The light over the oil dunes disappeared. The outline of the track was lost in the darkness. She stopped walking. The wind was whistling but she could not hear anything. The ear canal was completely blocked and she lacked her sense of hearing. Could she run away without making any noise? She looked at the watch on her wrist. The hour hand pointed to seven, the minute hand had stopped, and the second hand was totally decrepit. If only she could cross the boundary before sunrise. She would not try to hold on to oil like she had held on to love. The track ahead of her appeared slippery. The slope was steep and the dunes high. There was no difference between going up and going down. She abandoned her body to the movement as she had abandoned herself to it as a child. Her head beat against the darkness and her legs sank in above the knees.
Night came. The oil extended without end. Wave upon wave. There was no trace of the lights of the village. There were no houses and no bridge. She closed her eyes. She imagined her husband waking up from sleep and not finding her. He would crane his neck towards the door of the toilet. If it was closed, he would believe that she was in there, and if it was open he would think that she was in the bathroom, or perhaps in the kitchen. He could determine where she was without opening his eyes. If he opened his eyes, he could not see her except by going the other side of the door.
It had not occurred to him even in a dream that he could lose her. It was not permitted for a woman to be lost. She had no other place to lose herself in, and if there was another place, there was not another man, and if there was another man, there was no piece of paper. And a woman had no existence without a piece of paper.
‘And he never doubted her existence, did he?’
When her husband stretched out his arm, he could catch hold of her, even when he was asleep. And when he was awake he could stretch out his leg and kick her. The place was so cramped, and it became even more cramped as time passed, the size of the body increased, the amount of fat increased and the amount of movement decreased. On the night of the Festival, he would carry her on his back, as if she was a lamb, and place her on the scales, and with the price he received he would buy that new machine.
‘What is that machine?’
‘That one that she taps on with her fingers and it writes without learning how to write.’
Yes, the dream was quite legitimate. The machine did not have a mouth like a woman to eat, nor a tongue to talk with. Moreover, it wrote in a clear hand. And if it was not writing, it stayed in its place without moving. If it became decrepit with time, it could be exchanged, and it would be possible for him to do without the woman entirely.
‘It’s a new type of machine, with buttons for writing and buttons for reading, buttons for brushing and buttons for wiping . . .’
‘And who will cook for you?’
‘There’s a white button which you press on and ask for any food you want. It’ll give you a piping hot meal, along with salads, pickles and everything else.’
‘And sex, I mean love?’
‘It has another button for that, coloured red.’
The woman strained her ears, and voices came to her across time-consuming distances. She had been astute enough to be able to go on leave. Yes indeed, for the tame ox could go on leave for a day, and the machine could stop working for a day, and nobody could accuse either of them of immorality. But unfortunately she was a woman, and she could not be innocent. ‘If a woman leaves her husband’s bed for one night, she shall be hung by her hair on the Day of Resurrection and burnt in the fire.’
It was the voice of her husband in their days of love. He could not bear for her to be absent for a single night. But that was before those machines were discovered. And before oil became a power like electricity. She had been a placid girl, totally obedient to the orders of her husband and her boss at work. A respected and first-rate researcher. Her name was in the register with the picture of a mummy. Everybody had been pleased with her and she had had no enemies. Nor did she have any friends, because there is nothing that dirties the reputation of a woman as much as friends. Above all that, the only thing she was interested in was the exploration of archaeological sites.
‘Gods? His Majesty? Didn’t she have any interest in them?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, didn’t she have any interest in politics?’
‘Did you say ‘polities’. Don’t you know that it is forbidden for women to engage in politics?’
‘Didn’t she use to read the newspapers at least?’
‘She couldn’t read or write?’
‘She was beautiful then.’
The conversation appeared strange to her, even though it was completely natural. However, the matter was not easy. A woman could not be beautiful apart from a very good make of mirror. And mirrors used to deteriorate with time. Black particles crept into them, borne on the gusts of wind. Her face would appear full of blemishes, and these blemishes would increase with the passing of time. They would spread over the nose and the cheeks, and climb to cover the forehead. They would blot out all her features, even the eyes. Nothing would be left apart from one or perhaps half an eye.
She froze, standing in her place. She saw her picture reflected on the ceiling. Was it her face? She could only see half an eye, and on her head a jar. Her neck was bent sideways. Could it be one of the neighbours and not her? She hit the mirror with her hand and broke it. Yes, what was the point of a mirror for a woman who no longer looked at her face?
‘There must be a reason that forces a woman to conceal her face from the world.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘This is an indication of the immorality of women.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, then do you have any new information?’
‘Not at all. They haven’t found any trace of her yet.’
‘What’s this machine? It appears that you’ve bought a new typewriter.’
‘Yes, it writes, sweeps, wipes, washes and cooks, and everything else.’
‘Then you can travel and enjoy your leave. I have a rest house far away in the open country.’
‘Do you mean Jar Sunira?’
