Before the arrival of the Turk, as he became known, commerce had been limited to an occasional sale of produce to the truck drivers who passed on the highway. In the early morning, children would set up canvas tents to protect themselves from the sun, and on a box display vegetables, fruits, and cheese they fanned constantly to keep away the flies. If they were lucky, they would sell something and return home with a few coins. It was Riad Halabí’s idea to make a formal agreement with the drivers, who hauled cargo to the oil camps and returned empty to the capital, to carry the produce of Agua Santa to the city. He himself arranged for it to be sold at the stand of one of his countrymen in the Central Market, thus bringing a modicum of prosperity to the town. Shortly afterward, when he realized that in the city there was interest in pottery and wood and wicker handicrafts, he organized some of the townspeople to produce such objects for a sale in the tourist shops, and in less than six months that had become the principal source of income for several families. No one doubted his good intentions or questioned his prices, because in the years the Turk had lived in the town, he had given numerous examples of his honesty. Without intending it, his store had become the center of the commercial life of Agua Santa; almost all the business of the area passed through his hands. He enlarged his storeroom, built additional rooms on his house, bought beautiful iron and copper utensils for his kitchen, gave a satisfied look around, and came to the conclusion that he had everything necessary to make a woman happy. Then he wrote his mother and asked her to find him a wife in his native land.
Zulema agreed to marry Halabí because in spite of her beauty she still did not have a husband, and was already twenty-five years old when the marriage broker spoke to her of Riad Halabí. She was told that he had a harelip, but she did not know what that meant, and in the photo they showed her she saw only a shadow between mouth and nose, which looked more like a twisted mustache than an obstacle to marriage. Her mother convinced her that physical appearance is not important at the hour of forming a family, and that any alternative would be preferable to ending up an old maid and becoming a servant in the house of one of her married sisters. Furthermore, her mother said, you always learn to love your husband, if you really try. It is the will of Allah that two people who sleep together and bring children into the world end up feeling affection for each other. Also, Zulema believed that her suitor was a wealthy businessman in South America, and though she did not have the least idea where that place with the exotic name might be, she had no doubt that it would be more agreeable than the fly- and rat-infested quarter where she lived.
When he received his mother’s affirmative reply, Riad Halabí said goodbye to his friends in Agua Santa, closed the store and house, and traveled to the country where he had not set foot for fifteen years. He wondered whether his family would recognize him; he felt like a different person, as if the American landscape and the hard life he had lived had formed him anew, but in fact he had changed very little. Although he was a heavyset man with an incipient paunch and double chin, and no longer a thin young boy with enormous eyes and a hook nose, he was still timid, insecure, and sentimental.
Because the bridegroom could afford to pay, the marriage between Zulema and Riad Halabí was celebrated with full rituals. It was a memorable event in that poor village where real festivities had been almost forgotten. Perhaps the only bad omen was that at the beginning of the week the khamsin blew from the desert and sand invaded everything: it filtered into houses, abraded clothing, cracked skin, and by the day of the actual marriage, the bride and groom had sand in their eyelashes. But that detail did not hinder the celebration. The first day of the ceremony, women friends and family members gathered to inspect the bride’s trousseau, all orange blossoms and pink ribbons, while enjoying eggfruit, “gazelle horns,” almonds, and pistachios, and ululating with happiness, a sustained yuyuyu that spread through the street to the café where the men had congregated. The following day, Zulema was led to the public bath in a procession headed by an elder beating a bottle-shaped tambourine to warn the men to look away during the passing of the bride, who was clothed in seven gauzy robes. When her clothing was removed in the bath, so that the parents of Riad Halabí could see that she was well nourished and had no flaws, her mother broke into tears, following tradition. Zulema’s hands were stained with henna; all her body hair was removed with wax and sulfur; she was massaged with cream; her hair was braided with imitation pearls; and everyone sang and danced and ate sweets and drank mint tea—with the louis d’or the bride gave to each of her friends never far from their minds. The third day was the ceremony of the neftah. Zulema’s grandmother touched her forehead with a key to open her mind to frankness and affection, and then her mother and Riad Halabí’s father placed her feet in slippers anointed with honey, so that she enter married life along a path of sweetness. The fourth day, dressed in a simple tunic, she welcomed her in-laws, honoring them with dishes prepared by her own hands; she lowered her eyes demurely when they said that the meat was tough and the couscous lacked salt, but that the bride was pretty. The fifth day, they tested Zulema’s dependability by bringing to her three troubadours who sang suggestive songs; she maintained a stony indifference behind her veil, and each obscenity that bounced against her virginal face was rewarded with a coin. Meanwhile the men’s feast was being celebrated in another room, where Riad Halabí was the brunt of all jokes. The sixth day, they were married in the office of the alcadia, the town hall, and the seventh, they received the cadi, the local magistrate. The guests placed their presents at the feet of the newly married couple, shouting the price they had paid; the father and mother drank the last cup of chicken broth with Zulema, and then delivered her to her husband, unwillingly, as they were supposed to do. The women of the family led her to a chamber prepared for the occasion and changed her bridal gown for a shift, then joined the men in the street, waiting for the bloodstained sheet of purity to be displayed at the window.
