Dragons and Evil Spirits

DRAGONS AND EVIL SPIRITS

She phoned again. It took time till someone answered, then the sleepy voice asked, “Who is this?”

“Yusef was a wonderful husband,” she said. “And a wonderful lover.”

“Who is this?” the voice asked again.

“I was only fifteen when I married him. ‘Young and pretty like a butterfly,’ Yusef used to say.”

The phone went dead, and the happy memories closed within her.

Should she go to bed? She’d had her four phone calls. There was a creak behind her. Nura whirled round and saw Abdullah. Their eyes met; he smirked and went upstairs. She had always known one day she would get caught, but now it had happened, she was terrified. What should she do? She got up and looked around uncertainly. Then almost as if her feet had a will of their own, she walked out the front door in her royal-blue dressing gown and thin house slippers.

Dawn was breaking. The rising sun gently painted the mountainside, and the light eased her pain. Nura was a young child again, holding her father’s hand.

“Papa what’s at the top of the mountain?”

“Dragons and evil spirits, but I won’t let them touch you.”

He made this promise every week as they walked up the hill with the goats to meet his mysterious friends.

But then Papa had died. Grandpapa hadn’t grieved. Instead, he’d filled the house with angry outbursts against his son, and what danger and disgrace he had brought upon his family. Nura had cried. She couldn’t bear to hear her father talked about this way. And then, one by one, plans were made for them all. She’d been sent across the border to marry Yusef. She hadn’t wanted to go. How she had begged to stay, but Grandpapa wouldn’t listen. She looked up at the emerging sun. It would be hot soon; why hadn’t she brought water?

When she reached the main road, she was uncertain which direction to take. Which way was Gaza? She had no idea, but she plodded on. Her feet ached. She tried to escape the pain through happy memories of Yusef and their bedroom.

There had been little privacy in his parents’ home. Yusef would give her a message with his eyes, which she’d always understood. She would make some excuse, go into their bedroom, and wait, sometimes for as long as an hour, but he always came. He would hold her and call her pretty names before he aroused her. And after the lovemaking, he would hold her again. He had been so caring, so gentle, not like Albert, who made her feel like an animal. Albert who made her lie on her stomach and hit her bottom roughly till he got an erection.

“We can’t make children that way,” she said one night.

“I have enough children,” he’d replied.

“But I have none.”

The minute the words were out of her mouth, Nura knew she’d said the wrong thing.

“Think of Mama,” she commanded herself. “Think how surprised she’ll be to see you. Concentrate on the route. Don’t think of Albert and ruin the pleasure of freedom.”  

By ten o’clock in the morning she was thirsty. She had no idea how long she’d been walking, or how far she’d got, but her thirst was bad enough for her to stop at a kiosk and ask for some water. They didn’t speak Arabic, so she imitated drinking, and they thrust a dirty glass of lukewarm water at her. She drank it in one gulp, then repeated her sign language request. The next one she drank slower. She could see they felt uncomfortable and were waiting for her to leave. She said “thank you” in Hebrew, pleased the word had come to her.

When her father was alive, she often went to school.

“Can I stay home and help look after the baby Mama?”

“Now, Nura, you know your Papa will be cross. Still, it’s a lot of work to prepare the meal to celebrate the end of Ramadan, perhaps just this once.”

How many times had she heard, “Just this once”? Papa was always cross, but it had been fun being home with Mama, looking after her younger brothers and sisters. Years later, Yusef had decided to be her teacher.

“You live in Israel now, so you must learn some Hebrew.”

“Yusef was always kind, and never mentioned that no one wanted anything to do with the family after her father died. But her mother-in-law would mutter and complain about her constantly. Slowly, Nura understood that on her side of the border, people were too frightened to connect themselves to such a family, let alone marry them. And even on this side she was a burden.

“Now say B-vak-a-sha,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose.

“B-vk-shu,” she repeated.

“That’s not the way I said it.”

“It’s exactly the way you said it,” she replied.

