The cat went into her room, so she gave him something to eat and drink, stroked him, and hugged him to her chest once again. He purred contentedly and pushed his head into her underarm, sniffing the scent of hair, sweat, and insomnia that nestled there. When Masuda woke up at dawn the next day, she started looking for her nighttime visitor, but found no trace. She expected the cat to come back, but he didn’t. That one night became ingrained in her mind like a flash of lightning, leaving behind a painful memory.
With the cat came a desire on Masuda’s part: she wanted a man whose very fire would impregnate her. Najib, meanwhile, kept insisting that she simply listen to his stories at night and let her tell them the next day: “Listen to me, Masuda! This morning a lump of clay refused to respond to me; I wanted to knead it, but it stayed solid between my fingers. When I poured some water on it, it went soft and then expanded. I added some more clay, and it all went solid again. I told myself that anyone who cannot sense the clay’s sensitivities is no potter. So I listened to what this recalcitrant lump of clay actually wanted. So, Masuda, do you know what this lump of clay wanted?” Najib asked.
Masuda did not reply, she simply stared at him in amazement.
“It wanted some milk from a woman’s breast!” Najib said.
“What do you mean?”
“In order to submit and be shaped, it wanted some milk from a woman’s breast,” he explained.
“Have you found any?”
“Yes, there are lots of nursing mothers in the quarter.”
“Except in this household,” Masuda pointed out. “What did you do?”
“I approached an elderly woman and asked her to get me a few drops of a nursing mother’s milk. I told her it was a cure for a worker’s eye that had been pierced by a splinter.”
“So what happened?”
“The milk arrived, and I poured it over the clay. It immediately became fully malleable,” Najib told her. “It was like a truly beautiful woman suckling a truly beautiful baby.”
“So where is that statuette?”
“I’m keeping it for myself,” Najib said. “Moments of inspiration like that don’t happen all the time.”
Masuda stared at the potter, her eyes aflame, while he was distracted and still thinking about the statuette. Then, silently, she stood up and left. In the small hallway opposite his room, she paused and exposed her breasts to the distant stars, to the sultry breeze, to the mirage... “There’s no milk in these dangling breasts of mine!” she said aloud.
Slapping her thighs, she mumbled some unintelligible words and went downstairs again. By the bottom step she leaned her head against the wall, her body quivering, as she let out a hauntingly gruesome laugh mixed with tears.
The next morning, Badia got to hear about the clay that wanted a nursing mother’s milk. Screaming like a woman in mourning, she signaled to Masuda to stop. “I’m going to kill that wretch,” Badia growled, her eyes fixed on the potter’s window, “before he kills me!”
Going up to her bedroom, she closed the door and burst into tears.
Masuda followed her to her room and opened the door, prepared to get some answers. “What’s the point of crying?” she asked. “You can drown the entire house in tears, but not a single stone in the walls will pay me any attention!”
“So what?”
“I’ll plan something to put an end to this torture,” Masuda promised.
“Won’t that be risky?”
“What am I risking?” Masuda remarked. “A life that is already lost?”
So here was Badia, battling with her own noble self. That very same night, the first phase of the plan took place. Wearing a thin dress, she sat next to her husband. As was the case every night, he was stoned. She poured him some tea and caressed him.
“You seem to be in a good mood tonight,” Hasun said.
“When it’s this fresh, it opens up the soul.”
Her soft hand clutched his veined wrist and he surrendered himself to her. The scent of her ripe body overwhelmed him, and he inhaled the entire atmosphere; he felt sated.
“It’s as though you’ve never seen me before,” Badia said.
“I’m seeing you now as I want to see you.”
“Do you know what I want?” she asked him, stroking him and whispering in his ear.
“A gold bracelet?” he asked.
“No.”
“A ring or kaftan?”
“No.”
“So, what is it you want?”
“I want to dance for you.”
Another wave of intoxication enveloped the merchant’s head. She had arranged it all so that he would beg her for this prize.
“Please dance for me, Badia, please do,” he pleaded.
“Here, in the courtyard?”
“Yes, here in this wonderful atmosphere. Before I fall asleep in your arms.”
His speech was slurred, and his legs could hardly support him. Like a white cloud, the image of Badia’s body in her thin dress floated before Hasun’s eyes — coming close, then moving away. Her clothes revealed the spectacular details of her athletic body, and her dance was white-hot, only adding to his inner fire. The dance pulsated from every part of her body; there was no need for other rhythm. Her only goal was to be seen by the eyes of the one who inspired such feelings, not the sleepy eyes of a cracked seashell. The dancer was instinctively aware that other eyes were watching her from behind the window on the top floor, and through the crack in the door of the room next to the kitchen. Only someone with no emotions could fail to be drawn to such an exuberant display...
“Oh, I’m so tired,” Hasun mumbled.
That was the inert response of the feeble old man... but the same dance penetrated the heart of the young potter and fired up his very soul. The sensation moved to Najib’s fingers, which responded positively. He wasn’t afraid, hesitant, or nonchalant. What he needed now was a truly exceptional opportunity, one he had never encountered before, but which was certainly afire at that moment. He had a pressing urge to deal with clay right then.
Once the sleeping merchant started snoring loudly, satisfied with the nighttime performance, Badia slunk out and went to the room alongside their bedroom. Wrapping herself in a brown coat, she stood there for a moment, listening. She could hear cautious footsteps. Does anyone else hear them? she wondered. She looked out into the pitch darkness outside the room but couldn’t see anything. Even so, through the total silence she managed to hear the riad’s door being opened from the inside. The hand involved knew the bolts very well and closed it carefully. Could anyone else be opening the door at this time of night? Why was he leaving his room, going downstairs, departing? Was he running away from her? Running away after such penetration of the very depths of their souls?