At last Riad Halabí was alone with his wife. They had never seen each other except from a distance, or exchanged words or smiles. Custom demanded that she be frightened and trembling, but it was he who felt that way. As long as he had kept a prudent distance and not opened his mouth, his defect was not terribly noticeable, but he did not know how it would affect his wife at a more intimate moment. Apprehensive, he walked toward her and reached out to touch her, attracted by the nacreous glow of her skin, the abundance of her flesh, the shadows of her hair, but when he saw the expression of revulsion in her eyes, the gesture was frozen in midair. He took out his handkerchief and put it to his face, holding it there with one hand while with the other he undressed and caressed her, but his patience and tenderness were not enough to overcome Zulema’s rejection. The encounter was wretched for both of them. Later, as his mother-in-law flourished the sheet from the balcony—painted blue to fend off evil spirits—and, below, neighbors shot off rifles and the women ululated deliriously, Riad Halabí hid in a corner. His humiliation was like a fist in his belly. He was never rid of the silent moan of that sorrow, and he never spoke of it until the day he told it to the first person who kissed him on the lips. He had been educated in the rule of silence: it is forbidden for a man to demonstrate his feelings or secret desires. His position as husband had made him Zulema’s master; it was not proper that she should know his weaknesses, because she might use them to wound or dominate him.
They returned to America and Zulema quickly understood that her husband was not wealthy, and never would be. From the first moment, she despised that new land, that town, that climate, that people, that house. She refused to learn Spanish or help in the shop, using the excuse of unbearable headaches. She closed herself in the house and lay on her bed, stuffing herself with food and growing increasingly fat and bored. She depended on her husband for everything, even as interpreter for communication with the neighbors. Riad Halabí thought that all she needed was time to adjust. He was sure that when there were children everything would be dif
ferent; but children did not come in spite of the nights and impassioned siestas he shared with her—never forgetting to cover his face with his handkerchief. And so a year had gone by, two, three, ten, until I walked into The Pearl of the Orient and into their lives.
* * *
It was very early and the town was still asleep when Riad Halabí parked the truck. He led me inside the house through the back entrance, across the patio where frogs were croaking and water was trickling from the fountain, and left me in a bathroom with soap and towel in my hands. For a long time I let the water run over my body, washing away the drowsiness of the trip and the grime of the last weeks, until my skin, forgotten beneath layers of neglect, was once again its normal color. Then I dried myself, combed my hair and fastened it at my neck, and put on a man’s shirt, which I tied at the waist with a cord, and canvas espadrilles Riad Halabí brought from the shop.
“Now, eat slowly so you don’t get a bellyache,” said the master of the house, seating me in the kitchen before a feast of rice, meat pies, and unleavened bread. “They call me the Turk. And you?”
“Eva Luna.”
“When I go on a trip, my wife is left alone. She needs a companion. She never goes out. She has no women friends, she doesn’t speak Spanish.”
“You want me to be her servant?”
