| The Frog That Flew
Something very strange took place in our
house this evening, something illuminating. Father, you see, returned home this evening
while in a state of complete and disgusting drunkenness. We were all awakened by the
noises he made, all except for Tahir thankfully, as
he entered the house chanting and cursing some unknown malevolent character. The scene was
in many ways reminiscent of ancient Egyptian movies, and I found it quite funny, perhaps
even hilarious, for I don’t have that much respect for my father as you might have
guessed by now.
Mother, on the other hand, had a completely
different point of view. She found the scene father made to be completely disgusting,
infuriating and inappropriate. And she told him so quite frankly and angrily as she tried
to help him stand straight and stop wobbling about like some “Damned pendulum,”
as mother had put it.
“Stay away from me, you damn
woman.” Father replied, pushing mother away from him so hard she hit her knee on the
edge of the low table of the living room. Mother issued a semi-muffled cry of pain, and at
that particular moment, I became filled with a sudden rush of anger and disgust and I
found myself in a state of complete agreement with mother, this whole scene was rather
shameful, was very shameful, and it had to end, somehow it had to end.
The same idea must have occurred to mother
thankfully, and by taking the initiative, she prevented me from doing something very
stupid. Mother stopped rubbing her knee all of a sudden, straightened her posture, looked
my father in the eyes, took a couple of steps towards him, then she slapped him as hard as
she could that he fell flat on his face, his nose beginning to bleed. Muzna, Majid and I
watched all these “while carrying pigeons on our heads,” to paraphrase an old
Arabic metaphor.
“How,” father said in a low, but
now quite sober tone, “how could you hit me? How? I am the man of the house, I am.
How could you hit me? I., I never hit you. Twenty three years of marriage [twenty four, in
fact, even I knew that] and I have never hit you. And now, now you hit me. How could you?
How?” And father started to cry.
Mother, too, began to cry as she rushed to
help my father up and to stop his nose bleed.
“You shouldn’t have gotten so
drunk, you know how infuriated I get when I see you like this.”
“But I am the man of the house, you
shouldn’t, you just shouldn’t.”
“Please, forgive me. forgive me.”
And as things began, once more, to resemble
an ancient Egyptian movie, Muzna took Majid to his room, and the latter consented and
walked with her as if in a state of a Sufi daze. When, Muzna came out of Majid’s
room, she gave a knowing look and a smile, and went straight to the kitchen to prepare
some tea. And so we had a traditional ending to a not so traditional session of family
feud, and father, so traditionally, promised to bring us many valuable gifts upon his
return from his up-coming trip to Sweden. Then everybody went back to sleep.
Well, I couldn’t really go back to
sleep straight away, and it seems that Muzna had the same problem, for she came to my room
just before dawn and we spent more than an hour talking and reviving ancient memories.
Oh yes. Muzna and I had had many a memory in
this very room of mine and while everybody else in the house was sleeping. But we did not
discuss any of those particular memories this time.
Rather, Muzna chose to remind me of other
things, such as the time when her own religious studies teacher from the school came to
ask for her hand in marriage. Now, the dangerous thing about this particular matter was
that father seemed to have been willing to consider such a union, including the
proposition that Muzna should leave school.
Luckily for Muzna, however, not to mention
me, mother immediately proceeded to put a swift end to the matter, by verbally assaulting
the “honorable teacher” and accusing him of being “a dirty-minded
lascivious old fool who seems to have forgotten that the time of concubinage is
over,” then she asked him to get the hell out of our house and never come back again.
The man became very angry naturally, and
left the house promising to fail Muzna in his class. Few days later, however, he sent a
letter to my father, via Muzna, apologizing for his behavior, and thanking the family for
keeping the matter a secret. And Muzna did pass his class, by the way, with her usual
mediocre average.
Muzna reminded me as well of that time when
I saw her smoking with her friends in an entrance in one of the near-by buildings as I was
returning from school. She had seen the signs of dismay and disgust all over my face, and
when she saw me that evening in the house, she told me that she was only experimenting
really, and she promised me that she would never smoke again.
“And I never did, you know? Not once. I
always tried my best to fulfill my promises to you. Always.” And with this reminder,
Muzna left me to my thoughts. And to the myriad of undiscussed memories that came gushing
forth.
And what memories they were.
Ten years ago, in this very room, Muzna
being eleven and I eight, we exchanged our first kiss, or rather series of kisses. They
were what you might call, French kisses, there was nothing innocent or naïve about them.
Believe me. Believe me.
