Love in the Kingdom of Oil Page 9

  She heard him cough with a sound like the creaking of the jar. She froze in her place with fear. Did the women know more than her? Could the women sacrifice her if that became necessary?

  She remained standing where she was. She wrapped her arms around her chest like somebody feeling cold. Her eyes unconsciously darted to and fro. She moved forward a step and then back a step. Like a rat standing in front of a hole in the wall not knowing if it is a bolt hole or the mouth of a trap.

  As she stood there, fatigue overcame her. Drops of sweat fell from her forehead. She licked them up with the tip of her tongue and savoured their moistness. She appeared to have regained some of her confidence.

  She moved her feet and advanced towards the track. The disc of the sun was hidden behind the horizon. Winds were gusting from the north, raising particles of oil. On the edge of the lake she saw her sitting, undoing the black band above her face. She rubbed her nose and the corners of her eyes. Around her the women were doing the same, uncovering their faces. Each of them held her black band in her hands and then shook it in the air a number of times, making a sound like the crack of the wind. She began to advance on foot over the ground. She twirled round. Voices rose like the beating of a drum. Women were dancing in a circle, their feet advancing to the same beat. The singing rose to heaven with the dust.

  * * *

  ‘Is it our fate to carry on our heads . . .’

  ‘Jars of oil for ever?’

  ‘No, sister! No, sister!’

  ‘It’s not our fate! It’s not our fate!’

  It was astonishing to see the wisps of light in the darkness. To discover the connection between fate and oil. Her body appeared to her like the wall, planted firm in the face of the storm. Nothing could topple her.

  At that moment the man appeared raising his hand. The blow almost split her head open, but she jumped to escape death. He bent over her in a sort of fight. She threw him to the ground, even though she was worn out. He snatched the chisel from her hand, but she seized the jar by its two handles.

  ‘Force is only defeated by force.’

  The earth revolved around her as she fought. In a flash he came on top of her. He was so filled with illusory pride of possession that the hairs of his head bristled. Sticking up like that, they appeared like the crest of a rooster. The battle could have turned into something resembling love if she had not snatched the chisel from his hand.

  She suddenly remembered that she bore the title ‘researcher’. She had gone on leave. There was something she was searching for. The fever which had afflicted her body subsided. It appeared to her that the woman who had gone on leave was not the same one as the researcher. She could not love the man unless he submitted to her. If the movement of making him submit appeared to be innocent, it was not totally so.

  With her other man, she had avoided this danger. She had been infected by an unknown virus that came under the heading of love. It was not a definite case of love, even though there was nothing to prove that it was not. At a moment when she was expecting to experience love, she had seen him grinding his teeth with intense hatred. Once he fell on her shoulder and took a great bite out of it. She had lain in bed delirious. She had emitted sounds resembling the barking of a dog. The doctor had come and given her an injection in her thigh against rabies. He wrote something illegible on a piece of paper to the effect that she should abstain completely from love and from eating pickles soaked in oil.

  ‘Can you see without pain?’

  Yes, in the depths of her she was contented with him. She could look at him without pain. There was no alternative. Hope was totally lost and there was no alternative to writing the contract.

  ‘Isn’t the promise sufficient?’

  ‘We must write a piece of paper.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She signed the contract. The newspapers published much about cases of rape, rape of the body of course. Nobody had heard anything about something called rape of the spirit.

  ‘Are you pissing standing up? That’s forbidden for women!’

  He had seen her through the crack in the door. It was not permitted for a woman to piss standing up. But she preferred to stand up. The toilet was flooded like a lake, and if she sat down, she was afraid that her body would touch the seat. The newspapers talked about the virus, which was passed on by sitting down, and by Satan as well. No sooner would the woman lift her dress than the virus would be standing in front of her in the form of a man.

  ‘If a man and a woman meet together, the third among them is a devil.’

  Sexual intercourse could not take place without Satan being present. Like walking in the darkness on the bridge. Satan would appear suddenly, standing with moustaches bristling like a hungry cat. Men and women equally were prisoners who had fallen into his clutches. They both suspected each other. Who had started it? Nobody knows exactly what had happened. And to establish innocence they write a paper. Anybody who does not know how to write hires a scribe. Scribes are many. Was there such a thing as a passion for writing?

  ‘No, His Majesty himself doesn’t know how to write.’

  ‘What’s the problem then?’

  ‘Just regulations.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If the spirit becomes inflamed, there are no boundaries that religion can set to its inflammation if there is no paper, and no regulations at all. Isn’t that so?’

  She did not reply. She had seen him through the crack in the door. She had been incapable of hiding. There is no room for movement when the net is rolled up. The net of heaven falls like black rain. In marriage also it appears that there is a net, and a stormy agitation of the spirit. There is nothing for the body to do but to submit. Or perhaps this is a strange idea. Perhaps the paper is the guarantee.

  ‘There’s no guarantee of anything.’

  ‘What are you staying?’

  ‘Everything has been turned on its head in an instant. I used to regard you as a young lady full of enthusiasm, and here you are an old woman. Can’t you see yourself?’

