Sayed Kashua - Dancing Arabs

I would never tell my wife “I hope you die,” even though I’ve pictured her dead often enough. I know I wouldn’t be able to handle the loss; suddenly, when she disappeared, I’d start loving her, missing her, and understanding how right she was. What a sonofabitch I was. If anything happened to her, I’d blame myself, nobody else. Because I’d wished for it to happen. And I believe wishes do come true in the end.

If Samia dies, I’ll visit her grave as often as I can. Not only on holidays, like the other people in the village. At the beginning, I’ll go there at least once a week. I’ll weep, I’ll speak to her, I’ll ask her to forgive me, I’ll speak words of love. I’ll mourn her with all my heart. I’ll suffer. I can picture myself sitting there, all by myself in the cemetery on rainy days, in the cold, cocooned in the long black overcoat I don’t own. I won’t be afraid of going there at night. I’ll have a beard, and it will give me an air of suffering, a special aura. I’ll cry out at the grave, and people will hear my pain. And every now and then I’ll give out a long moan that will echo through every home in Tira.

I think I’ve hit rock bottom. I’ve broken almost every rule I can think of in the moral code. I’m going home now, to sleep it off. I’d like the radio to be on in the background as I doze off but I don’t have a radio. It broke long ago, and I can’t face the idea of having to take it to be fixed or of having to fork out the money for a new one. I’d like to go to sleep now and not have any bad thoughts.

Sometimes I think I know what mental relaxation means. I can outline it in my brain. I know where I’m heading. I’d like to be able to crawl into bed with a book, any book. A book of jokes, maybe, or light stories about Jucha. I’d like to settle into it, to enjoy it, to doze off with a smile on my lips. I’d like the book to slip out of my hands ever so slowly, to fall off the bed without my noticing. I’d like to be tucked in tight with my body at just the right temperature, not too cold and not too hot. I’d like to fall asleep in just the right position. I’d like the pillows to be propped at just the right height. My neck won’t hurt and I won’t have to move. I won’t have any noise in my ears, and my head won’t ache either. I’d like to find sublime serenity.

I’d like my wife to be there with me too, to blend with me as we relax and fall asleep. Our bodies will be in sync. She can place her head on my chest. She won’t have to twist her neck, and her hair won’t get in my eyes or in my mouth. I’ll hug her. I’ll place a hand under her head, and my arm won’t hurt or fall asleep. I’ll place one leg on her waist, and it won’t be too heavy. It will even make her feel good, give her a warm sensation, round off her own body. Her waist will be a comfortable resting place. It’ll be thin and youthful. She’ll smile at me and say a heartfelt “I love you” and kiss me. I’ll feel the kiss draw me into a delightful childhood dream. I’ll smile in my sleep, and my wife will smile back and fall asleep.

The baby will sleep, knowing she has loving parents that she can always count on. She’ll have an angelic smile and a dry diaper. She’ll be eager to talk, to tell us how wonderful we are, how much she loves us. She won’t have a rash or an eye infection, and she’ll never ever cry. She won’t be bored. She’ll feel wonderful; she’ll be happy to be alive. She’ll sleep till morning and wake us at just the right moment with little giggles and her first word. Baba, maybe. My wife will be happy for me. She’ll hug me and tell me she’s always known that the baby would say my name first, because I’m so good to her. I shower her with love.

I’ll give up drinking. Just a glass of wine on Friday night. I’ll buy a good bottle of wine in a liquor store, not a supermarket. A store in a good neighborhood. Not the kind that sells mostly to Romanian workers, not one that sells Gold Star Beer. We’ll have a set of wineglasses that we’ll receive from our parents. A bottle is too much for two so we’ll invite a couple we know. We’ll enjoy a good meal together. We’ll be comfortably full, with no stomachaches. Nobody will need to use the bathroom. We’ll eat just the right amount and we won’t grow a potbelly. The wine will go well with the meal. Maybe a piece of fine cake too, to enhance the pleasurable experience. It’ll melt in our mouths. It won’t stick to our teeth, and it’ll be digested smoothly, with no pangs of conscience.

I won’t have any more thoughts about women. I won’t keep looking at every girl’s ass. I’ll treat women with respect and listen to them without thinking dirty thoughts. I’ll stop jerking off. I won’t keep looking for tits and fucks on TV, and if there happen to be any in the middle of a good film, I’ll treat them like art. It won’t turn me on. My hands will always be where they belong. It’ll be good with my wife. She’ll know exactly what I want. I like her, I love her, I lust for nobody but her: her long neck, her Gypsy face, her perfect figure. We’ll understand each other. We’ll take each other’s needs into consideration. We’ll always come at the right moment, and we’ll want to do it again. There will be nights when we won’t get to sleep at all. We’ll make love until sunrise. She won’t dry out, and I won’t let her down.

I’ll go home now. I’ll drive slowly, in the right gear. I won’t overload the engine. I’ve got to be as quiet as possible. I hope none of our neighbors is making his way to morning prayers just now. I hope it’s still early enough, I hope there are no workers waiting at the intersection. I’ll keep my eyes to the ground. I won’t smoke a cigarette, I won’t listen to music. I’ll go to sleep now, and tomorrow will be a new day. I’ll show them all.

Tomorrow I’ll start praying. I’ve forgotten how you wash before prayers and what you say. I don’t remember the right sequence, or the number of prayers you’re supposed to say. Tomorrow I’ll buy an instruction book with pictures, the kind we had in elementary school. I’m convinced I wouldn’t be in this condition if only I’d kept on praying. Look at me, look at what’s become of me. Me, the one everyone expected to succeed. What a comedown. I’m going to prove to myself that I’m a good person, and then I’m going home to Tira.

I have no idea what I’m going to do there. It’s certainly not a place for a barman. They don’t even have alcohol. My father says I ought to become a social worker. They don’t have enough social workers in Tira. I could go to the same place as my wife every morning, and come back home with her in the evening. Maybe I’ll become a teacher. If I start praying tomorrow, I may still stand a chance of becoming a teacher of religion. Maybe I’ll be accepted into the A-Shari’a College in Hebron. It’s easy to get in, and they need lots of teachers of religion. I’ll be a good teacher. I’ve been through a lot in my life, and I can help keep my students on the straight and narrow. I’ll make sure they don’t go downhill the way I did. I’ll warn them against what can happen, but I won’t tell them how far gone I was. I’ll have the reputation of a good person. People will come to consult with me on questions of religious law. They’ll listen to what I tell them, they’ll respect me, and they’ll follow my advice. My father will be proud. He’ll start praying too. Perhaps we’ll go on a pilgrimage to Mecca together.

Gradually I’ll blend into the local political scene, and when my students get the right to vote they’ll nominate me for the Islamic ticket. They’ll make sure I’m at the head of the party list, and in the following elections I’ll be elected mayor.