkly, her grandmother’s reeds as strong and firm as ever. Sumayya stretched out her hand, but the kite swooped away.

The half-darkness was spreading softly through the palm trees. She and her husband descended the stone steps that led down to the orchards. A small, deep pool lay there, its brimming waters set to pour into the main canals and then to water the trees. She saw his feet stop moving, and so hers stopped as well. She saw his feet turning, to follow the raised stone rim around the small pool.

Before Sumayya could follow her husband, she heard the splashing made by the men performing their ablutions in the shallow ford nearby. Her eyes traced the last remnants of light playing on the men’s white dishdashas as they mounted the steep stone steps to the tiny mosque above the pool, glowing faintly in the light of one solitary lamp.

Her feet were dragging by now. But she mounted the wall around the pool, following her husband’s feet. He walked slowly; she stayed slightly behind him. She was wearing her athletic shoes; he was in leather sandals. Her shoes were dry; his were slightly wet by now. All she could see was the white glimmer of the backs of his feet, as she followed them. That was the moment in which she caught sight of the mango leaf, and then suddenly, he slipped.

Sumayya stood at the edge of the pool. Her husband was not a swimmer, and he had fallen into the dark, deep pool. His head bobbed below the surface as he fought the water, trying to save himself and calling out to her. With the sharp smell of urine rising from her clothes in her nostrils, Sumayya did not move. She could tell that he was struggling to breathe as he attempted to reach the edge. Her eyes stayed on him as she heard the voices of the men at their prayers, faint and far away. Her tongue felt heavy. The sign A MOMENT FOR TEA blinked on and off in her head, the word Moment growing larger and larger with every blink.

Her husband was drowning, and she stood there unable to move. The men finished the cycle of sunset prayers. They came out of the mosque and broke into scattered conversations, the affectionate tones of friends, as they descended the steps.

It was growing darker. Her husband was silent and still now.

A man yelled, “Someone’s drowned!”

They pulled him from the water, his body swollen, and tried to save him, but he was already dead. When the men finally noticed Sumayya, rigid and still, she was standing in the same precise spot. “How long have you been here?” one of them called out. He raised his voice. “You didn’t shout? We would have heard you if you had.”

“To God is all power and might,” exclaimed another. “The woman is in shock, take her inside.” Some women appeared and took her into someone’s house. They rolled out a mattress and began asking her questions. “The poor man—was he your husband?” Sumayya didn’t say a word.

“If it was her husband, she’s got to start her idda now,” someone said. An elderly woman pressed her hand against Sumayya’s head. “Say it with me, my dear. Allahumma fi niyyati w’itiqadi inni u’taddu ala zawji al-haalik arbaatushur w-ashrata iyyam taa’atan lillah wa-li-rasulih. I swear my intention and belief to remain chaste to my late husband for four months and ten days in obedience to God and His Messenger.” Sumayya’s eyes were wide open; her mouth remained shut. The women removed her thin gold bangles and her wedding ring. “Find her family,” one of the women said. “Do what needs to be done. Subhaana Allah. . . I’m smelling urine.”