The kitchen was clean. The smell of mildew filled the house, and the bag of halva was in its place on the table, untouched.
I thought of the suitcase.
I raced through the house, I looked under the bed, I opened the drawers, I searched everywhere, for everything.
I left the house without closing the door behind me and ran through the streets of the camp, peering into the faces of the women, not daring to ask. What could I have asked?
I stopped in front of the halva seller’s shop.
The shopkeeper asked me, “What time is the funeral?”
“Now,” I said.
“How can it be now? Aren’t you going to wait for the noon prayer?”
“Yes, yes, of course we are.”
“What time is it?” I asked him.
“Eight in the morning,” he answered.
I asked about Elias. “Do you know a man who lives here in the camp called Elias al-Roumi?”
“An Elias — a Christian — here in this camp? Have you lost it, Brother? May God help you, they say you took very good care of him. God will reward you, I’m sure. Go and rest now, then come back for the burial.”
I went back to the hospital, and I saw Dr. Amjad wiping away his tears. There were men everywhere, an uproar of lamentation. Amjad said they’d finished washing you, and that the procession would start from the hospital. There was no need to take you to your house.
I left them.
“Where are you going?” asked Amjad.
“I’ll be back,” I said.
I left them and ran through the streets of the camp. I peered into all the faces, then went back home and looked for her again in the bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom, the living room.
I sat on the chair in front of the table where the bag of bread and halva still was. I opened the bag and ate a whole loaf with halva, then went to the funeral.
Afterwards, I didn’t go back to the hospital.
Zainab told me that Mme. Wedad would be coming to the hospital in the afternoon to inform me of the decision to transfer me to Hamshari Hospital in the Ain al-Hilweh camp because Galilee Hospital was going to close. Zainab said she’d refused a transfer to Tyre: She preferred to stay here, even without work, because anyhow, she was just waiting for the visa from her son.
I said fine, and didn’t go back to the hospital.
I wanted nothing, except to find the woman.
Why had she taken me home and fed me fish?
I’m in love.
I burn like a lover, and I die like a lover.
Three days I was alive in death.
Three days before I despaired of death.
And today, Father, I was lying on my bed and I saw her phantom image and I went toward her but she waved me away.
Once upon a time, I saw, as a dreamer sees, that I was in your bed. I was in your room lying in your bed and the photos were swaying on the walls around me, and I saw her. She stepped out of the wall and approached me. I tried to embrace her but she retreated, and then flattened herself against the wall. I looked at the photograph for a while. It was my wife, who’d been in my bed — what was my wife doing in this photo? What was this woman whose name I didn’t know doing inside the photo of Nahilah?
I woke with a terrified start and wept.
I didn’t weep for Shams as I’ve wept for you and for this woman.
I didn’t weep for my father as I’ve wept for you and for her.
I didn’t weep for my mother as I’ve wept for you and for her.
I didn’t weep for my grandmother as I’ve wept for you and for her.
I left my house barefoot and ran to your grave.
I’m standing here. The night covers me, the March rain washes me, and I tell you, no, this isn’t how stories end. No.
I stand. The rain forms ropes that extend from the sky to the ground. My feet sink into the mud. I stretch out my hand, I grasp the ropes of rain, and I walk and walk and walk
* Al-Roumi: The Roman.