Saud Alsanousi - The Bamboo Stalk

‘Your father was unusually interested in what I had to say. “So you put a woman in power!” he said. “Five months ago, on 25 February,” I said proudly. Your father burst out laughing, then checked himself in case he woke up his mother and his sisters. “That was the same day we were celebrating our national day,” he said. He paused. Then, tapping his fingertips on the desk and as if speaking to himself, he said, “Which of us is the master of the other?” I didn’t understand what he was driving at. He talked to me about the denial of women’s rights, as he put it, because in his country women don’t have the right to take part in politics. He looked very sad, then he tried to involve me by talking about the Kuwaiti parliament, which had been suspended by the Emir of Kuwait at the time. Although I didn’t much care about what he was saying, I listened to his voice and took great interest in how he felt.’

‘Why was he talking to you about these things, Mama?’ I cut in.

‘Because the people around him dismissed his ideas? Maybe,’ she replied, spontaneously but sceptically. ‘He was an idealist, I thought, and I’m sure everyone else thought so too. His mother gave him special treatment, saying he was the only man in the house. He was quiet and rarely raised his voice. He spent most of his time reading or writing in the study. Those were his main interests, apart from fishing and travelling abroad with Ghassan and Walid, the only friends who came to visit him, either in the study to discuss some book or to talk about literature and art and politics, or in the little diwaniya in the annex if Ghassan had brought his oud along. Ghassan was an artist, a poet, sensitive, although he was also a soldier in the army.

‘At the time the countries in southeast Asia, especially Thailand, were popular destinations for young Kuwaiti men. Your father often spoke to me about going there with his friends. When he was talking about Thailand one day he looked me straight in the eye and said, “You look like a Thai girl.” Did I really look like one, or was he hinting at something else? I wasn’t sure.

‘It was depressing in the old lady’s big house when he went away with Ghassan and Walid. I would count the days till they came back and got together again and made some noise for a change in the house or in the diwaniya .’

My mother suddenly stopped a moment and looked at the floor. ‘I used to watch them in the courtyard from the kitchen window, laughing and getting their gear ready for a fishing trip,’ she said. ‘They’d be gone for hours and I’d wait for your father to come back so that I could put his fish in the freezer and wash the fish smell out of his clothes.’

She turned to me and said, ‘I hope you find friends like Ghassan and Walid, José, if you go back to Kuwait.’

‘Tell me more, Mama. What about Grandma?’

‘The old lady worried about her son and the way he spent his time. She often told him she was worried that either his books would drive him mad or the sea would sweep him away. She often walked in on him in the study and begged him to stop reading and writing and turn his attention to things that would do him good. But he insisted that writing was the only thing he was good at. He loved the sea as well as his library. He adored the smell of fish as much as his mother liked her incense and Arabian perfumes.’

My mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath as if she was smelling something she loved.

‘Your grandmother was always worrying about your father, not just because he was her only son but because he was the only remaining man in the family and only he could pass on the family name. Most of his male ancestors had disappeared long ago. Some of them were sailors who disappeared at sea and others in other ways. Those who survived only had daughters. The old lady said this was because long ago a jealous woman from a humble family had cast a spell so that only the women in the family would survive. Your father didn’t believe in such things, but your grandmother was totally convinced. In those distant days your grandfather and his brother, Shahin, were the only surviving males in the family. Shahin died young before marrying. Isa married your grandmother, Ghanima, late and they had your father, Rashid, and when Rashid’s father died Rashid was the only male left in the family.’

My imagination ran riot: people dying at sea, sailing ships fighting giant waves, a woman casting spells in a dark room, the males dying out one by one because of magic. My mother’s stories made my family sound like characters in some legend.

‘He was the only reason I had the patience to stay in the old lady’s house and put up with the way she mistreated me,’ my mother continued. ‘He offered me words of sympathy at night, when everyone else was asleep. He used to slip his hand into his pocket, pull out banknotes and give them to me — one dinar, or two or three. Then he would leave. I wasn’t interested in the money of course.’

Aunt Aida interrupted her. ‘All men are bastards,’ she said.

My mother and I turned towards her. ‘However much they don’t appear to be,’ she added.

My mother replied with two words: ‘Except Rashid.’

‘One evening in the kitchen, he put his hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Don’t be angry with my mother. She’s an old woman and she doesn’t mean what she says. She’s neurotic, but well-meaning.” I didn’t want him to take his hand away. I forgot all the insults from the old lady. After that I deliberately made her angry every now and then. I’d drop a glass on the kitchen floor and leave the pieces lying around till the next morning, or I’d leave a tap running all night and making noise, or I’d leave a window open on a windy day so that all the dust came in and landed on the floor and the furniture. When the old lady got up in the morning, she would throw a fit. Everyone in the house would wake up to her shouting and calling out “Joza!”, the name she had given me because she thought Josephine was too hard to pronounce. She would curse and yell and swear, and I would just sweep up the pieces of glass from the kitchen floor or spend the whole day dusting and cleaning the place in the hope that when night came it would bring your father’s gentle hand to touch my shoulder.’

She took out a handkerchief and wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘One day he was writing his weekly article in the study,’ she continued, ‘resting his left elbow on the large file that contained a draft of his first novel. I put a cup of coffee down in front of him and said, “I like watching you write, sir.”

‘“Can’t you call me something other than ‘sir ’ ?” he said.

‘I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t imagine ever calling him Rashid, like his mother and his sisters.’

‘“Isn’t there anything else you like, other than watching me write?” he asked.

‘“Anything else?” I said.

‘He put his pen down, locked his fingers together and rested his chin on his hands. “Something, or maybe someone?” he said.

‘After that I was sure I was in love with him, or almost, although to him I was no more than someone who would listen without objecting whenever he wanted to explain his ideas and beliefs. Since I was certain he hadn’t fallen in love with me and never would, I was content to love him in return for his interest and his sympathy.

‘When I came to work in their house, your father was just getting over a love affair. He had had a relationship with the girl since he was a student. He wanted to marry her but, because of prejudices I know nothing about, the old lady prevented the marriage. So love alone is not enough to bring you together with the girl of your dreams. Before you fall in love, or so I understood from Rashid, you have to choose carefully the woman to fall in love with. You can’t leave anything to chance. Apparently some names bring shame on others, and that’s what happened with Rashid. As soon as his mother heard the girl’s family name she rejected the idea of Rashid marrying the girl. Some time later the girl married another man.