Free I Sweep the Sun Off Rooftops by Hanan al-Shaykh Page A

felt lost away from the village.
    She rushed into her bedroom and knelt in front of the picture of the Virgin Mary as she had done when she first arrived; all those months ago she had asked her for forgiveness because she couldn’t reveal the truth, otherwise her mission would become impossible.
    Ingrid was sitting
, in Souad’s room among the village women, who were packed together like kebabs on skewers made up of meat and vegetables of all shapes and sizes and colors. She looked different too, although she had tried her hardest to make them leave her alone. It was as if, despite all her efforts, she’d only touched the surface of the water and it had gone a little cloudy then reverted to normal.
    As soon as Souad had announced the wedding, Ingrid had found herself sitting on cushions on the floor stretching out her hands and feet among the henna fumes, while the henna artist bent over them with a matchstick dipped in henna and drew beautiful delicate patterns. Ingrid had to stay awake all night to let them dry and make sure she didn’t smudge the fine lines. The next day she dressed in Souad’s wedding dress, which had been stored in a cloth bag. The women had insisted that she wear her hair loose. It almost reached her waist and had been covered up for so much of the time that it had grown streaky. The woman who had come to prepare her for the wedding had massaged it for ages, praising its length and thickness to the village women, who were seeing it for the first time and muttered, “In the name of God” as they touched it.
    “A moon on two legs,” said Iftikar. She recounted how her brother had vowed he would never marry until he had found a fair-haired bride and how she had visited all the girls’ schools in the area pretending to be a government employee until she had found a suitable candidate.
    “Her hair’s dyed,” screamed Kawkab. “There’s no such thing as a blond Yemeni.”
    Iftikar swore by all the saints that her sister-in-law was a genuine blonde and threatened to storm out when theydisbelieved her, but Souad begged her not to spoil the wedding preparations.
    The women couldn’t let this occasion go by without expressing to Ingrid the thoughts that raged in their hearts.
    “You’ve abstained for so long,” said one. “And now you’re marrying a Yemeni. Don’t you know Yemeni men are mad?”
    She waggled her head about and made her eyes bulge and stuck out her tongue.
    “Listen, Amina,” advised another. “Have four children, then lock it up,” pointing between her legs, “and hide the key.”
    “Hide it?” cried Iftikar. “You need to lock it and throw away the key, like I did.”
    They placed the bridal crown on Ingrid’s head. It was made of brightly colored cloth. They perfumed her with musk and burned incense around her, then sat her on a high pile of mattresses. These activities were accompanied by waves of song as the women crowded around her and sang to the beat of the drum and the drummer’s song: “O bride, beautiful as the moon.”
    Ingrid sat there, secure in her belief that this was what the Virgin Mary wanted from her. It was amazing how events had unfolded to produce just the right result. She was becoming one of them and so belief in her and consequentlyin Jesus would automatically pervade their hearts; even without them being aware of it, it would be happening all the time with every glance, every word. She was like a contagious disease, spreading her belief in Jesus among them whether they wanted it or not. Her silent prayers would have their effect on places, faces, souls, especially as she had not been forced to give up her religion and embrace theirs.
    Her dialogue with them would never be ended, that was the main thing. Her previous visits had been like a sudden cloudburst: they had gathered around in amazement to watch, but as soon as the rain stopped, off they went back to their normal lives, which revolved around cracking jokes, chewing qat, and