One Hundred and One Nights (9780316191913) by Benjamin Buchholz
Authors: Benjamin Buchholz
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as they dole out a quick lashing on the calves of a woman whose abaya does not reach all the way to the ground, leaving her sandaled feet showing. He watches his men, but he also watches Ulayya from his partially concealed place beneath the awning of the store.
I think about calling to Ulayya’s attention the fact that she has an admirer. I wonder how she might react. But before I have a chance to do this, behind Hussein I see another thing. Little Layla runs toward me. Hussein sees that I look beyond him. He turns to look at Layla but doesn’t seem to understand what I see: he must be blind to Layla just as the other store owners and guards and helpers in the market seem to be. To them she is only another street rat, nothing of concern, as invisible as Ulayya’s body under her cloaks. Ulayya also notices where I glance. What is more, she must also notice something about the quality of my glance, the way it lingers, the way it lights up, the way it focuses, for she does not dismiss Layla’s rapid approach without comment.
“What a horrid little creature,” she says. “How could any mother let a daughter out of the house looking like that!”
Indeed, as Layla pulls to a halt in front of my shop, I see that she is especially dirty this evening, her face nearly black, her strange blue eyes flashing through the soot or mud or oil that covers her. I sing a little song in my head, one I remember from my schoolchild days: aini zarqa tubruq biruq . It means something along the lines of “my blue eyes shine like lightning.”
“Abu Saheeh,” she shouts, still from the far side of the street, where she has paused to let the traffic pass. “I have found a geyser. Black gold.”
“Obviously,” I say.
Ulayya looks at me.
“You know this girl?” she whispers.
“She visits the shop,” I say. “She is funny. She dances, she sings, she begs.”
I regret this last epithet, for Layla has never begged, not from me.
I let my gaze return, flickering back to Layla. She runs across the road, through the last bit of the market. Ulayya is obviously offended by our familiarity. The posse of Ulayya’s escorting aunts and female cousins also shows its displeasure. They gather together more closely, as if Layla were a tiny little lioness and they a herd of water buffalo, all horns pointed outward. Layla appears not to care. In fact, she smiles as she stops in front of the venerable aunties and does a small bit of her Britney Spears routine, possibly the most inappropriate part, with a thrust of her bony hips in the direction of Ulayya herself.
Ulayya stands her ground.
Ignoring Layla, she says, “I will discuss the satellite with my father.”
Then she and the cousins and the aunts and the great-aunts and the friends of the great-aunts gather their long abayas about them and waft back into Safwan, from whence they originally came. Behind them, at a moderate distance, Hussein’s patrol of Hezbollah follows. As he leaves his shaded spot, Hussein takes from the front breast pocket of his dishdasha the mobile phone I lent him when he first visited my store. He touches it to his forehead, a little salute. I wave back at him, being friendly, but he does not smile.
When they all have gone, Layla’s voice assumes a tone similar in its huskiness to Ulayya’s way of speaking. She says, “I will discuss the satellite with my father.”
“You should be more respectful of your elders,” I say. “And more respectful of Allah. Your stories disturb me. I still wish, as I said when we last met, for you not to compare American movies to a messenger from Allah!”
For just an instant Layla looks at me as if I have said something strange, or funny, or inappropriate. Then she moves closer to my shack, leans on the sill, and says, “Jed Clampett and his whole family moved to Beverly Hills because he shot the ground accidentally and black gold came up. I borrowed the guard’s Kalashnikov and shot the pipe on the far side of the road.
I think about calling to Ulayya’s attention the fact that she has an admirer. I wonder how she might react. But before I have a chance to do this, behind Hussein I see another thing. Little Layla runs toward me. Hussein sees that I look beyond him. He turns to look at Layla but doesn’t seem to understand what I see: he must be blind to Layla just as the other store owners and guards and helpers in the market seem to be. To them she is only another street rat, nothing of concern, as invisible as Ulayya’s body under her cloaks. Ulayya also notices where I glance. What is more, she must also notice something about the quality of my glance, the way it lingers, the way it lights up, the way it focuses, for she does not dismiss Layla’s rapid approach without comment.
“What a horrid little creature,” she says. “How could any mother let a daughter out of the house looking like that!”
Indeed, as Layla pulls to a halt in front of my shop, I see that she is especially dirty this evening, her face nearly black, her strange blue eyes flashing through the soot or mud or oil that covers her. I sing a little song in my head, one I remember from my schoolchild days: aini zarqa tubruq biruq . It means something along the lines of “my blue eyes shine like lightning.”
“Abu Saheeh,” she shouts, still from the far side of the street, where she has paused to let the traffic pass. “I have found a geyser. Black gold.”
“Obviously,” I say.
Ulayya looks at me.
“You know this girl?” she whispers.
“She visits the shop,” I say. “She is funny. She dances, she sings, she begs.”
I regret this last epithet, for Layla has never begged, not from me.
I let my gaze return, flickering back to Layla. She runs across the road, through the last bit of the market. Ulayya is obviously offended by our familiarity. The posse of Ulayya’s escorting aunts and female cousins also shows its displeasure. They gather together more closely, as if Layla were a tiny little lioness and they a herd of water buffalo, all horns pointed outward. Layla appears not to care. In fact, she smiles as she stops in front of the venerable aunties and does a small bit of her Britney Spears routine, possibly the most inappropriate part, with a thrust of her bony hips in the direction of Ulayya herself.
Ulayya stands her ground.
Ignoring Layla, she says, “I will discuss the satellite with my father.”
Then she and the cousins and the aunts and the great-aunts and the friends of the great-aunts gather their long abayas about them and waft back into Safwan, from whence they originally came. Behind them, at a moderate distance, Hussein’s patrol of Hezbollah follows. As he leaves his shaded spot, Hussein takes from the front breast pocket of his dishdasha the mobile phone I lent him when he first visited my store. He touches it to his forehead, a little salute. I wave back at him, being friendly, but he does not smile.
When they all have gone, Layla’s voice assumes a tone similar in its huskiness to Ulayya’s way of speaking. She says, “I will discuss the satellite with my father.”
“You should be more respectful of your elders,” I say. “And more respectful of Allah. Your stories disturb me. I still wish, as I said when we last met, for you not to compare American movies to a messenger from Allah!”
For just an instant Layla looks at me as if I have said something strange, or funny, or inappropriate. Then she moves closer to my shack, leans on the sill, and says, “Jed Clampett and his whole family moved to Beverly Hills because he shot the ground accidentally and black gold came up. I borrowed the guard’s Kalashnikov and shot the pipe on the far side of the road.
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