“The trouble with you is you’re deaf,” he said, and bit her ear playfully.

Nothing was serious with Yusef, nothing except their lovemaking. They made love constantly, but they had not made children. Yusef had been sick. He couldn’t produce children and then he’d died of the sickness, leaving her with nothing but the memories of tingling pleasure.

She felt she had been walking forever. She had no idea what time it was, or where she was. The road was empty, like her heart had been after Yusef died. His family had been pleasant, but they weren’t happy to have a widow on their hands. Yusef’s cousin, Asmir, who had long been eyeing her, became impossible once Yusef wasn’t there to protect her. One night he’d crept into her room in the middle of the night, and into her bed. She had pushed and fought in silence, despite the cries of longing from her body, but to no avail. Ranya, his wife, had come in, found them, and blamed her. For a week she’d been confined to her room, then she was hastily dispatched to Albert. Married to this distant cousin, in a distant village, never to be seen or thought of again.

Had they deliberately chosen Albert for his cruelty, or was it her punishment for the secret desires she had felt when Asmir came to her bed?

She decided it must be two o’clock. Should she rest for a while? But it was a long way to Gaza. She wanted to ask someone if she was going the right way, but then she noticed the strange glances people were giving her. She caught sight of herself in a car window and realized why. In her dusty blue dressing gown, threadbare house shoes and unkempt hair she looked like a lunatic who had escaped the asylum. “But that’s what I need,” she thought. “Asylum.”  

When she finally sat down, she realized how exhausted she was. When had she last eaten? She couldn’t remember. If she fell asleep, would she have the energy to continue when she woke up? Better not rest. “Get up, keep going, Nura,” she told herself. She stood and continued to wearily walk along the road. “There’s nothing you can do to me,” she told the sun beating down hard on her head, “Albert’s done it all.”

The intense heat had faded, and the road was full of traffic. She had stopped at many places to ask for water. Some served her; some just shook their heads. The feeling of hunger had passed. A truck with an Arab driver stopped. He leered and offered her a lift. She wanted to say, “Take me to Gaza. Take me to my mother.” But she just shook her head. She no longer had the power of speech. She was an automaton, walking down a never-ending road. What if she was walking in circles, back to Albert? Her heart beat fast at this thought, but then she realized, the scenery was unfamiliar. She must be far away from her tormentor by now.

*****

    “Albert a son would honor your old age. To be a grandfather and father at the same time. Can you imagine how they would talk of your prowess?”

He had looked at her long, and she held her breath, convinced she was finally talking him round.

“Do you think I would ever generate your line,” he said in contempt. “The line of a traitor.”

He slapped her face hard.

“My father was an honorable man. And he never hit a woman.”

 He hit her again, then he threw her on the bed, and started beating her bottom even harder than usual. She had cried, but not from the pain he was inflicting. She wept for the unborn children she would never mother.

 Many times, she decided, I can suffer this. He’s old, in another few years he’ll die. But then she’d be at the mercy of his children. Would they marry her off again? How could they when she looked like an old hag and had no dowry. Who would take her? Only another Albert who wanted a cook for his family, a cleaner for his house, and an anus for his sexual desires. So, what would happen to her? I won’t be there. I’ll be home with Mama or with Hiba.

*****

“I’m cold,” Hiba announced.

“So am I. Come snuggle up to me, and we’ll both be warmer.”

 Her younger sister had climbed into her bed.

“Nura, can I help you and Mama do the cooking tomorrow?” Hiba asked.

 “Imagine Papa’s face when he finds two of his daughters didn’t go to school.”

They started to giggle.

 “He won’t know, I’ll hide,” Hiba said. “Talk to Mama; she listens to you.”

“Well, perhaps just this once.”

“You sound just like Mama,” said Hiba.

Hiba had been married to a man in Be’er Sheva, paralyzed from the waist down. Yet she had managed to have five children. Her sister had been lucky in the lottery of life. She hadn’t seen much of her since they left Gaza, but when they did meet Hiba always looked happy, and said what a good man her husband was.