Our kissing sessions lasted for about eight
months, then Muzna hit puberty and that spelled a three and a half years interruption in
our affair. Not that we stopped being each other’s best friends and confidants, it
just that there was no more sensual dimension involved. That is all.
But things were destined to change again
after I, too, hit puberty. For three months after the fact, Muzna and I found ourselves
alone in the house. We exchanged some words, then Muzna went to take a bath. When I heard
the splashing of the water and realized that Muzna was now under the shower, I hurried to
the bathroom door, and cracked it just a tiny bit open and proceeded to watch Muzna’s
naked silhouette behind the glass. When, the splashing of the water stopped, I closed the door quietly and went back to my seat.
Few moments later, I was watching
Muzna’s naked body again, this time, however, it was the real item that I was
watching and not some damn silhouette. She was back in her room drying herself off and I
was watching through the keyhole of the door. Her body was already too mature for her
years, and a fascination to watch, especially considering the fact that she had proceeded
to maturbate as well. I had had no idea that girls masturbated too before that day.
Somehow I was glad to discover that we had this thing at least in common.
Two days after this incident, Muzna came to
my room after everybody had gone to sleep. She opened the door to my room without knocking
first and surprised me as I lay reading in bed. It was a happy surprise, a real happy
surprise, for after we had talked for a while, she straight out told me that she had
noticed that I had been spying on her that day.
"There is no need to get
embarrassed,” she said, “after all, your spying on me did not prevent me from
doing what I had planned to do, in fact, it made it that much more interesting and
enjoyable. But tell me. Did you like my body?
“Sure I did.” Well, I did, there
was no reason for me to lie. She was Muzna after all, my best friend and confidant, not to
mention sister, and we had had our moments.
“Would you like to see it again?”
She asked.
“Sure
I would.” I answered.
So Muzna took her night gown off, it
wasn’t hiding anything anyway, and I took my pajamas off, and we made love. We
didn’t go all the way mind you, I mean, we understood the risks well enough, we knew
we were taking chances even without full penetration, we realized that we needed to plan
things more properly before going the distance.
We met many times after that night, and we
almost lost control on several occasions and could have gone all the way, but we somehow
always managed to stop ourselves at the last possible moment. Still, one day, Muzna
promised me that she would obtain birth control pills somehow, and on the eve of her
sixteenth birthday, we would go all the way. “I wouldn’t want to lose my
virginity to anyone but you,” Muzna said.
A mere four days before the fulfillment of
our verbal agreement, however, mother, who had pregnant with Majid all the while, brought
forth into this world her all-too precious cargo. And ever since that day, our nights
turned white. There was no way Muzna could come to my room. There was no way for us to
fulfill the unwritten contract. The issue was somehow shoved aside afterwards, we never
discussed the matter again. And Muzna’s life proceeded as I had already described.
If I could hate Majid, I would. But things
being what they are, he is my brother, and he is so sweet, though mischievous, and I love
him. And perhaps, it all worked out for the best. Perhaps.
Day Seventeen
Still, and within a few short minutes of my
arrival into the museum, I found myself facing Ange, and an Assyrian statue that stood
erect behind her.
“Well, well, well, guten tag Freulein
Ange.” I said mockingly.
“Guten tag, Herr Mustafa.” She
replied in an equally mocking style.
“What an interesting place for a casual
encounter, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. Anyway, I am here with my
parents.”
Now that Ange has pointed this fact to me, I
could actually see the two Germanic figures standing next to Ange. It seems that I was so
taken by Ange angelic presence, not to mention mischievous beauty, that I must have
confused her parents for some roughly restored statues, very much like that protective
Assyrian god glowering down upon me. These museums are very creepy places, I
suddenly realized.
“But of course, pardon me please and
welcome to Syria.”
After some necessary words had been
exchanged between all of us, Ange invited me to walk along with them, and I accepted.
Within a few moments, we ended up walking alone, leaving Ange’s parents to roam on
their own throughout the museum. During the next hour that we spent walking and talking,
Ange and I got to know a little more about each other, just enough to keep us hungering
for more I guess.
I learnt that Ange’s mother was, of all
things, French, which is why she spoke the language so perfectly. And I learnt that she
wasn’t very much attached to Kamal. And I learnt that she loved Arabic food. And I
learnt that she lived in an apartment in the Mazzeh Autostrad area, and that her parents
will be leaving her in two weeks and she will be alone, all alone, again.