‘It now has a new name. Didn’t you know that?’
‘Yes, the Rest House, that’s a better name, and I can pay you some rent, a nominal one at least.’
‘I have no objection, if you insist. Prices have risen, as the price of a jar has risen.’
‘Of course. This is also due to the immorality of women. Haven’t you heard about that latest heresy?’
‘Yes, women have begun to ask for wages.’
‘That’ll lead to an insane rise in prices.’
‘Don’t worry. There are new machines to take over the woman’s role. They carry jars on four rubber feet, and walk by oil power.’
‘This is God’s favour upon us. Don’t you see that God is always with us?’
* * *
She continued eavesdropping on the interrogation over the long distance. She stopped to wipe the sweat with her sleeve. Would it be better for her to return? She turned around, taking one step forward and then a step back. She stopped on the edge of the lake. Her eyes looked towards the sky, watching as the lights appeared. Perhaps her childhood was the cause. She was unable to forget her childhood. At sunset she used to climb up onto the bridge and wait. Fields of crops stretched beside the river. At the bottom of the slope lay houses that were stuck together and leaning against each other. On the roofs were discs of dung, firewood, dovecotes and dusty ground, from which rose dust and the smells of mallow and dung. Flies and mosquitoes flew around them, and flying black cockroaches. Children were playing in the big lake behind the mosque. From it there rose the croaking of frogs and the sounds of crying and laughter. From the country track rose the voices of those returning from the fields. Their feet stirred up the dust, as did the pads of the buffalo and the oxen. The breath of the animals mixed with the breath of the human population. She was sitting on the bridge waiting. She followed with her eyes
the quivering of the stars above her head. At the bottom of the slope, wisps of light quivered in the houses. The sound of neighing rang out freely in the darkness of the night, and the sad singing of women as they sat in the gloom with their backs against the wall. Her aunt had tied her head with a scarf, and was sitting on the bridge not wanting to return. She was wearing a jallaba whose bottom edge was spattered with mud. She wore it every day as she walked from the house to the field carrying on her head the sacks of vegetables. In the evening she would not play with the children, for playing was only for boys. For her there was nothing to equal sitting on the bridge with her eyes fixed on the horizon, her heart pulsing vigorously and the lights shining in the sky overhead. Lamps trembled in the windows, hung on poles surmounted by hooks, around which buzzed green moths with splayed feet. The clay benches were filling with men emerging from their houses and coming from the neighbouring villages, drinking tea and smoking, and passing on news from the newspapers. She closed her eyes and saw herself entering school and learning to read and write, and becoming a researcher in some branch of knowledge, or a secretary of the type whose pictures you see in the newspapers. The arteries in her neck were pulsing vigorously, as if thoughts of genius were pulsing into her head. Her aunt and all the women neighbours were raising their chapped palms upwards, beseeching the Lady of Purity to protect her from envy and evil spirits. She could hear their voices whispering with a sound like the rustling of wind, ‘This girl has a world-class mind.’
In her childhood her head had become filled with this thought, and also innumerable other thoughts that poured into her from all around as she watched the stars. Under these lights, she saw life with the utmost clarity, like an open book, in total simplicity. She saw that death is simpler than life and begins at the moment of birth, that pregnancy accelerates death, that marriage is illogical, that kings and gods are villains and have committed many sins, and that she had witnessed the death of her father while she was a fetus in her mother’s womb, and had been so happy at that event that she had slipped out of the womb.
At that moment she felt her body slip of its own accord under the bridge. When she returned to the house she would receive a heated telling off or would remain without supper. However, every sunset she would walk to the bridge, sit in her place there and wait for the stars to appear, as if she was discovering something new every time the lights appeared.
‘What in the name of the Lady of Purity can any of us women lose?’
Nevertheless, none of the women thought of running away. She did not understand the mystery. Why was the woman forced to return when she would not lose anything if she did not return? Perhaps apart from a violent beating. But the women began to make off in the darkness. All she heard of them were distant whispers like the rustling of the wind.
‘This woman is thinking of running away.’
‘A woman without a mind.’
‘Satan’s got hold of her mind.’
‘Rather it’s the jar that heats up the mind.’
‘Curses on that jar. It’s a headache to all of us.’
‘Have mercy on us, Lady of Purity.’
* * *
The man had returned suddenly. He began to lift the jar off the ground while she knelt down on her knees like a camel. With a single movement the jar came onto her head. All that separated it from her hair was the wase wrapped round and tied above the forehead. The heat began to seep through and her neck began to twist. She was wondering what she could lose. There was nothing that she could lose apart from that rubbing that occurred while she was asleep, when his arm reached out in the darkness and took hold of her hand, and she would abandon it to him simply because she was sound asleep. If she was not sound asleep, she would also abandon it to him, but with stabs of conscience. Then she would withdraw it from him with a yawn and turn over on the other side to face the wall.
‘Is there not even the beginning of love between us?’
