Mother of All Pigs Page 7

  Gathering a small heap of pebbles and bones on the rug beside her, she thoroughly examined each one, running her fingers over their pitted surfaces, feeling their weight and shape. Then in cupped hands she shook them, like dice, and threw them. They fell clattering to the ground against the noise of the wind and rain outside.

  From one angle the pebbles and bones appeared to form a question mark, from another, a broken line of mountains in the shape of a heavily pregnant woman. It was not the answer Fadhma expected, but it was the one she deserved. When she climbed out the window, the decision had been made. She would go because she wanted to and leave if it turned bad, an act that would result in the irrevocable dishonoring of her family and her own death for sure. At least she might get to experience a life that would be truly her own, and any power she exerted over it would be better than the existence forced upon her. Fadhma marveled how things of the heart could be decided in a moment.

  After a small family gathering and a blessing by the priest at the Church of the Mosaic, she moved her box of belongings from Abu Za’atar’s to the ramshackle mud-brick-and-stone home belonging to Al Jid. She took care of her sister’s six sons out of a sense of duty. Fadhma approached the mysteries of sex in the same spirit. When she first saw her husband naked, she told him that he reminded her of a strutting rooster, and Al Jid was pleased by her inexperience. She had no understanding of pleasure, but she was not too old to learn. Late at night as they lay side by side, she wondered if Najla had also experienced such unequivocal joy.

  They didn’t possess much, but Fadhma felt wanted and needed. However, there was one aspect of her husband’s behavior that baffled her. He was the most proud and attentive when she resembled the woman in the shape of the mountains—always pregnant. In time, she had her own seven children to care for, as well as her sister’s six sons. After the birth of so many, it seemed curious that the villagers occupied more of Al Jid’s time than his own burgeoning family.

  If someone came to the door—no matter day or night—he was ready to be of assistance, and he expected her to extend the same courtesy. After the emptiness of life at her brother’s, the constant stream of visitors was unnerving at first. She had to be constantly ready to make tea. So she kept her scarf handy and the water jugs filled. People always seemed to call when the family was about to have a meal, which meant that her husband and the male guests ate first. She and the children made do with anything that remained, which usually wasn’t much. Those years of hunger left a lasting mark. Her sister’s sons fought over the little that was available and the conflict sowed discord, which took root and grew into a dense, thorny jungle of salt cedar around each of their hearts.

  Whether in repayment of an obligation or to secure future favor, Al Jid was often invited to the homes of other villagers and treated to the best that could be offered. Late into the night he told stories or related the news he picked up on his market trips. Fadhma never knew where he was or when he was likely to return. The only clue to his whereabouts was if a neighbor reported seeing her stepsons hanging around outside somebody’s window. The only time they stopped fighting was to eavesdrop on their father’s tales.

  “Toil and you serve God and yourself,” Al Jid lectured his family. Mostly Fadhma worked among the poor, people like herself. She boiled meramiyeh, the bitter sage cure for dysentery and night sweats; prepared isbet il-gizha, a Bedouin recipe made from honey; or administered habbat al barakah, the Prophet’s “blessed” Nigella sativa seed, known for soothing broken hearts and laryngitis. However it was the family’s signature dried herbal mixture that was most sought after. Their za’atar’s health benefits were incalculable: it was an antidote for whooping cough and menstrual cramps; it stimulated memory and enlivened the brain. Most of all it smelled and tasted of home. The simplest of foods, it was mixed with olive oil, spread or baked on bread or used as a condiment. Even if the land was barren, it still produced aromatic scrub and bushes on little water, a sign from nature that people had not been entirely forgotten—yet. With the scant resources they did have, Fadhma served her husband and the many men who came to consult him without complaint. At the same time she started to build an independent network of her own. In the neighboring Muslim households, where wives and womenfolk were not usually allowed out unchaperoned, Fadhma visited unannounced and she was always welcomed.

