Part 1 (2/2)

A few moments drift by in silence. Then ”Al-Qahhar” returns, audible through the window, from the pa.s.sage, from behind the door. The woman comes back into the room and stops next to the man. Standing. Her left hand still telling the black prayer beads. ”I can even inform you that while I've been away you have breathed thirty-three times.” She crouches down. ”And even now, at this moment, as I'm speaking, I can count your breaths.” She lifts the string of prayer beads into what seems to be the man's field of vision. ”And now, since my return, you have breathed seven times.” She sits on the kilim and continues, ”I no longer count my days in hours, or my hours in minutes, or my minutes in seconds ... a day for me is ninety-nine prayer-bead cycles!” Her gaze comes to rest on the old watch-bracelet holding together the bones of the man's wrist. ”I can even tell you that there are five cycles to go before the mullah makes the call to midday prayer and preaches the hadith.” A moment. She is working it out. ”At the twentieth cycle, the water bearer will knock on the neighbor's door. As usual, the old woman with the rasping cough will come out to open the door for him. At the thirtieth, a boy will cross the street on his bike, whistling the tune of ”Laili, Laili, Laili, djan, djan, djan, you have broken my heart,” for our neighbor's daughter ...” She laughs. A sad laugh. ”And when I reach the seventy-second cycle, that cretinous mullah will come to visit you and, as always, will reproach me because, according to him, I can't have taken good care of you, can't have followed his instructions, must have neglected the prayers ... Otherwise you'd be getting better!” She touches the man's arm. ”But you are my witness. You know that I live only for you, at your side, by your breath! It's easy for him to say,” she complains, ”that I must recite one of the ninety-nine names of G.o.d ninety-nine times a day ... for ninety-nine days! But that stupid mullah has no idea what it's like to be alone with a man who ...” She can't find the right word, or doesn't dare say it, and just grumbles softly ”... to be all alone with two little girls!”

A long silence. Almost five prayer-bead cycles. Five cycles during which the woman remains huddled against the wall, her eyes closed. It is the call to midday prayer that s.n.a.t.c.hes her from her daze. She picks up the little rug, unfolds it, and lays it out on the ground. Makes a start on the prayer.

The prayer complete, she remains sitting on the rug to listen to the mullah preach the hadith for that day of the week: ”... and today is a day of blood, for it was on a Tuesday that Eve, for the first time, lost tainted blood, that one of the sons of Adam killed his brother, that Gregory, Zachary, and Yahya--may peace be upon them--were killed, as well as Pharaoh's counselors, his wife Asiya Bint Muzahim, and the heifer of the Children of Israel ...”

She looks around slowly. The room. Her man. This body in the emptiness. This empty body.

Her eyes fill with dread. She stands up, refolds the rug, puts it back in its place in the corner of the room, and leaves.

A few moments later, she returns to check the level of solution in the drip bag. There isn't much left. She stares at the tube, noting the intervals between the drips. They are short, shorter than the intervals between the man's breaths. She adjusts the flow, waits two drips, and turns around decisively. ”I'm going to the pharmacy for more solution.” But before her feet cross the threshold, they falter and she lets out a plaintive sigh: ”I hope they've managed to get hold of some ...” She leaves the room. We hear her waking the children, ”Come on, we're going out,” and departing, followed by little footsteps running down the pa.s.sage, through the courtyard ...

After three cycles of the prayer beads--two hundred and ninety-seven breaths--they are back.

The woman takes the children into the next-door room. One is crying, ”I'm hungry, Mummy.” The other complaining, ”Why didn't you get any bananas?” Their mother comforts them: ”I'll give you some bread.”

Just as the sun withdraws its rays from the holes in the yellow and blue sky of the curtains, the woman reappears in the doorway to the room. She looks at the man a while, then approaches and checks his breath. He is breathing. The drip bag is almost dry. ”The pharmacy was shut,” she says and, looking resigned, waits, as if for further instructions. Nothing. Nothing but breathing. She leaves again and returns with a gla.s.s of water. ”I'll have to do what I did last time, and use sugar-salt solution ...”

With a quick, practiced movement she pulls the tube out of his arm. Takes off the syringe. Cleans the tube, feeds it into his half-open mouth, and pushes it down until it reaches his esophagus. Then she pours the contents of the gla.s.s into the drip bag. Adjusts the flow, checking the gaps between drips. One drip per breath.

And leaves.

A dozen drips later, she is back, chador in hand. ”I have to go and see my aunt.” She waits again ... for permission, perhaps. Her eyes wander. ”I've lost my mind!” Agitated, she turns around and leaves the room. Behind the door, her voice comes and goes in the pa.s.sageway: ”I don't care,” near, ”what you think of her ...,” far, ”I love her,” near, ”she's all I have left ... my sisters have abandoned me, and your brothers too ...” far, ”... that I see her,” near, ”I need to ...,” far, ”... she doesn't give a d.a.m.n about you ... and neither do I!” She can be heard leaving with her two children.

