“I heard they are making their own soap, now,” said someone to their mother on the other side.
“Ma‘roof,” said Widad.
Another woman was holding forth on a more interesting topic. “And she was so angry she said I won’t sleep with you, I want a divorce, so, ya‘ni, she went on strike, she wouldn’t sleep in the bed, she moved to the floor of the bathroom, she said I will sit here in the bathroom until you divorce me. And she took in her blankets, ya‘ni, and flowers, and she made it nice in there. And khalas she came back one day and he had gone in there and was sleeping on the floor where she put all her nice things, and she says shu sar? He says you made it so nice in here I want to sleep in the bathroom too.”
The women leaned back into their laughter.
Fatima’s fingers were wrinkled when they left the hammam. She and her mother walked Nuzha home, and then continued up to the Kamal house on Mount Gerizim. Her muslins were soft on her skin and the wind pushed the fabric against her mouth, so that as she exhaled the moisture warmed her whole face.
A maid answered the door; Widad addressed her as Um Mahmoud. Um Mahmoud led them to the reception room, where they sat beside each other on the sofa, and the wind rattled the window.
“As-salamu alaykum,” said Um Taher in the doorway with a smile. Her red dress was stitched with black and her thin grey hair pulled back into a chignon. She had a round face and colourful lips.
“Wa alaykum as-salam,” said Widad, rising to remove her veil. Fatima copied her.
“Mashallah, Fatima,” said Um Taher. “You are much taller than when I saw you last.”
They sat and Um Taher and Widad discussed the guests at a recent wedding in the town. Beside Fatima, on the windowsill, a fly was struggling on its back. Now it paused, tiny black legs kinked. Now it scrambled, fluttering its limbs.
“The girl has a beautiful singing voice,” said her mother.
“Mashallah,” said Um Taher.
“Fatima, would you sing?” said Widad.
“She doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want,” said Um Taher. “Another time. Perhaps at the Atwan istiqbal. And you play the oud?”
“Of course.” Fatima’s voice croaked; she cleared it.
“She is very talented with the oud.”
Um Taher said, “Oud is very good for the soul, ya‘ni … it can be a relief for—especially for women. I mean, for God. You hear about this … God keep us all in his mercy.” There was a long pause. Um Taher gave them another breathy smile. “Would you ladies excuse me, just one moment.”
Although Um Taher was clearly advanced in years, her manner was not of the elderly. She moved slowly, but she was not frail. Her wrists were thick and strong, but not peasant-like; her skin was pale and her eyes were penetrating. As the door closed, Fatima’s mother wriggled in her seat and sighed. She put a hand on Fatima’s leg, as if to reassure her.
Beyond the window, two large black birds stood on the stone garden wall with scraps of something hanging from their mouths. One bent over to eat while the other remained on guard, and its down flashed indigo as it waddled along the wall, and then with a flourish of wings, hopped onto the gatepost and began to feast on its scrap. The pair flapped back and forth for a while, then abruptly departed, mounting the air and crying out. All at once, the limestone walls were marred with long white slashes.
“Look,” said Fatima. “The birds left kaka all over their wall.”
Her mother gasped. Fatima realised it must be some kind of omen. Widad hesitated, as if choosing how to react. She slapped Fatima’s hand. “Fatima that is disgusting.”
Fatima looked out again at the white slashes, and wondered if it was true that Um Taher was inspecting her for her grandson. She had not asked to hear her singing. Why, if her mother did not support the match, had she even brought her here? In an instant she recognised the path of her mother’s logic. Her mother was showing her off, regardless that she was not on offer. She felt very aware of her face, and a little depressed. She asked:
“What was it she was saying, Mama, about God and the oud?”
“Not about God. About the wife of Haj Hassan, Yasser’s mother. Unhappy for years, she was. She became fanatical.”
“Nazeeha?”
“Yes. Hassan was gone too many years. When he came back she had … khalas, we shouldn’t talk about it.”
“Fine.”
“Well, he gave her the oud. Hassan did. He made her play it, because she was seeing things. This Nazeeha, she was always religious, you know, she was seeing this and that every day. But it became more and more, and prayer was not enough to get rid of the religion in her. But the music worked. She became very good at the oud. Beautiful voice. She used to sing the Egyptian folk songs about Harun ar-Rashid with all the trills. But we shouldn’t talk about it.” A moment passed, and she added: “She is a very nice lady. She will make a good mother-in-law for you.”
“Where did she go?” said Fatima.
“Zawata.”
“No, I mean Madame Kamal.”
Widad tapped her on the knee. “Shh.”
Widad was correct about Um Taher’s intentions: the moment their hostess closed the door, she had rushed along the corridor to find Midhat. Midhat was sitting on his bed with an open book on his raised knees.
“Quickly,” she hissed. “We don’t have much time.”
Midhat followed her into the hall. She held a hand behind her to grip his wrist, and paused after each footstep. At the closed door of the sitting room, she pointed to the handle. He reached out.
“Hemar!” she hissed, and grabbed his wrist again. “Don’t open the door, are you insane! Look through the keyhole. Quickly. Get on the floor.”
Midhat tried not to laugh. He crouched on his heels and began to brush some of the dirt on the floor away with his fingers. His grandmother hit him on the back of the head. He looked up, incredulous; she widened her eyes and jabbed a finger at the keyhole.
The keyhole was not easy to peer through. It had not, as far as he could remember, ever actually been fitted with a key, and it had so clogged up with dust over the years that barely a crack of light came through, and it exuded the cold greenish odour of unpolished metal. He blew at it, to no effect. Above him, Teta produced a napkin from her pocket, twisted a pinch of the fabric between her fingers, sucked on the protrusion, and handed it down. Midhat inserted it into the keyhole and removed it to find the napkin twist grey with dust. He leaned his face against the door. Teta steadied the handle.
Two women sat on the couch on the far side. A mother and a daughter. The mother’s hair was hennaed red-black, cropped close to her ears, and pinned back in waves like the Europeans. She wore a dark brown dress with a red-and-green bodice, and she had a sharp nose and a large bosom. The daughter was young, maybe seventeen, slight and pale, with dark hair parted in the middle showing a dash of pale scalp. Her eyes sloped down at the outer corners, and this she had accentuated with two lines of black kohl on her upper lids. Her cheekbones were round and prominent and seemed to elevate the edges of her lips, so that despite her sad angled eyes her mouth was taut with expressiveness. Midhat had never seen an unmarried Nabulsiyyeh of his own class without a veil before. He knew only the maids, and the women of his grandmother’s generation. At best, the dancers in Cairo, Layla. This was an extraordinary view. It was like peering down a microscope at the secret structure of a cell. Above him, Teta sighed. The girl in the keyhole looked solemn, hands folded in her lap. The mother fidgeted. That was what they said: if you want to know how will the daughter turn out, look to the mother. In this case, however, the girl must take after her father, because there was no resemblance to the mother at all.