  Fadhma could not help comparing her husband’s generosity and high moral standards with those of her unscrupulous brother. Abu Za’atar was a man who profited from the despair of others. He lived off war and corruption. His increasing wealth made him mercurial and pleasure seeking. He collected cuckoo clocks one week and cheap calculators and wide white ties the next. Fadhma grudgingly accepted his deals and gambling, but he had developed an unhealthy malicious streak.

  He could not resist tormenting his sister about her spartan existence. Knowing full well that Fadhma, her newborn daughters and sons, Al Jid, and Najla’s boys all slept on the floor in one room, he invited her to test his latest acquisition. Alone together, he encouraged her to sit beside him on his new brass bed.

  “See what you are missing.” He fingered the soft sheets and appraised his older sister. She had suddenly blossomed into a mature woman of confidence and experience. “Come, sister,” he suggested slyly, “a little closer…”

  Alarmed, Fadhma made her excuses and left quickly. If she lived with him long enough she might have been provided with her own brass bed, and it would have been a cage of shame. With an intensity equal to her love for her husband, she began hating her brother.

  When her stepson Hussein fell under Abu Za’atar’s spell, Fadhma begged Al Jid to take quick action, and the boy was bundled off to the army. Both parents were relieved, thinking the matter was at an end. Only Fadhma lived long enough to see that another road to ruin had been inadvertently taken.

  The night their lives irrevocably changed for the worse, Mother Fadhma had been getting into bed when she heard the butcher’s van crunching onto the gravel driveway, followed by hushed voices trying without success to enter the house undetected. On the evenings her stepson was drinking, he took to creeping in past midnight and sleeping, fully clothed, on the cold tile floor in the one place in the new house that required furnishing, the empty reception room. While this was uncomfortable, it had an advantage. He did not risk disturbing Laila by going to bed and, as he always left home before she rose in the morning, he sometimes escaped the tongue-lashing she customarily administered when she caught him drunk. Aware of this routine, Fadhma would have ignored everything and gone back to sleep, except the sounds of struggling were growing louder. So she crept to her bedroom door, opened it a crack, and peeped into the hallway.

  Initially, her suspicions appeared to be correct. Red-faced and staggering, Hussein and her reprehensible brother, Abu Za’atar, were having considerable difficulty coping with a large burlap sack they were carrying between them. Intrigued, Mother Fadhma stepped out of her room. The men, however, were so engrossed in their task that they were completely oblivious to her presence. Then she realized that their inability to control their burden had less to do with alcohol than the fact that the sack was twisting and heaving, as though alive. Keeping her distance, she followed them.

  Roused from sleep by their yelling, Laila, Samira, Salem, and Mansoor rushed into the reception room to find Hussein breathing heavily in one corner and an enormous black-, tan-, and ginger-speckled pig—tired and disoriented from a clandestine trip across town—sitting on its haunches in the other. The arrival of so many strangers unsettled the animal, and when Mansoor ran forward to take a closer look, it made a desperate bid for freedom that was thwarted only by some neat footwork on the part of Abu Za’atar. In the ensuing confusion, Mansoor was thrown to the floor, prompting Samira to join Laila in a fresh outburst of screaming. Fearing that the situation was about to degenerate into panic, in which some disaster might befall his porcine passport to wealth or, at the very least, attract the unwanted attention of the ne
ighbors, Abu Za’atar shooed the family out of the room, leaving the pig to regain its composure alone. Samira was ordered to take the far too excited children to bed. The four adults sat down at the kitchen table, where, over tea, Hussein explained Abu Za’atar’s proposals.

  To Mother Fadhma’s surprise, it was Laila who coolly assessed the situation. Granted, all of them had been shocked by the way the pig bolted at Mansoor. As with a mouse, the sudden unpredictable movements were far more frightening than the thing itself. Now listening to Hussein outline the potential profits, her impossibly arrogant daughter-in-law appeared to warm to the animal, which could be heard scuffling in the empty reception room down the hall. Mother Fadhma, fascinated and horrified, watched Laila closely. There was only one part of the plan Hussein’s wife found hard to accept. Until suitable accommodations were arranged, the pig would stay in her shiny new house.

