The Sand Fish (25 page)

S
he should have jumped up, run across to Jassem’s room, and returned those pearls as soon as Lateefa and Yaqoota left. Instead, Noora remained lying on her bed feigning fatigue, which had been her excuse for not joining them. And for a long time, after their voices had faded into the streets of Wadeema, she stayed where she was till she fell asleep and entered a dream overflowing with Lateefa.

She was behind Lateefa, who strolled across a sea of sand. Every now and then, the older woman would look over her shoulder with half-closed eyes, as if making sure Noora continued to follow her. There was a smile there, too, more of a pinch on the side of her mouth. It was discreet, yet it was filled with Lateefa’s typical self-assurance.

Step by careful step, Lateefa walked on, her feet leaving behind footprints for Noora to step into. Oh those feet, round and plump, leading her along. And there were Noora’s feet, long and
curious as a fox’s snout, stepping into Lateefa’s footprints, one foolish step at a time.

Noora awoke in a sweat, stapled to the mattress, to the voice of the muezzin. She fought against the numbness that weighed her limbs down as she staggered to the washroom. Crouched by the earthen jug, Noora poured water over her hands—three times on the right hand and three times on the left. Her movements were slow and uncoordinated as she performed her ablutions for the afternoon prayer. The three cold splashes to her face dribbled down her chin and sank into her dress.

That treacherous Lateefa! Hardly the gentle mother she pretended to be. The poison that lingered on her tongue was always hidden in sweet words and unfinished sentences. The thought left an ugly taste in Noora’s mouth, as if she were chewing a mush of rice, onions, fish, and bananas all in one go. She spat and rinsed her mouth—three times.

And then there was Hamad. Gone. Noora wondered how it was possible to feel loneliness and relief at the same time. She blew an irritated honk and slapped the water in the final three rinses for prayer onto her feet, first the right, then the left.

Noora caught a glimpse of her long shadow behind her, pushing her along, as she made her way to the door and nudged it open. The street was empty save for the familiar sounds that seeped through the
barastis
: the muffled voices of women, the whine of an infant or two, the clang of pots and pans, those persistent cat howls floating out of some hidden street.

She stepped out and turned toward the sea. There were the little girls and boys of Wadeema, doing what they did every afternoon. As she watched them hopping and rolling, tumbling
and running by the shore, the sudden flutters and cries of a flock of seagulls, flapping low over her head, made her start. Her eyes followed them as they flew toward the sea. That is when she spotted the sun, herding the last of the day’s rays back into its round form. Soon, it would sink into the horizon.

The urgency hit her sharp as a smack on the face—she had wasted so much time. Now her shadow dragged as she hastened to her room and pulled out the pouch of pearls from under the mattress. From the kitchen, she grabbed a rag to serve as a good excuse that she was cleaning in case anyone caught her, and she entered Jassem’s room.

She placed the pearls on the ground and looked up.
It was easy
, she thought. The keys were at the top of the cupboard, so all she had to do was pick them up, unlock the cupboard and safe, and then put them back. Simple.

She flung the rag to the ground and placed three
takyas
, one on top of the other, to the side of the cupboard. Once she was perched on top, her baby stirred and she dropped her left hand to her navel. Her other hand groped the top of the cupboard. When she did not feel the metal of the keys, she extended her arm farther, scraping and stroking blindly. Still nothing.

Noora rose onto her toes for a look. The keys were neither at the far corners nor lodged behind the sculpted urns that sat on either side.

She shook away the horror that was beginning to grip her and unleashed a frantic search, all the while cursing her stupidity in delaying the return of the pearls. Her arms burrowed under the mattress; she shook the
takyas
and pillows and checked what was behind them; she flipped the corners of the carpet, with its dizzying patterns that curled into each other. Fabric, weave, and stuffing was all she could feel. So she
stopped and scanned the room for other possible hiding places. She was certain the keys had been moved elsewhere to dodge burglars.

There were the shelved alcoves: three broad domes carved deep into the thick wall that faced the door. On them were various decorative vases and plates. She moved each carefully, but no keys sat behind them. She flung the
takyas
to the other side of the room and made another tower so that she could reach the decorative plaster screens above the door and windows. One by one, she poked her fingers into the recesses of the carvings of pots of flowers and into the squares and triangles that made up the geometric borders. As her frustration grew, so, too, did the movement in her belly. Her baby was wriggling and twisting like sand pouring out of a tight fist.

