The Patience Stone Read online

  She eats. A crust of bread, a layer of onion. “Once, I asked your father if he knew the story. He said no. So I told it to him. At the end, he paused a long while, then said these poignant words: You know, my daughter, it’s an illusion to think you can find a happy ending to this story. It’s impossible. Incest has been committed, and so tragedy is inevitable.”

  In the street, we hear someone shouting, “Halt!” And then a gunshot.

  And footsteps, fleeing.

  The woman continues. “So, your father disabused me of my illusions. But a few days later, when I brought him his breakfast early one morning, he asked me to sit down so we could talk about the story. Speaking very slowly and deliberately, he said, My daughter, I have thought long and hard. And actually, there could be a happy ending. I was so keen to hear this ending that I felt like throwing myself into his arms, kissing his hands and feet. Although, I restrained myself, of course. I forgot your mother and her breakfast, and sat down next to him. At that moment, my whole body was one giant ear, ignoring all other voices, all other sounds. There was only the wise, trembling voice of your father, who after a great slurp of tea said the following: As in life, my daughter, for this story to have a happy ending there must be a sacrifice. In other words, somebody’s misfortune. Never forget, every piece of happiness must be paid for by two misfortunes. ‘But why?’ I asked with naive surprise. He replied in simple words: My daughter, unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, not everyone in the world can attain happiness, in real life or in a story. The happiness of some engenders the hardship of others. It’s sad, but true. So, in this story, you need misfortune and sacrifice in order to arrive at a happy ending. But your self-regard, and your care for your loved ones, prevents you from considering this. The story requires a murder. But who must be killed? Before replying, before killing anyone, you must ask yourself another question: who do you wish to see happy, and alive? The father-king? The mother-queen? Or the daughter-princess? As soon as you ask yourself this question, my daughter, everything changes. In the story and in you. For this to happen you must rid yourself of three loves: love of yourself, love of the father, and love of the mother! I asked him why. He looked at me quietly for a long time, his pale eyes shining behind his glasses. He must have been searching for words I would be able to understand. If you are on the daughter’s side, your love for yourself prevents you from imagining the daughter’s suicide. In the same way, love for the father doesn’t allow you to imagine that the daughter could accept the marriage and then kill her own father in the marital bed on the wedding night. Finally, love for the mother stops you from considering the murder of the queen in order that the daughter can live with the king and conceal the truth from him. He let me think for a few moments. He took another long sip of tea and continued: In the same way, if I, as a father, imagined an end to this story, it would be the strict application of the law. I would order the beheading of the queen, the princess, and the executioner, to ensure that the traitors were punished and the secret of the incest buried forevermore. ‘And what would the mother suggest?’ I asked him. With a small private smile, he replied, My daughter, I know nothing of maternal love, so I cannot give you her answer. You yourself are a mother now; it’s for you to tell me. But my experiences in life tell me that a woman like the queen would rather have her kingdom destroyed and her people enslaved than reveal her secret. The mother behaves in a moral way. She will not allow her daughter to marry her father. My God, it was hard, listening to those wise words. I was still desperately seeking a merciful outcome, and I asked him if this was at all possible. First of all he said yes—which comforted me—but then he shouted, My daughter, tell me, who in this story has the power to forgive? I replied naively, ‘The father.’ Shaking his head, he said, But, my daughter, the father—who has killed his own children, who during his warfaring has destroyed whole cities and populations, who has committed incest—the father is as guilty as the queen. As for her, she has betrayed the king and the law, certainly, but do not forget that she too was misled, by her newborn daughter and by the executioner. Desperate, I concluded before I left, ‘So there is no happy ending!’ There is, he said. But, as I told you, it involves accepting a sacrifice, and renouncing three things: self-regard, the law of the father, and the morality of the mother. Stunned, I asked him if he thought that was feasible. His reply was very simple: You must try, my daughter. I was much affected by the discussion, and thought of little else for months. I came to realize that my distress came from one thing and one thing only—the truth of his words. Your father really knew something about life.”

  Another crust of bread and layer of onion, swallowed with difficulty.

  “The more I think of your father, the more I hate your mother. She kept him shut up in a small, sweaty room, sleeping on a rush mat. Your brothers treated him like a madman. Just because he had acquired great wisdom. Nobody understood him. To start with, I was afraid of him too. Not because of what your mother and brothers kept saying about him, but because I remembered what my aunt had suffered at the hands of her father-in-law. And yet, bit by bit I became closer to him. With a great deal of fear. But at the same time a shadowy, indefinable curiosity. An almost erotic curiosity! Perhaps it was the part of me haunted by my aunt that drew me to him. A desire to live the same things she had lived. Frightening, isn’t it?”

