The Patience Stone Read online

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she whispers. She is in the doorway, leaning down to pick up her veil, when a sudden gunshot, not far away, rivets her to the floor, freezing her mid-movement. A second shot, even closer. A third … and then shots ringing out from all directions, going in all directions.

  Sitting on the floor, her wails of “my children …” reach no one, drowned out by the dull rumblings of a tank.

  Bent double, she makes her way to the window. Peeks outside, through the holes in the curtain, and is filled with despair. A tear-soaked cry bursts from her chest, “Protect us, God!”

  She sits against the wall between the two windows, just beneath the khanjar and the photo of her mocking man.

  She is groaning, quietly.

  Somebody shoots right next to the house. He is probably inside the courtyard, posted behind the wall. The woman chokes back her tears, her breath. She lifts the bottom of the curtain. Seeing a shape shooting toward the street, she moves sharply back, and cautiously makes her way to the door.

  In the passage, the silhouette of an armed man makes her freeze. “Get back in the room!” She goes back into the room. “Sit down and don’t move!” She sits down where her man used to lie, and does not move. The man emerges from the dark passage, wearing a turban, with a length of it concealing half his face. He fills the doorway, and dominates the room. Through the narrow gap in his turban his dark gaze sweeps the space. Without a word, he moves over to the window and glances out toward the street, where shots are still being fired. He turns back toward the woman to reassure her: “Don’t be afraid, sister. I will protect you.” Once again, he surveys his surroundings. She is not afraid, just desperate. And yet she manages to act serene, sure of herself.

  Sitting between the two men, one hidden by a black turban, the other by a green curtain, her eyes flicker with nerves.

  The armed man crouches on his heels, his finger on the trigger.

  Still suspicious and on edge, he looks away from the curtains toward the woman, and asks her, “Are you alone?” In a calm voice—too calm—she replies, “No.” Pauses a moment, then continues fervently, “Allah is with me,” pauses again, and glances at the green curtain.

  The man is silent. He is glaring at the woman.

  Outside, the shooting has stopped. All that can be heard, in the distance, is the dull roar of the tank leaving.

  The room, the courtyard, and the street sink into a heavy, smoky silence.

  The sound of footsteps makes the man jump and he turns his gun on her, gesturing to her not to move. He peers through a hole in the curtain. His tensed shoulders relax. He is relieved. He lifts the curtain a fraction and hisses a code in a low voice. The steps pause. The man whispers, “Hey, it’s me. Come in!”

  The other man enters the room. He too is wearing a turban, with a part of it hiding his face. His thin, lanky body is wrapped in a patou—a long, heavy woolen shawl. Surprised by the woman’s presence, he crouches down next to his companion, who asks him, “So?” The second man’s eyes are fixed on the woman as he replies, “It’s ok-ok-okay, th-the there’s a c-c-ceasefire!” stammering, his voice a teenager’s in the process of breaking.

  “Until when?”

  “I … I … d-d-d-don’t know!” he replies, still distracted by the woman’s presence.

  “Okay, now get out of here and keep watch! We’re staying here tonight.”

  The young man doesn’t protest. Still staring at the woman, he asks for “a c-c-c-cigarette,” which the first man chucks over to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Then, having completely uncovered his bearded face, he lights up himself.

  The boy darts a final stunned glance at the woman from the doorway, and reluctantly disappears down the passage.

  The woman stays where she is. She observes the man’s every movement with a distrust she is still attempting to hide. “Are you not afraid of being all alone?” the man asks, exhaling smoke. She shrugs her shoulders. “Do I have any choice?” After another long drag, the man asks, “Don’t you have anyone to look after you?” The woman glances at the green curtain. “No, I’m a widow!”

  “Which side?”

  “Yours, I presume.”

  The man doesn’t push it. He takes another deep drag, and asks, “Have you any children?”

  “Yes. Two … two girls.”

  “Where are they?”

  “With my aunt.”

  “And you—why are you here?”

  “To work. I need to earn my living, so I can feed my two kids.”

  “And what do you do for work?”

  The woman looks him straight in the eye, and says it: “I earn my living by the sweat of my body.”

  “What?” he asks, confused.

  The woman replies, her voice shameless: “I sell my body.”

  “What bullshit is this?”

  “I sell my body, as you sell your blood.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “I sell my body for the pleasure of men!”

  Overcome with rage, the man spits, “Allah, Al-Rahman! Al-Mu’min! Protect me!”

  “Against who?”

