Джоха Альхарти - Celestial Bodies

The clouds fold up. Suddenly through the small airplane window the sky is clear. Abdallah, son of Merchant Sulayman, dozes off for a few moments. As he wakes up he is still half-talking in his sleep. Don’t hang me upside down in the well, don’t. Please, no! Don’t!

As the sun came up, Salima suddenly felt a warm sense of contentment, as though the sun were beaming its rays directly onto her heart. She was a grandmother. True, this reddish lump of flesh with the odd name had none of her beauty; but after all, the lump was her granddaughter, and one way or another it made her proud. She swept the courtyard and freshened it up with a sprinkling of water across the packed-dirt surface. She dragged the rolled-up red Persian carpet from the storeroom, shook it hard to expel the dust, and unrolled it along the length of the reception room. In the middle room, she took down the elegant china that always sat in the high dormer-like apertures punctuating the thick plaster wall, and rubbed each piece to a shine before carefully setting them back into their niches. She spread out new bedding on the floor for Mayya and the newborn. She didn’t summon clumsy Khawla to bake; she preferred to do it herself, for the bread a recovering new mother needed was very special. She mixed together the pure country butter and mountain honey to spread on the bread, and after all of these preparations, she made certain that Mayya ate every last bite on the plate and drank the milk boiled with fenugreek to the last drop. She made coffee laced with cardamom for the occasion and set out a platter of fresh fruit and dates. She arranged two bottles of rose water and a small cup of saffron on a gilt tray with the incense burner, and put the coffee, plates and tray of scents in the room ready for visits from her neighbours. She knew the women would soon come round. She bathed herself in water steeped in her special blend of herbs — since the day she was created soap had never touched her body. She put on her best robe and knelt down beside her silent daughter.

Suddenly a loud, gruff voice filled the entire courtyard. Bismillahi... ma sha’ allah... allahumma salli ala n-nabi... allahumma salli ala l-habib... bismillahi... In the name of God, the One who is merciful and compassionate. May blindness strike the eye of the envious one! Ma sha’ allah, it’s God’s will, this is right! The first one’s a girl, and a girl comes to raise her little brothers. Ten boys will follow her, God willing. Bismillahi... allahuma salli ala n-nabi. Prayers be on the blessed Prophet!

At this voice, Salima gave her daughter a little warning slap. Don’t even think about getting yourself up, not for just anyone, girl! Not for her. It’s only the old man’s sweetheart, that’s all.

Zarifa strutted down the long room, pausing deliberately and methodically, the name of God streaming incessantly from her mouth. She dug her toes energetically into the Persian carpet to test its depth and softness. She shoved aside the thin, almost transparent cloth that protected the tray of fruit and dates, and sized it up with a swift glance. She jiggled the tiny silver spoon in the cup to assure herself that it really did hold thick, solid threads of saffron. Only then did she continue on her way towards the middle room.

Welcome, Zarruuuuf, muttered Salima, with no attempt to keep the derision from her voice. My, my, you’ve come so early! If only you had waited awhile, say ten days or so. Now you’ll have to excuse me, my leg is giving me trouble, it’s painful enough that I can’t get up to greet you.

Zarifa heaved her massive body to the floor at the foot of Mayya’s bedding. She sucked in a slow breath. Relax, dearie, just keep yourself where you are resting, milady! Anyway, when did you ever get up for Zarruuf ? She twisted the huge silver ring on her right index finger and leaned into the mat slightly. How are you doing, Mayya? Good girl, you’re safe and sound, blessed with a good strong body and the baby, my girl... I’m so sorry, I couldn’t come any earlier, because my boy Sanjar, just now he’s got another baby girl.

Mabrukeen, Salima said. Double congratulations on your blessed addition! We didn’t hear the news.

Zarifa leaned more heavily over the recumbent Mayya. Only yesterday. The viper Shanna had a girl, another daughter for Sanjar. We had our hands full.

Opposite Zarifa, Salima’s response was to bend closer over her daughter. And today? she asked. Where’ve you been since dawn? You couldn’t come to see your master’s daughter? But of course, we have to remember the proverb-giver’s words: The feet walk fast for the loving heart’s sake, but when you feel no longing, your feet drag and ache.

Zarifa stretched herself out and narrowed her eyes. No, that’s not the right proverb, habba! Listen, milady. You know perfectly well, the old bubber only eats Zarifa’s bread. And the proverb-maker says: Who’s fond of you, love him back, who shoves you away, shove him back, who keeps himself from you, give him the sack. Well! I see no one’s been here to see you yet, no one whose coffee we’d be pouring out right now. Hand over the little girl, Mayya, I’ll say some prayers for her, make some pleas up there.

The little girl wants to nurse, Salima interjected. Zarifa smiled and wiggled her shoulders lightly, like a dancer. Fish are good for her, you know, they’ll make her milk come. Not so good when she’s just given birth, Zarruuf, Salima snapped. Zarruf guffawed and sang out, The proverb-giver says: Give the sick what they yearn for, but it’s God alone will restore. But why not some salted fish, since dear Abdallah already brought her forty hens? She must have her strength back! Even that viper of Sanjar’s — he brought her a live chicken out of the goodness of his heart, and honey and butter too, and still she doesn’t want me to cook for her. The proverb-spinner says: When the ass’s belly is full of food, then and there he kicks you good. She’s forgetting those days when she didn’t even have a dishdasha to cover her body, way back before she married my boy. Ya ayni alayk, you poor boy, my Sanjar. Your luck took a wrong turn with that viper!

Get up, Mayya, sit up now and nurse the girl, muttered Salima, showing her disgust with her guest. Mayya struggled into a sitting position.

The viper who’s with my boy nurses lying down, Zarifa sang out. Like a bitch dog. Won’t even sit up. And she named the girl Rasha. My wretched son didn’t say a word — well, what’s he going to say? She’d bite the boy’s flesh and poison him if he so much as said a word. Instead of naming them Habiba or Maryam or Fatima, they give them these names — Mervat, and Rabab, and Naabaab, Shaaakaaab, Daaaadaaaab, or maybe, why not, She-who-gouges-out-Satan’s-eye? What a world it is! And you, Mayya, now what’s your baby named?

Mayya was staring into the baby girl’s face, nestled at her breast.

London.

There was a sudden silence. Zarifa dropped her head. Then she heaved her immense body off the floor. Must get myself moving, she muttered. Have to make lunch for you. She got to her feet heavily and headed for the kitchen.

Salima let her breath out slowly. She was worried that the oily hue of the walls in here was darker and heavier than it ought to be for a new mother. Still, she preferred to keep her recovering daughter in this room because it was warm, and guests would see the shelves made by the little wall-openings stacked with fancy plates. The mandus, the old, elegantly worked wooden chest with its brass fittings that she’d had since her own wedding, added some grace to the room as well, especially since it had recently acquired a fresh gloss and a new layer of gilt paint on the fixings. And there were the cushions and the carpets embroidered and sewn with Indian silk. Salima was always very careful with décor and adornment, except when it came to her own body.