Mother of All Pigs Page 6

  “Ah!” exclaimed his friend. “Like bringing McDonald’s to Afghanistan.”

  That’s what Abu Za’atar appreciated, Hani’s ability to think outside the box. He alone presented Abu Za’atar with the opportunity of a lifetime, this time arriving with a health certificate. It too was a refugee of sorts, escaping hardship and crossing borders illegally: from the Zabbaleen in Greater Cairo to the Sinai and through the tunnels of Gaza, under the noses of Hamas, and then over the wall—a nursing home hoist, Hani said, was used—past illegal West Bank Jewish settlements, and finally not over but under the Allenby Bridge on a raft across the Jordan River.

  Whenever Abu Za’atar remembers his own contribution to international cuisine, dusting becomes reverential. It’s rare for him to find someone he truly likes and trusts. His friendship with Hani is like spontaneous combustion, while with Hussein it has taken years, even decades, of grooming before the flames of mutual profiteering could be ignited.

  The Featherer had been dusting the morning his nephew returned to their town. Carrying a clipboard, Abu Za’atar was also noting down inventory and paid little attention to the uniformed man loitering by the counterfeit designer timepieces. The increasingly troublesome border in the valley below made the town a regular stop for soldiers on their way to the various outposts. On the whole, none of them had any money and was therefore of no interest. So when the mustached young man greeted him politely, Abu Za’atar’s reply was offhand and distracted. The shopkeeper was certain that any conversation would lead to the inevitable inquiries into the whereabouts of the only available local girl.

  The soldier continued to entertain himself among the watches. When at last Abu Za’atar glanced up, he was stunned to encounter the broad smile of his favorite nephew. He kissed him on both cheeks and then gripped his shoulders at arm’s length, trying to assess what changes had taken place since they last met. The slender, uninspiring boy who had run away into military service had returned, in his uncle’s estimation, a man.

  “What was it like, eh?” Surely such a handsome lad must have had many adventures. Tied to the small town, the shopkeeper lived vicariously through the travel stories of wayward traders and truck drivers. In his excitement, he asked question after question, but Hussein’s elusive replies suggested that his experiences were not altogether satisfactory. Finally the young and old sat in silence over arak and the arghileh.

  “Amo,” Hussein began shyly, as he would have done in the old days, for he had always found Abu Za’atar’s company fascinating, “did you keep the magazine?”

  He was referring to an old copy of Good Housekeeping his brother Abd had sent from America. In the past Hussein and Abu Za’atar spent hours poring over its pages, working on their English and wondering about the purpose of so many colorful and unusual household goods.

  Abu Za’atar immediately retrieved the issue from its original hiding place in a drawer under the cash register. He had placed it there on the day of Hussein’s departure, as a token of their shared interests. Taking the magazine, Hussein turned to the double-page spread of a supermarket. He had recently returned from a US military training program for overseas officers at Fort Knox in Tennessee and was able to name and classify all the foodstuffs from peanut butter to wieners, which he himself had purchased from an all-purpose superstore as tall as Jebel Musa, the mountain known to the Christian tourist hordes as Mount Nebo.

  The older man became solemn. “Puppy Chow?”

  Hussein hesitated. To tell the truth would only make him look foolish, but who else could he confess to, if not his favorite uncle? It was embarrassing to be sure, but if he was going to become an officer, he would have to learn to readily admit his stupidity. Fooled by the supermarket’s generic brand, he bought several cans and enjoyed some tasty curries before realizing his mistake.

  As a point of honor, Abu Za’atar never ridicules a heartfelt blunder. “Your father once told me a story about a Bedouin tribe.” He tugged thoughtfully at his receding hairline. “At certain times of the year, on the rising of the morning star, they cut a camel to pieces and ate the raw beating heart before dawn. In this way the tribesmen ensured that they absorbed the animal’s spirit. They wanted the camel’s endurance and vitality to enter into their own lives.”

  He peered at his nephew.

  “So what did you get?”

  “Knowledge that depressed me every time I walked down an American street.”

