A Land Without Jasmine Page 5

  There were some videogames in her house but she didn’t like playing them. She claimed they hurt your eyes and that people hooked on them started to wear glasses prematurely.

  Jasmine taught me how to play chess, but I’m not fond of this complicated game, which reveals my dreadful ignorance. So I avoided lingering at her place after she had removed that heavy wooden box from her armoire. I used to claim I had a stomach-ache and leave, holding my belly, followed by her sceptical gaze. When Her Majesty noticed a correlation between my bouts of diarrhoea and the appearance of that hateful box, out of pity for me and my tummy she stopped bringing it out.

  She asked me once what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told her I wanted to be a government minister. Laughing, she asked, ‘Do you want to become a government minister so bodyguards will march before and behind you down the street?’

  Feeling hurt by her laughter I told her, ‘No, I’m not a scaredy-cat. I’ll carry a revolver tucked into my belt when I walk. I want to be a government minister so I can have a palace with a garden and a jerry-can special2 and…’ The words were on the tip of my tongue but froze there and I didn’t complete the sentence.

  ‘And what else?’ she demanded.

  Flushed with embarrassment I stammered and said in a low voice, ‘And I’ll marry you.’

  Her eyes opened wide and she laughed so hard her chest hurt. Then she seized my hand and dragged me to her mother to tell her I intended to marry her.

  At that moment I felt a terrifying dizziness, my eyes were blinded, my mouth felt dry, my knees shook and I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me. To my surprise, Jasmine’s mother didn’t get angry and didn’t think of beating me. Instead, she burst into resounding laughter and her fingers began to tousle my hair.

  On another occasion, I asked Jasmine about her ambitions for the future. Then she replied that she wanted to become an archaeologist and that excavating the ruins of ancient Yemeni civilizations and studying them was the dream of her life.

  She told me about the ancient Yemenis, who took the moon for a God named Almaqah and built huge temples to honour him. They offered sacrifices to him and launched wars in his name. They believed that the secret to their great wealth lay in obedience to his word. Jasmine herself was very fond of the moon and waited for it to appear every night. That made me wonder whether she secretly worshipped it. Naturally this was a silly idea, because worship of the pagan god Almaqah died out in ancient times and no one on the face of the earth still embraces it.

  Later, when she felt more self-confident, she repeatedly visited the National Museum where treasures of ancient Yemen are stored. I would play along with her interest in these remains of the past out of love for her, not for ancient civilizations. As a matter of fact, I didn’t think they were worth much. I was incredulous that people spent so lavishly to preserve these artifacts.

  She had scientific encyclopaedias with coloured bindings and a lot of books about ancient ruins. She consulted these repeatedly without ever growing tired of them. Occasionally she would vary her reading habits and pick up a detective story by Agatha Christie or a book of poems by Nizar Qabbani.

  I would dawdle in their home till it was time for supper and then everyone would insist that I stay and eat with them. So I would, feeling slightly uncomfortable. But the warmth of their glances and the goodness of their hearts dissolved the psychological barrier between us and left me feeling part of the family.

  Jasmine’s mother’s food is unparalleled and has a wonderful aroma. Anyone who has tasted it once will never forget it as long as he lives. I found myself captivated by the dishes Jasmine’s mother prepared and by their wonderful taste, so I started inventing excuses to linger in their apartment till suppertime arrived.

  This arrangement lasted for a full year, but a despicable slander from Hajj Sultan the grocer turned Jasmine’s life upside down and ended the most beautiful chapter in my life. One day he waited for Jasmine’s father to return in the evening and then told him his daughter had played ball in the street with other girls, exposing her legs, and that the neighbourhood’s young men (‘the Rogues’) had formed a circle around the girls and showered them with shameless expressions of love.

  When Jasmine’s father got home her mother had the supper set out as usual. She and Jasmine were sitting on one side and I on the other, leaving the place of honour for the paterfamilias, whom we had been awaiting. Jasmine’s three older brothers are all serving in the armed forces.