Finally, she stepped down. The light was dimming, and soon she would have to fetch the hurricane lamp. She had to hurry if she wanted to search Lateefa’s bedroom, too. She quickly neatened Jassem’s room, and just as she leaned over to pick up the pearls, her baby launched a big kick that surprised her into leaning heavily onto the side of the cupboard. She heard the cupboard groan. And something else, too—the plunk of sliding metal.

Her eyes rounded with anticipation, and in a flash she was pushing the cupboard with all her strength. It budged slightly and the wedged keys slipped to the ground.

And then her head was stuck to the side of the cupboard at an awkward angle while her hand tunneled through the gap. And Noora felt her baby swim in her. She ignored it—this was no time to calm its acrobatics. Her fingers stretched taut. Her knuckles snapped. She caught the keys.

And that’s when she heard the thud of wood on wood.

She held her breath and listened. Was that a door opening? With keys trapped in her fist, she hurried to steal a look into the courtyard. Satisfied that the house door had not shifted, she turned back to the cupboard. But there was the sound again: grating wood. She turned back again, only to see once more that the house door remained closed. And for a moment, she was puzzled. Until she saw it. Another door was opening. And her heart turned into a spasm of flapping wings.

There was Jassem pushing open the
majlis
door. There he was stepping into the courtyard. She was about to get caught, about to be labeled a thief. The thoughts tripped over each other in her head. He was going to lift a stern finger and point her to the street.

But he did no such thing. Jassem was lifting up his leg and slipping off his sandal. He was shaking the sand out. Now he was doing the same with his other sandal. Jassem had not seen her.

She felt the metal keys, hot as a dying coal, in her tight fist. She had to put the pearls back. Immediately.

She heard him plod across the courtyard as she unlocked the cupboard. He was calling her as she clicked open the safe, and she guessed he was by her room. Her fingers wormed through the knots of the pouches of pearls with his second call. She would not answer, would only finish her mission. With an odd thoroughness in the middle of her panic, she emptied the stolen pearls into their rightful pouch and locked both safe and cupboard.

He was coming. There was the rustle of his dishdasha, like wind through a tree, as he crossed the courtyard. Her heart was pounding. She still had to return the keys to the top of the cupboard.

The door opened with a grunt. And Noora was on her knees, her finger poked into the rag, as she rubbed the grooves of the cupboard’s blossoming vines with a fierceness that pulled her face into a scowl. She was ready, armed with a storehouse of excuses for being in his room.

“What are you doing?” Jassem asked. There was the gurgle of shock and bother in his voice.

A shrill voice screamed the answer in her head: “Cleaning!” But as she turned to look up at him, she could not verbalize all those excuses she had planned to throw at him. The words tiptoed on her tongue like the sprinkling of a light rainfall as she felt her hand slacken and the rag fall to the ground.

Then she was still. Crouched in place, guilt and vulnerability kept her as rigid as a withered tree stump. The only movement came from her baby, swimming strong, like the surge of water through rocks packed tight.

“Didn’t you hear me call? And why are you doing housework in your pregnant state?” He stepped close to her and squinted in the dimming light. “Look at you, flushed and sweating, like you’ve run to the sea and back.”

She had to act. He was about to say more, but Noora rose so suddenly he stopped short. Then, with a swooping arm, she seized his hand and nestled it on her belly.

Immediately, he tried to pull it away, but Noora kept her grip firm till the baby kicked. Then it was Jassem’s turn to stiffen. There was shock and hesitation in his tightened face. His eyeballs bulged, as if about to fuse with his spectacles.

“You can stroke it,” Noora said, as gently as she could manage through her shallow breath and the thundering beats of her heart. “Don’t worry, you won’t harm it. It is strong. Move your hand to the left a bit.”

Jassem’s fingers trembled as he let his hand slide along to the side of her roundness.

“A little lower,” she instructed.

Yes, shock and bewilderment washed over him as the churn in her stomach continued. Noora recognized something else in him, too: delight. It radiated from his face like the glimmer of the moon in an otherwise inky sky.

“It is moving so much now,” Noora said.

He did not answer her, only went on exploring the movement within her belly. With lips unlatched, she could see his tongue lying limp within the cave of his mouth. He was captivated.

Noora continued to draw the map of motion on her belly, instructing him to move his hand lower or lift it higher, move it to the right or left. “I don’t care what anyone tells me,” she said, “about how proper it is and all. I really think you should feel it.” She was quietly creating a bond between them by allowing him to enter her secret world—a woman’s mysterious world, there for sharing only between women. Watching him, she knew he treasured the privilege. And she felt bold enough to add, “After all, it is your child.”