  Full of thoughts and emotion, she finishes her onion and stale bread.

  She blows out the lamp.

  She lies down.

  And sleeps.

  As the guns grow weary and quiet, the dawn arrives. Gray and silent.

  A few breaths after the call to prayer, hesitant footsteps can be heard on the muddy courtyard path. Someone reaches the house and knocks on the door to the passage. The woman opens her eyes. Waits. Again there is a knock. She stands up. Half asleep. Goes to the window to see who this person is who doesn’t dare enter without knocking.

  In the leaden fog of dawn, she makes out an armed, turbaned shadow. The woman’s “Yes?” draws the shape to the window. His face is hidden behind a length of turban; his voice, more fragile than his appearance, stammers, “C-c-can I … c-c-come in?” It’s the breaking teenage voice, the same one as yesterday. The woman tries to make out his features. But in the weak gray light she cannot be sure. She consents with a nod of the head, adding, “The door is open.” She herself stays where she is, next to the window, watching the shadow as it moves along the walls, down the passage, and into the doorway. The same clothing. The same way of hesitating on the threshold. The same timidity. It’s him. No question. The same boy as the day before. She waits, quizzical. The boy is struggling to step into the room. Glued to the door frame, he tries to ask, “How … m-m-much?” The woman can’t understand a word he’s saying.

  “What do you want?”

  “How …” The voice breaks. It picks up speed—“How … m-m-much?”—but not clarity.

  Holding her breath, the woman takes a step toward the boy. “Listen, I’m not what you think I am. I …” She is interrupted by a cry from the boy, fierce to start with, “Sh-sh-sh … shut up!” and then calm, “How … m-m-much?” She tries to move back, but is halted by the barrel of the gun against her belly. Waiting for the boy to calm down, she says gently, “I’m a mother …” But the boy’s tense finger on the trigger prevents her from continuing. Resigned, she asks, “How much do you have on you?” Trembling, he pulls a few notes from his pocket and throws them at her feet. The woman takes a step backward and turns a little so she can cast a furtive glance at the hiding place. The green curtain is slightly open. But the darkness makes the man’s presence imperceptible. She slips to the ground. Lying on her back, looking toward her man, she spreads her legs. And waits. The boy is paralyzed. She cries impatiently: “Come on, then, let’s get this over with!”

  He puts his gun down next to the door, then, hesitantly, walks over, and stands above her. Inner turmoil has made his breathing all jerky. The woman closes her eyes.

  Abrup
tly, he throws himself on top of her. The woman, struggling to breathe, gasps, “Gently!” Overexcited, the boy awkwardly grabs hold of her legs. She is frozen, numb beneath the wild flapping of this clumsy young body as it tries vainly, head buried in her hair, to pull down her pants. She ends up doing it herself. Pulls his down, too. As soon as his penis brushes her thighs, he groans dully in the woman’s hair; very pale, she keeps her eyes closed.

  He is no longer moving. She neither.

  He is breathing heavily. She too.

  There is a moment of total stillness before a light breeze lifts and pulls apart the curtains. The woman opens her eyes at last. Her voice—weak but forgiving—whispers, “Is it over?” The boy’s wounded cry shocks her. “Sh-sh-shut … sh-sh-sh-shut your mouth!” He doesn’t dare raise his head, still buried in the woman’s black hair. His breathing becomes less and less intense.

  The woman, silent, gazes with infinite sadness at the gap in the green curtain.

  The two entwined bodies remain still, fixed to the ground, for a little while longer. Then a new breeze creates a slight movement in this mass of flesh. It’s the woman’s hand that is moving. Gently stroking the boy.

