Mother of All Pigs Read online

  PRAISE FOR MALU HALASA

  “Malu Halasa has a mind like an octopus. She reaches in all directions and in Mother of All Pigs, her first novel, she pulls together more characters and plotlines than most writers would dream of. You could say Mother of All Pigs is a novel about defiance, or innovation, or emigration, or family. You could say it’s about Christianity or Islam or the Syrian civil war. You could say it’s about feminism. You could say it’s about a pig. No matter what, you’d be right. It’s an ambitious novel, and a fun one. Halasa’s got a great sense of humor to go with her wide-ranging interests and expertise, and the combination makes Mother of All Pigs a delight to read.”

  —Lily Meyer, Politics & Prose

  “Mother of All Pigs is the book that western readers have been waiting for: a novel about ordinary people in the Middle East told with deep, sympathetic, understanding of the region. Halasa tells the stories of Middle Eastern women and men with rare familiarity. An enjoyable book about a fascinating set of characters, this is essential reading for anyone who wants to know more about the Middle East.”

  —Maziar Bahari, author of And Then They Came for Me: A Family’s Story of Love, Captivity and Survival (now the feature film Rosewater)

  “Malu Halasa’s richly woven tale of family duty and private love, of loss and repossession, is quietly subversive. Lamentations follow the birth of girls, she tells us, and helps us to understand the psychological hardships of womanhood in modern Arab culture. Halasa’s novel reveals in moving and warmly human ways the effects of large events and complex histories on everyday life.”

  —Darryl Pinckney, author of the novels, High Cotton and Black Deutschland, and two works of nonfiction, Blackballed: The Black Vote and US Democracy and Out There: Mavericks of Black Literature

  The Unnamed Press

  P.O. Box 411272

  Los Angeles, CA 90041

  Published in North America by The Unnamed Press.

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  Copyright © 2017 by Malu Halasa

  By Agreement with Pontas Literary & Film Agency

  ISBN: 978-1-944700-34-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017952070

  This book is distributed by Publishers Group West

  Cover design & typeset by Jaya Nicely

  Cover Artwork: Haphazard Synchronizations: Majd Masri, YAYA2016

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are wholly fictional or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Permissions inquiries may be directed to [email protected].

  For Andy

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Disappointment burns like desertification. It smells of old socks and leaches through the crevices and cracks of the new house. The odor, familiar and unchanging, greets Hussein every morning. Equally persistent is the dull heaviness in his brain, today the result of too much Johnnie Walker Red at last night’s welcome dinner for his American niece Muna. It is her first time in her father’s homeland, and Hussein thought he was lifting the mood of the family gathering when in fact he was just being selfish and getting drunk. As he slowly dresses, he hopes that the fog in his head will clear once he splashes water on his face. But after he turns the faucet in the bathroom sink, not even a trickle emerges. He suddenly recalls the empty and creaking tanks on the roof and the water truck three weeks late. Guided as much by the smell, he gropes for the tins his stepmother usually reserves for such occasions. After tap water runs low, Mother Fadhma fills containers at the town’s communal cistern. Her health is poor so she brings it home by taxi. Because he is too lazy to help, he never complains about the expense.

  This water is leaden, elemental like the smell that finds him in bed. The same taste pervades the glass of tea waiting for him on the kitchen table. His greedy first sip both scalds and steadies him, but the taste, so raw, repels him. It’s like eating dirt. When he bends to kiss his stepmother good morning he nearly loses his balance. He coughs, sags down into a convenient seat, and dismisses the prepared food in front of him with a barely perceptible shake of his head. He clutches the hot glass of tea to his chest like a life preserver.

  “Khubz?” The old woman offers a piece torn from a piping hot pita. Mother Fadhma has arranged his tea and breakfast dishes with care as if the world revolved around his every want and need. Wrapped in a new blue polyester robe—a gift from her granddaughter from America—she is prepared to wait on him, but he only shakes his head again, so she takes a bite of bread herself.

  “Such a party last night.” The words come out long and heavy like a sigh, but the inflection rises. She is soliciting his opinion.

  Hussein sits utterly still. He knows she would appreciate a conversation about the party, about Muna, about anything, but he needs to save the already depleted energy he has for the long day ahead.

  When she receives absolutely no acknowledgment Mother Fadhma’s small eyes narrow. She wants to scold him for eating too little and drinking too much; however, her silence was secured long ago. Even when he makes a fool of himself, as he did last night, she forgives him. On the rare occasion that she does summon the courage to rebuke him, her admonitions are gentle and consoling.

  Hussein is still considered the most handsome of his six brothers. He even managed to look good in the plain khaki uniform, identical to thousands of others, that he wore during his military service. Something about the worn red beret enhanced his boyish features. The combination of his lieutenant’s star and the discreet embroidered eagle of his elite brigade produced a subtle magic that more than one woman had found irresistible. Now, as he takes a grubby butcher’s overall from the rack behind the front door and leaves the house, it is clear that this once dashing effect has been lost entirely. The intervening years have engraved crow’s-feet across his formerly smooth and attractive features.