  When Nashir al-Ni‘am stormed out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him with all his might, my heart fell. I felt that an inescapable calamity was descending on us. He took his vacant place, his face pulsing with anger. His eyes glittering, he asked Jasmine, ‘Is it true that you played ball in the street?’

  Jasmine looked down, intimidated by the look in his eyes, and replied in a feeble voice, ‘Yes.’

  He screamed at her, ‘Didn’t I forbid you to play in the street?’

  Jasmine’s face turned white and her eyes welled-up.

  Roaring like a raging camel he continued, ‘Nincompoop, why did you disobey my command?’

  He picked up the dishes from the table and began to pour food over Jasmine’s head. She burst into tears but didn’t budge. Blinded by rage Nashir al-Ni‘am rose and then fell upon her like a savage beast, kicking and slapping her. Jasmine was moaning and weeping but didn’t resist him. Her mother was wailing and screaming but fear prevented her from intervening. As for me, I was appalled by the horror of the situation and almost wet myself. I slipped away without anyone noticing and fled home.

  Whenever I remember my cowardly, weak-kneed reaction I feel ashamed and disgraced. I blame myself for not trying to defend Jasmine and protect her from her father’s brutality. I could at least have shoved my body between them, even if I would have been beaten.

  The chance of a lifetime to show her my gallantry had arrived but I had reacted in such a pathetic way that I lost her respect and sank in her opinion. In her hour of need I had deserted her. I fled to save my skin and abandoned her as if I didn’t know her!

  I admit that this horrible situation is my single worst memory, the black spot on my record and a curse. I am prepared to sacrifice half my life to erase this ill-fated incident from my karma. If only it had never happened! If only it had happened to someone else!

  This incident was a turning point in Jasmine’s life; overnight she moved from the world of children to the world of women. She began to veil her face whenever she left her apartment and they secluded her from contact with males. They even prevented me from visiting her.

  Jasmine was suddenly out of reach; approaching her had become impossible. Separation from her was a knockout blow for me. It was as if I had lost both my parents at once, as if this beautiful world had spat me out. For a time I held a grudge against Hajj Sultan because he seemed a cunning devil who had conspired against me, expelling me from my paradise.

  I was so sad I became depressed. I spoke little, didn’t move around much and didn’t feel like playing. I spent hours staring into space. From time to time I would sigh bitterly and this troubled my mother, who told me that only a debtor or a miscreant who feared being hurled into the dark recesses of prison would moan like this. I would reply that I was concerned about my studies and feared I would fail this year.

  She was so worried about me that she rolled her eyes, and her love squirrelled away a grief like mine inside her. She kept me company in my torment – even though she was preoccupied by caring for my younger brothers – and suffered along with me as if she were part of my body.

  I didn’t even feel like eating and lost half my weight. My bones stuck out and my clothes were too big for me. My loss of weight in this sudden manner made my father suspect I had contracted a serious illness. So he made the rounds of the hospitals with me and many tests were performed on me. He was eventually convinced, although with difficulty, that I was healthy and not suffering from any malady, even if he would occasionally
declare that modern doctors knew nothing about medicine.

  Six months later, a thought occurred to me that seemed eminently sensible. It was that by eating a lot I would grow up fast and consequently could, at the earliest opportunity, present myself to Jasmine’s family as a suitor for her hand. These hopes, which sprouted within me, brought back my appetite and I wolfed down copious quantities of food. So my weight increased and I grew taller. By exerting an enormous amount of willpower to force my body to yield to the idea that governed me I succeeded. Today I possess a powerful body and look like a tall, broad-shouldered man.

  All ties between the two of us were severed and we didn’t even exchange greetings, as if our shared memories were an odious crime that should be renounced and atoned for. It seemed that for Jasmine to wear a niqab, to cover her face with a piece of black cloth, was a sign that she had lost her memory and a warning that she had voluntarily broken with the past and forgotten it.

