Henna House (36 page)

I wondered why Hamama was bothered by the clash of dark henna on pale skin. I lay on my pallet tossing and turning. I thought about all the different colors of the people of Aden, and the different contrast that henna would present on each of their bodies. Hamama was right—the henna on Mrs. Townsend's skin
did
look like blood, a skein or a web of it. But Aunt Rahel and my cousins had never shied away from henna's
bloody imagery. After all, Anath slays Mot and wades in his blood. Why did it matter if the British ladies' hands looked as if they had been dipped in the same river that we ourselves conjured? I was not superstitious like Hamama. But neither did I take henna for granted. I fell asleep puzzling over this question. I had a feeling that Mrs. Townsend would dismiss Hamama's warning as “utter nonsense.” But still, I felt as if I should warn her. Though when I awoke in the morning, it seemed silly, and I knew that I would keep Hamama's misgivings to myself.

I
t was five or six days later, when my uncle came home from morning prayers with a grim look on his face that bespoke misfortune.

“What is it, Uncle?”

“An accident at the Selim School. A ceiling in one of the classrooms collapsed. One of the teachers was killed, another injured.”

The old fire flared up behind my face and I ran out the door before my uncle could say another word. Police lorries clogged up the front entrance to the school. Uniformed men were rushing in, hauling out debris on their backs. Girls were everywhere, wailing, holding one another, saying psalms. The tragedy had unfolded just as teachers were arriving. Thank Elohim, no students were in the building yet. Parents had gathered with their daughters. One father had dropped to the ground and prayed loudly, praising Elohim that none of the girls had been inside when the ceiling fell.

I made my way behind a big group of girls. I opened my mouth to ask them,
Which teacher is it?
But I couldn't speak.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the square-jawed gentleman from Mrs. Townsend's photo. He was distraught and was being shepherded away from the building by two other men, their arms flung protectively around his shoulders.

I backed away, afraid to turn my body on the catastrophe. Afraid of who might come after me if I let down my guard. In my head echoed Masudah's old words,
What I am saying is that your aunt is the sort of woman people blame. For everything. They blame her equally for good or for evil.
I tore myself away and ran back home.

When I reached Aunt Rahel and Uncle Barhun's house, I ran out back to the necessary. My bowels loosened and I felt myself being emptied of every shred of anything save my fear. How had Hamama
known? And was it my fault? What if the teacher's husband came for me and demanded answers? What if others came and accused me of witchcraft? I took to my pallet and didn't get up for the rest of the day, not even to help prepare dinner.

That evening Aunt Rahel sat by my pallet and stroked my forehead. “No, it wasn't your teacher,” she said, “not your teacher who died, but another.”

“How do you know?”

“I made inquiries. I knew that you did the henna of one of the teachers, and when I heard of the catastrophe, I needed to be sure so we would know . . .”

“Know what?”

“What we were dealing with.”

“Aunt Rahel . . .”

“My dear?”

“Do you believe that henna can bring misfortune?”

“No, but I know that there are those who mistake our art for something that it isn't.”

“I am afraid. Hamama disapproved, I shouldn't have—”

“Don't be afraid, my darling. I have a friend who is a nurse at the hospital, and she reassured me that the British teacher is in full possession of her senses and doesn't blame anyone but the mortar and bricks that fell on her leg. Visit her, see for yourself. Her leg is broken, but it was easily set. She will recover with no permanent harm.”

“I'm not sure I can. What if she accuses me?”

“She won't. From what I have learned of this woman, she is much wiser than my daughter.”

“But Hamama sees the future.”

“No, Hamama sees possibilities, and when they come true, we mistake them for prophecies.”

I didn't go to the hospital, but I did send a little present to Mrs. Townsend. I purchased some leather at the market and made her a little purse. I would have embossed it with a pretty design, but I had no real tools, and my fingers bled as I worked a thick needle through the hide. I wrapped the purse in vermilion cloth and left it for her at the hospital entrance. I wrote a little note: “I am sorry for your misfortune, your friend Adela Damari.” I don't know if she even received it, for I heard that not long after her accident, she and her husband left Aden on a
steamer to England and never came back. As for me? I despaired of becoming a teacher and avoided the Selim School, walking a wide berth around it on my marketing path.