Their absence lasts three thousand nine hundred and sixty breaths. Three thousand nine hundred and sixty breaths during which nothing happens except what the woman had predicted. The water bearer knocks at the neighbor's door. A woman with a rasping cough opens the door to him ... A few breaths later, a boy crosses the street on his bike whistling the tune of ”Laili, Laili, Laili, djan, djan, djan, you have broken my heart...”

So they return, she and her two children. She leaves them in the pa.s.sage. Opens the door, abruptly. Her man is still there. Same position. Same rhythm to his breath. As for her, she is very pale. Paler even than him. She leans against the wall. After a long silence, she moans, ”My aunt ... she has left the house ... she's gone!” With her back against the wall she slips to the ground. ”She's gone ... but where? No one knows ... I have no one left ... no one!” Her voice trembles. Her throat tightens. The tears flow. ”She doesn't know what's happened to me ... she can't know! Otherwise she would have left me a message, or come to rescue me ... She hates you, I know, but she loves me ... she loves the children ... but you ...” The sobbing robs her of her voice. She moves away from the wall, shuts her eyes, takes a deep breath in an attempt to say something. But she can't say it; it must be heavy, heavy with meaning, voice-crus.h.i.+ngly heavy. So she keeps it inside, and seeks something light, gentle, and easy to say: ”And you, you knew that you had a wife and two daughters!” She punches herself in the belly. Once. Twice. As if to beat out the heavy word that has buried itself in her guts. She crouches down and cries, ”Did you think about us for even a second, when you shouldered that f.u.c.king Kalashnikov? You son of a ...,” the words suppressed again.

She remains still for a moment. Her eyes close. Her head hangs. She lets out a long, painful groan. Her shoulders are still moving to the rhythm of the breath. Seven breaths.

Seven breaths, and she looks up, wiping her eyes on the sleeve embroidered with ears and flowers of wheat. After looking at the man a while, she moves closer, bends over his face and whispers, ”Forgive me,” as she strokes his arm. ”I'm tired. At breaking point. Don't abandon me, you're all I have left.” She raises her voice: ”Without you, I have nothing. Think of your daughters! What will I do with them? They're so young ...” She stops stroking him.

Somewhere outside, not far away, a shot is fired. Another, closer, in retort. The first gunman shoots again. This time, no response.

”The mullah won't come today,” she says with some relief. ”He's scared of stray bullets. He's as much of a coward as your brothers.” She stands up and moves a few steps away. ”You men, you're all cowards!” She comes back. Stares darkly at the man. ”Where are your brothers who were so proud to see you fight their enemies?” Two breaths and her silence fills with rage. ”Cowards!” she spits. ”They should be looking after your children, and me--honoring you, and themselves--isn't that right? Where is your mother, who always used to say she would sacrifice herself for a single hair on your head? She couldn't deal with the fact that her son, the hero, who fought on every front, against every foe, had managed to get shot in a pathetic quarrel because some guy--from his own side, would you believe--had said, I spit in your mother's p.u.s.s.y! Shot over an insult!” She takes a step closer. ”It's so ridiculous, so stupid!” Her gaze wanders around the room and then settles, heavily, on the man who may or may not hear her. ”Do you know what your family said to me, before leaving the city?” she continues. ”That they wouldn't be able to take care of either your wife or your children ... You might as well know: they've abandoned you. They don't give a f.u.c.k about your health, or your suffering, or your honor! ... They've deserted us,” she cries. ”Us, me!” She raises her prayer-bead hand to the ceiling, begging, ”Allah, help me! ... Al-Qahhar, Al-Qahhar ...” And weeps.

One cycle of the prayer beads.

Desolate, she stammers, ”I'm going ... I'm going ... I am ... mad.” She throws her head back. ”Why tell him all this? I'm going mad. Allah, cut off my tongue! May my mouth be filled with earth!” She covers her face. ”Allah, protect me, guide me, I'm losing my way, show me the path!”

No reply.

No guide.

Her hand buries itself in her man's hair. Beseeching words emerge from her dry throat: ”Come back, I beg you, before I lose my mind. Come back, for the sake of your children ...” She looks up. Gazes through her tears in the same uncertain direction as the man. ”Bring him back to life, G.o.d!” Her voice drops. ”After all, he fought in your name for so long. For jihad!” She stops, then starts again: ”And you're leaving him in this state? What about his children? And me? You can't, you can't, you've no right to leave us like this, without a man!” Her left hand, the one holding the prayer beads, pulls the Koran toward her. Her rage seeks expression in her voice. ”Prove that you exist, bring him back to life!” She opens the Koran. Her finger moves down the names of G.o.d featured on the flyleaf. ”I swear I won't ever let him go off to fight again like a b.l.o.o.d.y idiot. Not even in your name! He will be mine, here, with me.” Her throat, knotted by sobs, lets through only the stifled cry ”Al-Qahhar.” She starts telling the prayer beads again. ”Al-Qahhar ...” Ninety-nine times, ”Al-Qahhar.”