  The cigarette smoke spews out of the man’s mouth as he continues to invoke his God, “In the name of Allah!” to drive away the devil, “Protect me from Satan!” then takes another huge drag to belch out alongside words of fury, “But aren’t you ashamed to say this?!”

  “To say it, or to do it?”

  “Are you a Muslim, or aren’t you?”

  “I’m a Muslim.”

  “You will be stoned to death! You’ll be burned alive in the flames of hell!”

  He stands up and recites a long verse from the Koran. The woman is still sitting. Her gaze is scornful. Defiantly, she looks him up and down, from head to foot, and foot to head. He is spitting. The smoke of his cigarette veils the fury of his beard, the blackness of his eyes. He moves forward with a dark look. Pointing his gun at the woman, he bawls, “I’m going to kill you, whore!” The barrel sits on her belly. “I’m going to explode your filthy cunt! Dirty whore! Devil!” He spits on her face. The woman doesn’t move. She scoffs at the man. Impassive, she seems to be daring him to shoot.

  The man clenches his teeth, gives a great yell, and leaves the house.

  The woman remains motionless until she hears the man reach the courtyard, and call out to the other, “Come on, we’re getting out of here. This is an ungodly house!” Until she hears the flight of their footsteps down the muddy road.

  She closes her eyes, sighs, breathes out the smoky air she has been holding in her lungs for a long time. A triumphant smile flickers across her dry lips. After a long gaze at the green curtain, she unfolds her body and moves over to her man. “Forgive me!” she whispers. “I had to tell him that—otherwise, he would have raped me.” She is shaken by a sarcastic laugh. “For men like him, to fuck or rape a whore is not an achievement. Putting his filth into a hole that has already served hundreds before him does not engender the slightest masculine pride. Isn’t that right, my sang-e saboor? You should know. Men like him are afraid of whores. And do you know why? I’ll tell you, my sang-e saboor: when you fuck a whore, you don’t dominate her body. It’s a matter of exchange. You give her money, and she gives you pleasure. And I can tell you that often she’s the dominant one. It’s she who is fucking you.” The woman calms down. Her voice serene, she continues, “So, raping a whore is not rape. But raping a young girl’s virginity, a woman’s honor! Now that’s your creed!” She stops, leaving a long moment of silence for her man—if he can, and she hopes he can—to think about her words.

  “Don’t you agree, my sang-e saboor?” she continues. She approaches the curtain, moving aside some of the mattresses concealing the hiding place. She looks deep into her man’s glassy eyes, and says, “I do hope you’re managing to grasp and absorb everything I’m telling you, my sang-e saboor.” Her head is poking slightly through the curtain. “Perhaps you’re wondering where I could have picked all this up! Oh my sang-e sab
oor, I’ve still so much to tell you …” She moves back. “Things that have been stored up inside me for a while now. We’ve never had the chance to discuss them. Or—let’s be honest—you’ve never given me the chance.” She pauses, for one breath, asking herself where and how she should start. But the mullah’s cry, calling the faithful to prostrate themselves before their God at twilight, throws her into a panic and drives her secrets back inside. She stands up suddenly: “May God cut off my tongue! It’s about to get dark! My children!” She rushes over to lift the curtain patterned with migrating birds. Behind the gray veil of the rain, everything has been plunged once more into a gloomy darkness.

  By the time she has checked the gaps between the drops of sugar-salt solution one last time, picked up her veil, closed the doors, and made it to the courtyard, it’s already too late. Now that the call to prayer is complete, the mullah announces the neighborhood curfew and asks everyone to respect the ceasefire.

  The woman’s footsteps pause on the wet ground.

  They hesitate.

  They are lost.

  They go back the way they came.

  The woman comes back into the room.

  Upset, she drops her veil on the floor and lets herself fall, wearily, onto the mattress previously occupied by the body of her man. “I leave my daughters in Allah’s hands!” She recites a verse from the Koran, trying to persuade herself of God’s power to protect her girls. Then she lies down, abandoning herself to the darkness of the room. Her eyes manage to see through the dark toward the mattresses. Behind the mattresses, the green curtain. Behind the curtain, her man, her sang-e saboor.

  A gunshot, far away. Then another, close. And thus ceases the ceasefire.