  The woman was lying in the empty space in front of the house. The edge of her cloak dangled over the edge of the lake. She looked at him wide-eyed, with the eyes of a frightened ox. The man stared at her with one protruding eye, the eye of a choked sheatfish. She rubbed the corners of her eyes with the edge of her finger. She looked at him carefully. Could a man like this be real? He seemed unreal to her, but nevertheless she continued to look at him. The oil continued to gush round her with the wind. It crept from under her cloak to the sarwal and advanced up her thighs. She began to resist the advance, but too late.

  She jumped up, shaking off the black liquid. But it continued to advance despite her desires. It rolled up under the wall of the stomach and piled up on her arms and shoulders. She sobbed hoarsely. It became more determined. It advanced over her breasts and from there rose to her neck. Was it going to drown her?

  ‘Unfortunately oil is not a man whom you can get rid of.’

  She heard the strange voice piercing her body. It appeared as if it was her voice. Or the voice of her mother when she was inside the womb. It was apparently not her mother, but rather another woman who had borrowed her body. The period of loan had ended and the body had returned to its original owner. Perhaps she was deceiving herself simply to escape. But she had not forgotten the voice of her mother before she had been born. She was swimming in a gelatinous liquid. She was drowning in many dreams. The last dream was that she was pissing in the empty space, fearful that somebody would see her.

  ‘I’m a respectable researcher.’

  Yes, how often she had tried to tell him about herself. How often she had tried to state to him the truth about herself, that she was a researcher in archaeology and that she had a husband waiting for her there. Her boss at work would confirm that she was competent, and her lady colleagues would certainly remember her. Could ladies lose their memory as well, as well as everythin
g else?

  ‘Isn’t it just that you should pay me my wage? Is it possible for me to lose the sweat of my brow that I have shed all this time? And all I want is a return ticket.’

  The man moistened his lower lip with his tongue, and smiled without looking at her. His smile simply appeared as wrinkles in the skin around the mouth. All she could do was hold on to the chisel. As she raised her arm, she let out a cry.

  ‘Do you want to kill me?’

  Her arm fell back and she did not speak.

  ‘Definitely the conversation has come to an end.’

  ‘We could begin again.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘We could reach for the lowest common denominator of agreement. We only have one goal, to protect ourselves from death. Isn’t that right? Fortunately we are still strong. We have powerful arms and we can work. This is the goal of remaining here. In spite of everything, oil is better than other fiercer creatures. Oil can be friendly towards us if we surrender to it, but you never stop resisting it.’

  Her eyes widened and she did not speak.

  ‘All we ask for is mercy. We all know that the only person who benefits from the oil is the owner of the company, and His Majesty of course. That’s logical. What’s wrong with that? It’s their right, by order of heaven. Do you never stop being greedy?’

  She did not know definitely that it was the voice of the man. Perhaps the whole situation was returning to her imagination. Outside the voices of the women mumbled away, and their subdued staccato laughter sounded like sobbing.

  ‘What’s got into you, interfering in events that do not concern us?’

  ‘What do you mean? Don’t we carry jars?’

  ‘Curse them. They have given us headaches and they will do away with us all.’

  ‘There must be solidarity so that we can become powerful.’

  ‘There is no power and no strength save in God.’

  The man had begun to work. She saw him move his arms with new determination, and his muscles were bulging. He wiped away his sweat with the sleeve of his shirt, then stopped suddenly. He moved his head towards her. He saw her from afar talking to the women. The mouse was playing in the light of the sun and the hawk was hovering low on the horizon. It folded its big wings and concealed the sun. The woman looked at the clouds. Her face appeared pale, covered by black particles like freckles. Her eyes clouded over and the blood in her veins became red. Her bag opened suddenly with the force of the wind. She saw a long nose like that of a mouse playing with the contents. He took out the chisel, and began to search inside the lining. The wind rose and almost snatched her from her place. The waterfall gushed out all over her face. She wiped it away with the sleeve of her jallaba and opened her eyes. It was not a mouse but the man. He was curled up on the ground like a caterpillar, searching through the pockets of her bag.

  ‘You have no right to do that!’

  ‘What’s this paper?’

  ‘I have my private papers.’

  ‘Do you have another husband?’

  He had strange-looking fingers. The paper was folded in the bottom under the lining. No finger could reach it without long training in the police academy. She reached out her arm and snatched the paper away. She thrust it down her throat and swallowed it. He attacked her with a sudden movement. He came on top of her and put his finger down her throat to pull out the paper. He felt around under the uvula and among the folds of flesh. His breath came out of his open mouth like steam coming out of the funnel of a steam engine. Then he finally pulled out his finger holding something small, resembling a bean or a congealed piece of oil.

  ‘In spite of everything you deserve my thanks.’ She said this in a voice laden with sincerity. Her body appeared more powerful. She inhaled and exhaled more easily. He had been able to rid her of that lump in the throat.

  He appeared not to hear her. He was watching the movement of the paper inside her. Never before had he intended to deceive her in this way. He would watch her comings and goings from the toilet. That bit of paper would not escape him.

