Mothballs by Alia Mamadouh Page B

children. They will stay with my mother and my sister. Now get up and draw my bath.”
    â€œBut Jamil, what about later on? What if I get well? Jamouli, what will you do later on?”
    â€œGod is good. You will leave here and come back safely. Now get moving – I want to wash and eat.”
    She burst into a fit of coughing such as we had never heard before. The sound of the wardrobe with the three doors erupted in its own fit of creaky coughing also. When we opened its warped doors we could not shut them again, unless someone pushed them up.
    My father left it open, having taken out his large white towels and gone out.
    This room was at the end of the hallway, far from us. It was the cleanest and warmest room, its walls painted a light blue. An iron bed stood in the middle, and the wardrobe took up most of the middle wall.
    Also in the middle stood a mirror which had lost its quicksilver backing, and its wooden frame was worn at the edges. In one corner was an old chair and earth-coloured table where my father’s shaving things were set out with a bottle of aftershave and one of rosewater. A Qu’ran rested on a small shelf covered with a cloth embroidered in white thread. In the other corner stood old shelves upon which books were arranged: Dar al-Hilal editions, the Reader’s Digest in Arabic, and the stories of Jurji Zaidan, Taha Hussein, Tawfiq al-Hakim, al Manfaluti, and issues of Egyptian magazines such as al-Musawwar , Akher Sa’a  and al-Kawakib.  The only window, which looked out on the courtyard, was usually closed. When my father was in Karbala, its yellow curtains were open. The glass panes were always clean. In the summer, my mother wiped them with old newspapers, and in the winter she wiped the traces of rain away with a dry cloth. The floor was covered with a long old carpet folded in more than one place to make it fit the small room.
    My mother wandered about, giving off a scent of defeat. She stood in the embrace of that heritage. The boot, the pistol, the madness of this rupture. Her first indifference came to an end. These changes had taken place behind her back. It was not important now that she change her name or blood type; nothing could bring back the past, the magic or her beauty or her serenity.
    She paced the room, and I paced with her behind the window. She was agitated, facing all the objects and things, looking at everything around her as if seeing them for the first time. She walked unhurriedly, touching the Qu’ran, fondling it with her hand and saying, “They left me in your care. You beat me and cursed me.”
    She staggered, looked at the carpet and the open wardrobe. She fingered the bookshelves and her muscles contracted. She snatched the books and threw them to the ground, shivered and sweated; her face grew paler and the familiar objects became masses of hidden meanings. She knocked them to the left and the right, and stood in front of the mirror, advanced slowly and opened her mouth in an obscene movement, lifted her hair up and then let it fall on her face, moved her arms. Her eyes bulged, as if she were emptying her bowels. She let out a cry and put her hand over her mouth, slapped her face and tore at her hair, and caught her breath sharply before the mirror: “Is it true what Jamouli said? My face looks frightful. My God, I’m afraid of seeing it in the mirror. I’ve been afraid of that face for so long. I certainly was the most beautiful girl. Oh. God forgive me. Where is my mind? Mama, come and look at Iqbal now. Jamouli is married, Mama. God Almighty. He married her and she is pregnant as well.”
    She smacked the surface of the mirror and dropped to the floor. She opened her legs and beat on them. She raised her nightgown from her slender thighs and scratched them. I could only see her undulating movement as she shook and hugged herself, as she raised and bowed her head and back before me.
    â€œWhat do I have left? I