  Hussein had also visited his brothers and their families in Ohio and had been surprised.

  “My nieces care for their pets as we do for people. They talk lovingly to them, hug and comb them—” His voice choked with bewilderment. “I’m telling you, man, their dogs live better than we do.”

  Abu Za’atar exhaled the dense rich smoke and muttered, “Sometimes it’s best not to know the world.”

  Since that time, Abu Za’atar vowed to help this sensitive young relative who showed such initiative and promise. After Hussein retired from the army, it was the proprietor who guided him through the intricacies of selling his father’s land. Even when Hussein insisted on keeping a last piece of Al Jid’s legacy, his uncle bowed to his wishes, although he would have preferred a clean final break; his commission would have been higher. Also, farming was never going to be Hussein’s future. When he ended up in the butcher shop across the street, Abu Za’atar racked his brain to come up with schemes to liberate him. He knew the young man was destined for better things—although it took Hussein a while to fully embrace the unique form his uncle’s aid took.

  After Hussein settled in at his new job, Abu Za’atar sent his youngest son, Sammy, to fetch him whenever something really interesting came into the Marvellous Emporium. The quick-witted, weedy fourteen-year-old was instructed to never ever run but stroll casually over to the butcher’s. There was no point in attracting unnecessary attention. However, the tremendousness of Abu Za’atar’s latest prize could be gauged by the boy’s insistent cries of “Ibn ammee”—“my uncle”—heard reverberating down the main street.

  After Abu Za’atar received Hani’s gift of natural wonder, he ushered Hussein quickly into the warren of rooms in the back of the Marvellous Emporium, where the floor and tables were littered with crates of Johnnie Walker Red, the latest contraband in the thriving underground economy.

  Setting the stage, he ordered Sammy to prepare drinks for the two men and stand at attention for further orders, as Abu Za’atar disappeared behind a closed door. He had the air of a magician about to produce the truly spectacular. Neither the whining from what sounded like a baby coming from inside nor the impassive face of his son was going to give the game away. Little Sammy, Abu Za’atar appreciated, was well trained. He was adept at making frozen margaritas and telling off-color jokes. More important, he had been schooled in keeping secrets. So Abu Za’atar had no doubts that the boy standing motionless by Hussein’s side would remain there for hours if need be.

  After a series of loud thuds, followed by Abu Za’atar’s muffled cursing, the door behind the proprietor opened ever so slightly. In the half-light, only his pointy yellow leather Moroccan slippers were visible. The rest of his body was submerged in straw and grabbing at something unseen. An acrid odor exploded from the room, and Hussein fell back coughing.

  “Shut the door!” bellowed Abu Za’atar, but it was too late. Hussein spilled his drink and crashed into Sammy, still standing at attention, as a creature with black, tan, and ginger fur, remarkably agile for its size, slid past the whisky crates and fled squealing through the curtained partition. It vanished beneath a rack of faux DKNY chased by a straw-covered Abu Za’atar. He understood if any of his customers caught so much of a glimpse of this special commodity, he would lose them forever. With an athleticism that belied his age, he dived into the dresses and began searching wildly, but he emerged empty-handed, pressing his fingers to his lips before his nephew had a chance to speak.

  Sammy, alert and focused, took his place beside his father, straining to he
ar the tiniest sound that would give him some clue as to the whereabouts of their quarry. A tinkling in the corner made his father jump, but the boy held up his hand and whispered sagely, “Balinese wind chimes.” Another noise came from the far end of the shop, but before they made a move the boy quietly cautioned them again: “Windup toy robots.”

  Then with poise and skill, Sammy reached for an old CD/cassette player—something he was rarely without—and switched on the Emir of Kuwait’s marching band starting its medley from Fiddler on the Roof. He had played this rousing selection to the closed door and knew it was a favorite of this creature, which sometimes responded by throwing itself against the door. Sammy had experimented with everything, from love songs to Fairouz, but only martial brass elicited a sure reaction. After a few bars, the animal stepped out from behind some bolts of cloth, its impressive bulk swaying to the music.