He moaned, and Noora pulled in her reward of a proper lungful of air. She had averted disaster with her quick thinking. Jassem suspected nothing. She let her eyes drift to the urns that crowned the cupboard. The keys were lying safely at their base.

The baby kicked once more. Jassem flinched and Noora knew she had won a small piece of his heart.

N
oora placed one more shell in a line along the wall. There were eight altogether, each representing a month of her pregnancy. These were shells she had pulled out of the wall. Curved and chipped, yellowed with age, the shells had none of the beauty of the stones of her mountains. So she decided to create a pattern of sorts to make them look more attractive. She pulled off the necklace that clung to her neck and threaded it between the shells in a wavy line, a design she leaned back to admire, but only the glimmer of the gold filled her eye. The necklace, thick gold with a tassel at the end, was a gift from Jassem, along with a gold filigree bangle with a tiny, pink coral set in its center, which sat flat on her wrist.

Jassem was like a child with a secret toy, sneaking into her room whenever he could, always pleading with his eyes to touch her stomach. Of course, he didn’t have to, as she always agreed.
It was a small kindness for the appreciation and support that she was getting in return.

Now she could hear him approach her room. He was coming to her again. She slid the necklace back over her head and waited. The door opened with a sigh, and Jassem entered and crouched next to her. He tilted his head for permission and she nodded.

His forehead puckered with concentration as he moved a cautious hand toward her belly. This affectionate frown was reserved for when they were alone. In front of Lateefa, he’d always retrieve his formal self.

“It’s moving less now,” Noora said.

“Mash’ Allah,”
he said, and waited for the baby to stir.

“Look how big I am. And the baby’s bigger, too. I don’t think there’s much room for it to move anymore. Ah, wait, there…lower your hand.”

But Jassem didn’t have time, for Lateefa’s sudden bark broke his focus. He wrenched back his hand and looked over his shoulder. Lateefa had slunk into the room unnoticed, and now she was waving her finger at him.

“What do you think you are doing,” she scolded, “touching a pregnant woman like that? Shame on you! Don’t you know you shouldn’t be prodding women’s tummies?”

The embarrassment exploded in Jassem’s face. He stood up quickly and fidgeted. His eyes darted around the room, like a caged animal searching for an open door.

A panic washed over Noora as she watched him. He wanted to leave the room without answering. He wanted to flee. She sprang up and shifted in front of him, to face Lateefa. “It’s nothing,” she said to the older woman.

“Pah!”

“He only wants to feel the baby move.”

“Feel the baby move?” Lateefa scoffed. “There are customs we have to follow. Pregnancy is a woman’s business. Men should have nothing to do with it. Our husband should not be a part of it. What, you have suddenly decided to make up your own rules now?”

“My father touched my mother’s belly every day when she was pregnant with my brothers.” That was Noora’s answer. She did not waver, even though she was making it up. “I saw it and there’s nothing to it.”

“Maybe where you’re from, up there where the goats run wild,” Lateefa said. Her voice was filled with the crackle of gravel on glass. “But here, we have our ways. Even our goats know where they can run and where they can walk. Even our goats understand the rules.”

“What harm is there?” Noora persisted.

“Harm? Well…,” Lateefa said. “Well…that’s not the point, is it?” Lateefa was faltering, and Noora was about to prod on, when Jassem cut her off.

“Stop it, women, stop it both of you,” he said. He had remained standing behind Noora but now stepped between his two wives. “I won’t have you arguing and fighting like cats in my house.”

“But it’s her,” Noora said, as Lateefa turned away from them and walked toward the door. “She is always putting blame on me, making me feel everything I do is wrong.”

Lateefa grunted and folded her arms tight over her ribs. She had coiled into the corner of the room, and with a pained swivel of her head, she looked down at the ground. It was a poor-me pose; it was a take-my-side pose.

“Nothing I do is good enough for her,” Noora continued.

Jassem twisted back to Noora and whispered, “I know, I know.” Then his voice grew louder, more stern. “Not the way to talk about our Lateefa. She’s older than you are, and you should know to show some respect.”

“That’s all I ask for, some respect,” said a meek-voiced Lateefa.

“Respect, that’s all. Do you understand?” Jassem said, still speaking to Noora but looking at Lateefa. And then his hand snuck behind his back and groped the air. And Noora understood. She had stood up for him and he wanted to show his gratitude. So she slipped her hand into his. But she felt more—so much more—in his steady grip. It was a warm, protective squeeze, with just the right amount of pressure to make her feel special. “So do we agree?” he said. “No more fighting?”

“We agree,” said Lateefa.

“Yes, we agree,” said Noora.