Love in the Kingdom of Oil (10 page)

Instead of replying, the woman hid in a way that seemed natural. She turned away without leaving any sound behind her, and there was no trace of her feet on the ground.

‘Are you running away without a single word?’

She cried out in a high-pitched helpless voice, totally inaudible. She stopped moving and returned the chisel to the bag. He tongue began to rub against the roof of her throat. The sound of the rubbing was audible in her ears. She suddenly noticed the bottle on the shelf. It was totally dry. She raised it to her mouth and shook it a number of times. Not a single drop fell from it. She broke into sobbing, without making a noise, without tears and without sadness, despair, or anything. She did not feel anything at all. It was another woman sobbing, not her.

She stuck to the ground pretending to be dead. She curled up, hoping to be rescued. She moved her eyes a little towards the door. The man was standing in the doorway, hair dishevelled. Had he been listening to her? She let her tears fall before she lost the opportunity. But weeping was not effective. Her lips moved in a sort of indecision. Perhaps a smile was preferable. She did not feel any prick of conscience. She could smile in his face in spite of everything, were it not for her intense weariness and a sort of pins and needles, like paralysis, running through her lips.

His face was towards the wall and his back towards her. The smile appeared unnecessary. The jar was hot because of the sun. Her breathing was irregular like that of an ox in the process of dying. She bent her neck the other way to lighten the load. She opened her eyes for a moment against the sun. Then she closed them immediately with great firmness.

When she arrived at the company her face was like a grilled fish. Her cheekbones were charred. On her head under the bottom of the jar was a deep hole. At the end of her neck was a swelling that oozed a black liquid. Her
jallaba
was covered in stains and the smell rose with the sweat.

Her boss from work stared at her through the corners of his closed eyelids, ‘You must put on a clean cloak and perfume under your armpits.’

‘Yes . . .’

‘It’s time for His Majesty to arrive, and we don’t want to offend his nose, do we?’

The muscles of her tongue would not obey her enough for her to reply, and her voice came out brokenly, ‘On the night . . . of the festival . . . the full moon . . . appeared . . .’

She remembered a song from her childhood. She used to sing it with the girls in school when the headmaster arrived. They would sing it together: ‘The full moon has risen upon us, and behind it comes the wife of the headmaster wearing circles of light round her neck, her hands and her feet. After her come the women racing each other on dainty heels. Their faces are turned downwards towards the ground and their bottoms shake from behind.’

The full moon has risen upon us . . .

She did not know why her neck bent and twisted inwards. It appeared as if she was bowing to offer a greeting, seeking to hide the swelling sticking out between the folds of her neck. She wiped her skin with the palm of her hand, getting rid of the black stains. Why did she feel all this disgrace?

She thought that she was the sacrifice for the festival, and that she had to hide the traces of blood after the slaughter. She could have faced disgrace, if it wasn’t for the man. If it wasn’t for him she could be saved, but what after she was saved?

A sudden question came to her and she did not know what she would do if she was destined to be saved. ‘I will write my life story.’

She heard the man laugh with a sound like a cough. He was bent over the jar, filling it. The jar also convulsed with the noise. She heard the rumbling inside its full stomach and realised that the oil was laughing too.

‘Are you seriously thinking of writing?’

‘Well, outside work hours revelation could fall.’

‘Revelation?’

‘Yes, revelation can sometimes fall on a cowherd or an oil caterpillar.’

‘This oil will get the better of any revelation even if it falls from heaven.’

‘Perhaps the outcome will be different if the revelation comes from the bowels of the earth.’

‘What do you mean, woman?’

Her mind was not capable of reply. It appeared that the conversation was without meaning. The fever in her head grew more intense and the pain in the back of her head was like the banging of a hammer. She tied the scarf tighter and fastened it above her forehead. She did not know from what hole in her head emerged the idea of writing.

Revelation descended without need for writing or reading. His Majesty raised his head upwards and revelation fell from the sky like rain. They poured it into jars and on the Festival they distributed it with the allowances. A man received a whole jar for himself and a woman half. A woman could not receive her portion for herself. Her husband or some other representative had to deputise for her.

