They cleaned the windshield too, he said, reminding me of that splotch which had been so stubborn with us.
When they brought it out into the sunshine I noticed how he circled around it to check whether there was anything they hadn’t caught. His inspection completed, he looked at me and nodded, announcing that he was satisfied with their work. I stood up to put my hand in my pocket but he waved his hand briskly to let me know that he had already taken care of it with whatever money he had.
Even so, I put my hand into my pocket again. He shrugged elaborately and lifted both palms to make it clear to me that he wasn’t going to take anything in exchange for what he had paid. I tried to push the money into his hand and then into his pocket but he objected all the while. I have money, I’m fine, he began repeating when I finally managed to shove some bills into his pocket. I gave him a smile and slapped his cheeks affectionately.
As we left the station he told me again that we were going to eat some good food. He said it as if he wanted a response from me. He wanted me to confirm that I would be there with him.
Good food, mmm, he repeated, when I was slow to second what he had said.
Are you hungry? I asked.
Yes, I’m hungry. You?
I’m hungry. But it’s only half an hour until I eat some good food.
I didn’t feel there was anything shameful or blameworthy in that desire that I had kept hidden inside all this time. Even the way I steal little glances at her when she turns to go into the kitchen is nothing to be ashamed of, I would think. It has been many years since my brother died, and surely what she has lived through since his death has cleansed her body and even purified it, ridding it of whatever remained there that belonged to him.
Yet I would find myself recalling my brother’s face. He would be smiling at me exactly as he used to do, his expression fond but at the same time knowing. That smile that said to me, I know your intentions. I couldn’t see any signs of anger or irritation in that smile, no blame or scolding. There was something else, though: he seemed to be deliberately assuming that artful, slightly sneering look, saying to me, I see you! Or perhaps even, Hey, I caught you in the act.
Despite what looked to me like indulgence on his part, I would find myself answering him back. You are dead, I tell him, and then I assure him that I’m not doing anything that could hurt him or give him pain. I’m only looking at what is already there to see. I respond to him as if I want him to stop showing up like this in front of me. I want him to stop smiling like this, and even more, I want him to promise me that his face won’t suddenly loom up in front of me if it happens. If I go further with her than simply shifting my gaze to look at her lower legs or at her hands passing me a cup of coffee.
She was waiting for us to arrive. She expected us. She was probably standing at the same window where she had stood with Bilal in the morning. As soon as she caught sight of the car turning into the narrow lane leading to her home, she came out to receive us.
Welcome, welcome to the Sayyid, she said, standing not far away from the car and waiting for me to climb out.
Bilal had gotten out first and he stood next to her as if he too were receiving me, one of the two hosts for the day. When he saw me take a step or two forward he turned toward the open door.
Welcome to the Sayyid, she said again when I came up to where she was standing. Only the span of a single footstep separated us.
Did it tire you, getting here?
I don’t get tired as long as Bilal is with me.
She smiled. She was about to say something about how attached Bilal was to me, but instead she simply turned aside to make way for me, and then she caught up with me and matched my pace step for step as we walked to the house.
At the door, when she stayed back to allow me to go in first, I sensed her giving me a rapid glance, quick but searching, as though the looks of welcome we had already exchanged had not told her anything worth knowing about how I was now.
Come in, Sayyid, she said, gesturing toward the interior and the familiar sofa. As I walked toward my usual spot I suddenly had the feeling that I ought to do something that would appear completely unexpected, something distinct from my behavior on all previous visits. Like taking off my abaya to show that I wasn’t already thinking about leaving before even sitting down, or like circling the spacious sitting room and looking out the windows.
Or I could wait for her to initiate something, perhaps a question about whatever her furtive glances at me hadn’t already told her about my condition.
If you’d like to rest a bit . . . .
She meant Bilal’s room where, she was suggesting without saying so, I could take off my outdoors clothing and stretch out on his bed for the time she needed to get our lunch ready. I had given her the impression that I was expecting something of the sort. As I got up, glancing around the room, I told her that the journey had indeed worn me out. It gave me some kind of pleasure to know that she had thought about my resting, that she was suggesting I spend some time in a room in this house by myself, even if it was Bilal’s room. I liked the idea that when I returned to the sitting room I would be coming from somewhere deeper inside the house.
It also pleased me that she walked those few steps with me, as if to guide me into the room that Bilal was vacating for me, and that she looked carefully around his room before declaring that she thought it was neat enough, and then saying mischievously that Bilal hadn’t been home long enough yet to turn it into a mess. Her words delighted Bilal. Before leaving the room, he asked if I wanted to read. If so, he would find something for me among his books. Already in the doorway standing next to her, he asked if I wanted him to shut the door. I just smiled. Once I was alone, I sat on the edge of the bed and began to ponder what to do for the half hour, or perhaps the whole hour, I would spend in here behind the closed door.
So that I would look like someone taking a rest, I took off my cloak and turban and then my jubba as well. I came back to the bed and perched again on the edge. Perhaps I should have gone into the bathroom to perform my ablutions, I thought, and then have asked for a prayer rug. But if I were to do that, surely I would be taking myself many steps back. As though with my own hands I would be digging a trench where before only a line had separated us. Me and her, each on their own side of the line. But she must be asking herself how it could be that I was not praying. Or perhaps she was assuming that behind the closed door this was exactly what I was doing, allowing myself to make do with facing the qibla but without a rug or ablutions.
But it wasn’t just whether to pray or not that was preoccupying me, I knew. It was my turban as well, and this beard of mine, and the abaya, and my gaze, which I had to try always to keep neutral or blank, because otherwise I might appear to be concealing something. Of course I knew well enough that men like me don’t actually fortify themselves any more strongly by employing tactics like this. With women, men in my position flirt with their words and their gazes, and even with their hands, reaching for women’s bodies in whatever way they can. In Najaf, through those evenings we all spent together, they used to talk dirty about what they were going to do and what they’d already done. It’s nothing to get bothered about, Sayyid Mudar would say to me, adding that women had longings too, didn’t they, and sometimes they too obeyed those longings.
By now, in that room I had sunk into a terrible state of indecision. I couldn’t stop thinking about it: whether to initiate something myself or to wait for something from her that would push me somewhere further. In the midst of this I heard a light knock on the door.
It’s time to eat, my mother says, Bilal called out from behind the closed door. For just a moment, as I got up from the bed, I wondered whether I would dare go out there as I was, dressed only in my thin white dishdasha.
Come in, Bilal, I called. It was as if I wanted to try this out, to see what reaction I would get looking like this, so contrary to my usual appearance.
Let’s