“No. You will be something like a daughter.”
“It’s a long time since I have been anyone’s daughter, and I don’t remember how to do it. Do I have to do everything she says?”
“Yes.”
“What will she do to me if I don’t?”
“I don’t know, we’ll have to see.”
“I’m telling you, I won’t let anyone beat me . . .”
“No one will beat you, child.”
“I’ll try it for a month, and if I don’t like it, I’ll run away.”
“Agreed.”
Zulema chose that moment to appear in the kitchen, still half-asleep. She looked me up and down, seemingly not surprised to see me; she had long ago resigned herself to accepting the incurable hospitality of a husband who was apt to take in anyone with a look of need. Ten days earlier, he had brought home a vagabond and his burro, and while the guest regained strength to resume his travels, the beast devoured the laundry that had been spread in the sun to dry and a good part of the merchandise in the shop. Zulema—tall, white-skinned, black-haired, with two beauty spots near her mouth and large, melancholy, protuberant eyes—was wearing a cotton tunic that covered her to the ankles. She was adorned with gold earrings and bracelets that jingled like little bells. She observed me with a marked absence of enthusiasm, obviously believing I was a beggar girl her husband had dragged home. I greeted her with an Arabic phrase Riad Halabí had taught me only moments before. A broad smile sent a tremor through her body; she took my face in her hands and kissed my forehead, replying with a stream of words in her language. The Turk laughed happily, covering his mouth with his handkerchief.
That greeting was all it took to soften the heart of my new patrona, and from then on I felt as if I had grown up in the house of Riad Halabí. My habit of getting up early served me well. I awakened at dawn, hopped out of bed, and for the rest of the day was constantly on the go, singing as I worked. First I prepared coffee, following careful instructions. I brought it to a boil three times in a copper jug and spiced it with cardamom seeds; then I poured it into a small cup and carried it to Zulema, who drank it without opening her eyes and fell back to sleep until late afternoon. Riad Halabí, on the other hand, ate breakfast in the kitchen. He liked to prepare this first meal himself, and gradually he lost his shyness about his lip and allowed me to eat with him. Later we would raise the metal shutter on the storefront, wipe the counter, tidy the merchandise, and sit down to wait for customers—who were not long in appearing.
For the first time in my life, I was free to come and go; until then I had always been confined behind walls or forced to wander lost in a hostile city. I looked for excuses to talk with the neighbors or to go out in the afternoons and stroll around the plaza. The church was there, the post office, the school, the police headquarters; there was where drums rolled every year on St. John’s day; where a rag effigy was burned to commemorate the betrayal of Judas; where the Queen of Agua Santa was crowned; and where every Christmas the schoolteacher Inés organized the Tableaux Vivants, with students dressed in crêpe paper and sprinkled with silvery frost to represent the Annunciation, the Nativity, and the slaughter of the innocents ordered by King Herod. I would walk among the crowd, talking in a loud voice, happy, defiant, mingling with the others, rejoicing in being a part of that community. In Agua Santa there was no glass in the windows and doors were always open; it was the custom to visit, to stand in front of houses chatting, to step inside and have a cup of coffee or a glass of fruit juice; everyone knew everyone else, and no one could complain of loneliness or neglect. Not even the dead were alone there.
Riad Halabí taught me to sell, weigh, measure, do figures, make change, and bargain—the basic activities of commerce. He did not bargain in order to get the better of his customers, he used to say, but to prolong the pleasure of conversation. I also learned a few words of Arabic to be able to communicate with Zulema. Soon Riad Halabí decided that I could not pull my weight in the store or go through life without knowing how to read and write, and he asked the schoolteacher Inés to give me private lessons, because I was much too big to attend the first grade. Every day, proud of being a student, I walked the four blocks with my book in full view, so everyone would see it. For two hours, I sat before the schoolteacher’s desk, beside the photograph of her murdered son: hand, boot, eye, cow, the dog digs deep, Pepe puffs a pipe. Writing was the best thing that had happened to me in all my life; I was euphoric. I read aloud, and walked around with my notebook tucked under my arm so I could use it at any moment; I jotted down thoughts, the names of flowers, birdcalls; I made up words. Being able to write allowed me to remember without rhyme, and I could make my stories more complex, with multiple characters and adventures. If I noted a couple of brief sentences, I could remember the rest and repeat them to my patrona—but that was later, when she began to speak Spanish.
