“From a window in my grandfather’s house, Khalil and I used to watch the Yemeni gravedigger. We’d watch him eating his flatbread and leek with one hand, while the whole time using his other to collect bones from fresh graves, which were only a month or so old, and transferring them to a mass grave at the far end of the cemetery. We knew all about that pit of bones and it hardened our hearts. That was where all the skulls of Mecca got to know one another, teeth chattering in the cold. In summer, we’d see him come out in his red sarong and light white headscarf, barefoot on the death-molded, sun-fired earth, walking across the plots in the blazing sun, sprinkling water to cool the dead, stopping at the freshly-dug graves to take a hit of the strong rot.
“We spent our childhood between death and my severe father, coming and going through the carnival of Mecca’s old markets in the vicinity of the Holy Mosque. We knew all the traders at the Night Market and the Mudda’i Market because we were the grandchildren of the Sheikh of al-Malah — the biggest Wihda fan in Mecca.
“Khalil used to always wear the red and white Wihda uniform at Grandad’s. We were eternal rivals for our grandfather’s pride and affection, but Grandfather called me ‘top of the bundle,’ meaning the choice bit that’s placed on the very top of a bundle of surprises, and he always took me out to show me off. He’d take me by the hand and we’d head out to the Mas’a and all the neighboring markets; starting from the house of Abu Sufyan at the Turkish Qubbaniya Hospital, we’d enter ‘Egg Alley’ where there were stalls displaying handicrafts and caged pets — we always stopped to look at the red-eyed rabbits — and then move on to the auction at the Night Market and the goldsmiths’ alley, then turning east toward the Gaza Market where we’d stroll past the masterpieces of joiners and wood-turners, met on both sides by greetings:
“‘God preserve you, sir!’
“That was Bafaqih, the silk merchant, who was echoed by al-Fadl, the perfumer.
“‘Us and you both, my man!’ Grandfather would reply. He had a booming voice that made me wide-eyed with pride.
“Next we’d head north to al-Mudda’a Market where Sheikh al-Wazzan would always greet me with a ‘God bless you!’ The market was full of huge food and perfume storehouses, nut-and-sweet shops, and fabric stalls. ‘Oh generous Lord, a pot of gold and a righteous girl …’ the dervishes would cry as we walked past.
“Those were the days,” sighed Yousriya. “We used to dip our bread in salt and that was enough to fill us up. I live off these memories here, and share what I have with my sisters. They take our minds off things. We don’t need a glowing TV to fall asleep in front of, just a little yellow lamp that won’t go out in the evening when there’s a power cut …”
Her eyes shone at the memory of a distant yellow glow. “On the twelfth day of Rabi’ al-Awwal, our grandfather would take us on an outing that began at the Prophet’s birthplace, the house of Ibn Yusuf in an alley called Ali’s Path that lies at the foot of Abu Qubays, at the end of the Night Market. We’d imagine all the torches, candles, and lanterns gathering there after the early evening prayer, and he’d stop to tell us gravely: ‘Under the Kurdish bookshop here, in the earth right beneath this spot, is where our beloved Prophet was born. Remember this!’ He’d pinch my earlobe, pinching Khalil’s with the other hand, and repeat his words once more before shepherding us on toward the wonders of al-Jawdariah, the market of the cobblers and cotton merchants and quilt-makers. We’d stand for hours watching them card the cotton and watching the cobblers as they made shoes and other leather goods. We’d go next to al-Malah market where there were seed-sellers and piles of vegetables, clover, charcoal, and firewood. Finally, we’d end up at the Friday afternoon auction where they sold antique furniture. One Friday he bought me this Syrian-made inlaid chair. I rescued it from the fire, but I forgot my own mother! I was determined to bring it here with me. I used to sit on it just waiting for it to accompany me on this trip.”
Nasser watched her. He was no longer a detective; she’d made him a witness. “Don’t you miss all that?” he murmured, but she didn’t hear him and she didn’t reply. All she did was ask him to wait a moment and then got up and disappeared inside the room. She returned with a bundle and unfolded it in her lap in silence, spreading her palms over the old satin fabric like a dove spreads its wings. Without looking up from the bundle, she said, “This contains everything that’s dear to me. Feast your eyes!”
When she lifted her hands off of the bundle, there appeared four embroidered rose bushes, their pots at each corner of the fabric and their branches and flowers leaning toward the center, where a woman in a full skirt with rings on her fingers and bright red lips stood against the white background, clutching a bouquet, a foot in a black high-heeled shoe stepping gaily forward to present the green bouquet … To whom? Who was she stepping toward? Nasser felt prickles like fireflies glowing in his skin, the prickle of a single name and of letters emerging one on top of the other from the weave of the satin to announce its owner—
Yousriya flipped open the bundle and took out a golden wing spread around a circle. “This is the lapel pin that Saudi Airlines pilots wear. And this is his hat, with the same logo — Khalil left it with me. He hasn’t needed it since that damned day when he was fired.”
She was interrupted by someone knocking on the wall. “Sister,” called a voice, “are you talking to someone from one of the charities? Ask them why they haven’t delivered the bedpans yet. My sisters’ backs are broken from carrying me to and from the bathroom all night!” Yousriya tapped back to acknowledge she’d heard, but Aminah wailed again, “We were born in a box and we’ll die in a scrap of cloth! Give us some light! Help us pay the electricity bill, good Muslims!”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure it’ll be sorted out, don’t worry,” said Nasser, getting up. He wasn’t quite sure what he was promising. The curtain that divided the room into two twitched and a dumpy face peered out. “Come back and visit us,” it implored. “I haven’t left this room for thirty years! Don’t forget us, son. No, don’t take photos! Not even of the curtain …”
You ought to come back, Nasser, he thought to himself as he left. It won’t cost you anything. He thought about what he’d read on some website — the ideal charity menu: “a quarter-chicken, a handful of rice, one samosa, four dates, a bottle of water and a small pot of yogurt. 300 riyals can feed all twenty-seven residents.” Some local do-gooder had arranged for the set-menu meals to cost donors just six riyals by making up the rest himself.
You really ought to come back to visit once a month, Nasser, and bring them a donation once a year. It wouldn’t cost you anything.
From: Aisha
Subject: Message 10
I’m amazed by the battle you went through with your wife to try to give her what no other man had ever been able to. That constant, exhausting effort on the long road of insatiability … You two tried everything you could — specialist books, couples therapy, pornography — for four years, but by the end of it your morale as a virile man was totally destroyed.
Looking back, though, I wonder if maybe that process wasn’t the hellfire that forged you into the person you are now. I don’t know what magic it is you do, but you make me soar. With your hand at the center. That’s real flying. A woman’s body is the storm’s slumbering eye. Do you know where to find the thing that gets it going? Spreading all over the world, and the wider you spread open, the higher you soar.
Higher and higher, sharpening that lightning tongue, spreading in from the tips of the wings to touch the core, so close to the agony of death, a beating of wings between the ribs, the belly, and the legs.