“I saw Sawsan weeping,” said Sufyan
curiously. “Why?”
“Was she?” replied the Poet,
half-surprised. “Well, perhaps she has recalled somebody that she misses. Where
did you see her?”
“With Hind. In the house.”
“Ah, good. Then let her do
whatever she pleases.”
“I feel sympathy for her.”
“You!” The Poet paused, sighed
and added, “Maybe she’s been ill of late and needs some rest.”
“Salman?”
“Yes?”
“Have you brought the flute?”
“No.”
“It’s a pity.”
“Why?”
“I wish you had it with you
now. To sing me one of your nice songs.”
The Poet too had the same wish
now. But he could not send the boy off for the flute in this infernal heat. He
just kept quiet and looked straight ahead unseeing. After a while he glanced at
Mariam, who herself was looking at him meditatively from a distance. Sufyan too
looked in that direction, but said nothing. The Poet wondered what Mariam was
thinking just now. Then he tried to interpret Sawsan’s reaction. Why was she
weeping?…And as he went on thinking he felt something unusual happening in his
head, in his brain. He could not explain it. He felt as if someone was pricking
his brain with a pin. His head began to throb painfully. He tried in vain to
stop thinking, but his brain pains only needled him into thinking more and
more.
At night the Poet was still thinking, and his brain ached all the more
so since Sawsan’s intolerable indifference stoked up the fire in his bosom. He
prayed and read the Quran and yet his pains and torments did not abate. And he
blamed none but himself. He had done what he ought to have done and he had to
bear his suffering patiently. Apart from his past sins he had nothing to regret
now…
Sawsan dined in the compound
and did not bring the Poet his dinner. He said nothing. After the Evening
Prayer he had a little walk round the tent and then went back to sleep. In bed
he did not lay a finger on his wife. He only clasped his head in his hands and
endured the pain…
Hassan had not appeared all through that day and the next. It was Assem
who came now to see the Poet in the woods. He brought with him fruits in a
small basket. The Poet was playing on the flute when Assem appeared. Then he
stopped tootling and waited for his master to come closer and sit by his side.
“Peace be with you, Salman,”
said Assem as he sat next to the Poet.
“Peace be with you too,”
replied the Poet, forcing a smile.
Then Assem took two fruits from
the basket, stood up and headed toward Boutros’ daughter. He gave her the fruits,
chatted with her for a while and came back to sit next to the Poet.
“Mariam really is a nice girl,”
said Assem, looking at the Poet.
The Poet smiled and looked at
his flute.
“Will you play for me?” said
Assem.
The Poet glanced at him, smiled,
sighed and began to play on the flute. And he went on tootling, almost
absentmindedly, until Assem turned to him and said, “That’s enough.” The Poet
stopped.
“You are lucky, Salman,” said
Assem.
“How so?”
“You have this means to express
yourself as you please.”
“You’re right,” replied the
Poet with a sigh.
“What did Sawsan say?”
“About what?”
“About the necklace, of
course?”
“She’s said nothing but she
looks angry.”
“Do you speak to each other?”
“No.”
“Do you eat with each other?”
“No.”
“Does she bring you your
meals?”
“No.”
“Do you…at night?”
“No.”
“Then you are an ill-assorted
couple!”
The Poet kept quiet.
“Speak!” said Assem.
“I’m sorry to say that the
Sawsan you’ve chosen for me is an iceberg of a wife!”
“Does she lam into you?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“What has she done or said, for
example?”
“Once, not long ago, she said
to me, ‘I admit you’re quite a pretty sexy boy. That’s probably the only thing
good about you!’ ”
“Your face,” replied Assem
after a pause, “has grown rough enough to sharpen a knife on. It’s like a hone!
Did she say that?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are dead lucky!
That’s what most women are seeking after. The rest –all the rest– depends on
you!”
“Her behaviour has made me
think more of Sultana than of herself. I really don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll tell you what to do. Keep
faithful to your wife. You don’t know her life-story. She might have been a
miserable maid. And then think of God, first. Compare what God gave you with
what a woman –any woman– could give you, and then decide. Sawsan is good. Don’t
lose her! Now eat this and sing me a song.”