The room grows dark.

”I'm scared, Mummy. It's all dark.” One of the little girls is whimpering in the pa.s.sage, behind the door. The woman stands up to leave the room.

”Don't be frightened, darling. I'm here.”

”Why are you shouting? You're scaring me, Mummy,” weeps the little girl. The mother rea.s.sures her: ”I wasn't shouting. I was talking to your father.”

They walk away from the door.

”Why are you calling my father Al-Qahhar? Is he cross?”

”No, but he will be if we disturb him.”

The little girl falls silent.

It is now completely dark.

And, as the woman predicted, the mullah has not come.

She returns with a hurricane lamp. Puts it on the ground near the man's head, and takes the bottle of eyedrops out of her pocket. Gently, she administers the drops. One, two. One, two. Then leaves the room and comes back with a sheet and a small plastic basin. She removes the dirty sheet covering the man's legs. Washes his belly, his feet, his genitals. Once this is done she covers her man with a clean sheet, checks the gaps between the drips of sugar-salt solution and leaves, taking the lamp with her.

Everything is dark once more. For a long time.

At dawn, as the hoa.r.s.e voice of the mullah calls the faithful to prayer, the sound of dragging feet can be heard in the pa.s.sage. They approach the room, move away, then come back. The door opens. The woman enters. She looks at the man. Her man. He is still there, in the same position. But his eyes draw her attention. She takes a step forward. His eyes are closed. The woman moves nearer. Another step. Silently. Then two. She looks at him. Can't see clearly. She isn't sure. She backs out of the room. Less than five breaths later she is back with the hurricane lamp. His eyes are still closed. She collapses onto the floor. ”Are you sleeping?!” Her trembling hand moves to the man's chest. He is breathing. ”Yes ... you're sleeping!” she shouts. Looks around the room for someone so she can say it again: ”He's sleeping!”

No one. She is afraid.

She picks up the little rug, unfolds it, and stretches it out on the ground. The morning prayer done, she remains sitting, takes the Koran and opens it at the page marked with a peac.o.c.k feather, which she removes and holds in her right hand. With her left, she tells the prayer beads.

After reading a few verses, she puts back the feather, closes the Koran, and sits thoughtfully for a moment, gazing at the feather peeking out of the sacred book. She strokes it, sadly at first, then anxiously.

She stands up, tidies away the rug, and walks toward the door. Before leaving, she stops. Turns around. Goes back to her place by the man. Hesitantly opens one of his eyes. Then the other. Waits. His eyes do not close again. The woman takes the bottle of eye-drops and measures a few drops into his eyes. One, two. One, two. Checks the drip bag. There's still some solution.

Before standing up, she pauses and looks nervously at the man, asking him, ”Can you close your eyes again?” The man's vacant eyes do not respond. She persists, ”You can, you can! Do it again!” And waits. In vain.

Concerned, she slips her hand gently under the man's neck. A sensation, a horror, makes her arm twitch. She shuts her eyes, clenches her teeth. Breathes in deeply, painfully. She is suffering. As she breathes out, she extracts her hand and examines the tips of her trembling fingers in the weak light of the lamp. They are dry. She stands up to roll the man onto his side. Brings the lamp closer to his neck so she can examine a small wound--still open, bruised, drained of blood but not yet healed.

The woman holds her breath, and presses the wound. The man still doesn't respond. She presses harder. No protest. Not in the eyes, or the breath. ”Doesn't it even hurt?” She rolls the man onto his back again, and leans over him so she can look into his eyes. ”You don't suffer! You've never suffered, never! I've never heard of a man surviving a bullet in the neck! You're not even bleeding, there's no pus, no pain, no suffering! It's a miracle! your mother used to say ... Some b.l.o.o.d.y miracle!” She stands up. ”Even injured, you've been spared suffering.” Her voice rasps in her tightening throat. ”And it's me who suffers! Me who cries!” Having said it, she moves to the door. Tears and fury in her eyes, she disappears into the darkness of the pa.s.sage, leaving the hurricane lamp to project the trembling shadow of the man onto the wall until the full rise of dawn, until the rays of the sun make their way through the holes in the yellow and blue curtains, condemning the lamp to insignificance.

A hand hesitates to open the door to the room. Or is struggling to. ”Daddy!” The voice of one of the children can be heard over the creaking of the door. ”Where are you going?” At the woman's shout, the child pulls the door shut and moves away. ”Don't bother your father, darling. He's sick. He's sleeping. Come with me!” The small footsteps run off down the pa.s.sage. ”But what about you, when you go in there, and shout, doesn't that bother him?” Her mother replies: ”Yes, it does.” Silence.

A fly sneaks into the heavy hush of the room. Lands on the man's forehead. Hesitant. Uncertain. Wanders over his wrinkles, licks his skin. No taste. Definitely no taste.

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