After taking off all of her clothes, Masuda threw herself on her bed and surrendered to her powerful fantasies. Here she was, an unmarried woman, over thirty years old, olive-skinned and a bit plump, with a harsh voice, plain features, and ample breasts. Her devotion to her mistress Badia implicitly involved a silent love for the woman’s body, something that she was pursuing breathlessly in her dreams as though chasing a mirage.
Another mirage was pestering Badia in the wide courtyard below, one that gave her heart a jolt. She could not get the image of the new arrival out of her mind: it pierced the veil of darkness and besieged her dreams. A fitful sleep turned into a raging insomnia. So near, yet so far, her husband rolled over in his bed with the nasty smell of kif on his breath. Once he finished his dinner and concluded the nonexistent conversation with the woman who was a prisoner in his mansion, he got up to spread out in bed next to her like an old dried-out twig lying beside a pure, coursing spring. Was Hasun completely unaware that by bringing this young man to the house he was providing what had been missing for some time? Did he not realize that he was introducing a spark to set off other sparks? The evidence was the chronic insomnia that was having such an effect on Badia. This spark was the breath of life infiltrating her existence, held in death’s own talons. When the young man was in his room or if his image came into her mind, she would deliberately put on a show of cold indifference and even resentment toward him, all with the aim of keeping him and her conflict inside her — and what a dire conflict it was! If you place your hand on a piece of ice, it can burn you like fire, but when that ice is actually placed in fire, it melts into water.
Najib spent his days at the pottery workshop, singing of love as he kneaded clay. The clay would respond readily to his skillful fingers, which pulsated with the rhythm of his heart. Whenever he saw a lovely female body, he would be inspired by its beauty to create a statuette. Once the human eye fell on such a statuette, the heart was drawn to it and the hand was eager to purchase it.
“This is beauty’s gift to beauty,” he would proclaim each time he finished such a statuette.
“They are sources of income,” had been Hasun’s response, as he watched the statuettes fly off the shelves almost as soon as they were stocked. Rumors spread that they were possessed by good fortune; their new owners cherished them.
“Beauty’s own gift to beauty. They should be donated to beauty, not sold!” Najib had objected.
“Get me the money, and I’ll give them to whomever you please,” Hasun had compromised. He would say this whenever he was feeling relaxed and at ease, stoned on kif, otherwise he simply ignored the whole thing, as worthless as a drop of water or handful of dirt.
The young potter thoroughly enjoyed making statuettes inspired by women who appealed to his heart, and it upset him to watch as the merchant bartered over them. Najib did not like the idea at all, but the only person he could share his feelings with was Masuda. He told her about the women who inspired him to make the statuettes, and that made her pale. He conveyed to her the sadness he felt at the way Hasun was selling them, as though they were merely decorations rather than art with his very soul attached.
Masuda went downstairs tense and hurt. The next morning, she told Badia what he’d said, and that only increased the pain of Badia’s desire. Masuda felt the fire burning inside her as she listened to the stories of Najib’s statuettes, while Badia listened to the very same stories as told by her maid. The same feeling of desire brought the two women together, but it also pulled them apart. No matter how hard they tried, they could not keep their feelings a secret from each other. Every night Masuda would hear the story, and the next morning she would relate it to her mistress. The nighttime account was repeated the next day, and the wait for the next story involved both tension and desire.
“So, tell me about your statuette women today,” Masuda said to Najib one evening.
“Today, a woman came at midday when the quarter was taking a nap,” he recalled. “I was on my own in the store next to the pottery. She came in, called me by name, and let her veil drop. Her face gleamed, a gorgeous blend of pink and white; her eyes positively oozed seduction. Take a good look at my face, she’d said, and that is precisely what I did. If my face is not enough, she went on, then I’ll take off my djellaba and even my underclothes, so you can see my entire body.”
Najib paused in his tale for a second, his eyes glazing over dreamily before he continued: “Your face is quite enough, I told the woman. Don’t deceive me, my heart is soaring in the blue heavens, she said. No statuette-maker can possibly deceive a figure of such beauty, I responded. She laughed heartily. I’m going to wait for the craftsman’s product, she said. You shouldn’t wait too long, the statuette will emerge in good time, I told her. And with that, she put her veil over her face again, while I filled my soul with the vision of those black eyes. I got the impression that she was pleased at the way I looked at her, as though to acknowledge that an ineffective model — one with no inner sense of the various concepts of wine not found inside the grape — will never lead to the creation of a fine statuette. When she left, a gentle, dewy breeze imbued with the scent of lavender had cooled the heat. I will confide to you, Masuda, that at that moment I could hear the clay calling out to my very soul. I flew to it on wings of sheer desire. It responded to me with relish. That statuette is hidden now. It is intended for that lady, and I shall give it to her as a gift, expressing my heartfelt thanks for her beauty, the kind from which you can unwrap a loveliness of a different type.”
Masuda’s eyes were downcast as she listened in silence, keeping her own desires suppressed. Sometimes she shuddered a little, other times she looked up at him to hide a tear that she could not control. When he finished, she stood up without saying a word, closed the door behind her, and went back downstairs. During the nighttime darkness she burst into tears.
The next day, when Najib and his master Hasun had left, she was obliged to tell Badia the story from the previous night. Her mistress listened with her entire body on fire. By the time Masuda had finished, Badia was bathed in sweat, her breathing was short, and she was practically having convulsions.
“What’s the matter, my lady?” Masuda asked.
“Nothing,” Badia said. “I need to have a bath.”
Badia dashed to the bathroom, poured water all over her sweat-slicked body, and started screaming. Her voice was hoarse, full of longing. As Masuda listened to her cries, she too was deeply troubled, although the feeling couldn’t be expressed in words.
In the old days, an Arab poet would flirt with a woman. His ghazal poems would be objects of pride for her, a celebration of her femininity, something she craved even while her family disapproved. They would pursue the poet and prevent the two of them from communicating with each other. They would even declare war on him; they would kill him or encourage others to do so. There was no precedent for a woman rejecting her poet-lover; indeed, she might’ve been the one taking initiative. The woman’s family was supposed to take charge if someone composed a poem about a woman of their tribe. Ghazal poems transformed a piece of clay into a statuette in celebration of beauty, the very thing that Najib the potter did when he revealed his inner emotion to the clay and exchanged secrets with it.