Perhaps that was his voice, or her voice. Both of them discovered this doubt too late. It had been clearly present right from the beginning. But everything was obscure and difficult to understand. Perhaps it was the oil or the heat in the head. Perhaps it was also the shyness that occurs when love is absent and when friendship between a man and woman is not there. If these are absent what can bring the man and woman together?
‘What are you saying?’
‘Pregnancy.’
The man was standing in his place with his shoulders drooping. His chest was bare against the night. She saw him tense the muscles of his face and open his mouth. A movement very similar to a smile of love. However, it was more ferocious than a wolf’s snarl. He may get involved in acts of love, but that was only because of his despair, the intense heat or the swollen skin.
‘Man is superior to woman, even in love.’
‘Do you mean self-love?’
‘Listen! What are those voices?’
She could not hear anything. Perhaps they were voices emerging from the past, or from an imagination affected by sunstroke. In spite of that she could understand the relationship between self-love and the sex instinct.
She raised her arm upwards and took hold of the bottom of the jar, afraid that it might fall. She plunged her feet in the well. As she plunged in she realised that there was something else in her childhood that she could not forget, namely the look in her aunt’s eyes before the cart disappeared into the night with the dogs. The rain beat down more fiercely because of the wind, and the black particles were flying about more swiftly, resembling cockroaches flying in the night. In spite of the rain and the slipperiness of the ground, she had to carry two or three times the number of jars in the hope of obtaining a return ticket, or half a ticket. They may cut the price by half for child minors or for women of good reputation, or for sick or feeble-minded men.
She plunged in to the bottom fearlessly. She let the gushing waves of oil slap her chest and tear her jallaba. Her body became naked and twisted with the movement of the wave. She panted like a child swimming. Water entered her lungs and she groaned. She raised her arm and shook violently, in a dance like that of a chicken just after it has had its throat cut.
The storm died down a little, and her body became calmer as well. Her mind began to work. Yes, her mind had no other work apart from thinking about running away. She could have run away at that moment, except that her body was buried in the ground. The man also was standing above her head like a hawk. Her boss at work did not stop asking how many jars she had carried. Why are you late coming to work? There was a register to be signed on arrival and departure. She had to sign every day, on arrival and departure, and enter the number of jars that she had carried.
‘Yes, if her body is buried in this place, why not begin digging immediately?’
She determined immediately to take up the chisel and begin searching again. She had no other goal apart from discovering her body. If she did not find the whole body, perhaps she would find a limb or two, or some remains. Perhaps chance would smile on her and she would discover a goddess as well. Enthusiasm poured into her like a surge of muscular energy. She pulled on the strap like someone who was about to hit two birds with one stone.
It was very hot. She took the bag off her shoulder, and the strap as well. She undid the buttons of her cloak and rid herself of her clothes completely. Her body appeared younger than she had imagined. The thought came to her that another body other than her own had slipped with its power into the space that she was occupying. In vain she tried to put her hand on it. There was someone holding her hand in his hand. Perhaps it was the man. Who else? He was telling her off because she had not prepared the supper. The evenings when he did not rebuke her, he used to go off into a deep sleep, without saying a word or even looking at her.
The heat did not disturb her, perhaps because she was naked. A slight breeze caressed her breasts. Her eyes widened as she saw that naked body. Her astonishment increased when she moved it the other way and it disappeared.
She had to move her head a little to see it again. A tall body with tort muscles, particularly her stomach muscles, no doubt because she had never been pregnant, and her neck muscles, no doubt because of the jars. Also the muscles of her right arm, no doubt because she had been digging with the chisel. Her fingers were long and tapering, suggestive of movement without actually moving, and her nails were black.
She had never previously considered her body from as close as this. The bridge of her nose was red and inflamed because of the sun and her eyelids were swollen. Her shoulders fell away sharply to right and left. They were a dark bronze colour like the colour of the mummy. Her real flesh began at the chest. Two breasts that stuck out proudly, hot as if heated from inside by a hidden spirit, and two coy nipples that beat with another pulse emanating from an unknown depth.
Her eyes followed on downwards and her body slipped away. They froze on a forest of hair below the stomach. She tried in vain to look. She had never been able to see clearly. If she tried to look closely, she felt her eyes becoming inflamed. She could never penetrate this forest, which appeared hollow to her, in spite of its thickness. Was that because of the emptiness of the world!?
What most used to disturb her was that she was incapable of gazing for a long time into her eyes. She saw them as hollow under the bone of her forehead that was as dry as the ground. She looked at them as if they were two remote spots on the horizon, more distant than the stars, as if they were the eyes of another woman looking out on her from behind the clouds.
‘No doubt the eyes of a goddess.’
She had determined the place according to the map. She continued to dig throughout the day from sunrise to sunset. She had no doubt about the place. The smell of her body rose from the depths of the earth. There was nothing that indicated the body apart from the smell. However, by the end of the day, she had not come across anything. She came out empty-handed with the chisel.