“La hawla.” He sighs. “Lord, if this is a test you’re giving me, give me also the strength to overcome it.”
Striking his hands together, he mumbles a few verses from the Qur’an and turns for home.
WHEN ATIQ OPENS the door of his house, the first thing that catches his attention is the lighted hurricane lamp. Usually at such an hour, Musarrat is in bed and all the rooms are plunged in darkness. He notices the empty pallet, the blankets neatly spread out over the mattress, the pillows propped against the wall, just as he likes them. He cocks an ear: no moaning, no sound whatsoever. He retraces his steps, observes the basins, upside down and drying on the floor, and the dishes, gleaming in their proper place. His curiosity is aroused; for months now, Musarrat has done little in the way of housework. Wasted by her illness, she spends most of her time whimpering, huddled around the pain tearing at her insides. To signal his return, Atiq coughs into his hand. A curtain is drawn aside, and Musarrat shows herself at last, haggard, crumpled, but on her feet. She can’t prevent her hand from clutching the doorway for support, however, and Atiq can sense that she’s battling with all her remaining strength to remain upright, as if her dignity depends on her success. He puts two fingers on his chin and raises an eyebrow, making no effort to conceal his surprise.
“I thought my sister had come back from Baluchistan,” he says.
Musarrat straightens up with a jerk. “I’m not helpless yet,” she points out.
“That’s not what I meant. You were in a really bad way when I left this morning. Now everything’s in its place and the floor’s been swept. When I saw that, right away I thought my sister had come back, because we don’t have anyone besides her. All the women in the neighborhood know how sick you are, but not one of them has ever dropped in to see if you could use some help.”
“I don’t need any of them.”
“Don’t be so touchy, Musarrat. Why must you turn over every word to see what’s lying underneath?”
Musarrat sees that she’s not improving matters between herself and her husband. She takes the hurricane lamp off the table and hangs it from a beam so it will shed more light; then she brings in a tray loaded with food. “I cut up the melon you sent me and put it on the windowsill to keep it cool,” she says in a conciliatory tone. “You certainly must be hungry. I’ve cooked some rice the way you like it.”
Atiq takes off his shabby shoes, hangs his turban and whip on a shutter knob, and sits down in front of the dented metal tray. Not knowing what to say and not daring to look at his wife, for fear of reinjuring her sensibilities, he grabs a carafe and brings it to his lips. The water runs out of his mouth and splashes his beard, which he wipes with the back of his hand before feigning interest in a barley cake.
“I made it myself,” says Musarrat, watching him closely. “For you.”
After a pause, he finally asks, “Why do you give yourself so much trouble?”
“I want to perform my wifely duties until the end.”
“I’ve never demanded anything from you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Seated on the mat across from him, she sags a little, then fixes him with her eyes and adds, “I refuse to give up, Atiq.”
“It’s not a question of that, woman.”
“You know how much I detest humiliation.”
Atiq gives her a searching look. “Have I done something to offend you, Musarrat?”
“Humiliation isn’t necessarily caused by what others think about you. Sometimes it comes from not being responsible for yourself.”
“Where are you getting this nonsense, woman? You’re sick, that’s all. You need to rest and gather your strength. I’m not blind, and we’ve lived together for many years: You’ve never cheated anyone, not me or anybody else. You don’t have to aggravate your illness just to prove something — who knows what? — to me.”
“We’ve lived together for many years, Atiq, and for the first time I feel that I must be failing in my obligations as a wife. My husband doesn’t speak to me anymore.”
“I don’t speak to you, it’s true, but it’s not because I’m rejecting you. It’s just that I’m overwhelmed by this everlasting war and the squalor that spoils everything around us. I’m a part-time jailer who doesn’t understand why he’s agreed to stand guard over a few poor wretches instead of dealing with his own misfortune.”
“If you believe in God, you must consider the fact that I’ve become a misfortune for you as a test of your faith.”
“You’re not my misfortune, Musarrat. You get these ideas all by yourself. I do believe in God, and I accept whatever trials He sends me to test my patience.”
Musarrat cuts the barley cake and hands a piece to her husband. “Since we have a chance to talk for once,” she murmurs, “let’s try not to quarrel.”
“Fine with me,” Atiq says approvingly. “Since we have a chance to talk for once, let’s avoid all disagreeable remarks and insinuations. I’m your husband, Musarrat. I, too, try to perform my proper conjugal duties. The problem is that I feel a little out of my depth. I don’t harbor any resentment toward you; you have to know that. My silence isn’t rejection; it’s the expression of my impotence. Do you understand me, woman?”
Musarrat nods, but without conviction.
Atiq pokes a piece of bread into one of the dishes of food. His hand trembles; it’s so difficult for him to repress the anger welling up in him that he hisses as he breathes. He hunches his shoulders and tries to regulate his breathing; then, more and more exasperated by having to explain himself, he says, “I don’t like pleading my case. It makes me feel as though I’ve done something wrong, when I’ve done nothing of the kind. All I want is to find a little peace in my own home. Is that too much to ask? You’re the one who gets ideas, woman. You persecute yourself, and you persecute me. It’s as though you’re deliberately trying to provoke me.”
“I’m not trying to provoke you.”
“Maybe not, but that’s what it feels like. As soon as you get a little of your strength back, you stupidly wear yourself out to prove to me you’re still on your feet, your illness isn’t about to keep you down. Two days later, you fall to pieces, and I have to pick them up. How long do you expect this farce to last?”
“Pardon me.”
Atiq heaves a sigh, moves his little bit of bread around in the cold sauce, and brings it to his mouth without raising his head.
Musarrat gathers the folds of her skirt in her arms and looks at her husband, who makes moist, unpleasant sounds as he eats. Unable to catch his eye, she contents herself with staring at the bald spot that’s spreading out from the crown of his head and revealing his concave, ugly nape. She starts to talk in a despondent voice: “The other night, during the full moon, I opened the shutters so I could watch you sleep. You were slumbering peacefully, like someone with nothing on his conscience. A little smile was showing through your beard. Your face made me think of the sun coming through the clouds; it was as though all the suffering you’ve endured had evaporated, as though pain had never dared to touch the least wrinkle in your skin. It was a vision so beautiful, so calm, I wished the dawn would never come. Your sleep brings you to a safe place, where nothing can upset you. I sat down beside your bed. I was dying to take your hand, but I was afraid I might wake you up. So, to keep myself from temptation, I thought about the years we’ve shared, not often very good years, and I wondered whether, even in our best, most intense moments, we ever really loved each other. . ”
Atiq suddenly stops eating. His fist shakes as he wipes his lips with it. He mutters a “La hawla” and looks his wife up and down, his nostrils twitching spasmodically. In a falsely calm voice, he asks, “What’s wrong, Musarrat? You’re quite talkative this evening.”