Mansour could not find his way into this world hedged round with secrets and dreams inside of which Milia lived. He had been lost outside of it ever since their time at the Hotel Massabki in Shtoura. There, dreaming became intertwined with sex, and the images conjured up by the blind flying creatures mingled for Milia with the fragrance of the lilac. All of this left her feeling confused and uncertain of how to behave. What could she do but abandon herself to a drowsiness that pulled her downward, into the deep waters of her spirit, prone, still, and silent?
On that interminable journey through the fog of Dahr el-Baydar Milia retrieved her dreaming and returned to herself. At first her recollection was dubious: the woman whom she saw in her first dream on the night of her wedding was her double. A young woman in her early twenties lying full length on the white expanse of the bed as the whiteness of her skin gave off a translucent glow. Mansour told her that her pale complexion was as clear as water. She was his life’s mirror, he told her.
I’ve begun now to understand Arabic poetry, he said, and I know how to appreciate its beauty. He explained to her that the ancient Arab poets who lived in the desert only wrote love poems to fair-skinned women, as if a woman’s pallor was a transparent window that the poets’ inner selves could open when they wanted access to the worlds of shadow, cool refuges, and sleep — and perhaps to themselves. A woman has to be pale white, still and somnolent, he said. She must be like an oasis. A woman shrouded in the mystery of half-shut lashes leads a man into the labyrinths of love, he said.
You are a real poet!
I learn poetry by heart but I don’t want to be a poet. My love, when you are a child of this language borne on odes that balance ecstasy with wisdom, and that dance to the essential union of still and moving letters, the tempo created by a flux of syllables, then it’s more than enough to recite poetry composed by others, to play with it as you like, to immerse yourself joyfully in its rhythms and cadences at whatever moment suits you. But these poor miserable poets have always stumbled under the weight of the poets who came before them. They cannot figure out how to escape the burdens imposed by crystalline poems composed and recited in earlier eras. So the later poets grow careless, or they shrug off the weight of it, or they imitate, or they kill themselves. Listen, my love, listen!
That day Mansour was saying goodbye to his Beiruti beloved for the last time. He would go to Galilee’s capital and make final arrangements about the house to which they would come as a married couple. He would bring his mother to Beirut for the wedding, he said then. But the mother did not come, as it happened, because of the revolt flaring up in Palestine. Mansour would marry without any family members to witness it. And when the family gathering on that stormy night in December broke up, he turned to his beloved and recited his lines on paleness and poetry. He wanted to recite the entire poem but he could only remember its opening lines.
Say farewell to Hurayra, for the caravan leaves
Are you man enough to make your final farewells?
Do you know how el-A’sha finishes the poem? he asked her, but he did not wait for an answer. I swear it’s as if he’s talking about you, Milia!
About me?
Just about. I want you to feel this poetry as if he composed for you. Listen!
Noble, tall and slender, she’s a chiseled silhouette
Her gait is most stately, all vigilant and wary
As if her path onward from a neighbor friend’s abode
Is a pale cloud passing, to neither hasten nor tarry
See, Milia, you are the vigilant one, pale and wary. No, she’s not wary, she just walks as if she is wary. Paleness, a chiseled neck and face — these aren’t meant as similes, they’re descriptions of a real person. But a wary gait, that’s just a simile. Pale and looking wary. So, not really wary.
What’s the difference between looking and being wary?
The difference is the poetry. The resemblance. The simile. Like, one thing makes you think of another, and so on.
I don’t understand, she said. And then, what’s the difference between description and similarity? If someone says abyad, white, yes, I get that — it means, his color is white. A noun, isn’t it?
No, Milia, sweetheart, it’s not a noun. It’s a kind of adjective made from a verb, it’s called an elative, a form used for comparisons, you know — well, anyway, I swear I don’t know why, I just read poetry and then I feel like I’m going to soar into the sky. You fly with the meaning, it’s intoxicating, it makes shivers run up and down your spine it’s so beautiful. So, I mean, how could I possibly come up with my own poetry?
And he, the poet — what was his name?
El-A’sha. He was half blind and that’s why they named him el-A’sha.
Blind, and he could see the beauty of a woman?
He saw with his heart, not with his eyes. He would go all confused and flustered in front of women, just like I am with you!
I came for a visit and Hurayra cried and pined
Woe is me! I fear you and fear for you, man of mine
Milia didn’t ask him why he didn’t write poetry, because she was afraid. Being afraid was no simile in this case; it was a real adjective. She had made her decision and there was the end of it. It had not really been her decision, though. Najib had decided. He had gone with her brother Salim. The dream told her that her future would be written in a faraway town and she understood that she must let her pallor melt and flow in the hands of this strange man of whom she knew nothing except that he resembled her brother Musa. Milia perceived the swarthiness of this man’s skin tinting her own body, penetrating it. She knew instinctively that she must peel off her words as she peeled off her clothes. A woman strips herself naked when she tells things while a man clothes himself in his words. That is how she imagined herself in bed: he would be putting things on while she was taking things off. But she could not find the right words and so she decided not to speak. Not to take anything off. Well, no, she did not decide, after all; her mother had told her in no uncertain terms that she must obey him in bed. Men were of different kinds, her mother lectured her. Some of them, especially these days, demanded that a woman be naked in bed, so she’d be like soft warm dough in a man’s hands.
That’s the way they like it, and you must do as your husband wants.
What did my father do? asked Milia.
What do you want with your father, God have mercy on his soul? It’s wrong to talk about the dead. But no, your papa did not take my clothes off. He took off all of his clothes, but I was too embarrassed. I mean, how are you supposed to take your clothes off when the little ones are right there in the house, sleeping? He didn’t care one way or the other. He would get under the sheet and take off everything and say to me, Whatever you want, just stay however you want.
And then?
One of these days soon you’ll know how it goes.
The mother explained to her daughter that in bed she must swallow her own pleasure, keeping it to herself and not allowing it to get the better of her. It all must stay inside, she said. You must be absolutely sure of that, my girl. It scares a man to hear a woman breathing heavily or to see her pleasure rising with his. It happened to me, and I learned my lesson right quickly — but why am I telling you all of this? Well, these sorts of things aren’t talked about, but. . there isn’t a better man than your papa, God rest his soul, but I couldn’t stand it any longer. We had our children, enough is enough. I began to feel I couldn’t do it anymore, and I smelled the stink of sin — but maybe I wasn’t good enough to him, bless his soul.