  For the first and last time—Mother Fadhma could tell—Laila saw the value of their old house of mud brick and stone, where she lived as a new bride. She once said she hated it, but under these unusual circumstances she had come to instantly appreciate its unique qualities. For deep in the house, away from prying eyes, there had been a zariba, an inner courtyard for livestock. When the household was run entirely by women, before Hussein’s retirement from the army, Laila intimated that she felt agriculture was beneath her. She had absolutely no interest in keeping animals and regarded the zariba, which after Al Jid’s death accommodated only a few scrawny chickens, as outmoded and embarrassing.

  When the new house was under construction, she insisted it be thoroughly modern—no zaribas, no storage bins. Laila told her mother-in-law it was a fresh start for all of them to demonstrate they were people of respectable status. The centerpiece of her reinvention was to be the reception room, which would be outfitted to her exact specifications as a showplace for entertaining and impressing guests. Now Hussein was determined to turn it at least temporarily into a pigsty.

  Although the prospect remained extremely distasteful to Mother Fadhma, she was intrigued that her daughter-in-law had not dismissed it out of hand. She was aware that Laila’s meager teaching salary, combined with what her stepson brought home from the butcher shop, was not enough to fulfill such wide-ranging ambitions. With no more of Al Jid’s land left to sell, barring the final piece Hussein refused to part with, the family was again in financial straits. What husband doesn’t know how to bribe his wife? Fadhma was disgusted as she watched Hussein appeal to Laila’s greed. The first profits from the obviously pregnant pig would be spent on furnishing the reception room. “Besides,” he announced, “it will only be for a few days. A week at most.” He looked to Abu Za’atar for confirmation. Afterward Laila needed no persuading, and soon only Fadhma was opposed to the scheme.

  She knew that her opinion carried no weight, yet she felt compelled to express her husband’s views. Al Jid had always argued that the teachings of the Prophet, Peace Be upon Him, offered guidance not only to the followers of Islam but also to people of common sense. “The animal is delusion and ignorance. These are grave sins. Pig is muharram,” she pronounced sternly. “It is also forbidden by God to consume hyena, fox, weasel, birds of prey, or elephants.” Before she could add crocodiles, otters, and wasps, her despicable brother cut her short.

  “We’re not talking about religion, woman. This is commerce!” Abu Za’atar turned to his nephew and modified his tone, saying seductively, “A farm of these tucked away on what’s left of your father’s land—you will be the only butcher in the whole of the Levant to sell specialty meat. People will travel for miles to see… Hussein Sabas, King of the Pork Chop!” He moved his hands manically through the air as though he were designing another elaborate neon sign for the Marvellous Emporium.

  As his pudgy fingers flitted in front of her face, Fadhma stood up from the table and put more water on to boil. Of the four, she was the only one who, as a farmer’s wife, had any real experience raising animals. Hussein played on the farm when he was a boy, but Al Jid never allowed any of his sons to follow in his footsteps and sent all of them away as soon as possible. Laila, who had never dirtied her pretty manicured nails, exhibited all the prejudices of someone from town, while all that Abu Za’atar consistently ever managed to do was erase his sister’s voice and presence, an accomplishment he spent a lifetime perfecting. Fadhma made the tea and kept quiet. It didn’t take a genius to know that since everybody else in the household would be out for most of the time, the day-to-day care of the pig would fall to her.

  Abu Za’atar gave Fadhma detailed instructions on catering for the new houseguest. Until a supply of corncobs could be secured with no questions asked, Fadhma was to use a special blend of dried grains and soybeans that he ordered from Slovakia. There were also several large jars of vitamin and mineral supplements from the Marvellous Emporium. Abu Za’atar had obtained them some years earlier under the mistaken impression that a fitness boom was about to take place in the town. He had been unable to dispose of them so he contributed them to the pig’s welfare.

  Mother Fadhma was to measure out precise amounts of feed and mix it in one of the two large metal bowls provided by her brother. The other bowl was to be kept constantly full of water. When she protested that there wasn’t enough for the growing family, much less a pregnant sow, Abu Za’atar shook his head in disappointment. “Honestly, ukhti, if the family fortune depended on you…” He did not bother to complete the sentence, as though words were inadequate to describe the fate that would befall them.

