Free The Locust and the Bird by Hanan al-Shaykh Page A

everyone, instead of just a stone-bearing donkey? Why was it that, whenever I looked up at the stars, Mother told me off? She was afraid warts would grow on my face. But Abdal-Wahhab could stare at the heavens and sing, ‘I spent the long nights without sleep, without sleep as I counted the stars.’
    When the film finished, Fatme dragged me out of my seat. I didn’t want to leave, but we had to be out before the cinema lights came up, in case someone in the audience saw us with Muhammad.
    Talk became rife in Fatme’s household that Muhammad was sweet on me, but Fatme told me, ‘The so-and-so’s spreading a rumour that he’s in love with you, so no one will suspect it’s really me. Muhammad doesn’t want to ruin my reputation for nothing. Good God, just see what love can do!’
    I repeated to Fatme the very words used by Raja’s father when he refused to allow his daughter to marry the singer: ‘“I’m a father. How can I marry off my daughter to a mere singer? I leave it to your own conscience to decide. Just consider my role as a father. God help me!” ’ To which I added, ‘Yes, and Muhammad’s family will say, “How can you possibly marry a mere seamstress when we’re high-life people; we own horses and our father is village mayor?” ’
    ‘You sweet little scamp, you!’ said Fatme, laughing. ‘What a joker you are. Muhammad doesn’t have two pennies to rub together. He’s still at school. He can’t get married and rent a house of his own.’
    Then Muhammad stopped coming to visit Fatme. I decided that his family must have had something to do with it, although Fatme insisted he was just busy studying for his exams. Now I understood the true meaning of the word ‘longing’. It was the feeling I had when I passed the fountain and he wasn’t there; or when I saw his pen and inkwell on the bureau. I was bereft.
    Three whole weeks passed before he appeared at the fountain again. Overcome with joy, I ran to him. He greeted me coldly. Was it, I wondered, because my bra had snapped and I wasn’t wearing one? He ignored me and kept on reading the book in his hand.
    ‘Is it a historical tale?’ I asked.
    ‘No,’ he replied curtly. ‘It’s poetry.’
    ‘What’s it called?’
    ‘ The Swinging of the Moon .’
    ‘So even the moon has a swing,’ I said with a laugh.
    He didn’t laugh back. His severe expression reminded me of Ibrahim. I turned to leave, utterly perplexed.
    ‘So you’re engaged.’ I turned back to him and he glared at me accusingly. ‘And you kept it from me!’
    The only thing I could think of was the vendor who had tried to get a kiss from me in return for some extra lard. Could I have become engaged to him without realising it?
    ‘Come on, Kamila,’ Muhammad said, raising his voice. ‘Let’s cut out all the deceit and hypocrisy. You’re engaged to your dead sister’s husband and you’ve been hiding it from me.’
    ‘Me, engaged to that old man? By God’s own life, by the Prophet and Imam Ali, I am not engaged to anyone.’
    ‘Congratulations!’ he said.
    I began to cry. Here we were, the hero and heroine together, standing by the fountain. The hero was hurling accusations at the heroine, with her pale complexion and thick black hair. She fluttered around him in tears, protesting her innocence and trying to defend herself. I felt like throwing myself at his chest and weeping, ‘No, no, you must believe me. You have to believe me.’
    Muhammad called across the courtyard to Fatme’s uncle, who was busy repairing a primus stove. He walked over.
    ‘That family of yours are a load of criminals, by God! The same goes for the sheikh who drew up your engagement contract. I’ve heard the whole story from one of the witnesses. He didn’t want to witness the engagement of an eleven-year-old girl. But eventually he gave in.’
    I remembered the turbaned sheikh sitting in my nephews’ room two years earlier. It suddenly struck me what those fateful words, ‘You are