  The niqab was a black banner a girl in the neighbourhood flew to announce a rupture with boys her age, a statement that even if she had known them in the past she didn’t know them now. She had declared war on their previous friendship. Thanks to the niqab, Jasmine, the friend and confidante whom I had seen almost every day, became a stranger, a creature from another world.

  In my dreams back then I saw myself crashing against strands of barbed wire, which multiplied and grew like jungle trees as I tried to cross endless black walls. Even though Jasmine had renounced the past and pretended not to know me, I, quite unlike her, became ever more attached to her and my infatuation grew.

  Her presence enveloped me as if I were a foetus in her womb. Every breath that escaped my lungs whispered her name. Each of my gestures was deliberate, as if I lived under her constant supervision.

  I rearranged my armoire and used only part of my bed, as if she were living with me in the same room. I would tell myself this would appeal to her taste and that would not. I wasted a lot of time in internal debates about what she would and would not like.

  I had resolved to marry her and to bring her back to this humble playpen of mine. So every day I made a huge effort to keep the room clean and tidy, to beautify and decorate it.

  I imagined her combing her hair before my mirror, pulling out a drawer to get her lipstick, napping on my bed and pulling the coverlet that we shared over to her side as she enjoyed sweet dreams.

  My sudden and compulsory separation from Jasmine caused an eruption of my dormant sexual volcanoes. Lusty fantasies totally overwhelmed me. My flaccid, boyish prick began to torment me, becoming erect when I walked on the street and saw girls my age. I would feel quite uncomfortable, believing that all the passers-by noticed my distended member. That thought caused me unbearable psychological torment. I tried to goad my brain into issuing stern orders to that rebellious organ to cease its display, but it ignored my brain’s orders and stubbornly persisted in its swelling erection!

  Now I can laugh at myself for blushing, turning pale, feeling anxious and walking awkwardly when I thought people spotted it, even though it was concealed by my clothes and no one noticed it. These were immature fantasies, a child’s embarrassment at the onset of puberty.

  In my jurisprudence class, the teacher gave lectures about major ritual impurity and menstruation, the difference between semen and pre-seminal fluid, which of them makes full ritual cleansing obligatory as opposed to partial ablution, and other topics that concerned the genitalia of men and women. Then I would feel my blood boil with lust and my brain overheat and flare up while my little friend grew long and hard.

  I would suffer in agony and want to flee from the class for fear of becoming fully aroused and climaxing so that the white fluid the professor had given us a headache by discussing would flow over the classroom’s floor tiles as I ejaculated, publicly humiliating me so I became the butt of jokes by the students and teachers. They might even expel me from school on account of my disgraceful deed.

  I was frightened by these erections that I couldn’t control and was apprehensive about the untoward consequences of the scourge of having an orgasm at an inappropriate moment – in class, for example – when I would be scolded and beaten for my lack of manners. I would wonder whether I would suffer my whole life from my little friend’s erections.

  I would grieve and tell myself that perhaps I wasn’t like other boys. After I dreamt of Jasmine, I was afflicted by enormous regret that I had awakened before consummating my lovemaking with her. Then I would blame myself and decide that in my next dream I wouldn’t open my eyes and would continue my dream to its culmination.

  When I turned thirteen and reached puberty I became a devoted practitioner of masturbation, jerking off at least once a day and occasionally two or three times in a single day. My daily routine didn’t change. When I returned home from school I would eat lunch and apply myself to my lessons. After finishing my homework I would relieve my tension by ejaculating a large quantity of fluid. By then it would be time for the afternoon prayer and I would descend to the street, where I would buy a bottle of cola from Hajj Sultan and three triangular cookies dipped in chocolate. I would sit outside on the store’s bench where I would eat and drink deliberately until the sun set. All the while my eyes were trained cautiously and slyly on Jasmine’s window.