‘Self-deception doesn’t benefit anybody. Moreover, such fantasies are pointless.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Writing for instance is no more than a sort of fantasy. If His Majesty neither reads nor writes, and the prophets didn’t either, then that means that they did not need writing or reading. Moreover, what is the difference between carrying a pen and carrying a jar? Speak! Don’t be stupid!’

The woman bent her neck and did not reply. Silence was a very good thing. It pushed her to close her eyes in total despair.

She raised the jar onto her head and rushed outside. On the other side of the lake, a new storm was coming up. There was nothing for her to do but to keep on the track until the end. The idea of uncovering their faces was still far beyond their comprehension. They had been carrying jars from before sunrise and had disappeared in the darkness.

She stretched her arm upwards and shook the jar violently. All that poured out of it was a congealed drop of oil. Her eyes looked heavenwards. She could see nothing. She moved her fingers towards her nose and a smell of stale gas arose from them.

‘What would happen if her life continued in this way?’

Perhaps there was a plot being hatched. The company boss had a light skin and prattled on in a foreign language. The newspaper said that he was a big-hearted man. He exchanged jars with His Majesty as a sign of affection. Also in this archaeological region there were the remains of the dead, and excavations made holy by the ancient gods and some goddesses from the Stone Age that they sought.

‘Yes, the holy things have changed with the rising of the storm.’

‘Aren’t there any excavations here in the bowels of the earth?’

‘There’s only oil, woman.’

‘What’s this?’

‘An extra bottle on the Festival of His Majesty. Didn’t I tell you that he is big-hearted, full of compassion, and does not forget his subjects? How would you feel about having a swig? Let’s celebrate the Festival of His Majesty together.’

She twisted her tongue inside her throat and moved her feet in the air like a hobbled ox. This man was not her husband, nor a police commissioner. Why didn’t he undo her fetters and let her return? She was a young woman in the prime of her life; she bore the title of ‘researcher’ and had a husband waiting for her.

‘I will fill a glass for you.’

‘Isn’t drinking forbidden?’

‘It’s all right as long as we’re by ourselves and nobody sees us, although we need to be a bit cautious. They have distributed these bottles among us, and that means that drinking is permitted on the evening of the Feast until the dawn cannon is fired. Are you still alive? I see you’re not breathing. Take this glass and forget everything.’

‘I will forget.’

‘Is that a promise?’

She shook her head as a sign of assent. The night of the Festival appeared totally suitable for flight. After he had drunk his fill, the man would lose consciousness. All she had to do was buy a return ticket. She opened the bag to take out some money. There was nothing there. She turned out the lining and shook the bag. Not a single coin fell out.

‘Where’s the money?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I work and I deserve a wage.’

‘I’d like to ask you a little question, simply to satisfy my curiosity.’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t I provide you with everything, even love? Are you lacking anything? Come on, speak and don’t deny it!’

‘You are an exemplary man, that’s true. But I work all day and part of the night. Who pays my wage?’

‘Your wage is due from God.’

‘God? What are you saying, man?’

‘Don’t you believe that God exists, woman?’

His voice had become angry and the tone threatening. She was demanding her wage and he was demanding that she have faith. She did not know, but the situation had been reversed. He had become the person in the right, and she no longer had any request to make. He had put her in the dock and had begun to circle around her ruffling his hair and roaring like a lion.

‘The heart of a woman like you isn’t filled with faith. You deserve nothing apart from fire and burning. Come on, speak and defend yourself.’

She was tongue-tied and unable to reply. She was just as much a believer as the man, and more so. Her heart was big, bigger than his. It was large enough to embrace a faith bigger than his faith, a faith that also included the ancient gods – and the goddesses. But what was the relation of gods with money? She was a woman who did her work without shirking. She carried a jar on her head in an official oil company. The work was hard, and it had become even harder when the storm rose. She could have avoided all this trouble. She beat her feet on the ground, crying, ‘All this toil!’

