Ibrahim Meguid - The House of Jasmine

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It seemed as though I was always trying to remember something, but couldn’t. At work, at home, with Hassanayn, when I was alone with Nawal at her house, I often had the sudden feeling that there was something I wanted to remember, but I didn’t know what it was.

“We came to celebrate,” said Hassanayn as he opened his arms wide and embraced me. It had been a while since we had embraced. I had heard the doorbell ring repeatedly and thought that it was Usta Zinhum coming to me with a new problem. I decided that I would beat him up, and if I could, throw him and his buddy off the balcony. But when I opened the door I found that it was Hassanayn and Magid. Magid and I embraced several times, and then I went in to get two of the old chairs, which were going to be replaced in a few days, but Magid said, “Let’s go to the café. The café is better.” I realized that I could see a few white hairs among his shiny black hair. I stood in the middle of the hallway without getting the chairs. It was as if Magid had paralyzed me with what he just said. What was the secret of that little, mostly empty café overlooking an ordinary road where cars raced by? I had a lot to talk about with both of them — how Nawal and I were going to buy a refrigerator, how we were going to buy a stove, how we had bought china and kitchenware and chosen some nice simple furniture that we were going to buy in a few days in cash, for I was going to withdraw all of my savings out of the bank. My account was back at a thousand pounds, after having decreased during the election campaign. Nawal’s father and her brothers were going to contribute another thousand pounds. I also wanted to tell them that I hadn’t had time to go by to see Magid and invite him to the wedding, which was coming soon, but that I would have definitely remembered to do so before the wedding date. We hadn’t had an engagement party, but had only exchanged rings in the presence of Nawal’s close family. The wedding, though, was going to be attended by members of both families, and mine was Magid, Hassanayn, and ‘Abd al-Salam.

This is too much for a chat in the café, Magid, I thought, so why do you want us to leave? I have found Nawal to be quiet and tender. I want to tell you how I kissed her for the first time, and how she was surprised and confused, and how I have tamed her so that she now puts her head on my chest and nestles like a bird, and how my arms can almost cover her up. Here we are, going to the café to chat about the same old things.

“Is it really December already?” I asked, and Hassanayn smiled at my question and said, “You are already starting to see the days differently.”

“It is hard to believe that this is December in Alexandria,” said Magid. “It rained constantly last December, and January too. Alexandria has gone crazy.” Then he laughed and added: “So, you’re finally getting married, Shagara.”

He rolled the dice and threw them on the backgammon board. Once again, I had the feeling that I was trying to remember something but couldn’t. I lit a cigarette and smiled as I rolled the dice in my hand.

“What’s up?” Magid asked, having noticed my absentmindedness.

“I was thinking that I wish my mother were still alive,” I said. Then I threw down the dice and went on playing. I didn’t know what had made me say that, but Hassanayn patted my shoulder, and blushed. Then he said to Magid, perhaps to change the subject, “Have you seen the house of jasmine lately? It was pulled down, and now there is a vacant lot in its place.”

I was suddenly depressed. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I last walked down that street. My feet just got used to their new route. I tried to concentrate on the dice as Magid played.

“We saw it on our way here,” Hassanayn said to me. “I’m sure you know the house.”

So he knows the story of the house, I thought. Magid knows it, too, and so does the rest of Alexandria, just as ‘Abd al-Salam said.

“If Magid got married, and ‘Abd al-Salam returned and got married as well,” I said, trying to get the conversation on to a lighter subject, “then we could all have children who would grow up together.”

“Allah! Allah!” cried Hassanayn, “You are as good as Hassan al-Imam.” We all laughed as loudly as we used to, but it was not long before we were silent again. Then Magid said, “Not a single word from the American woman.”

His statement surprised me and Hassanayn. We had forgotten about the American woman and her promise to Magid. I looked down at the dice on the board and could feel that Hassanayn was looking at me.

“Dr. Musa has written to me a few times from Kuwait, trying to tempt me to join him there,” Magid went on, “I’m seriously considering going.”

It became impossible for me and Hassanayn to go on ignoring what Magid was saying. He was holding the dice in his hand and waiting for our comments. I wanted to say something, but felt that if I opened my mouth, I would scream. I looked at Hassanayn, who was blushing and looked unhappy. Hassanayn took a letter out of his pocket and said that it was from ‘Abd al-Salam.

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“War has broken out between Iraq and Iran, as you probably know. You must have read about it in the papers or heard about it on the radio and television news. I can’t believe that you’re so busy that you haven’t had time to write to me for so long. My only explanation is that you have separated. If so, then I wish each one of you all the best with his new life. Who knows? Maybe you really don’t have time.

“Anyway, I’m sure you know that I have a lot of experience with war by now. It seems to be my destiny. God created me, and said: ‘You, ‘Abd al-Salam, are going to be a warrior,’ and so He gives me an opponent everywhere, even when I don’t really know it. So far, I’m still not sure exactly who my enemy is. What is certain is that I’m a brave warrior, and this is enough for me to fight any war. I’m the bravest warrior in the Middle East, and if there is no war, then I will have to start one. I must be the bravest warrior in the world. I have volunteered to fight in the Iraqi army.

“Don’t be surprised. I know that people travel to make money, and then return home, but I’m not like them. I’m different. I’m a warrior first and foremost, and so war follows me wherever I go. Must the best years of my life be spoiled? This is my destiny, and I cannot fight it and become like everybody else.

“I know very well that if I’m taken prisoner, the Iranians will kill me as a mercenary, and that if I get killed, the Iraqis will consider me to be a martyr and glorify me. I know that, and I’m comfortable with it. What bothers me is that I don’t know what you will say about me. What will my own people say about me? If you asked me, I would tell you that I don’t like death and I don’t care for glory. The problem is that you are so far from me, and that I still don’t really understand what the word ‘homeland’ means exactly, so please forgive me.”

I went home at the end of the evening thinking of what ‘Abd al-Salam wanted from us or what he was doing to us. I felt a sudden nostalgia for a walk on the street of the house of jasmine to take a look at it, even after it had been demolished, but I couldn’t do it. ‘Abd al-Salam’s letter had left me quite sad. What exactly does “homeland” mean?

I wanted to write to him. I had a particular thought which I wanted to share with him: If you die, ‘Abd al-Salam, I will never have any rest. I’m bound to you with an umbilical cord. People do travel far, but only to make some money, return, get married, and settle down. You almost said that yourself, ‘Abd al-Salam. Then they have a homeland, even if it’s small. Yes, marriage is the homeland, and people make their own homelands. I will be married in a few weeks, and will have a homeland. Oh, ‘Abd al-Salam, what a liar I am! Now you have made me wonder how many years of life have passed while I was in exile. Where was homeland before? Marriage by itself cannot make a homeland at all. . I will not write to you, my friend.