In exchange, I told Ange that I, too, had a
thing for languages, and that the family travels throughout the world has helped me
acquire the necessary fluency. I also informed her that I fancy myself as a good amateur
poet, and that my favorite Arabic dish is tusqiyyah. So, Ange invited me to come to her
apartment one day, after the departure of her
parents naturally, so we can have tusqiyyah together, and so I can show her how to prepare
it. I, not so very reluctantly, consented. The curiosity in Ange’s eyes made
me consent. She had been thinking about me since our first meeting, no doubt about it. And
no surprise.
No, no surprise. For I had the habit you
know. The habit of attraction. The curse of attraction. I have never failed to attract
girls and women to me ever since I could remember. I am young, I know. But I have had so
many women flocking around me, hovering about me since forever it seems, since forever,
all of them wanting me, all of them desiring me, indeed, for one reason or another, they
all seemed to see some sort of a savior in me, yes, a savior. A savior from what? And
why me of all people? I have never managed to know that, I have never managed to
understand, but in time I have learnt to accept it, the fact of it, the phenomenon of it,
as part of me, as part of being me.
But long ago, not too long ago, this habit
of mine proved too suffocating for me to handle alone, I felt lost in the world it created
around me, I felt naked and cold. In truth, I was the one who needed a savior. So
when my affair with Muzna began, I did indeed feel saved, and for the first time in my
life, I even felt free. Then it ended, the affair ended, and I was lost again, and not
simply lost, no, not simply lost. This time, I was more lost, more deeply lost, more
confused, more drained, having to accept suffocation as a way of life is not comforting
you know, no, it’s not comfortable at all. I am not comfortable now you know, no,
rather I am dying, continuously dying, I belong to nothing. I belong to no one. I belong
to no time, no time at all.
And I had to submit to this habit of mine, a habit
which alienated me further and further from myself, and from comfort.
Throughout my teen years, which are yet to
end, I have submitted myself to all sort of women and girls, Christian, Jewish, Druze and
Muslim, Arab, Berber, European, and American, teenager, young, and middle-aged, (I drew a
line at a certain age to maintain some form of sanity, I guess, not that older women did
not try to pursue me one way or another). Nevertheless, I am still a virgin, in my way, I
am still a virgin. Or, at least, I am afraid as a virgin of intimacy, because I have never
really had it, I have never really experienced it. Never. Not even with Muznah I think.
Not even with Muznah.
I have always wanted to be somebody of
significance, would this fear of mine, would this habit, stand in my way I wonder? Would
someone like me ever be able to conduct a normal life? would I ever have a wife? Would I
ever have children of my own? Can ambition, confusion and normality ever be reconciled?
Ever. Ever.
Questions
which I have long yearned to answer. Questions I am yearning to answer still. Messianic
questions. Messianic questions.
Day Eighteen
Today I found myself in a position that has
often featured in my dreams. I found myself standing face to face with Su’ad, a
totally naked Su’ad.
I had just returned home from the university
and gone straight to my room to change my wet clothes, for it was raining buckets out
there, and I had had to stand for more than half an hour under the rain before I had
managed to get a taxi, I really have to accept my father’s offer to buy me a car
someday. I should overcome one day my idiotic fear of driving.
Anyway, I had got into my room without
meeting anyone, Muzna, Tahir and mother must have been in the kitchen, Majid was still in school, and father
wouldn’t come home till the evening, so I had gotten straight to my room, taken off
my wet clothes and put on a dry and clean short, when I heard a sound of shuffling in
Muzna’s room. I, naturally, assumed that it must have been her, having probably heard
me come in and was probably bringing me a towel to dry myself off. So I opened the
separating door and stepped into her room, and lo and behold, there was Su’ad
flowering in front of me completely naked and drying herself off with a small brown towel.
I don’t know how long I stood there
watching Su’ad drying herself with that towel, but it must have been a long time
indeed, for I had managed to study every inch of her, slowly, before I uttered some words
of apology, stepped back into my room and closed the door behind me. All the while,
Su’ad had not made a single bloody move to cover any inch of her naked body, or to
rush me out. It’s that habit, you know, it’s that curse.
So, Su’ad could,
after all, develop a sexual interest in me
The secret to Su’ad’s presence in
our house today, and in Muzna’s room in particular, got explained to me on the lunch
table. She, too, had been caught under the rain you see, when she had had to change a flat
tire. Since she had been near our house, she had decided to come and dry herself off here
before heading home. Very simple, isn’t it?
After Su’ad’s departure, I
informed Muzna of what had happened, and she gave me a very knowing smile.
Oh yes, she
remembers, she remembers everything.
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lust for salvation, Brother, as though it were a woman, and I - a man.
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