I knew he would not say anything more—anything about my hesitant delivery—after they had all filed out of the Hussainiya. He didn’t respond at all when I remarked that I wasn’t the way I should have been. He remained silent, seemingly occupied in studying the road in front of him. At that moment I really felt I had embarrassed him, not only because of my weak voice and my confusion and my evident and mortified inability to rise above the situation, but also because I had put him in the position of having to demonstrate his approval, out there in front of the congregation, in a situation where he was not particularly pleased and certainly wasn’t ready to show any true admiration for what he saw and heard.
Eat, Father . . . this food will give you strength. I went on repeating it. And he went on obeying me, opening his mouth every time I brought the spoon close. Perhaps he was waiting for me to obey him as he was obeying me, in his case by eating even though he felt full. Waiting for me to tell him that I had been in the hospital, and that I would be going back there in two or three days.
He ate everything on his plate, I said to my wife, who was standing halfway down the corridor. She was slapping at the dust and dirt that covered Hiba’s clothes, and she did not turn toward me to take the empty plate from my hands. As I headed toward the kitchen to set it down next to the sink I could tell that Hiba was on the point of breaking into sobs. Her mother’s blows against her backside were getting stronger and stronger. They were beginning to hurt, and Hiba understood that it was no longer about getting rid of the dirt; it was a punishment. Seeing me coming out of the kitchen she ran toward me, her arms outstretched. I picked her up and carried her over to where her doll lay sprawled on the floor. As I bent down to pick up the doll I told her it was still asleep. Take her . . . here . . . hold her. Before she wakes up, I said. But Hiba made a show of refusing to take the limp form by shrugging her shoulders to shake me off and then giving her doll a hateful look.
*
On my way to the mosque I was thinking about what Sayyid Abd al-Hasan could have meant when he called me lazy. He hadn’t meant simply the fact that my house was so close to the mosque, nor that I spent so little time there. It was more about my unvarying refusals every time he invited me to go with him to express condolences to a family in one of the villages, where we would likely have to sit for hours on end. Was it you who chose to have your home as close as this to the mosque? he used to ask me. I answered with my attempt at a light riposte, saying it was the people of Shqifiyeh who chose the home for me and it wasn’t my doing. The mosque was no more than eighty paces from my front door, and I counted them every time I went there. It was so close that I could keep well informed about who had shown up there at any particular time just by looking out the window of the sitting room that was also my official reception room.
And those people, too, would know that I had arrived at the mosque just by looking out their windows, and so they could follow me in there promptly. I wasn’t usually alone in the mosque for more than five or ten minutes. I would seat myself in the middle of the congregational prayer space, moving my prayer beads through my fingers. That’s what I did, because there was nothing I had to do before they showed up. There was nothing around me that had to be arranged or set right or returned to its proper place. My grandfather Sayyid Murtada had accused the folk of Hassaniyeh of stinginess because they did nothing for their mosque. He even turned their parsimony into a proverb: A space that’s empty is just like Hassaniyeh’s mosque—nothing in it but the ablutions pitcher.
Praise be to God for your safe return. Welcome back. That’s what the two men who were first to enter the mosque after me said. They had seen me come out of my house, of course. Beneath their greeting lay a question more than a desire to congratulate me or even wish me well. They wanted me to tell them what the doctor had found inside of me.
Of all the folk of Shqifiyeh these two were the most frequent visitors to the mosque. It wasn’t for the sake of prayer, or because they wanted to listen to pious homilies, but simply because this was a way to spend some of the long hours they had to get through, day after day. I knew them and I knew their needs. I conversed with them at the mosque the same way I would have talked with them if we were sitting in my house.
When their allusions to my sound health didn’t yield any worthwhile response from me, they had to make their intent more obvious.
You stayed two days in the hospital?
Two days, I answered, though only after pausing to make it appear that I couldn’t quite remember and had to count how much time I’d spent there.
Were you alone?
Bilal was with me. My late brother’s son.
They wanted to know. I knew that if they were persistent in this curiosity of theirs, I wouldn’t be clever enough to keep evading their questions by responding only to what they specifically asked.
While you were away they brought a doctor to see Hajj Zaino.
Again?
As usual, he forgets he has diabetes and he devours half a platter of the sweet basmaa pastry his son always brings him from Nabatiyeh.
They wanted to entertain me, and to make me feel better. They were doing their best to lighten the burden of illness by turning it into one of their jokes.
And his son? Doesn’t he know that basmaa is bad for him? I added that the only way you can be certain of keeping a diabetic from eating sweet things is to hide them away, or better yet, to not even let them into the house. I think they realized that my remark was aimed at putting an end to their ongoing banter at Hajj Zaino’s expense. I rounded off my attempt to silence them by remarking, after glancing at my watch, that the late-afternoon call to prayer would be upon us in two minutes.
But the electricity has been cut since yesterday! they both exclaimed at once. In all of the villages, one of them went on to say, they were now operating the call to prayer on batteries.
To reestablish my rapport with them and to get the conversation going again, I said I thought that instead we ought to restore the call to prayer to what it used to be, dependent neither on the electricity grid nor on batteries. It suddenly occurred to me to share with them how peaceful it made me feel—even now, and as though a soft breeze was suddenly cocooning me—to remember Sayyid Amin stepping up onto the stone platform at the mosque and singing out his call to prayer. Still, only the people in the two or three houses nearest to the mosque could enjoy the sound of it, even though his eyes would bulge out with the effort he made letting out every last breath of air in his chest.
Sayyid Amin . . . God be merciful to the late Sayyid Amin, one of them said, his voice thoughtful and sad.
People filled every seat in the clinic waiting room. A young man hesitated visibly and then got to his feet to give me a seat. I waited a few moments to allow the woman sitting in the next seat—or the man sitting next to her—to become aware of the young man’s gesture. The man exchanged places with her so that she would not be sitting next to me. Once they were settled Bilal waved me to the seat. He looked like a child imitating what he has seen grownups do. I gave him a smile as I tugged the edges of my abaya together before sitting down. He knew I needed someone with me to do these things. He knew that before I could handle any of this—like, for instance, sitting down in a waiting room, or standing up and coming to everyone’s notice—I needed the ritual of being invited, at least apparently, to do so.
My entrance caused some commotion. I saw heads swiveling, faces turned upward, eyes shifting in my direction. But once I had sat down it didn’t last long. Moments later everyone had lapsed back into a silent and motionless state. Bilal was standing up, leaning against the doorjamb and looking at me as though he thought I was about to say something to him. More minutes passed and then from