Jabbour Douaihy - June Rain

Night time always brought him back to her.

Night was a pimp, no way around it.

He tried in vain to free himself, but she was his life’s joy.

The night, food on the table, Lucky Strikes, arak…

And her.

Farid al-Semaani was staying for his family’s sake, maybe, or maybe for the sake of his passion for fighting and the Colt-9. But he was definitely staying for her. He was staying in order to hum some ataaba verses quietly to himself at eleven o’clock at night and then excuse himself and walk away. His friends knew what he was up to. They wished him good luck with smiles on their faces. They knew.

He would walk through the darkness — the only thing he feared — worrying about the possibility of gunfire and getting shot. He would head towards the river, cross the stone bridge and walk along the dirt road adjacent to the monastery, next to the cactus plants that led to her small house, the one with the blue windows. Every night she left the back door open for him. The smell of cow manure reeked from a nearby yard. She would wait for him in her transparent pink nightgown, completely naked underneath. He loved to get there and see her totally naked under her nightgown. She didn’t like it. He insisted, though, and she never refused him any request.

She would hear the creak of the back door and know he had arrived, so she would hurry to take off her panties and bra before he came into her bedroom. Her only request was that he keep quiet so as not to wake the children asleep in the next room. He would remove his gun and the two clips, placing them on the chair next to the bed, and then he’d take her by the shoulders and she’d close her eyes, shuddering with pleasure. She didn’t dare demand he marry her, for fear that he might stop coming to her. He would gaze at her with a stern look that hid wild desire. With the 100-proof arak still lingering in his head, he would throw her onto the bed without taking off his clothes. Men didn’t take off their clothes. The first few times, she surrendered to him the same way she had surrendered to her husband. Then one of her neighbours who knew about her secret taught her to resist.

‘Men like to be resisted,’ she said. ‘Try it. Squeeze your thighs shut, flee from him. You’ll see.’

He would become aroused and roar out. He’d bite her and leave red marks on her back with his fingers. Another woman said she had cast a spell on him, that she had bewitched him. Some of his friends said she was the love of his life. He would hit her over and over again. He would lift her up high and throw her back down, then throw himself on top of her until she finally gave in and begged him to stop. He’d spend the whole night at her house there in the small neighbouring village, his gun always close at hand. His eyes would pop open and his ears would perk up the moment he heard the slightest rustle or meow. He loved the feel of her, couldn’t get enough of her, and couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t imagine ever experiencing a greater pleasure in life than returning from the young widow’s house as the light of dawn began to shimmer. He walked along the road at a leisurely pace, embraced by the tall poplar trees that were engulfed in the transparent white mist rising from the river and etching designs on the trees reminiscent of the embroidered veils on the angels’ heads in the icon of the Virgin at church. He whistled as he walked, but the birds didn’t fly off or stop their chirping, as if they’d grown accustomed to him slowly passing through in the early mornings, his head held high as he passed the cactus plants and crossed the river over the stone bridge, a blissful mood ushering him into a new day.

Eliyya left the house every day around ten.

‘Eliyya sleeps a lot. Why is that?’ they asked Kamileh, as though her son had no right to be lazy.

He walked along looking right and left like someone discovering the Gang Quarter for the first time. The youngsters in the neighbourhood whispered to each other whenever he passed by.

‘There he is.’ They knew him from his website ‘eliano.org’ where they had read a quote attributed to some German philosopher whose name they couldn’t pronounce, followed by a recipe for onion soup — and the right red wine to pair it with. The blonde American girl in the swimsuit wasn’t with him. They said she looked like Gwyneth Paltrow. They had hoped to see her.

He walked alone. He appeared lost, wandering around aimlessly.

They tattled on him to Kamileh the very first day.

‘Where have you been all this time?’ she asked him when he came back at noon.

‘I was walking the streets.’

She didn’t believe him. ‘You came all the way from there, from the other end of the world, just to walk the streets?’

He smiled.

‘What’s that you’re carrying on your shoulder?’

‘That’s the custom over there. Men carry handbags.’

‘What’s all that you’re drawing and writing down in the notebook?’

He laughed.

‘Why do you draw old houses and little kids?’

‘The news reaches you all the way over here?’

‘You’re lying to me,’ she said, getting more serious. ‘Why did you come back from America?’

‘I came back to see you,’ he said, trying to lighten things up. ‘Madame Kamileh.’

‘If you came back to see me, then sit with me here at home. You act like it’s not your house. This is your property. It belongs to the Kfoury family.’

He was unable to coax even the hint of a smile of satisfaction out of her.

Every morning she woke up at five and went to the balcony ready for battle. She paced back and forth as if on guard duty. She didn’t touch the flowers or pat the soil as she had been in the habit of doing, but rather whispered to the shouting children to move away from the window. Even though she was too far away for it to make any difference, her hand would go up in disapproval every time she heard a warning blast from a car horn down at the treacherous corner where there was at least one accident a week. If a neighbour asked her about him, she would put her hand on her cheek and close her eyes, signalling that he was still asleep, and motion to her neighbour to stop raising her voice.

She made him breakfast slowly. Coffee, orange juice and pear preserves. She remembered that before he left he had loved pear preserves.

‘You used to pick up a pear with two fingers and slip it into your mouth.’

He had forgotten that he had loved pear preserves so much.

Once he had woken up, he put his clothes on quickly, took a bite so she wouldn’t get upset and took off.

The next morning she would prepare a similar breakfast for him.

She would call to him, ‘Eliyya!’

He’d come back to her from the doorway.

‘At least don’t let them talk about you.’

‘Don’t worry.’

Kamileh’s concern was well-founded.

There was something in Eliyya’s gait and glance that drew attention. The first few days the greengrocer looked him up and down as he organised his produce, the colourful display extending into the middle of the sidewalk. The fat butcher eyed him as well as he sat out in front of his shop on Friday, slowly sharpening his knives in preparation for the next day’s slaughter. The bored policemen in charge of guarding the government house scrutinised him while making jokes they all hoped would not fall on women’s ears. Taxi drivers sought after him as they waited for passengers, standing in the square under the hot sun with their heads covered with baseball caps, which, at their age and with their flabby bodies, looked ridiculous.

His appearance was familiar — despite the American improvements on his attire — but his manner was strange. After a short while, they disregarded him. Either he must have changed his gait and increased his pace — while still not aiming in any particular direction — or they must have got used to him. He was just another Semite with his powerful nose and black hair.