  She hated it when he called her “my sister.” Some men used the term as one of endearment, but on her brother’s tongue it carried a sardonic tone that emphasized the power he had over her. They were standing by the double doors of the reception room, observing the pacing animal inside. She could not bring herself to approve of the pig, but she was beginning to feel a certain sympathy for it. Their fates had been directed by Abu Za’atar’s arbitrary will. He had been more concerned with his standing in the village than her happiness when he married her off to her dead sister’s husband. Likewise, placing the pig in her care was only a matter of expediency. In light of their shared experience, she resolved to do her best.

  In addition to the dry feed, Abu Za’atar told her to augment the pig’s diet with anything she could find: leftovers from the table, even offal from the butcher shop. Abu Za’atar, no dainty eater himself, was filled with admiration for an appetite so prodigious that nothing was excluded. He had been going to the Internet café and reading Porcine Truths, a website “devoted to all things piggy.” Much of it, he thought, was simply too fanciful to be true and purposely overlooked the etymological implications of porcello from Italian and choiros from Greek, both slang words for “vulva.”

  Abu Za’atar’s attention was taken up with practicalities. “See if you can feed it spiders,” he told his sister. Then, making sure no one else was listening, he stressed: “Keep the baby away.” Fadhma couldn’t tell if he was being serious or just tormenting her. With a certain amount of trepidation, she prepared to feed the beast for the first time.

  She entered the reception room warily, holding the bowl in front of her like a peace offering. Drunk with hunger, the sow, which had been lying in the corner chewing straw, scrambled up and lurched snorting toward her. It was a big animal, with muscular shoulders and a powerfully broad back. Before she could place the bowl on the floor it knocked against her, spilling some of the food. She stepped back hurriedly, clutching the bowl for protection, while the pig—incensed by the smell of food—tried jumping up to get at its meal. Weighed down by its prodigious pregnancy, it could not get high enough. Frustrated and angry, it circled, pawing the ground as if getting ready to attack. Frightened, Fadhma backed against the wall and slowly inched toward the double doors. The sow, grunting loudly, was not going to be denied. It rushed sideways, blocking her only means of escape. Staring straight at her, it stalked dangerously close.

  Fear settled in Fadhma’s stomach like s
omething disagreeable she had eaten. She shut her eyes and prayed for her husband’s protection. A soft, wet snout timidly poking her leg caught her off guard. Like a damp human hand, it caressed her knee with a tender, insistent urgency. Astonished to discover gentleness disguised in such a fearsome form, she put the bowl down quickly.

  As the pig buried its snout in the grain and ate voraciously, Mother Fadhma watched, entranced. Unlike the sheep, goats, and chickens she once tended for Al Jid, this animal seemed almost intelligent. She reached over and scratched the spiky ginger-colored bristles that ran down the pig’s spine. Absorbed in its meal, it paid absolutely no attention to her.

  If the pig had been forced to rely solely on scraps from Mother Fadhma’s plate for variety, its diet would have remained bland. The old woman’s life experience had left a mark on her eating habits. At mealtimes, whether hungry or not, she always cleaned her plate. She never felt confident that supplies would not run out and leave her wanting.

  The rest of the family rarely thought about waste. The amount they consumed was determined by preference rather than availability. When bread, salad, or pieces of fat were shoved to one side, Fadhma eyed them greedily and devoured them in secret while she did the dishes. After the pig came into the house, she collected the leftovers with great restraint and took pleasure in feeding them to her charge.

  Besides Mother Fadhma, the family member most involved with the pig was little Mansoor. He had been by his grandmother’s side when Abu Za’atar told her to feed it as much as it could eat. The statement astonished the boy. Sheep grazed, but not all the time. Camels drank, but certainly not forever. Everything had a stomach. He did himself, and when it was full, he wasn’t hungry anymore. This animal was the glorious exception. The more it was fed, the more it wanted. When the metal bowls were licked clean, a quick, sure kick sent them flying across the floor tiles. The clattering echoed throughout the house, a signal for more food.