  The cracked stone staircase outside tells a similar story. The house is the newest of the buildings lining the rough dirt track. The neighboring dwellings are made from mud brick or stone; irregular, stunted, and worn, their walls conceal rooms like cavities in a row of rotting teeth. Despite its modern construction, Hussein’s home already exhibits the telltale signs of decay.

  Immediately beyond the fence, sparse scrubby fields stretch into a misty distance. The haze isn’t his hangover; heat is rising quickly again. In the dirt track, two or three stray dogs skulk listlessly. They are there every morning, attracted by the unmistakable smell of blood emanating from the battered van that occupies most of Hussein’s truncated, sparsely graveled driveway. Usually he pretends to pick up a stone. It’s not necessary to throw it; just stooping is enough to send the dogs, conditioned since puppyhood to expect cruelty, scattering down the street. He enjoys this small victory, but today he feels too queasy to bend down. Instead he half-heartedly kicks some dust at th
e nearest mutt and runs his finger along a fresh scratch that starts near the taillight and ends just in front of the driver’s-side door. It was not there the previous morning. Several similar scratches, not caused by the normal wear and tear of unpaved streets, disfigure the paintwork. The latest addition is longer and deeper than the rest. Either things are getting worse or stones are getting sharper. Hussein sighs and squeezes into the driver’s seat. The van was designed for someone much smaller. With the seat pushed fully back, his knees nearly touch the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror he catches a glimpse of a face disappearing behind a curtain in a window across the street. He has grown accustomed to being watched, but in a futile gesture of defiance he revs the engine higher than necessary, throws the van into gear, and reverses violently out of the driveway. Lurching to a halt, he immediately regrets his rash exhibition. His stomach catches up with the rest of his body and churns unpleasantly. A clammy sweat spreads across his shoulders and forehead. His hands feel light and clumsy, and he slumps back in the seat, breathing heavily. A black-and-brown dog gets up from the gutter, regards him apathetically, and trots away.

  “Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: whoever is deceived by it is not wise.” Jaber Ahmed Sabas was fond of quoting Scripture to his children. But Hussein remembers his father’s words only when they can do him the least good—after the fact rather than before. It is easy for him to imagine how his father would have assessed the current situation. Jaber Ahmed Sabas, a Christian, always sought to reconcile the various faiths he lived among, not estrange them. To Hussein, this willingness to avoid conflict sometimes bordered on weakness. If the old man had not been so constrained by respect for his neighbors, the family would not have waited so long to reap the benefits Hussein has been able to provide. But it is impossible for Hussein to think about his father without feeling uncomfortable, as though he has somehow failed him. When the town was still a village, Jaber Ahmed had emerged as a natural unassuming leader, a man of worth. He was a humble and tenacious farmer known for his love of history and storytelling. His reputation as a thinker and generous host became so well established that the whole community—even his immediate family—called the old man Al Jid—“Grandfather.”

  The dual specters of Al Jid and Johnnie Walker are dispelled by a loud burst of static and the cry of the muezzin cackling from the mosque’s loudspeaker. For an instant, Hussein is completely still; then as fast as his fragile condition allows, he starts off down the hill toward town. He knows he will have to hurry if he wants to avoid trouble.

  The livestock pens are clustered next to an open space that functions as an impromptu abattoir at the back of the market on the other side of town. Hussein glumly surveys the animals crowded into small stalls. Today is Friday, the day he will sell nothing unacceptable, nothing to affront his Muslim friends and neighbors. It is a pledge he made to himself early on in the business and one he is determined to keep. A dirty white sheep, a little larger than the rest, catches his eye, and he gestures to the young boy who sits chewing gum in the corner of the stall to bring it out for inspection. Hussein looks deeply into its eyes and ears, opens its mouth to see the teeth. The animal appears healthy. He lifts its back leg, trying to gauge the proportion of fat to meat. Satisfied, he hands the rope tied around its neck back to the boy. Hussein selects a goat and again examines it thoroughly. Of course the asking price is too high and his offer too low. The bargaining continues for several minutes until he agrees to pay slightly more than the true value. He simply cannot be bothered to argue anymore. Besides, the sheep is for a special order. He will pass on the loss to his customer.

  Sometimes the animals come meekly, but when one decides to go north and the other south, they become difficult to handle. Hussein roughly jerks the struggling beasts to where he parked. He ties the sheep to the rear bumper, then, with a series of practiced, determined moves, throws the goat onto the ground, binds its feet together, and slides it into the back of the van. The sheep quickly follows. He locks the doors and pauses to wipe his brow. Already he feels as if he has done a full day’s work. He squeezes into the driver’s seat, starts the engine, and glances back to check the animals. Their eyes are glazed, muted, expecting death.

  Past the old communal cistern the road narrows, then forks. Usually Hussein takes the left-hand track, which skirts the eastern part of town, before doubling back to the main road: five or ten minutes out of his way, nothing more. But the special order for tonight’s wedding feast is due before nine, and a dull pain has been growing in the middle of his forehead. Also, he resents being made to feel like a criminal who has to sneak around. Recklessly, he turns right onto the shorter route.

