The Mirage

42

My beloved was pure compassion and mercy. She greeted me the next morning with a bright smile, then went flitting gaily here and there. Consequently, I had no reason to doubt that she was a happy bride. If she’d seemed only to be pretending to be happy so that I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable, I would have been unspeakably miserable. But she was acting out of an inborn simplicity that knew no such thing as affectation or pretense. I felt truly and sincerely that she loved me, and that hers was a big heart full of tenderness, compassion, and femininity. So I felt hopeful again. I told myself that we were still just starting out, and that countless joys awaited us once we’d taken this first, difficult step. We spent the day together, part of it talking and the other part looking at the drawings, games, and toys that she had skillfully prepared for her kindergarten class. In the evening we were visited by her family. We all gathered in the sitting room with my mother and talked for a long time, happily gobbling down chocolate and sweets. They tried to draw my mother into the conversation, but she, like me, wasn’t a skilled conversationalist, and she came across as reserved and distant. I suspected she wasn’t making a very good impression on them, and that Rabab shared their feelings. In fact, it wasn’t long before I’d come to share the same impression, and I found myself feeling ambivalent toward her. On one hand I wanted her to be with me, which was a feeling I knew well and which came naturally to me. On the other hand, however, I felt painfully awkward having her living with me as a married man. In fact, the minute I thought of her my forehead would break out in a sweat. Once the social gathering had broken up and night fell, a sense of foreboding came over me. No sooner had our bedroom door closed behind us than the well of contentment in my heart dried up, and the hope that had sprung up in response to the day’s happiness dwindled away to nothing. My sweetheart seemed to be suffering some of what I was suffering and to be feeling a distress that even her tact wasn’t sufficient to conceal. I replayed the events of the previous night in my mind, and in less than a second my confidence had gone the way of the wind. I wished we could just go to sleep without making another attempt, since I was certain of failure even before I began. However, I had to do what I had to do. So I repeated the attempt down to the last detail, including kisses, hugs, and failure. Indeed: failure, failure, and more failure! My poor sweetheart. In the beginning she surrendered more or less fearfully, but by the end she wound up picking herself up, bashful and uncomfortable. We finished at a late hour the way we had the first time, then she went to sleep while I remained wakeful and brooding.

What’s wrong with me? I wondered. I love her with everything in me! In fact, I adore her, and if she were to be absent from my home now, I would surely perish. Does the tragedy lie in the unexpected distress I felt from looking at her body? But that’s ridiculous, since I’d already died before I looked, so what I saw has nothing to do with it. On the contrary, I was quickly getting used to a reality that I hadn’t been aware of before, and childish delusions had nearly been defeated in the face of this true reality. Apart from this, nothing about me had changed. I was deeply affected by her embarrassment and discomfort as she put on her clothes, and I thought to myself: I swear I won’t remove another article of her clothing until God changes me!

Meanwhile, our days passed in pristine love, and our spirits merged until they were a single spirit in two separate bodies. If it hadn’t been for her deep love, her spontaneous exuberance, and the simplicity of her big heart, I would have died of sorrow.

They were extraordinary days, and it was a strange honeymoon. My beloved was the very essence of spirited feeling, perfect gentleness, and sincere affection. I would often steal searching, doubtful glances at her, and all I would see was serenity, gentle-heartedness, and contentment. It nearly persuaded me that she lacked nothing. Yet I can honestly say that those were the only moments when I experienced any sort of relief. At all other times, my life was a blazing inferno of which no one else knew. Happiness was limited to fleeting, scattered moments, like the occasional flashes of lucidity experienced by someone in the throes of death.

I was intensely aware of my need for someone to advise me, but my shyness stood as an impenetrable barrier between me and those from whom I might have sought counsel. Consequently, it was impossible for me to seek advice from anyone. The very thought of doing so would set a fire ablaze inside me and arouse an irresistible urge to flee. And as if that weren’t enough, I didn’t have any friends to begin with. My mother, who was the only friend I had in the world, was the last person I would have wanted to broach this particular subject with. Hence, I endured my affliction in a despairing, lonely silence.