  He does not protest. She continues stroking. Tender and maternal. “It doesn’t matter,” she assures him. No reaction at all from the boy. She perseveres: “It can happen to anyone.” She is cautious. “Is … is this the first time?” After a long silence, lasting three slow breaths, he nods his head—still sunk deep in the woman’s hair—in shy, desperate assent. The woman’s hand moves up to the boy’s head, and touches his turban. “You had to start somewhere.” She glances around to locate the gun. It is far away. Looks back at the boy who is still in the same position. She moves her legs a little. No protest. “Right, shall we get up?” He doesn’t reply. “I told you, it doesn’t matter … I’ll help you.” Gently, she pushes up his right shoulder so she can shift onto her side and free herself of the boy’s broken weight. Having done this, she attempts to pull up her knickers, first wiping her thighs with the hem of her dress. Then she sits up. The boy moves too, at last. Avoiding the woman’s eyes, he pulls up his trousers and sits with his back to her, staring at his gun. His turban has come undone. His face is visible. He has large, pale eyes, outlined in smoky kohl. He is beautiful, his face thin and smooth. He has barely any facial hair. Or else he’s very young. “Do you have family?” the woman asks in a neutral voice. The boy shakes his head no, and quickly winds his turban back up, hiding half his face. Then, abruptly, he gets to his feet, grabs his gun, and flees the house like lightning.

  The woman is still sitting in the same place. She stays there a long time, without a glance at the green curtain. Her eyes fill with tears. Her body huddles up. She wraps her arms around her knees, tucks in her head, and wails. A single, heartbreaking wail.

  A breeze flutters, as if in response to her cry, lifting the curtains to let the gray fog flood the room.

  The woman raises her head. Slowly. She does not stand. She still doesn’t raise her eyes to the green curtain. She doesn’t dare.

  She stares down at the crumpled notes scattering in the breeze.

  Cold or emotion, tears or terror makes her breath come in gasps. She is shaking.

  Eventually she gets to her feet, and rushes into the passage, to the toilet. She washes, and changes her dress. Reappears. Dressed in green and white. Looking more serene.

  She picks up the money and goes back to her spot by the hiding place. Pulls the curtain tight shut, without meeting the man’s vacant eyes.

  After a few silent breaths, a bitter laugh bursts from her guts, juddering her lips. “So there you go … it doesn’t just happen to other people! Sooner or later, it had to happen to us, too …”

  She counts the notes, “poor thing,” and puts them in her pocket. “Sometimes I think it must be hard to be a man. No?” She pauses for a moment. To think, or to wait for a reply. Starts again, with the same forced smile: “That boy made me think about our own first times … if you don’t mind me saying so. You know me … my memories always hit me just when I’m not expecting them. Or no longer expecting them. They plague me, I just can’t help it. The good ones and the bad. It leads to some laughable moments. Like just now, when that boy was all distraught, and our first, belated honeymoon nights suddenly flashed into my brain … I swear, I didn’t mean to think of you, it just happened. You were clumsy too, like that boy. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know any better. I thought that was how it was supposed to be—how you did it. Although it often seemed to me that you weren’t satisfied. And then I would feel guilty. I told myself that it was my fault, that I didn’t know how to do it right. After a year, I discovered that actually, it was all coming from you. You gave nothing. Nothing. Remember all those nights when you fucked me and left me all … all keyed up … My aunt is quite right when she says that those who don’t know how to make love, make war.” She won’t let herself continue.

  She pauses for a long time before saying, suddenly, “Anyway, tell me, what is pleasure for you? Seeing your filth spurt? Seeing the blood spurt as you tear through the virtuous veil?”

  She looks down, and bites her bottom lip. Furiously. The anger takes hold of her hand, grips it, turns it into a fist, and crashes it against the wall. She groans.

  Falls silent.

  “Sorry! … This … this is the first time I’ve spoken to you like this … I’m ashamed of myself. I really don’t know where it’s all coming from. I never used to think about any of this before. I promise. Never!” A pause, then she continues. “Even when I noticed you were the only one whose pleasure peaked, it didn’t bother me. On the contrary, I was pleased. I told myself it was normal. That it was the difference between us. You men take your pleasure, and we women derive ours from yours. That was enough for me. And it was my job and mine alone to give myself pleasure by … touching myself.” Her lip is bleeding. She blots it with her ring finger, then her tongue. “One night, you caught me in the act. You were asleep. I had my back to you and was touching myself. Perhaps my panting woke you up. You jumped, and asked me what I was doing. I was hot, and shaking … so I told you I had a fever. You believed me. But you still sent me to sleep in the other room with the children. What a bastard.” She falls silent, out of dread, or decency. A blush appears on her cheeks, and spreads slowly to her neck. Her gaze is concealed behind dreamily closing eyelids.

  She stands up, buoyant. “Right, I must be going. My aunt and the children must be worried!”

  Before leaving, she fills the drip bag with sugar-salt solution, covers her man, closes the doors, and disappears into her veil, into the street.