To give me practice in reading, Riad Halabí bought an almanac and some movie magazines with pictures of stars, which enchanted Zulema. When I could read without difficulty, he brought me romantic novels, all in the same vein: a secretary with fleshy lips, silken breasts, and trusting eyes meets an executive with muscles of bronze, temples of silver, and eyes of steel; she is always a virgin, even in the unusual instance of being a widow; he is authoritarian and superior to her in every way; there is a misunderstanding over jealousy or an inheritance, but everything works out and he takes her in his steely arms and she sighs trochaically, and both are transported with passion—but nothing gross or carnal. The culmination was always a single kiss that led to the ecstasy of the paradise of no return: matrimony. Nothing followed the kiss, only the words “The End,” embellished with flowers or doves. Soon I could predict the plot line by the third page, and amuse myself by revising it, directing it toward a tragic ending very different from the one imagined by the author and more in keeping with my incurable tendency toward morbidity and violence, so that the girl would become an arms dealer and the impresario would go off to cure lepers in India. I peppered the plot with spicy ingredients I had heard on the radio or read in newspaper crime reports, along with information I had surreptitiously absorbed from the illustrations in La Señora’s books of instruction. One day, the schoolteacher Inés mentioned A Thousand and One Nights to Riad Halabí, and on his next trip he brought it to me as a present: four enormous volumes bound in red leather, in which I submersed myself so deeply I completely lost sight of reality. Eroticism and fantasy blew into my life with the force of a typhoon, erasing all limitations and turning the known order of things upside down. I do not remember how many times I read each story. When I knew t
hem by heart, I began to transfer characters from one story to another, to change the anecdotes, to add and remove details—a game of infinite possibilities. Zulema spent hours listening to me, her senses alert to every gesture and sound, until one day she awoke speaking fluent Spanish, as if for ten years the language had been in her throat waiting only for her to open her mouth and let it escape.
I loved Riad Halabí like a father. We were united by laughter and play. The man who at times seemed grave and sad was in fact a merry man, but only in the privacy of his house and far from the stares of strangers did he dare laugh and not cover his mouth. Whenever he did it, Zulema turned away, but I thought of his imperfection as a gift of birth, something that made him different from others—unique in this world. We used to play dominoes, betting all the merchandise of The Pearl of the Orient, nonexistent gold nuggets, vast plantations and oil wells. I became a multimillionaire, because he always let me win. We shared a taste for proverbs, popular songs, and naïve jokes; we discussed the news in the papers, and once a week we went to see a movie shown from a truck that went from town to town setting up its spectacle on playing fields or in plazas. The real proof of our friendship was eating together. Riad Halabí would bend over his plate and push food in with bread or his fingers, sipping, licking, and using a paper napkin to wipe away food that escaped his mouth. When I saw him hunched over that way, in the darkest corner of the kitchen, he reminded me of a huge and kindly animal, and I always wanted to stroke his curly hair or pet him on the back. I never dared. I tried to show my affection and gratitude with small attentions, but he would not allow it; he was not used to receiving affection, although it was his nature to squander it on others. I washed his business shirts and guayaberas, bleached them in the sun, and starched them lightly; I ironed them meticulously, folded them, and stored them in the armoire with sweet basil and mint leaves. I learned to cook hummus and tahini; grape leaves stuffed with meat and piñon nuts; falafel; chicken with couscous, dill, and saffron; baklava with honey and nuts. When there were no customers in the store and we were alone, Riad Halabí tried to translate the poems of Harun al-Rashid for me. He sang songs of the East, long and beautiful laments. Sometimes he covered the lower half of his face with a dishcloth, in the manner of an odalisque’s veil, and danced for me, clumsily, arms uplifted, belly gyrating wildly. So it was, amid shouts of laughter, that I learned the belly dance.