Khadija had not forgotten her sorrows, but her generosity had purified them of malice and resentment. With each passing day she was less inclined to find fault with Aisha or some family member and more apt to blame her luck. Ultimately she made it the target of her resentment and grumbling. Her luck had been too stingy to make her beautiful. It had delayed her marriage until she was over twenty and clouded her future with fears and anxiety.
Finally, like her mother, Khadija surrendered to the fates. Her fiery side, inherited from her father, and the complex of characteristics arising from her interaction with the environment were both unable to deal with her fortune. She found peace of mind by relying on her tranquil side, which she had inherited from her mother. So she yielded to her destiny. She resembled a commander who, unable to achieve his objective, chooses a naturally fortified location for his remaining forces to make a stand or asks for a truce or peace.
Khadija would express her grief when she performed her prayers or was alone with God the Compassionate. Since childhood she had imitated her mother’s piety and observance of religious duties with a persistence that showed an awakened spirituality. Aisha, on the other hand, worshipped in isolated bouts of religious enthusiasm but could not bear to keep it up for long. Khadija was often amazed when she compared her fortune with that of her sister. Why did she achieve such poor results with her religious devotion while Aisha was richly rewarded for being slack.
"I perform my prayers regularly, but she can't do it for more than two days in a row. I fast during the whole month of Ramadan, while she fasts for a day or two and then just pretends. She slips secretly into the pantry and fills her belly with nuts and dried fruit. When the cannon is fired in the evening to mark the end of the daily fast, she rushes to the table ahead of those who have been fasting".
Khadija would not even concede wholeheartedly that her sister was more beautiful. Of course, she did not announce her opinion to anyone and frequently chose to attack herself in order to prevent others from being tempted to do so. But she would look at herself in the mirror for long periods and tell herself, "No doubt Aisha is beautiful, but she’s skinny. Being plump is half of beauty. I'm plump. The fullness of my face almost compensates for the size of my nose. All I need is for my luck to improve". She had lost her self-confidence during the recent crisis. Although in the past she had frequently repeated to herself similar observations about beauty, plumpness, and luck, now she made them to ward off her unnerving feeling of being unsure of herself. In the same way, we resort at times to logic to reassure ourselves about matters, like health or illness, happiness or misery, and love or hate, that bear no relationship whatsoever to logic.
In spite of her many chores as mother of the bride, Amina did not forget Khadija. Her happiness for the bride reminded her of her sorrow for her other daughter, just as the relief provided by an anesthetic drug reminds us of the pain that will return eventually. Aisha’s wedding reawakened her old fears about Khadija. Searching for reassurance without being too particular about the source, she sent Umm Hanafi with one of Khadija’s handkerchiefs to Shaykh Ra'uf at al-Bab al-Akhdar for him to read her fortune. The woman returned with good news. She related that the shaykh had told her, "You'll be bringing me a kilo of sugar soon when my prediction comes true". Although this was not the first augury of glad tidings for Khadija the servant had brought, Amina hoped for the best. She welcomed the news as a sedative to calm the anxiety that had been hounding her.
39
"Isn't it time yet, bitch? I've melted away, Muslims. I've dissolved like a bar of soap. Nothing’s left but the suds. She knows this and doesn't care to open the window. Go ahead, play the coquette, you bitch. Didn't we agree on a date? But you're right to hold back… one of your breasts could destroy Malta. The second would drive Hindenburg out of his mind. You've got a treasure. May our Lord be gracious to me. May our Lord be gracious to me and to every poor rogue like me who can't sleep for thinking about swelling breasts, plump buttocks, and eyes enhanced by kohl. Eyes come last, because many a blind woman with a fleshy rump and full breasts is a thousand times better than a skinny, flat-chested woman with eyes decorated with kohl. You're the performer’s daughter and a neighbor of al-Tarbi'a Alley. The performer has taught you to flirt, and the alley has supplied you with its secret beauty potions. If your breasts have grown full and round, it’s because so many lovers have fondled them. We agreed on this date. I'm not dreaming, open the window. Open up, bitch. Open up. You're the most beautiful creature ever to arouse my passion. Holding your lip between mine… sucking on your nipple… I'll wait until dawn. You'll find me very docile. If you want me to be the rear end of a donkey cart that you rock back and forth on, I'll do it. If you want me to be the ass pulling the cart, I'll do that. What a mishap, Yasin! Your life is destroyed, you son of Ahmad Abd al-Jawad. How the Australians gloat at your fate. Woe to me, expelled from the Ezbekiya entertainment district, a prisoner in al-Gamaliya. It’s all the fault of the war. Kaiser Wilhelm launched it in Europe and I have become its victim here in al-Nahhasin. Open the window, delight of your mother. Open up, my delight…"
This was the way Yasin had begun talking to himself as he sat on a bench in the coffee shop of al-Sayyid Ali. His eyes were gazing at the house of the performer Zubayda through the small window overlooking al-Ghuriya. The more anxious he became, the more he sank into his dreams and musings, which soothed his anxiety but aroused his desires, just as some sedatives deal with insomnia but tire the heart. He had progressed a step forward in his courtship of the lute player Zanuba. He had advanced from the preparatory stage-frequenting the coffee shop of al-Sayyid Ali in the evening, watching for her, walking behind her donkey cart, smiling, twisting his mustache, and raising his eyebrows playfully-to the stage of negotiating and getting down to business.
He had taken this step in al-Tarbi'a Alley, which was long and narrow with a canvas roof. There were small stores clustered on either side like the cells of a beehive. He was certainly not unfamiliar with al-Tarbi'a, a bazaar frequented by women of all classes. They thronged there to purchase something that was light to carry and had much to offer. They were shopping for various types of perfume useful in promoting delight and beauty. He headed for this market whenever he had no other special destination. It was a favorite haunt of his Friday mornings. Going from one end to the other, he would walk along slowly, both because of the congestion and because he wanted it that way. He pretended to examine the shops as though wanting to select something. Actually, he was scrutinizing the faces, visible when veils were momentarily lifted, and the outlines of bodies, discernible where the ladies' wraps were drawn tight. He saw some features in their entirety and others only in part. He took in the charming fragrances here and there as well as the voices that slipped out from time to time or their whispering laughter. He usually kept within the bounds of good manners because of the preponderance of respectable women there. He was content to observe, compare, and criticize. From what he saw he gathered extraordinary pictures with which to decorate his mental museum. Nothing made him so happy as to come upon a clearer complexion than he had ever seen before, an unusual glance from an eye, a breast that was astonishingly round, or buttocks unique in size or build. When he reviewed them later, he would say, "The winner in today’s competition for full breasts was the lady standing in front of so-and-so’s shop," or "Today’s the day of the rump surpassing size five," or "What a full bag, what a bag… today’s the day for splendid bags".