Those moments with Assem brought a great comfort to the Poet. Sawsan too
began to change. She would now bring the Poet his meals on time. But she would
not speak to him. In fact, she still looked at him in disgust. And to the
Poet’s relief, Hassan was not around for days. But the Poet was by nature a skeptic.
This time he was proved right.
One evening Sawsan went to the
compound to get dinner for herself and the Poet. As he usually did, the Poet
stayed in the tent, reading. At first he thought more of what he was reading
than of his wife’s return. But suddenly he began to worry. Sawsan had never
been so late as she was tonight and she had not yet returned to the tent. The
Poet wondered why but did not go out to see what might be happening until his
heart was sure that there was something wrong. So he left the tent, and as he
went a little distance in the direction of the compound he saw two figures
standing up in front. He quickened his pace and his heart gave a violent jump
as he made sure that the two persons standing up there and chatting were Hassan
and Sawsan in the flesh. The Poet’s brain ached. As he got closer to them,
Sawsan turned around and looked at him disgustedly.
“What’s the matter with you,
you noodle?” Hassan snarled. The Poet glared at him for a while, simmering with
rage, and in a moment he nearly went out of his mind. He crouched down and
fumbled in the dark for stones to throw at these two vile people in front of
him. Hassan drew his sword and lunged forward to scare the Poet off. In fact,
the Poet had escaped only by inches when Sawsan stuffed her fingers into her
ears and bawled. Sufyan rushed out to see what was happening and flew back into
the house. Then both he and Assem appeared and darted forward. Hassan was
chasing the Poet and barking at him when Assem cried, “Stop it! Put up your sword!
Come on!” Assem cried and cried until he came to interpose himself between his
own son and the Poet.
“Put up your sword at once!”
Assem shouted to his son as he held him back.
The Poet dodged behind his
master, holding two stones in his hands. Hassan glared one last time at the
Poet, then looked at his father and put up his sword reluctantly. Sawsan kept
aloof, watching.
“Now, clear off!” shouted Assem
to his son. “At once!”
Hassan cast covetous eyes on
Sawsan and moved off. He vanished into the compound.
“Sawsan, come over here!” said
Assem gravely.
She shambled up to him. The
Poet dropped the stones and wiped his hands on his gown.
“Now, let’s move!” said Assem
to the couple, looking each in the face.
All three headed toward Kufr-Hanoon,
where lived Boutros.
“Salman,” said Assem, who now
walked between the Poet and his wife, “my son is a very bitter man. You
shouldn’t have clashed with him. But tell me, what happened exactly?”
The Poet replied in an unsteady
voice:
“I was coming from the tent to
see why Sawsan had been so late. And on the way I caught her standing up by the
house and chatting suspiciously with Sir Hassan.”
“Sawsan, is that true?”
“Yes sir,” she replied
confidently, after a pause.
“What were you saying to each
other?”
“He asked me to persuade Salman
to write something about Hassan’s friend.”
“Was that all?”
“Yes sir.”
“My son is crazy. You’re not to
blame, Salman. You are free. No one would compel you to write what you don’t
feel. And you, Sawsan, I hope you understand your husband…”
At Kufr-Hanoon, Assem asked the
Poet to stay outside while himself and Sawsan went into Boutros’ house. The
Poet did not see Boutros. He only waited out there and wondered what would
happen next. Assem reappeared alone. The Poet wondered why.
“Where’s Sawsan?” he asked
eagerly.
“Sawsan will stay here in
Boutros’ house until we see what to do. Now let’s go back home!”
After a long silence, on their
way back home, Assem confided to the Poet:
“Hassan might kill you both.
You’ve got to be wary. Tonight you won’t sleep in your tent.”
“Where shall I sleep, then?”
“I’ll show you where.”
The Poet spent that night in Assem’s sleeping-room. Sufyan slept with
them.
