Джоха Альхарти - Celestial Bodies

She picked up her new jewellery, examining it with some curiosity. When she saw the gold bangle with the spikes she started giggling. She couldn’t help remembering the story of Judge Yusuf’s wife with an old-fashioned bracelet like this. At the time, bracelets were indeed silver or they might be plated thinly with gold. Maryam, Judge Yusuf’s widow, had told Asma the story herself.

WAllahi, my dear, I wasn’t more than fourteen. My mother — God be merciful to her — came to me and said, Come on, Maryam, now praise your Lord and put on these new clothes of yours, and your new bracelets and silver amulets.

Why, Mama?

You are getting married to Judge Yusuf today.

I cried so hard my eyes swelled up, but no one paid any attention to me. In the evening all the women of the neighbourhood swarmed in. They were singing and they picked me up and carried me to the judge, a whole procession of them. At the door my mother broke eggs over my feet and whispered to me: Listen, Maryam, watch out you don’t let that man find you too ready, like a ripe watermelon about to split open. You defend yourself, now, so we can hold our heads high. You just go at him with these bracelets on your wrist. Yes, hit him, that’s right, don’t be a juicy watermelon just waiting there for him.

By God, my girl! Asma, I went for a whole month pounding him every night with those bracelets, bruising him up like my mother told me to do. He would say to me, Maryam, Maryuuuma dear, my Maryuumii, what do you want me to call you? Just tell me!

I wouldn’t take those bracelets off my wrist for anything. I swung them right in front of his nose whenever he came near. God give you mercy, Abu Abd al-Rahman! What a man of learning he was! He read all the books of religion and knowledge and understanding, and he tried so hard to sweeten me up, the poor fellow! Maryuuma, he would say, I just want to talk to you. Why are you attacking me? Listen to me, talk to me! There’s no reason to scream at me, and to scratch me, every day and the next. If you hate me that much I’m not going to force myself on you. It would not be right for me to force you. Did your family force you to marry me, Maryam? Do you hate me, Maryuuma?

Wallahi, my girl, Asma, I didn’t hate him at all, he was a lot better than my father or my brothers or anyone else. He was the protector of knowledge and faith, God grant him His lenience and make his grave as spacious as he made my world! My dear, I was just listening to my mama, only doing what she said to do. Trying not to be a soft watermelon.

Asma was laughing. And so — what happened after a month, Umm Abd al-Rahman?

Maryam smiled and waved the question away. Ahh, a month later, my girl, my Asma — what was written by the hand of fate happened. I told you he was careful to be understanding and gentle, and I was just a young girl, and the world has to move ahead. They were written for us, these seeds that made my belly swell. Abd al-Rahman and his brothers and sisters, God be merciful to their father, he was always patient with me, when every two or three days I’d get angry with him and go off to my family without any cause for it. He would say to me: You’re my wife, Maryuuma, in this world and the next, and you are as dear to me as Aisha, God be pleased with her, was dear to the Prophet, God’s prayers and blessings upon him. The judge died so young, my poor dear fellow. The good folks don’t stay with us long, Asma my dear, they leave us so quickly. But people just wouldn’t keep their mouths shut. You are young, Maryam, they would say. Marry again, the living stay with us longer than the dead. Allah! No, just imagine — marry again, after Judge Abu Abd al-Rahman? How could I do such a thing, since he used to say to me, You are my wife in this world and the next, Maryuuma. In this world and in the next.

Khawla came out with the lit coals. Salima sprinkled incense over them and held the mixture in front of the neighbours, each in turn. They began teasing each other, since if the smoke of the incense could be seen rising from their garments, that meant Salima was truly fond of them, but if it got caught there and didn’t rise, it meant she didn’t like them much. As she made her rounds they started exclaiming, Heh! Look, the incense is coming out of the sleeves of Muezzin-Wife but no one else’s. We don’t get a share in what’s fair!

Salima was occupied now in unrolling the hand-worked cushion covers for them to see, and measuring the lengths of the two carpets she had bought after a long quarrel with the Iranian shop owner. Khawla leaned toward Asma and whispered, A bride’s trousseau but no nightgowns or make-up — my poor sister! Asma winked at her. There’ll be some way to get them before the wedding, I know it.

Salima described the mandus she had ordered to her specifications from the leading producer of wood wedding chests, whose manduses were more elaborate than any others around: the precise size she wanted, exactly what kinds of work she wanted on the wood and the brass fittings, and the shape of the brass handles. Khawla interrupted her. But houses these days have bedrooms, already with a bed and wardrobe and dressing table. At that, Muezzin-Wife exclaimed, Ask God’s forgiveness for what you just said! My goodness, nothing pleases girls these days — my girl, a bride without a mandus isn’t a bride. After all, that mandus of hers will keep her incense fresh for years.

Before the neighbourly gathering broke up Salima gave each of them a head wrap from the hundred she had bought to hand out to the women of al-Awafi: neighbours, the poor, relatives and others who weren’t related to her, mistresses of the town’s households and the women of slave families.

Seconds after I hit Salim I was assailed by a terrible and overwhelming sense that I had just become my father’s twin. Two days later, Mayya made a point of mentioning that Salim had not been drunk at all. He had had a shock, while spending the evening — most of the night, really — with his friends in a café in upscale al-Qurm, where the music was probably very loud. Late in the evening, the patrons had dwindled. Sitting on his own, drinking lemonade with mint, he suddenly saw a hand landing on the table edge, pressing against it for support. It was impossible to ignore: the fingernails were painted a glittery silver. When Salim raised his head a young man was staring at him, as much as one could stare through half-closed eyes. He was dressed entirely in black — Versace shirt, Armani jeans — and now that Salim was looking at him, he spoke, his murmur more like a purr.

One look, man, just one, slay me.

Salim concentrated on the lemonade in his hands, but he couldn’t stop himself shivering when the youth bent closer over him, tossing a fancy card onto the table. A number but no name. Salim ignored him. Where had his friends disappeared to? Maybe they were somewhere at another table, playing cards?

The young man didn’t leave. He stood nearby, sighing loudly. When Salim didn’t react, he made a show of putting the card down again on the table. Finally Salim had to speak.

Go — go away off now. Right now.

The youth whispered back. I know... I don’t deserve even the nails on your toes, I know that... I don’t deserve a glance... He leaned closer in to Salim. Allah Allah ya habibi , the fire inside me, it’s white hot, have some mercy.

When Salim hurried to his car and shot away, the boy’s Porsche was right behind him, through the night-time streets of Muscat. Salim finally lost him in a side street and drove home. The clock said 2 am, and I was waiting for him in the sitting room. I hit him, my voice taut with anger. Out so late, are you? Just waiting to disobey me? Your father’s rules?