‘Why did you come then?’

She froze in her place without speaking. The reply was as clear as the noonday sun. She had come because she could not continue there. Yes, she had come to avoid greater toil. That was the sum of it.

‘Is that the sum of it?’

‘Yes, that is the sum of it.’

The matter appeared very simple. Her lips let out a deep sigh as if she was resting. Her head suddenly bent forward over her chest as if she was sleeping. However, the movement woke her up and she paid attention once more. Her head was heavy and the heat, along with the heaviness of the jar, was gushing over her from above. It was as if she was carrying the disc of the sun at midday, even though it was night and the man was lying beside her with his eyes open.

‘Haven’t you got a BA?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This matter upsets His Majesty and the boss of the company of course.’

‘Hasn’t any woman here managed to obtain a BA?’

‘There was one woman, of poor parents. Her whole family were thieves. They said that she was possessed by a demon, for demons follow poverty, and thieves follow demons. Nevertheless, she did not succeed in running away.’

‘How was that?’

‘The newspapers published her picture and they brought her back before she had gone beyond the fixed boundaries of religion.’

‘Do you mean that not a single woman has run away?’

‘And not a single man.’

Her body slumped even as she lay there. It was as if she was falling into an even deeper sleep. She curled up in a ball like an oil caterpillar. Her face turned the colour of the earth. She pressed her hand against her breast. Then she burst out, ‘There’s no pulse!’

The man sprang up from the bed. He began to knead her heart with his fingertips. She was overcome with astonishment but could not refuse. He was seizing the opportunity of the absence of a pulse to press on her chest with his finger. He passed his finger through the cleft between her breasts. There was a congealed layer of oil with a sweaty smell. She mumbled in a sort of embarrassment, ‘I was intending to take a bath, but . . .’

‘There’s no need for embarrassment, for I’m not a stranger.’

The moon was casting a pale light on the lake, a round stain of faint white above a stretch of gloomy black. The window panel was made of planks of wood with a stout bolt. On it were growing clumps of oil; the edges were turning green. The window was low and had cracks in it, through which the women’s eyes were looking. Three or four were trying to stop themselves laughing. One of the ladies was talking to her neighbour in the adjoining house. She was telling her what her husband did with her in bed. She interrupted her talk with bursts of braying laughter and then burst into tears.

‘You have been married for ten years and you haven’t become pregnant yet!?’

‘It’s God’s command.’

‘Rather it’s that cursed second wife. She’s cast a spell on you.’

‘Is it magic then? What a disaster!’

‘You are more fortunate than me. Your husband has only one other wife, but mine has three others. No sooner has one’s spell finished its work than another begins.’

‘Nevertheless, you became pregnant, didn’t you?’

Seeping through to her through the wall, her voice sounded like her aunt’s. She used to wrap a black veil around her head and go out. She used to wander through the alleys collecting seashells, and the bones of the dead from the bowels of the earth. She used to crush them in a grinder with alum and frankincense. She used to drink the potion before breakfast and before going to bed at night. She used to dampen her husband’s pillow with it and the member between his thighs. Every demon used to have a special veil. It used to be written on by a blind sheikh in a darkened room. A blind man was more powerful than a sighted person in driving out demons. And of course a dead sheikh was more powerful than a blind one. The woman used to pay a piece of silver or a slaughtered chicken. A woman could not become pregnant without paying something.

The women’s voices ended at night’s end, when morning dawned with crimson rays which burned like tongues of fire.

‘I beg you, haven’t I got the right to have a drink of water?’

He must have been fast asleep. She did not hear a reply. His
jallaba
was torn from the chest. He was soaked in black sweat like congealed blood. Particles of oil stuck to his hair, and his lips were cracked like drought-stricken earth.

‘Can’t you hear me? A drop of water, please.’

Her voice was dry, and her body was trembling with fever. Heat was rising from under her skin, dissolving the grimy crust bit by bit. Her lips opened, gasping, and she licked up the melting liquid with the end of her tongue.