  Jasmine would occasionally peek out from her window, but there might be lean days when she didn’t appear at all. Hajj Sultan was annoyed that I sat for hours on the bench outside his store and made rude comments to make me leave, but I endured his malice and impudent remarks for Jasmine’s sake. Any day that my eye was graced by the light of her face I felt joy and contentment. Then I would depart, feeling thankful for her kindness, as bliss settled deep inside me.

  On a day when I was denied her presence and the sight of her I would feel low for the rest of the evening and peace of mind would find no way to my door. Apprehensions and suspicions would afflict me and I would say perhaps something has happened to her. Perhaps she’s too ill to stand and grant our street a momentary glance of greeting. Perhaps her boorish father has learned that I wait every afternoon to delight my eyes with a glimpse of her lethal beauty and has forbidden her to approach the window.

  If her beloved head did not peek out, night would descend on me while I was stationed in my spot. I would be still hoping she would appear and disperse the gloom, but she never appeared at her window after dark. On ill-omened days I would be on the verge of tears when I returned home, feeling a grief larger than the oceans. My mood would be turbulent and mercurial. When I sat down to supper with my family the least word could set me off. I would become nervous, rash, querulous and prone to express my annoyance by yelling and kicking pieces of furniture.

  When I retired to bed a crazy desire to slip into Jasmine’s apartment would tempt me. I could scale the external drainpipes and gain entry through a bathroom or kitchen window that had been left open. I could invade her bedroom to kneel by her bed while she slept. Then I could quench my thirst by gazing at her fascinating face.

  I assumed I could continue contemplating her face to my heart’s content with no objection from her to cause me any anxiety. I would be oblivious to any creature besides her. Then I could absorb her features at leisure, hour after hour, until the cock crowed to announce that dawn was dancing on the distant horizon.

  I was happy when there was some disturbance on our street, a quarrel between two women who were neighbours or a fight between two boys, because when the shouting grew loud and people gathered, curiosity would induce my beloved to poke her head out of the window so she could observe what was going on. I secretly prayed that God would multiply the disputes on our street and fill it with disturbances!

  When Jasmine entered the university our routes coincided. Then I would press myself against the inside of our apartment door and watch through its peephole for her to emerge. When she opened her door she would glance at the glass peephole and then quickly descend the stairs. Once I could no longer hear her footsteps
I would open my door and pursue her.

  While I walked behind her I would forget the world around me, thinking only of her. I would savour her charms the way a coffee connoisseur sips one drop at a time. Although only a few metres separated me from her, my mind would try to eliminate it. I imagined myself cleaving to her, pressing my body against her hot, tempting flesh.

  I would stockpile in my memory images of all her curves and the sway of her tantalizing body so I could recall them when I was alone and use them in a shameless imaginary love tryst in which each of us would offer our body to the other liberally and generously.

  I would focus all my senses and my spirit on her dancing buttocks, which resembled the two palms of a drummer beating a drum of delights. I was so filled with desire that I could have ignited.

  I observed her rump so often that I began to walk like her, taking feminine, fluid steps as my buttocks rose and fell, even though this has created some problems for me. I began my day with divine enjoyment of these beauties and a lecherous pursuit that gave me a feeling of intoxication and unruly vigour.

  On February 14th I awoke feeling blue and got up recalling the remnants of a vile dream. I entered the bathroom and attended to my needs. Then I took my father’s razor and began to stroke the hairless skin above my mouth. They say this is a way to encourage your moustache to sprout faster and to make the individual hairs plentiful and long, like the Turks’ moustaches.

  My hand trembled foolishly and I cut myself, making my face bleed. I washed my face with soap and water and left the bathroom with my finger on the wound to prevent any further bleeding.

  I put on my boring school uniform – it’s a dusty sand colour – and turned the shirt collar up. I sprinkled cologne on my chest and combed my hair while scrutinizing my attire in front of the mirror. My mother called me from the kitchen. I picked up my books, which were wrapped in a prayer rug, and checked the clock, which indicated that it was 7.25 a.m.