  The woman stands up, and walks toward the plain green curtain. She pushes the mattresses aside, but doesn’t open the curtain. “So I’ll have to stay here. I’ve got a whole night to myself, to talk to you, my sang-e saboor. Anyway, what was I saying before that stupid mullah started screeching?” She makes herself focus. “Oh yes, you were wondering where I could have gotten all these notions. That was it, wasn’t it? I have had two teachers in my life—my aunt and your father. My aunt taught me how to live with men, and your father taught me why. My aunt …” she opens the curtain slightly. “You didn’t know her at all. And thank God! You would have sent her packing straightaway. Now I can tell you everything. She is my father’s only sister. What a woman! I grew up enveloped in her warmth. I loved her more than my own mother. She was generous. Beautiful. Very beautiful. Big hearted. She was the one who taught me how to read, how to live … but then her life took a tragic turn. They married her off to this terrible rich man. A total bastard. Stuffed with dirty cash. After two years of marriage, my aunt hadn’t been able to bear a child for him. I say for him, because that’s how you men see it. Anyway, my aunt was infertile. In other words, no good. So her husband sent her to his parents’ place in the countryside, to be their servant. As she was both beautiful and infertile, her father-in-law used to fuck her, without a care in the world. Day and night. Eventually she cracked. Bashed his head in. They threw her out of her in-laws’ house. Her husband sent her away, too. She was abandoned by her own family—including my father. So, as the ‘black sheep’ of the family, she vanished, leaving a note saying she had put an end to her days. Sacrificed her body, reduced it to ashes! Leaving no trace. No grave. And of course, this suited everyone just fine. No funeral. No service for that ‘witch’! I was the only one who cried. I was fourteen years old at the time. I used to think about her constantly.” She stops, bows her head, closes her eyes as if dreaming of her.

  After a few breaths, she starts up again, as if in a trance. “One day, more than seven years ago, just before you came back from the war, I was strolling around the market with your mother. I stopped at the underwear stall. Suddenly, a voice I know. I turned around. There was my aunt! For a moment I thought I was seeing things. But it really was her. I greeted her, but she acted as if she hadn’t heard, as if she didn’t know me. And yet I was absolutely, one hundred percent sure. I knew in my blood that it was her. So I managed to lose your mother in the crowd. Began trailing my aunt. I didn’t let her out of my sight, all the way to her house. I stopped her at her front door. She burst into tears. Gave me a big hug, and asked me in. At the time she was living in a brothel.” She falls silent, giving her man, behind the green curtain, the chance to take a few breaths. And herself, too.

  In the city, the shooting continues. Far away, nearby, sporadic.

  In the room, everything is sunk in darkness.

  Saying “I’m hungry,” she stands up and feels her way into the passage, and then into the kitchen to find something to eat. First she kindles a lamp, which brightens part of the passage and sheds a little light into the room as well. Then, after the slamming of a few cupboard doors, she returns. A hard crust of several-day-old bread and an onion in one hand, the hurricane lamp in the other. She sits back down near her man, by the green curtain, which she pulls aside in the yellowish lamplight to check that her sang-e saboor has not exploded. No. It is still there. In one piece. Eyes open. Mocking expression, even with the tube thrust into the pathetically half-open mouth. The chest continues to, miraculously, rise and fall at the same pace as before.

  “And now, it’s that aunt who has taken me in. She likes my children. And the girls like her, too. That’s why I’m slightly more relaxed.” She peels the onion. “She tells them loads of stories … as she used to before. I grew up with her stories, too.” She puts a layer of onion on a bit of bread, and shoves the whole thing into her mouth. The cracking of the dry bread mingles with the softness of her voice. “The other night, she wanted to tell a particular story that her mother used to tell us. I begged her not to tell it to my girls. It’s a very disturbing tale. Cruel. But full of power and magic! My girls are still too young to understand it.” She takes a sip from the glass of water she had brought to moisten her man’s eyes.

  “As you know, in my family we were all girls. Seven girls! And no boy! Our parents hated that. It was also the reason our grandmother told my sisters and me that story. For a long time, I thought she had invented it especially for us. But then my aunt told me that she had first heard that story from her great-grandmother.”

  A second layer of onion on a second crust of bread.

  “In any case, our grandmother warned us in advance, by telling us that the story was a magical tale that could bring us either happiness or misfortune in our actual lives. This warning frightened us, but it was also exciting. And so her lovely voice rang out to the frenetic beating of our hearts. Once upon a time there was, or was not, a king. A charming king. A brave king. This king, however, had one constraint in his life—just one, but of the utmost importance: he was never to have a daughter. On his wedding night, the astrologers told him that if ever his wife should give birth to a girl, she would bring disgrace upon the crown. As fate would have it, his wife gave birth to nothing but girls. And so, at each birth, the king would order his executioner to kill the newborn baby!”

  Lost in her memories, the woman suddenly takes on the appearance of an old lady—her grandmother, no doubt—telling this story to her grandchildren.