  Abu Za’atar grabbed the beast’s leg and snarled, “Ten-hut!” and juvenile Sammy straightened like a board again. The marching band’s closing musical signatures from “If I Were a Rich Man” were impatiently switched off. Abu Za’atar retreated behind a curtain, dragging the animal behind him. Once he regained his breath, he invited Hussein to join him. After they settled down with fresh drinks from Sammy, he petted the prominent snout of the sleekly furred sow that lay placidly at his feet and told Hussein, “This, my friend, is the future.”

  6

  “What a nest of scorpions you’ve dropped us in!” Mother Fadhma scolds the photograph on the living room wall. “And you’re supposed to be watching over us!”

  With the acute sensitivities of a divining rod, her feelings would be able to discern any sort of change taking place in the room, from temperature to mood to lighting. But everything remains as it is, a clear indication that Al Jid is not paying her the least bit of attention. His picture projects only the special vanity that belongs to Arab men. A carefully arranged keffiyeh and agal headdress give him the appearance of a Bedouin chieftain.

  “I only have myself to blame.” Her disgust turns inward. She always spoiled him. His floor-length djellaba robe, like his pride, is starched and unyielding; she ironed it thread by thread to make it so. When the shutter snapped he was leaning forward, his left forefinger pointing accusingly, caught halfway between a frown and penetrating stare. In the photograph, as in life, he had been every inch the classic patriarch.

  “You said you loved all your children, but you only loved the large numbers of them,” she rails at the portrait again. “And as soon as they left the country they forgot about us, so you were wrong about that too.”

  Al Jid had assured her that a quantity was more advantageous than a few; he often referred to all his children as insurance. Remembering his words, she loudly slaps her hands against each other in rapid succession, in effect eliminating both of them for good. If they can’t rely on their own sons, surely they are the ones at fault. Too many children emigrated, when keeping large numbers at home would have kept Al Jid and Fadhma protected and safe. A rising hollowness aches in her chest. She desperately needs some kind of assurance, a minuscule sign from the man in the picture, yet all he does is stare.

  In frustration she moans. Her husband has been either derelict in his duty or just doesn’t care, like his son. As the head of the family in Jordan, Hussein should have control over Samira. Instead, dominated by an awful wife, Hussein has lost the ability to think straight. And now because of his suffering, a bad situation is getting worse. He is not the only one in the family who has perfected the art of seeing everything while pretending to know nothing. Fadhma too has watched him stagger into the house late at night and smelled the odor of defeat, stale and putrid, on his breath the next morning. Despite her unhappiness, her heart begins to soften. On closer inspection Najla’s son isn’t a thoroughly bad man. His one failing is that he is weak and easily led. Fadhma is prepared to indulge his mistakes and excesses, as she would any of the children, but she refuses to do the same for the man responsible for corrupting Hussein. Behind his misfortunes lurks the specter of her malevolent brother. Abu Za’atar has been greedy and untrustworthy for as long as she can remember, although she never expected him to destroy her family. The hatred she feels for him cuts across her ribs like a knife.

  As his older sister, she unquestioningly accepted his behavior when they lived together. On the day of their father’s burial Abu Za’atar announced that henceforth she was to be confined to the house. No family honor was worth protecting if women roamed freely in the wider world. Since there was no one to appeal to, she reluctantly complied.

  With everything she possibly needed in her brother’s store, she effectively became his prisoner. Only Abu Za’atar’s business acquaintances were admitted to the house, and in time nobody in the village bothered to ask after her. When his wife belittled her, Fadhma promised to do better. As the brunt of his children’s jokes, she was the one who laughed the loudest. Once she overheard her brother discussing the purpose of women with a business associate. They were good for cooking and cleaning, plus one other function, he said, lowering his voice. His remarks sent his companion into raucous howls of laughter. Fadhma’s self-esteem sank so low she wasn’t sure whether she disagreed with him. She knew what to expect from him and his family. Her life was completely restricted, but at least she was cared for. In time she yielded to what she perceived as unalterable fate.