  ‘Let’s assume that it is a marriage contract. Then who’s the man? And if it is not a marriage contract, what is it? A love letter?’

  In his eyes love appeared less dangerous than marriage, for love was not binding. He took a cigarette out of his pocket. He flicked his fingers as he lit the match. He was sitting on a full jar. Circles of smoke spread around him. Then he raised his eyes to the horizon. The hawk had landed at the edge of the lake, and had begun to eat something small that twisted between its teeth like a caterpillar.

  ‘If, when it comes down to it, it is simply a matter of love, then what sort of love is it?’ This was the question he asked himself as he puffed out the smoke. He only knew one type of love. That for which you pay nothing.

  The woman became tired of standing so she sat down on the chair. Behind the door he was watching her through the keyhole. Perhaps the paper had been totally digested or perhaps the words had disappeared as the ink ran. He saw her pressing on her stomach with her hands as if she was imprinting the words on the paper, protecting them from disappearing. Could one love to this degree!?

  He heard her humming in a loud voice. She began to sing a song that she had sung in her childhood. She raised her voice and drowned the other voices in silence. Her song flowed out through the door. She had rescued the paper and the letters that were on it. The thought had come to her as she was sitting down. The night of the Feast would be the best night to flee. The man was going to the celebration. The invitation was from His Majesty and he could not absent himself. They would wear brilliant cloaks and new shoes and sit hour after hour behind locked doors. He could not go out even if he had indigestion. He would curl up in his chair hour after hour, and he might even piss a little before His Majesty arrived. One of them would feel the seat under him, and then stealthily put his finger to his nose. His eyes would widen in fright. It was not the smell of urine. On his finger he would see a layer of black, neither liquid nor solid. It had the smell of oil. But nobody could say anything. Each of them would wipe his finger surreptitiously on his sarwal and remain in his seat waiting for the doors to open.

  ‘Perhaps she could cross the boundary before he returned from the celebration.’

  The man remained transfixed behind the keyhole. He did not know exactly when he could swoop. The woman appeared to be sleeping as she sat. Her head dangled above her chest, and her eyes were closed. He was wondering which was more dangerous. If it was a love letter or a marriage contract. Perhaps he could uncover the two dangers at the same time, if the two men were in fact one and the same.

  At that moment the storm rose and the keyhole became blocked. The way ahead of him appeared completely blocked and he could see nothing apart from darkness. He heard the woman as if she was laughing behind the door. Could there be a relationship between love and oil? The thought filled him with terror, and he stepped backwards, and found himself flat on his back.

  The woman did not see him when he fell. She imagined he was still behind the door. Pain was tearing her insides apart. She was gulping down air. It was not a laugh or a broken sob. She wanted to cry out for help but remembered that he was behind the door and could attack her if he heard her voice.

  ‘How can you pull the chain without making a noise?’

  But of course there was no water there, and nothing to remove the traces. She did not want to open the door and go out brazenly. What disturbed her most was the smell. A mixture of sweat, oil, and remains of sardines and pickles. Was it a repulsive smell? Of course not. It was so familiar that she had feelings of love towards it. However, the man placed his hand over his nose and cried as if for help. She seized the opportunity and leapt out of the door.

  The sun was just going down below the horizon. In the twilight she began to orientate herself on the ground. She found the patch of ground specified on the map. She raised her arm and hit the ground with the chisel time after time. Suddenly she felt it hitting against
something solid. It was a small bronze statue. The breast was clear and did not brook any doubt. The bottom also confirmed that it was a woman. On her head she carried the disc of the sun and the horns tilted forwards. There was no doubt that it was the goddess Hathur. Who else could it be? There was a hole in her head and the skin was eaten away because of the oil and the underground sewage. However, the face was round; there was a smile on the lips and the chin and the nose were very delicate. There was a belt around the dainty waist and a snake wrapped and tied around the forehead. On her chest there was only one breast; perhaps the oil had eaten away the other one. However, the letters were carved on the rock and the name was set in a frame: the one-breasted god. Her eyes widened and she looked more carefully. She realised that one of the breasts had been removed by somebody. He had intended to remove the other but there had not been enough time. He had also tried to wipe off the smile, or to draw lines around the mouth to complete a frown, but the body remained as it had been, with a plump bottom and the spirit hovering around the one breast as if it was the breast of a mother.

  ‘This statue will attract many tourists, wave after wave of them, and hard currency will pour in.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Don’t you understand my words? What’s happened to you? Are you ill?’

  ‘No, but I asked for leave.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘A simple request.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind!?’

  Her boss at work had not grasped what she was saying. She had discovered signs of forgery, of goddesses being changed into gods. She could not talk to her husband about her boss at work. Her husband couldn’t bear such conversation. Her boss could not bear to hear the name of her husband, and she could not bear to hear about either of the men. All that she wanted was a paper to write the request on, for there was no leave without a written paper specifying the date of departure, the date of return, and the destination. You could not leave the date of return unspecified. A man could absent himself for seven years and then return to find his wife waiting for him, by order of the law. However, the only leave the woman received was on the day of her funeral. How precarious was the distinction between leave and death.