Khaled Khalifa - In Praise of Hatred

Safaa told us how surprised she had been at discovering that Bakr was in the room next to theirs in the large hotel in the Jounieh district of Beirut. She was a little confused but then kissed him warmly. Abdullah immediately took him away, and they left an irritated Safaa to her own devices for the afternoon. She waited for them for a long time, and then went out and wandered the streets of Beirut, struck with a sudden desire to go shopping. She thought of us, and bought woollen sweaters for us and neckties for my uncles which, still wrapped, were thrown into Maryam’s clothes box. Safaa was worried when she worked out that Bakr had come to Beirut under a false identity: his name was listed as Jaber Antaby, and he recorded his profession in the hotel register as ‘architect’. She was never alone with Bakr, despite her continual attempts to draw him aside. He would avoid private meetings, and she couldn’t understand his reticence. At night, Abdullah took Safaa and Bakr to dinner at the invitation of an American friend whom he had bumped into. The men spoke in English about Lebanese food and Bakr calmly described types of kebab, showing great expertise in classifying food as he compared the cuisines of Istanbul and Aleppo by way of Lebanon. The men withdrew for less than half an hour and walked on the beach despite the strong breeze. Safaa couldn’t believe that buying carpets required this level of caution. Bakr didn’t sleep on his last night in Beirut. He reached Aleppo in the dark and came into our house a broken man; there was a strange, pale colour to his eyes. We were surprised to be gathered around him as he slept on his bed, snoring from exhaustion. Maryam put a hand on his face and saw how he had aged, even though he wasn’t yet forty-five. Standing around her, we looked for some reassurance.

The entire family came together the following day, except for Hossam. It reminded us of a sweet time we had lost, as if recalling a dead man who had slipped through our fingers for a few moments, and after we had mourned him, he opened his eyes quietly and asked if there was anything left of the apricots from the previous summer. The family gathering, despite heralding the danger of a long separation, made Maryam optimistic about the possibility of recovering the moments of past intimacy — these would remind us of the position of our family and its inheritance — even though in recent years she had stopped enumerating the characteristics of our ancestors and had made do with wiping the dust off the pictures that hung in her room.

Omar didn’t like family banalities (they reminded him of his ex-wife Rima’s pickles) but on that day he recalled his memories with affecting nostalgia; we needed them to protect us. We brought out the silver table service, and our Chinese tablecloth. My aunts and my mother sat down to eat dinner with Abdullah as an overt acknowledgement that he had been accepted as a full member of the family, and deserved to join us in the laughter which encouraged Bakr to make cheerful observations on Selim’s Sufism. He sat on his own on the floor to eat from an aluminium bowl, and limited himself to vegetables, milk and dates, shunning the oily delicacies and cooked meats which covered the freekeh crowned with crushed almonds. He avoided drinking the berry and orange juices, and made do with a cup of water. I hadn’t known before that Selim had such a tolerant and joyful spirit, especially when Bakr hinted at Selim’s refusal to engage in sexual relations with his wife, and his abstinence from delicacies, even the fresh shrimps which my father used to bring him. Our happy day as a family passed in the blink of an eye. Maryam apologized for the circumstances that made us eat off one table. I said to myself, ‘We need these banal moments so we can relinquish our dignity.’

* * *

Zahra came to stay in our house. She unpacked her large bag and hung her clothes in Safaa’s wardrobe. We didn’t believe her visit would last that long, but a month would become a year, and a year became years, and no one knew any longer when it would end. Bakr was totally absent. He became like a bat in the night which we couldn’t get hold of; we could only hear the rush of his wings beating around us. Safaa and Abdullah left Aleppo like they were being hunted after Abdullah made a few swift calls to various countries, using my uncles’ telephones.

* * *

We took up again our visits to the hammam in a reversion to our unchanging image; Blind Radwan led us there without enthusiasm. We were afraid to admit that the hot water and the smell of the cavernous baths couldn’t save us from our depression. We resumed our chatter about details no more important than peeling garlic heads, or whether to store the hot pepper paste in glass jars or plastic containers. Zahra’s perpetual preoccupation confused me, along with the way she avoided sitting around the pool on afternoons when the sky was clear and the winter sun brilliant.

Like a fugitive from everything, I went to school in the mornings as if it were my only sanctuary. I would look for Ghada as if she were my mirror, so I could see my image scattered in her sad eyes. She was losing her liveliness and had begun to wither. She didn’t answer my questions, told me she would suffocate, and asked me to walk with her in the streets. I walked close, grasping her arm as we crossed Qouwatly Street and reached Jamiliyya. I was interested in one of the buildings; I knew that it was the secret house where she met her lover, and my desire to see him murdered returned to me. She opened the door and we went inside, where she broke down sobbing. She told me that he had abandoned her and she hadn’t seen him for three weeks. He had told her that she was no longer suitable and had walked out on her, leaving behind only the smell of his shirt and her memories of him on the soft leather sofas covered with the heads of pharaohs and bulls.

As we wandered through the small house, Ghada wept. There were photographs of him everywhere. I imagined how many times he had taken her in his arms like a butterfly and lain her down on the wide bed to penetrate her, so feminine and delicate, like a beast. Jealousy filled my heart, and I was struck by a desire to weep, to smash everything, to burn the house down and reduce it to ashes. I dredged up all the hatred that had become part of my sense of the world, and changed myself into an interrogator — I sat Ghada down like she was the accused. He had left her some money, apparently, enough to help an abandoned woman forget, paid the rent of the house for three months, and offered her one of his colleagues should she miss him. She described him as vulgar and depraved but an unforgettable lover. She had offered to wait for him every day, like a maidservant waiting for her master, even if he came in only to look at her, and then leave. When I saw her wandering around the living room reliving his embraces, I realized that she was calmed by it. It was difficult for her to take in a word I said. I slipped away like a fugitive without saying goodbye. I wept in the street; I covered my face and soaked the black veil. As if seeing Aleppo for the first time, I wandered through it, lost. No one noticed me when I returned; they had got used to my absences over recent days as I spent most of my time with Alya.

I felt like I needed to see Alya, even though our next group meeting wasn’t due yet. As I walked towards her house, a strange power welled up inside me. I wanted to be just like her. Her companions were surprised when I arrived, but Alya allowed me to stay for the trial of her friend Anoud. They had been tipped off that she kept an album of pornographic pictures within her milaya at all times; also, a young man she knew waited for her behind the Faculty of Literature after lectures every Tuesday and Thursday evenings. The trial was convened with all majesty, and Anoud swore on the Quran that she would tell the truth. She added that the young man had taken her hands and kissed them, and then she pointed to the place where the album was kept inside her black clothes — I rushed towards her without permission and searched her roughly. The album was produced and I asked God’s forgiveness for the obscenity of the pictures, which showed the private parts of smiling men. Alya took hold of me and drew me away. She promised me there would be a horrible punishment which would quench our thirst and restore our reputations as decent mujahid girls. I couldn’t wait; we left Alya’s house and I felt my body was filthy, in need of a wash.