Джоха Альхарти - Celestial Bodies

When Mama Goat came home she began knocking at the door. She knocked and knocked, but in vain, as she repeated her words. Yoo Rabab, yoo Zayd... When she’d gotten no answer she butted the door open with her horns and went inside. But she didn’t find Zayd or Rabab.

Mama Goat went outside at a run to search for her little ones. She passed a spider, she passed a lamb. She asked everyone she passed, Did you see my children? But they all said, No, they hadn’t seen them. Until she passed a dove. The wolf came by here, said the dove. And his stomach was very big. He must have eaten your children. Quick, go after him, you will find him asleep under the rocks. First, Mama Goat hurried to the blacksmith. She asked him to sharpen her horns until they were knife blades. She found the wolf asleep. She drove her horns into him and sliced his tummy wide open. Her children came out, and she said, Come, come! And Mama and babies all went home.

The minute she puts down the phone, London will jump out of bed, scattering her teddy bears — a rose-coloured streak here and a red one there. Picking up her phone again, she will call her friend Hanan. She has to tell her everything Ahmad has said, as she paces round and round her room.

Bismillahi al-rahman al-rahim , girl! Do you know what time it is?

Listen, Hanan, the new poem he’s going to recite in the Oman Poetry Festival, which is coming up — it is dedicated to me!

So what? Hanan replies in English.

So what? Don’t you see? I am his inspiration, his angel, his muse! I’m the beautiful demon of his poetry, as the Arab poets all used to say.

Well, congratulations to you, my dear. Can I go back to sleep now, seeing as I don’t really understand poetry at all, and I only believe in well-tested scientific analyses that give guaranteed results?

On the day they concluded their betrothal vows and the marriage contract was signed, the minute they said goodbye and he left her father’s home, it was almost time for the dawn prayers. She called her friend.

Hanan! I am the most blissful girl in the whole wide world!

A thousand congratulations, love, you certainly deserve it. So is your little dove-love time together done?

He’s just left.

Did he kiss you?

No, Hanan! He told me our marriage is a victory over the disgusting hidebound class structure of society, and a crowning of true love.

She heard a laugh. You mean, he gave you a lecture instead of making the most of his opportunity? I mean, this was the contract, right? Couldn’t he at least kiss you?

Hanaaan, stop it.

Hanan’s frankness no longer smarted; London was too used to it. Anyway, Hanan’s position on all of this had been clear from the start. Ahmad? You mean, the guy who calls himself a poet? Who is with someone new every day? Even his poetry is too heavy for anyone to bear. Why would you want him? Even his appearance... like, he doesn’t even know what to do, sometimes he lets his beard go and other times he shaves and either way he looks wrong. One day you see him in a dishdasha, the next in jeans. Monday his hair is long and Tuesday his skull is shaved. He’ll be acting like the most religious of the religious, and then the next time you see him, he’s cocking around like he’s the latest thing.

Ahmad had put a lot of effort into securing London. You are the girl of my dreams, he would say. He pursued her with emails and phone calls and real letters on paper, with poems and songs and photos. She was hooked.

When her mother discovered the business, she locked London up in her room and smashed her phone. The more London resisted, the more stubborn her mother became, as if she wanted to see how far her daughter would go. How hard would she hold onto this dream of hers? Or it was like Mayya was punishing herself, and not her daughter at all, not the woman in love.

London’s father was bewildered and torn. When he finally cracked the whip, decreeing she could have this marriage, her mother simply withdrew.

On the day the contract was signed, after all of the guests had gone, Ahmad kissed her hands. Do you know what it is about you that attracted me, London? That you’re a girl who isn’t easy. And when you did decide to love me back, you loved sincerely, and you defended your love in the face of all this backwardness and ugliness that surrounds us on every side.

Ever since she had met him she had heard him repeat these two words. Backwardness. Ugliness. Sometimes he added ‘abhorrent classism’. When she saw him laughing with the woman who headed the students’ literary collective, as he clasped both of her hands, he did show a bit of embarrassment. They went out to her car. He defended himself but it was more like an attack, even though she hadn’t started it. Listen to me, London. Yes, you are my fiancée. My beloved. But don’t start hemming me in with your jealousy and egotism and possessiveness and reaction, okay? This selfishness is ugly, and jealousy is backward, and possessiveness is one of the primitive practices from the times of hateful classism. I am a poet. A man of letters. My soul is free, completely free, like a dove in the sky. Ah, yes, my words remind me of Mahmoud Darwish’s poem — the dove flies, the dove lands... Anything that ties me down throttles me. Stifles my creativity. Kills my rush of poetic language. I want a woman who understands me. A woman who knows perfectly well that I am the wind and she is the tree. She sends her roots into the ground, I circle overhead in the sky.

London didn’t say anything, not then. She tugged her lab coat tightly around her, ate the falafel sandwich he had bought her from Café Nasir, and realised that he’d given her a clear view of his chin, which she didn’t usually see like this because he didn’t usually carry his face tipped so high. This time, trying to stare him in the eye all she could see was his chin, bobbing up and down with his words and the sandwich he was eating.

Some weeks later she discovered a photograph of the president of the literary collective in his wallet. She was so angry that she tore it to shreds immediately. Ahmad shouted at her. You silly woman, this photo is just some of the material for the booklet we’re doing for the poetry event. What a stupid thing to do. Backward, and ugly!

They stopped speaking.

London needed someone to talk to. But she didn’t want to expose herself to Hanan’s irritation and sarcasm. She knew Hanan’s opinion well enough. I warned you, Hanan would snap at her. Every new poem is dedicated to a new girl. Why did you allow him to insult you like that?

Hanan didn’t understand. London was certain he loved her, and that he was telling her the truth. What business did she have with his previous life? It didn’t concern her a bit. The important thing was their future together, and she didn’t want to fail. She was afraid of failure, it terrified her. It was three o’clock in the morning and she called him.

The next day they went in his car with the darkened windows for a long drive on the shore. He rejected her suggestion that they get out and walk, because it was so hot. They ate ice cream and talked about the future. As soon as I finish my intern year I’ll open a private clinic, and then after you graduate you can join it. Your father will help us start it. Once I’ve got more famous for my poetry, I’ll leave the whole thing to you so I can free myself up to follow my talent. You’ll be the wife of the greatest poet of Oman! For that matter, the most celebrated poet in the whole Arab world. In the darkness of the car, he embraced her.

London’s dream was somewhat different. After finishing her intern year she would work in the government’s hospitals long enough to get experience. Then she would travel to Canada for a further degree in paediatric medicine. After that she might consider the clinic idea. But she couldn’t discuss any of this. The smell of his shampoo filled her nose and she gave in to his hugs. She imagined what their children would look like and she put her arms around him. London wasn’t blind. She did see all the signs, but she wouldn’t let her mind accept them.