  “The executioner killed the first baby girl, and the second. With the third, he was stopped by a little voice emanating from the mouth of the newborn. It begged him to tell her mother that if she kept her alive, the queen would have her own kingdom! Troubled by these words, the executioner visited the queen in secret, and told her what he had seen and heard. The queen, not breathing a word to the king, immediately came to take a look at this newborn with the gift of speech. Full of wonder yet terrified, she asked the executioner to prepare a cart so they could flee the country. At exactly midnight, the queen, her daughter, and the executioner secretly left the city for distant lands.”

  Nothing distracts her from her tale, not even the shots fired not far from the house. “Furious at this sudden flight and determined to see his wife again, th
e king departed in conquest of foreign lands. Grandmother always used to pause at exactly this point in the story. She would always ask the same question: But was it to see his wife again, or to track her down?”

  She smiles. In just the way her grandmother smiled, perhaps. And continues:

  “The years went by. During one of these warmongering trips, the king was resisted by a small kingdom governed by a brave, fair, and peaceful queen. The people refused the interference of this foreign king. This arrogant king! So, the king decreed that the country be burned to the ground. The queen’s advisors counseled her to meet the king and negotiate with him. But the queen was against this meeting. She said she would rather set fire to the country herself than attend the negotiation. And so her daughter—who was much loved by the court and the people, not only for her remarkable beauty but also for her outstanding intelligence and kindness—asked her mother if she could meet the king herself. On hearing her daughter’s request, the queen seemed to lose her mind. She began screaming, cursing the entire world at the top of her voice. She no longer slept. She wandered the palace. She forbade her daughter to leave her bedroom, or to take any action. Nobody could understand her. With every day that passed, the kingdom sank a little deeper into catastrophe. Food and water became scarce. At this point the daughter, who could understand her mother no better than anyone else, decided to meet the king despite the prohibition. One night, with the help of her confidant, she made her way to the king’s tent. On seeing her heavenly beauty, the king fell madly in love with the princess. He made her the following offer: if she would marry him, he would renounce his claim to the kingdom. The princess accepted, somewhat entranced herself. They spent the night together. In the early hours, she made her triumphant way back to the palace, to tell her mother about this encounter with the king. Luckily, she didn’t admit that she had also spent the night in his tent. When she heard her daughter had so much as seen the king, the queen succumbed to absolute despair. She was willing to face any ordeal life could throw at her, except this one! Overcome, she howled, ‘Fate! Oh cursed fate!’ and fainted. Still understanding nothing of what was going on inside her mother’s head, the daughter spoke to the man who had been at her mother’s side throughout her life, and asked him the cause of the queen’s distress. And so he told her this story. ‘Dear princess, as you know, I am not your father. The truth is that you are the daughter of this swaggering king! As for me, I was only his executioner.’ He told her everything that had happened, finishing with this enigmatic conclusion: ‘And this, my princess, is our fate. If we tell the king the truth, the law decrees that all three of us shall be sentenced to hang. And all the people of this kingdom shall become his slaves. If we oppose his intentions, our kingdom shall be burned down. And if you marry him, you shall be committing the unpardonable sin of incest! All of us shall be cursed and punished by God.’ Grandmother used to stop at this point in the story. We would ask her to tell us what happened next, and she would say: Unfortunately, my little girls, I don’t know how the story ends. To this day, nobody knows. They say that the man or woman who discovers the end of the story shall be protected from hardship for the rest of their life. Not fully convinced, I would object that, if no one knew the end of the story, how could anyone tell if an ending was right? She used to laugh sadly and kiss me on the forehead. That’s what we call mystery, my dear. Any ending is possible, but to know which is the right ending, the fair ending … now that is the preserve of mystery. At that point, I used to ask her if it was a true story. She would reply, I told you, ‘Once upon a time there was, or was not …’ My question was the same question she, as a young girl, used to ask her own grandmother, and to which her grandmother would reply, And that is the mystery, my dear; that is the mystery. That story haunted me for years. It used to keep me awake at night. Every night, in bed, I would plead with God to whisper the end of the story to me! A happy ending, so that I could have a happy life! I would make up all kinds of stuff in my head. As soon as I came up with an idea, I would rush to tell my grandmother. And she would shrug her shoulders and say, It’s possible, my dear. It’s possible. Your life will reveal whether you are right or not. It’s your life that will confirm it. But whatever you discover, never tell anyone. Never! Because, as in any magical tale, whatever you say may come to pass. So, make sure to keep this ending to yourself.”