  Abruptly, a man riding a horse bursts out of a narrow side alley, and Hussein is forced to swerve, swearing, to the left. Up ahead, men and boys spill out of the mosque. Hussein feels a flutter of nervousness in his chest and thinks about turning around, but there is no room. The crowded mean little street refuses to give way. He rolls up the window and tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

  Angry hands slap the van. People shout abuse. Their voices rouse the goat, which bleats mournfully for its all-too-short life. Hussein, hunched over the wheel that pushes into his gut, refuses to let himself be intimidated. His body seems to be swelling with indignation, but his mind becomes clear for the first time that morning. He keeps the van moving steadily forward. The hostile faces pressed up against the window meet his steely gaze. He is not prepared to satisfy them by showing either anger or fear.

  Just beyond the mosque the road widens and turns. The crowd parts slightly and the van inches through, throwing up a small staccato hail of gravel. Then something shatters. In the rearview mirror Hussein catches sight of his teenage assailant. The boy, with a smattering of facial hair, isn’t even old enough to grow a beard. In retaliation for his smashed taillight, Hussein slams the horn down hard. Alarmed, the stragglers scatter and the butcher’s van shoots through to freedom in a cloud of sand and dust.

  2

  Laila peers past the cologne bottles and carefully checks the mirror for any evidence of strain on her face. Gently massaging the tender spot above her right ear, she wonders how it is that whenever her husband drinks alcohol she gets the headache. She is oblivious to the acidic smell of the toddler’s soiled diapers rising from the hamper or her older sons in their bedroom. There is only one thing she demands and fusses about each and every morning. She doesn’t care how much water is left or where it comes from—the farm, one of those pirate tankers, or a damn hole in the ground—only that there is an ample supply available for her sole and immediate use. On days when she has to remind Mother Fadhma that the tins in the bathroom are nearly empty, she can become loud and abusive.

  Using almost all of what’s left in the largest remaining container, she washes her face, then brushes her medium-length brown hair before applying makeup. Behind a cigarette taken from a pack on the windowsill, she examines her reflection again, nodding in pained appreciation. She looks good, despite everything that conspires against her. Some women are physically drained from having too many children and never fully recover. But after each birth Laila took rigorous precautions: the correct diet, makeup and clothes. Her nails are manicured, her skin supple and soft.

  Discipline has always formed the core of her character. Her normally unbending demeanor gives the impression of someone firmly in control no matter how she may actually be feeling. Turning from the mirror, she experiences a flash of pain, bright and sharp. A reminder or a warning? She opens a bottle of extra-strength aspirin, swallows three tablets with the last of the water from the container, and takes a final drag from the half-finished cigarette before grinding it into a smoldering ashtray.

  Mother Fadhma has had years of practice and is attuned to her daughter-in-law’s nuanced expressions. She can tell if Laila desires solitude at the breakfast table and will retreat from the kitchen without a word of greeting or a second thought. Fadhma stays out of her daughter-in-law’s w
ay. It’s bad enough living in Laila’s house, but her stepson Hussein has to support Fadhma and her youngest daughter, Samira.

  This morning Laila is apparently making an effort. She refills the old woman’s tea glass before pouring one for herself and sitting down on the other side of an impressive spread of boiled eggs, lebne yogurt, sliced tomatoes, scallions, green and black olives, dried za’atar thyme, olive oil, and bread.

  “So what did you think?” Fadhma rarely initiates conversations with her daughter-in-law, but she has been feeling unsettled since the arrival of their twenty-two-year-old visitor. Muna’s father, Abd, is the second son of Fadhma’s sister, Najla. Fadhma raised him and his five brothers with her five girls and two boys, after she married Al Jid following her sister’s death. Abd’s departure from Jordan twenty-five years ago accelerated the decline of her immediate family, but the old mother doesn’t blame him for that. He was the first of Al Jid’s thirteen kids to challenge a thousand years of tradition by marrying an ‘ajnabi, a foreigner.

  “She certainly doesn’t resemble our side of the family,” Laila observes drily.

  Yesterday evening, when Fadhma met Muna for the first time, she blurted out, “Like Chinese,” which made everyone, including Laila, laugh nervously. The vast stretches of land and ocean separating the two countries have not prevented unpleasant stories from arriving by mail, telephone, and, worst of all, word of mouth. The ugly temper of Muna’s foreign mother, who slashed her husband’s suits and smashed a kitchen’s worth of dishes, entered Sabas family legend long ago. The accounts only confirm the uncertainty of marriages to unknown, unscreened outsiders.

  “Imagine,” the old woman snorts, “the girl could have come with her father. Instead she insists on traveling alone when the Crushers are smashing their way across Syria and Iraq.”

  Laila is frustrated that Mother Fadhma insists on calling the jihadists the “Crushers,”—from the word deas—seemingly just to annoy her, but she refuses to be drawn in. She’s rarely interested in her husband’s family. She finds the young woman by herself fascinating.