The sun was going down and a cool wind was blowing, spreading chill thoughts through her mind, drowning out the happy memories.

After she’d been married a week, Albert had beaten her when she’d spilt the soup. He had taken off his belt in front of the children and grandchildren and given her two strong lashes on the back. She’d stood there petrified, while he screamed at her to clean it up immediately. No one had helped her. She tried to think of her mother, but thoughts of Albert hitting her entered unbidden. His shirt wasn’t white enough; she was disrespectful to his grandson; lately, he hadn’t needed a reason at all.

She could no longer see where she was going. The headlights of the cars blinded her, made her head ache, but she was too frightened to stop. When she realized that a car had stopped, she didn’t know what to do. She looked at the faces – a man and a woman. The woman’s face showed contentment. She’d looked like that when married to Yusef. She watched their mouths open and close, but the words had no meaning. The woman got out and touched her arm. It was the soft way Mama had touched her when she was a child. The woman was gesturing for her to get in the car. Nura knew she should refuse, but she was too exhausted to resist the kind face and the fact that someone seemed to care.

*****

They entered a village. The woman guided her into a house and put a blanket round her shoulder. Once when it had been very cold, Yusef had taken off his jacket and given it to her. She told the woman this, then remembered her companion didn’t understand Arabic. The appearance of a man speaking Arabic jolted her.

“What’s your name?” he demanded. “Where do you come from?” 

She knew better than to answer him. He was trying to trick her. He had come to take her back to Albert. But she was too tired to think, and it was hard to remember who she was safe with.

“I’m going to make you some tea,” the man said in Arabic.

She stared at him suspiciously. Would he put some drug in the drink? It took all her strength to get up and follow him into the kitchen. The woman came with her, passed her everything: the tea, which she smelt, the pot which she examined carefully and the kettle with the hot water.

The tea revived her, and suddenly the men weren’t there. She felt better – secure – when there was just her and the woman.

“You were what I was looking for when I phoned people every night,” she told her.

The woman smiled and nodded, which reassured her.

“Albert never knew I used the phone. He would never have allowed me to. I crept downstairs in the middle of the night, when other women are getting up to feed their babies, and I dialed a number, any number, and I’d talk. I’d tell them about Yusef. Sometimes I even told them about Albert.”

She could feel her eyes closing and was surprised to find the woman leading her to a couch, helping her lie down, covering her with a blanket.

“Papa used to do that. He’d tuck the sheets under my chin to prevent the dragons and evil spirits getting in. But they got in anyway.”

She surrendered to the beauty of sleep.

When she opened her eyes, she saw they were all sitting around talking quietly. It was the woman who first noticed that she was awake, and who gave her a cup of tea, and opened a packet of biscuits. She drank and ate gratefully. Only afterward, when she was sated, did she notice the Arab policeman. She knew him. He was one of Albert’s many relatives, but she couldn’t remember his name.

“Albert’s my cousin,” he said gently. “He’s had people all over Israel looking for you since about four o’clock this afternoon.”

“I won’t go back.”

She wanted to say it loud and clear, but her voice trembled, and she knew she was on the brink of tears. She wouldn’t cry. Not in front of all these men, who were staring at the walls, or the chairs, or anywhere rather than look at her.

“Where can you go?” the policeman asked her.

Where could she go? Who would take her in?

Nura was terrified.

“Please God,” she begged. “If I remember his name, will you save me? Will you let me stay with this kind woman? Or any kind person? Please God, just don’t send me back to Albert.”

She concentrated hard. She must remember his name. She could feel the impatience of the men around her.

 “Raffik, your name's Raffik,” she said.

 He shook his head, “No I'm . . . “

 “Don't tell me,” she interrupted.

She thought hard.

“Your name's Shukri.”

“Shafik,” he told her.

She was devastated. He’d told her his name. She was doomed. She stood up and allowed herself to be led away.