Read Online Women of Sand and Myrrh by Hanan al-Shaykh - Free Book Online Page A

time I’d been out afterthree days cooped up in the house because of the rain. The dark clouds, the pools of water on the road and in the garden had filled me with happiness.
    Rain had come to the desert this year. The sun and the moon had disappeared and the voices praying from the mosque sounded dry and echoless, competing with each other in volume and number. I found myself taking Umar in my arms in the night, calming him because he couldn’t sleep. He said to me, ‘You’re a liar. That’s not a prayer.’ He was used to hearing the prayer regularly at dawn and this was eight in the evening. I answered him gently, ‘They’re praying for rain. It has to rain for the dates and the crops to ripen, and to wash away the germs.’
    During the night he woke up screaming and came to my bed several times. Lightning and thunder chased each other around the sky and the rain poured down. I went back to bed hoping that I’d reassured him and listened to the rain hammering on the bathroom roof. I smiled contentedly. When Basem opened the door in the morning he gave a shout of wonder and I rushed to see the flooded garden. The water in the street was several inches deep and had begun to come in under the garden door.
    Even the rain here was different: it didn’t stay on the buildings, and they didn’t soak it up. They remained pale, the colour of the dust, like the trees, while the rushing waters swept the building materials out into the street, the wood floating along on the surface. In some places the sand turned to mud. Most of the traffic came to a halt and the drivers got out hitching up their robes to just below their knees and wading through the water showing their skinny legs. Jeeps were the only vehicles that could get through despite the muddy spray that stuck to their windscreens. The shops closed and some women went in cars laughing across the street to visit their neighbours but most of them stayed indoors. When the rain stopped and the sun came out, instead of a rainbow hundreds of mosquitoes hovered in theair like ballet dancers with their long legs.
    I didn’t ask Nur what was wrong but said enthusiastically, ‘I meant to tell you, I saw Saleh on television the other day. You so-and-so. I didn’t know he was so attractive and so young. He spoke well. I liked him. He’s intelligent, and you know, he looks like Ghada.’ Nur shouted back, ‘He’s not worth an onion skin. I didn’t even want to see him face to face this time. I just sent Ghada off without making any trouble.’ Then she asked what I wanted to drink, to change the subject.
    Before I answered she suddenly began to beat her head and her face with the palms of her hands so violently that I jumped up from my seat and took hold of her arms. Her paroxysm showed no signs of abating and she screamed, ‘I’m fed up. I’ve tried and I can’t go on any longer. When I’m depressed I say, “Never mind, Nur”, but then I get desperate and I feel ready to explode again. Sometimes I hope he doesn’t come to take Ghada or that I don’t know he’s in the country. Then I pray that when he comes I’ll be away somewhere. If only I could be!’ And she started striking her head and sobbing again, while I grabbed her arms and tried to soothe her. I hadn’t realized that Nur was so strong up till now.
    I’d grown used to her gentle voice with its soft desert accent and the affectionate words she spoke to her salukis as she patted them on the head; I’d watched her often cuddling the little gazelle, and sticking her finger in the cream and licking it to make sure it was fresh, and lifting her face to be kissed by her veiled visitors. When she put her head in her hands again and I tried to pull them away she pressed my hand with one of her hot hands then cast her head on to my shoulder like a sad child. She hadn’t stopped crying all the time but I couldn’t bring myself to pat her shoulder or hold her to comfort her. I felt embarrassed and wished Nur