Khaled Khalifa - In Praise of Hatred

After years of discussion and failed experiments, Maryam finally forgot about the perfume when Blind Radwan, with great daring and drawing heavily on the patience which it had taken him seven years to acquire, told her, ‘This is the scent of a man you love, not a perfume.’ Radwan also forgot about the French company after their curt reply asking him not to embarrass their public relations department, and declaring that what he had sent them was not a proper perfume at all, but a mere essence.

Maryam read the letter out slowly and with conspicuous relish; she dwelled on certain words more than once, but she was saddened when she saw the betrayal etched on his face as if tears were about to gush from his eyes. She took his cold hand and nursed him with tactful words, trailing behind him when he went to his room, letter in hand and stumbling over the tiles, as if he had forgotten the position of the objects on the floor — his memories of a place he usually remembered by heart and in which he had never been mistaken had become confused. The letter, which no one other than Maryam read, remained as proof of the infidel West’s perfidy with respect to genius, as Radwan angrily complained to his blind companions when he went to visit them in the Umayyad Mosque. He would bring them food and sweets which Maryam had made, walking confidently to the door of Sheikh Abdel Jaber who welcomed his friend and invited him to sit on the bed. In the courtyard of the mosque he cried out in a way that all the blind men recognized, and they all came to throng the room. They caught the scent of food and sweets, and did not mistake Radwan’s own scent — Radwan who, as a response to their singing an ode to the Prophet in welcome, thanked them for their princely reception and lauded them one after the other, replying to their sarcasm and jibes with great forbearance. They all crowded into the streets of the city, oblivious to the glances of passers-by fascinated by the scene of nine blind men whispering in eloquent Arabic, laughing loudly, or reciting love poetry and describing the faces of unknown women drawn from among the many worlds of humanity.

* * *

Something I didn’t know how to describe grew inside me and granted me a calm I had never known before. After paroxysms of anxiety and fears that caused me physical pain, and Maryam’s lessons about virginity and a body which must be braced for Hell on account of its sins, I felt that I was drawing ever nearer to a luminous image. Its features became clearer every day for a virgin believer who remained undefiled by any man other than the halal one who would arrive one day. I would sit by his side as an obedient servant, and acknowledge his guardianship over me. I would serve him as a slave and worship my lord so he would inspire me to be a virtuous captive. It was an image drawn for me by Maryam with painful precision as she quoted verses from the Quran, the Hadith of the Prophet and biographies of those pious Muslims whom she adored to the point of infatuation. I would sit on my chair opposite her and near the fountain once the summer evenings grew refreshingly cool, or close to her on the sofa during the winter nights, or clinging to her during Hajja Radia’s gatherings when her sweet voice responded to the beat of the tambourines and she sang about the life of Rabia Al Adawiya. Deep emotion would take hold of me and the rest of the women; tears would pour down our cheeks and we would sway like the slender branches of a poplar tree, embarking on a long journey whose roads opened up on to rivers of milk and honey, and the pleasure of absolute certainty. Hajja Radia would sing a nashid and the sound of the tambourines would embed itself in my pores.

I flew over cities and houses; I performed my ablutions and swooped over the walls of Paradise. I saw the best Muslims fluttering in their white abayas like seagulls over the azure ocean. I was absorbed with the sweetness of the sounds, with the singing of the women, with the journey into the trance whose secrets I had learned. I ascended step by step, slowly, gradually, before reaching the peak where the plains opened up before me far in the distance. I joined them, the most pious and believing of all Muslims, and I saw their glad, smiling faces. What sweetness was taking possession of me, cleansing me, baring me, making me captive to the long dream which sought to seduce me throughout my life? The Prophet came from far away in a snow-white abaya, walking over the water in quiet contemplation. He came nearer and I retreated. I saw him reach out his arms to me, surrounded by colourful birds whose sound reminded me of the peal of golden bells. The Prophet was coming … his footsteps were splashing in the water … I drew back to reach the other side of the water … I sat down cross-legged, waiting for his glorious arrival … I heard his sweet voice and its echo submerged me: ‘Come closer, my daughter, O Believer.’ I came closer and he was flying.

Maryam told me joyfully, ‘There are the gates of Heaven.’

I said to her, ‘But he was flying!’

‘Yes; he flew and rose to Heaven.’ Maryam blessed me. Tears flowed from her eyes as she advised me, ‘Guard your secrets.’

I perfected this advice and began hiding my secrets. I would avoid the long sessions with Safaa; I couldn’t look into her eyes without being possessed by a desire to confess everything.

Safaa warned me about plunging too deeply into Hajja Radia’s trances, without really explaining what she meant in plain language. She would come into my room at night and stretch out on the bed, grab a book and then return it to its place. She would pick up another and become bored with it just as quickly. I saw she was distracted, her eyes clinging to the ceiling as her body relaxed on the bed. With a curse on silence and renunciation, she would open the door and go out into the courtyard where she would sit on the large wicker chair close to the pool, waiting for something.

Sometimes, in the mornings, she went out alone to visit her sister Marwa. I would hear her violent disputes with Maryam who refused to allow her outside on her own, censuring her and charging her with immorality. Safaa would reply brusquely, cruelly, letting her veil drop over her face as she left. Maryam would dress hurriedly and rush after her, and Blind Radwan would join them as soon as Maryam called to him. He completed the scene, so familiar to the residents of Jalloum: my aunts in their long black clothes hiding the whiteness of their bodies all the way to the tips of their long fingers, and Radwan in front, silent. No one saw Safaa’s tears under her black veil as Maryam walked upright, without turning around or moving her gaze away from a fixed point on the horizon. Radwan would return to his room and I would be left alone in the dreary house.

I was overwhelmed with a curiosity to explore the place calmly and thoroughly; to examine my face and the details of my squalid body. I hated my leering breasts, so like antlers. I wished they wouldn’t stand out so much. I wondered: how does the body die? How do nipples, pores, desires die? How will I walk that luminous path leading to the expanse of water where Rabia Al Adawiya, just outside His kingdom, searches for the face of God? I reach out to her, I anticipate her fragrance, I ask her to take me with her along the path of light. She reaches out for me, I touch her fingertips. I am struck with a tremor that shakes me to my depths. The standing waters begin to move. I tell her to baptize me with holy water and leave me on God’s shore, alone. I look into her golden eyes beyond the limits of spoken language, and a deep silence extends between us. I hear the sound of distant tambourines gradually drawing nearer, the sound rising on all sides; soft, with precise rhythms. From far away, the faces of ghosts appear to me, human in structure; faces without features, with smooth contours. I didn’t understand the nashid ; Rabia’s hand became even warmer and softer. My fingers sweated and desire rose in me like sap through a tree. The caravan approached our stopping-place and Rabia’s face was still submerged in its silence. Black horses, featureless beings, tambourines; I raised my gaze to Rabia’s face, looking for an explanation for this gathering. She was absorbed in her murmuring. I didn’t understand the imperfect words. She took me by the hand and led me outside. I hadn’t realized that we had flown, nor that we had crossed the streets of Jalloum, and that the scents of thyme and spices scattered within the narrow confines of the alleyways had become embedded within us.