The days were tolerable. In fact, they were happy thanks to my sweetheart, whose spirit would melt away anyone’s worries. When night fell, however, a pall of gloom would descend upon us that nothing in the world could dispel. Both of us were feeling ill at ease, anguished, and afraid. After the failures of those first two nights, I didn’t have the courage to try again. Instead, I contented myself with lying down beside her and holding her close to me as I waited — fearful, anxious, and restless — for the descent of mercy, when sleep would deliver me from my torment. Timidity continued to be a barrier between us. If we could have been physically united, the barrier would have been lifted little by little, but I wasn’t able to confide in her about my concern. There were countless times when I wished I could get things off my chest by talking, but no sooner had I opened my mouth than I’d close it again, flustered and ashamed.

On one such occasion she asked me in a whisper, “Were you wanting to say something?”

In her question I could hear an invitation to talk, and my heart started beating like mad.

However, with an agitation that I managed to conceal only with difficulty, I said, “I always want to say I love you!”

This was true in and of itself. However, I really did want to say something else, and I sensed that she could read my unspoken thoughts. The burden of having uttered an untruth weighed on me miserably.

After a bitter struggle with my timidity I murmured, “What we’ve shared so far is nothing compared to what we have in store for us.”

I thought I saw her blush, though it may just have been the effect of the nightlight’s soft glow. She caressed my hair with her fingertips. Then she kissed me sweetly on the lips, drew her mouth up to my ear and asked, “Is there something bothering you?”

My body was ablaze with embarrassment and pain as I said earnestly, “Not at all.”

I fell silent in spite of myself, my heart throbbing violently.

Then, wishing I could make myself invisible, I said, “It’s just a matter of time.”

This was how the days passed. And again I say: if it hadn’t been for her deep love, her spontaneous exuberance, and the simplicity of her big heart, I would have died of sorrow.

* * *

One evening, three weeks after our wedding, I noticed her stealing uncertain glances at me, and she seemed to have something to say.

Wanting to encourage her to talk, I said, “You look as though there’s something you’d like to say.”

“Yes,” she said with a nervous smile.

I went over to where she was sitting on the bench and sat down next to her.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked, still hoping to bring her out of herself.

“My mother …,” she replied.

The word went off in my ear like a bomb. It was nothing but a single word, but it contained an entire book. And I, stupid as I was, understood what it meant. Perhaps the mother had been facing her with a certain well-known, natural question, and was hearing a single reply that had yet to change: “No … not yet!”

After a long silence my beloved said gently, “She never stops asking me, and I don’t know why she’s so impatient.”

Mortified and furious at the same time, I said calmly, “These things are our business and no one else’s. Isn’t that right?”

“Of course,” she said apologetically. “She just wants to make sure we’re doing all right, that’s all.”

Grieved and distressed, I asked, “What did you say to her?”

“I didn’t say anything at all,” she replied hastily and a bit uneasily. “I just told her there was no reason to be in a hurry.”

“And what did she say?”

She thought for some time as if to weigh her words. Then she said, “She told me that this type of situation isn’t an easy one, especially for a shy young man who’s lived a pure life, and if necessary, we could call on our cook, Sabah.”

“Sabah!” I cried in consternation, my eyes wide with amazement.

Flustered, she nodded in the affirmative.

“And what could Sabah do?” I asked in astonishment.

She hesitated for a moment, then began explaining what had been lost on me in the beginning. I listened to her with rapt attention until I’d understood everything, and little by little I began coming out of my stupor. I have to confess that I was relieved at the mother’s suggestion, since it would remove an obstacle from my path and relieve me of some responsibility, as well as exempt me from the mother’s surveillance. After all, once it was done, I didn’t think she would ask about anything again.

“And how will we tell Sabah?” I asked hesitantly.

“Sabah heard part of the conversation between my mother and me,” she said simply.

Feeling both embarrassed and irritated, I cried, “How on earth could that be?”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she said with a smile. “She’s my mother, too, and we don’t hide anything from her.”

We exchanged a long, silent look.

Then I asked apprehensively, “Has anyone else learned of this?”

“No one at all,” she said unequivocally.

I was relieved. However, still feeling the need for more assurance, I said meaningfully, “I hope our ‘secrets’ won’t leave this room!”

“Do you really have any doubt about that?” she asked with a reproachful look.