Read Online The Cry of the Dove: A Novel by Fadia Faqir - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fadia Faqir
Ads: Link
me up. The prison walls were filthy and smelt of urine and tears. I knew that air. She was out there crying for me.
`Oh! Dear! Let me warm up your hands,' he said and started rubbing my fingers. The water was boiling, filling the room with steam; then the kettle switched itself off. He placed his cold lips on mine. I had nowhere to go.This country was the only home I had. I shut my eyes, shut out the urgent love-making of Hamdan, and received his kiss. He was gentle, rubbing me with his thin fingers as if I were a jewel; as if I were fragile. Hamdan knew that I was strong, that I could take it, so he roughed me up then mounted me with his hand pressed hard against my lips.
`Shall I make the tea?'
`Yes,' he said and retreated to the chair.
I placed the two steaming cups on the table. The sage leaves, which were floating on the surface, got soaked and sank to the very bottom.
He sniffed the tea, then took a sip. `It has a wild, strange aroma.
I could hear the snoring of Liz downstairs. `The landlady,' I said.
He put the mug on the table, pulled me up, held my head firmly between his hands and kissed me.
The vivid greenness of the Beqaa Valley; its brightness, openness, splendour brought tears to my eyes. My mind was kissing everything: the spacious blue sky, the green plains, the large trees, even the donkeys and other cars. I was free. Khairiyya stopped the car opposite a small makeshift shop. `Stay in the car," she said and rushed to the shop and bought two boiled eggs, two loaves of thin pitta bread and a cup of sweet tea. As soon as she handed them to me I began eating. Khairiyya smiled and said, `In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, amen,' and began eating. In prison it was always lentils and crusts of dry bread. Other women prisoners asked me to play my pipe and they sang:
`Morning or evening: lentils. Summer or winter: lentils. Hot or cold: LENTILS.'
In the morning I gave Jim a cup of coffee and a bowl of muesli and said, B&B,' and smiled. Jim was a gentleman; he had his condoms ready; he hugged me between acts and looked me in the eye when he said, `Why all this sadness, I wonder?'While chewing the muesli in bed, and among dirty tissues, ruffled sheets and scattered clothes, we said goodbye. He kissed me hurriedly on the forehead and walked out. I could hear him rushing down the stairs, slamming the door behind him, starting his car, and racing out of the street. I continued eating my breakfast. No yanking of hair, crying or rending of garments. You say goodbye tight-lipped.You keep your cool if you want to see him again. You never ask, `Can I have your phone number?' or `Was it good?' or `Will I ever see you again?' You stay in bed next to him all night pretending to be content, asleep and all you wanted to do was to jump up and wash your body with soap and water including your insides, do your ablutions then pray for forgiveness. No, you just chew at your cold breakfast looking at the bright stripes of light between the curtains and the windowsill tight-lipped.You would smile because it was supposed to be the morning after the beautiful night before.
Lilac or Jasmine
FRANCOISE, THE YOUNG FRENCH NUN, PUT THE BREAKfast tray on the side table and said in broken Lebanese Arabic, `Good morning.'
I opened my eyes and realized that I was no longer in prison. The painted window of the convent reflected a rainbow of light on the bed. It was my first experience of a comfortable bed. In my village we slept on mattresses spread on the floor. In prison I slept first on a mattress, then on a hard metal bed.
`Good morning.' I smiled.
Last night we arrived late. Khairiyya looked pale when she held the brass knocker and hit it against the base. A ruffled old woman opened the gate and let us in. Holding my bundle close to my chest I followed them dutifully through the candlelit corridors.When the old nun opened the door and said, `Your bedroom,' my chin started quivering. My bedroom was a
`Oh! Dear! Let me warm up your hands,' he said and started rubbing my fingers. The water was boiling, filling the room with steam; then the kettle switched itself off. He placed his cold lips on mine. I had nowhere to go.This country was the only home I had. I shut my eyes, shut out the urgent love-making of Hamdan, and received his kiss. He was gentle, rubbing me with his thin fingers as if I were a jewel; as if I were fragile. Hamdan knew that I was strong, that I could take it, so he roughed me up then mounted me with his hand pressed hard against my lips.
`Shall I make the tea?'
`Yes,' he said and retreated to the chair.
I placed the two steaming cups on the table. The sage leaves, which were floating on the surface, got soaked and sank to the very bottom.
He sniffed the tea, then took a sip. `It has a wild, strange aroma.
I could hear the snoring of Liz downstairs. `The landlady,' I said.
He put the mug on the table, pulled me up, held my head firmly between his hands and kissed me.
The vivid greenness of the Beqaa Valley; its brightness, openness, splendour brought tears to my eyes. My mind was kissing everything: the spacious blue sky, the green plains, the large trees, even the donkeys and other cars. I was free. Khairiyya stopped the car opposite a small makeshift shop. `Stay in the car," she said and rushed to the shop and bought two boiled eggs, two loaves of thin pitta bread and a cup of sweet tea. As soon as she handed them to me I began eating. Khairiyya smiled and said, `In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, amen,' and began eating. In prison it was always lentils and crusts of dry bread. Other women prisoners asked me to play my pipe and they sang:
`Morning or evening: lentils. Summer or winter: lentils. Hot or cold: LENTILS.'
In the morning I gave Jim a cup of coffee and a bowl of muesli and said, B&B,' and smiled. Jim was a gentleman; he had his condoms ready; he hugged me between acts and looked me in the eye when he said, `Why all this sadness, I wonder?'While chewing the muesli in bed, and among dirty tissues, ruffled sheets and scattered clothes, we said goodbye. He kissed me hurriedly on the forehead and walked out. I could hear him rushing down the stairs, slamming the door behind him, starting his car, and racing out of the street. I continued eating my breakfast. No yanking of hair, crying or rending of garments. You say goodbye tight-lipped.You keep your cool if you want to see him again. You never ask, `Can I have your phone number?' or `Was it good?' or `Will I ever see you again?' You stay in bed next to him all night pretending to be content, asleep and all you wanted to do was to jump up and wash your body with soap and water including your insides, do your ablutions then pray for forgiveness. No, you just chew at your cold breakfast looking at the bright stripes of light between the curtains and the windowsill tight-lipped.You would smile because it was supposed to be the morning after the beautiful night before.
Lilac or Jasmine
FRANCOISE, THE YOUNG FRENCH NUN, PUT THE BREAKfast tray on the side table and said in broken Lebanese Arabic, `Good morning.'
I opened my eyes and realized that I was no longer in prison. The painted window of the convent reflected a rainbow of light on the bed. It was my first experience of a comfortable bed. In my village we slept on mattresses spread on the floor. In prison I slept first on a mattress, then on a hard metal bed.
`Good morning.' I smiled.
Last night we arrived late. Khairiyya looked pale when she held the brass knocker and hit it against the base. A ruffled old woman opened the gate and let us in. Holding my bundle close to my chest I followed them dutifully through the candlelit corridors.When the old nun opened the door and said, `Your bedroom,' my chin started quivering. My bedroom was a
Similar Books