After that, I went down to the dock at Crater Harbor almost every day. Late winter had given way to early spring. The dock seemed more crowded than ever, bustling with travelers and merchants from all over the world. Secretly, I disagreed with Aunt Rahel. I had come to the conclusion that if Hamama had known that the British teacher would come to a misfortune, surely she was right about Asaf's arrival as well. And what if Asaf came to Aden and I missed him? What if he were to walk the streets of Crater and pass right by me as I was pounding
malawach
with the heel of my hand, inside Uncle Barhun's house? The thought that my fate might pass me by sickened me, but it also renewed my resolve. If Asaf were to come to Aden, I would find him.

Soon after I started going down to the harbor, Hani began to tease me. “It's not the boats but the boys you watch. The ones who come down the gangplank. Poor Adela, promise me you won't wait forever for Asaf. He could be on the other side of the world. He could be married or dead or living a dissolute life somewhere in Australia or Africa.”

“I don't know what you are talking about,” I lied. “I just go to the docks because it is interesting. I like to see the boats, and to imagine where they are from. Where they are going.”

“You don't have to lie to me, Adela.”

“I'm not.” I flattened my voice, and narrowed my eyes, but it was hard to be angry with Hani. Motherhood agreed with her. Her daughter, Mara, was a delight. Hani strapped her on her back and carried her around Crater, happier and more full of life than everyone else.

“You should let me introduce you to one of David's friends. His fellow student scribes. Here in Aden, a girl is allowed to meet her groom before marriage, and even to have a say in it. Without the Imam breathing down our necks, there are even love matches. There is one boy from Tunisia, another from Taiz. Both would be suitable candidates. David says they are both
handy with their quills,
though I assume he is referring to their mastery of letters and not to their expertise in more important matters. What a shame.” She laughed at her own joke, her voice trilling over the thought of playing matchmaker for me.

“No, Hani, I'm not interested.”

“You are becoming an old maid.”

“I'm only fifteen,” I bristled, swallowing my words. I was feeling my age like a noose around my neck. Time had become a crowbar that had kept me away from Asaf for years now.

Hani shrugged. “Our Mother Sarah may have given birth at the ripe old age of ninety-one, but I wouldn't want to be a baggy old mother. You should pay heed, my darling Adela. And don't wait on that good-for-nothing cousin of ours forever.”

I ignored Hani and kept my vigil. Every day, after I did my chores and marketing and helped with the cooking, I went down to the harbor and squinted at the ships coming in. When they docked, and their crews and passengers disembarked, I scanned the faces of new arrivals. Every few days I was sure I saw him. Once or twice I even yelled his name. But then he was too tall, or too short, or not as handsome, his nose too straight, his eyes lacking sparkle. I would end my watch as lonely as the day he left Aden, when I had been just nine years old. But then the next afternoon, another boat would come, the hull would slosh through the water, the boat boys would yell at one another to get out of the way, gulls would caw sloppy celebrations over their bounty of fish heads dropped between dock and harbor by careless fishermen, another ship would disgorge its crew and passengers, and my heart would hope anew.

B
y the spring of 1934, a full year after we arrived in Aden, my habit of walking the streets of Crater and standing watch over the ships as they entered the harbor had become ingrained. It was as if my bones knew where to lead me. No matter where else I set out for, I always ended up down at the docks. One morning, as I kept my sentinel, eyeing the boats and observing the activity of the busy port, a little British boy approached me. He was no more than three or four years old and had a smattering of freckles on his adorable upturned nose. He tugged on the bottom of my antari. I bent down and let him run his fingers through the coins on my gargush. He had funny little ears that stuck out and he smelled like vanilla syrup. The little boy stood back up and went back to his mother. He was wearing pale blue britches, a little linen suit coat, and a jaunty red cap. His mother had skin as pale as milk, and a blond cloud of hair swept up in a sleek knot.

I smiled, then I raised my hand and waved. Hani had given me new henna—a new Egyptian Eye of God that winked out at both of them from the middle of my palms. The mother blanched when she saw it and pulled her son away.