  After Najla’s death, the marriage proposal from Al Jid upset the equilibrium, and it loomed like a precipice before her. After years of despondency, happiness was something that belonged to those who were never in the way. The prospect of the unfamiliar terrorized Fadhma. There was no guarantee she would be treated well. Worst of all, she knew this was her last chance. If the marriage proved to be a sham she doubted whether she would survive. She tried to discuss her anxieties with her brother, who told her, “I’ve done my duty. Do yours.”

  With each passing day, she became more agitated. Najla had given Al Jid six healthy sons one right after the other. Whenever Fadhma glimpsed the brood from her hiding place behind the curtain in the store, her eyes filled with tears; she could never replace their dead mother, her beloved sister. Fadhma sank deeper into depression. Even in marriage, all she could expect were the morsels from someone else’s table. Debilitated and listless, she moped around her brother’s house.

  One day a troupe of clowns in faded Harlequin costumes invaded the village and advertised their one and only performance with the nasal whine of a zurna pipe. The whole village was entranced. Abu Za’atar, who had never taken a day’s vacation in his life, closed the store and rounded up his family. As they were leaving, his wife stopped Fadhma from crossing the threshold and then locked the door without bothering to say good-bye.

  It was the kind of petty cruelty Fadhma had grown accustomed to, but alone in the house it seemed to penetrate to the very core of her dilemma. In the past she would have accepted her lot and climbed to the roof, where she worked among the herbs drying for za’atar. She had always taken solace in handling the leaves and flowers of the thyme plant known to the ancient Greeks for stimulating inner strength and courage. However, not even an herbaceous recipe, laced with the magic properties of hemp, could heal such a troubled soul. She was afraid of leaving the life she knew, no matter how often she was mistreated. At the same time the possibility of a better life, however faint, made her present situation unbearable. Her mind was a churning waterwheel in motion.

  As soon as her brother and his family were out of sight, she adjusted her scarf and unceremoniously climbed out a back window. The path that confronted her led away from the village to an unbroken, undulating expanse of rock and sand. An inky blue-gray bruise of a sky pressed down onto the horizon. A storm was fast approaching. She didn’t have the faintest idea where she was going nor did she care. For the first time she was totally alone in the world, responsible for herself.

  A torrential rain started lashing down. The imminent threat of flash flooding quickened her pace.
As she passed through a gap between some boulders, she almost ran into a black beit al-sha’ar, a Bedouin tent woven from animal hair. Unwilling to retrace her steps but unsure of going forward, she stood beside a damp, smoldering campfire, soaked to the skin, cold and panting hard.

  Fadhma knew the old stories. There were some places where you did not venture, some people who should never be approached. Certain women were powerful enough to curse life and turn it into barren solitude. Fadhma didn’t give much thought as to why she had not yet married, although her sister-in-law never stopped warning her against sleeping on the wrong side of the bed or in the light of a full moon. But Fadhma understood ruggedness on a man’s face translates differently on a woman, so she rejected superstition, preferring to believe that it was the will of God, which she had no choice but to obey. The storm was reaching its height. Each raindrop, the size and weight of a small stone, was a physical force that urged her forward.

  Cautiously peering inside the tent, Fadhma adjusted to the gloom and saw a home much like those in the village, with cushions, water jugs, a trunk, and a rifle. She had heard rumors about the sisters of soothsayers who lived there. They did the jobs nobody else dared to do: abortions, exorcisms, and séances. They could make the unseen visible and they could change the present. Under their tutelage, an experienced girl bled like an a’thra, a virgin, on her wedding night or a mature woman could be given a vagina as succulent as an overripe fig. To the sisters who lived completely outside society, Fadhma was just another silly village girl unable to distinguish good fortune from bad.

  Inside the tent she expected someone to appear. When nobody did she sat down and squinted into the dark corners before blurting out her innermost fears: “I am to marry a man who I am told is good. But my sister, his first wife, is already in her grave. Shouldn’t I stay where I am?”