I dropped my hands by my sides and made fists, cupping my henna, protecting it from the British woman's glare. I supposed I looked very strange to her. Perhaps she was newly come to Aden and not yet accustomed to the place or its people. Like the refugees in the hostel, I still wore my antari and my gargush in Aden, even though that conventional dress set me apart from the Adeni Jews, who wore modern European clothing and looked down their noses at my “primitive” garb.

“Yalla yalla, out of the way, out of the way.” A team of six African men trudged by me with trunks on their backs, thick ropes bracing the leather boxes to their foreheads. I skittered out of the way, picking up
my skirt to avoid a big patch of mud. I took one look back toward the sea. A large gray ship was due tomorrow, a German freighter. Was Asaf on it? And if he was, would he recognize me? With a start, I put my hand to my head and tugged at my gargush. Would he think me too primitive now that he had seen something of the world? Should I stop wearing it? Would it be better to look like a sophisticated Adeni girl? I lingered a little longer and then took the uneven wooden steps up from the harbor. When I entered the dockside market, on my way back to Uncle Barhun and Aunt Rahel's house, I heard loud angry voices. At first I thought there was a disagreement in one of the stalls. But then the voices grew louder and multiplied. I picked up my pace but the yelling followed me, and seemed to be coming from every direction. At the end of a row of shops, I turned and saw a large group of young Muslim men gathering. Several were in suit jackets and turbans. A few were in army uniforms. Others were dockworkers, wearing nothing other than breeches.

I saw them yelling and shaking their fists in the air, becoming a roiling group, so many different faces contorted in fury. More and more men seemed to come from out of the alleyways. Soon the market was filled with an angry mob. At first I hesitated; I wasn't sure what to do, where to go. But then I broke into a run. Looking back, I saw with horror that behind me, Jewish shopkeepers were being pulled out of their stalls and beaten in the lanes. I fled, making my way through the market, but then tripped on a rut in the path. I scrambled back to my feet. Somewhere to my left I saw the British mother; she was holding her child, her lips curled in a snarl of fear, her eyes wide as moons. She was being jostled by the frantic crowd and then she was pushed backward and the child flew from her arms. The woman screamed. I tried to scramble toward where the boy had disappeared, and then I stepped on something slick and when I looked down, I saw with horror that I was standing in a pool of blood leaking out of the boy's trampled skull. His eyes were open but unseeing. His neck was bent sideways in an odd angle. All around me bodies were pressing and pushing. I tried to run, but was thrust into the mass of people. I tripped again, felt my shoulder hit the dirt, feet all around me. I realized that if I didn't move, I would be trampled like the boy. Suddenly hands reached down, grabbing me around my waist. A stranger pulled me up and dragged me into an alley, his hands pressing me farther into the darkness. I was sure that either my life was over, or
that I would emerge from the alley a torn and ruined girl. I struggled, reaching up and raking my nails across the young man's face. In the alley darkness, I could see that he was in a British army uniform. He let out a little
aaagh!
when my nails pierced his flesh, but he swallowed the sound. He reached for my wrists and pinned them behind my back. And then a whisper. “Adela.” My name. How could he know my name?

“Adela, it's me.” I looked up. “It's me, don't make a fuss. Let's not let them know we're here. It's not safe. Hush now.” He held me tightly. Instinctively, I continued to struggle. The alley was dark, and my senses were distorted from the violence of the mob in the market. I questioned my own eyes. My ears. Could it be? Could it really be? The wolf pup of my girlhood?
Binyamin!
A man now. Deep-set eyes, high cheeks, full lips. His eyebrow and upper cheek were bloody from where I had dug my nails in. From the street I heard a scream. My legs grew weak, my racing heart burst with fear. I began to shake. That poor boy, I thought, that poor little dead boy. I heard another scream, someone begging for mercy. I reached out and put my hands in Binyamin's hands. I felt Hani's Eyes of God press into his life line. And for a moment, my henna was the mark of the old warrior Goddess Anath wading through rivers of blood to lay claim to her brother-lover. I must have made a little sound—a surprised gasp—because Binyamin let out a hushed sigh onto the top of my head. He squeezed my hands. We stayed like that, shaking and embracing and trying to melt into the darkness of the alley as the roaring mob passed us by.