The Patience Stone Part 3

"With my aunt."

"And you--why are you here?"

"To work. I need to earn my living, so I can feed my two kids."

"And what do you do for work?"

The woman looks him straight in the eye, and says it: "I earn my living by the sweat of my body."

"What?" he asks, confused.

The woman replies, her voice shameless: "I sell my body."

"What bulls.h.i.+t is this?"

"I sell my body, as you sell your blood."

"What are you on about?"

"I sell my body for the pleasure of men!"

Overcome with rage, the man spits, "Allah, Al-Rahman! Al-Mu'min! Protect me!"

"Against who?"

The cigarette smoke spews out of the man's mouth as he continues to invoke his G.o.d, "In the name of Allah!" to drive away the devil, "Protect me from Satan!" then takes another huge drag to belch out alongside words of fury, "But aren't you ashamed to say this?!"

"To say it, or to do it?"

"Are you a Muslim, or aren't you?"

"I'm a Muslim."

"You will be stoned to death! You'll be burned alive in the flames of h.e.l.l!"

He stands up and recites a long verse from the Koran. The woman is still sitting. Her gaze is scornful. Defiantly, she looks him up and down, from head to foot, and foot to head. He is spitting. The smoke of his cigarette veils the fury of his beard, the blackness of his eyes. He moves forward with a dark look. Pointing his gun at the woman, he bawls, "I'm going to kill you, wh.o.r.e!" The barrel sits on her belly. "I'm going to explode your filthy c.u.n.t! Dirty wh.o.r.e! Devil!" He spits on her face. The woman doesn't move. She scoffs at the man. Impa.s.sive, she seems to be daring him to shoot.

The man clenches his teeth, gives a great yell, and leaves the house.

The woman remains motionless until she hears the man reach the courtyard, and call out to the other, "Come on, we're getting out of here. This is an unG.o.dly house!" Until she hears the flight of their footsteps down the muddy road.

She closes her eyes, sighs, breathes out the smoky air she has been holding in her lungs for a long time. A triumphant smile flickers across her dry lips. After a long gaze at the green curtain, she unfolds her body and moves over to her man. "Forgive me!" she whispers. "I had to tell him that--otherwise, he would have raped me." She is shaken by a sarcastic laugh. "For men like him, to f.u.c.k or rape a wh.o.r.e is not an achievement. Putting his filth into a hole that has already served hundreds before him does not engender the slightest masculine pride. Isn't that right, my sang-e saboor? You should know. Men like him are afraid of wh.o.r.es. And do you know why? I'll tell you, my sang-e saboor: when you f.u.c.k a wh.o.r.e, you don't dominate her body. It's a matter of exchange. You give her money, and she gives you pleasure. And I can tell you that often she's the dominant one. It's she who is f.u.c.king you." The woman calms down. Her voice serene, she continues, "So, raping a wh.o.r.e is not rape. But raping a young girl's virginity, a woman's honor! Now that's your creed!" She stops, leaving a long moment of silence for her man--if he can, and she hopes he can--to think about her words.

"Don't you agree, my sang-e saboor?" she continues. She approaches the curtain, moving aside some of the mattresses concealing the hiding place. She looks deep into her man's gla.s.sy eyes, and says, "I do hope you're managing to grasp and absorb everything I'm telling you, my sang-e saboor." Her head is poking slightly through the curtain. "Perhaps you're wondering where I could have picked all this up! Oh my sang-e saboor, I've still so much to tell you ..." She moves back. "Things that have been stored up inside me for a while now. We've never had the chance to discuss them. Or--let's be honest--you've never given me the chance." She pauses, for one breath, asking herself where and how she should start. But the mullah's cry, calling the faithful to prostrate themselves before their G.o.d at twilight, throws her into a panic and drives her secrets back inside. She stands up suddenly: "May G.o.d cut off my tongue! It's about to get dark! My children!" She rushes over to lift the curtain patterned with migrating birds. Behind the gray veil of the rain, everything has been plunged once more into a gloomy darkness.

By the time she has checked the gaps between the drops of sugar-salt solution one last time, picked up her veil, closed the doors, and made it to the courtyard, it's already too late. Now that the call to prayer is complete, the mullah announces the neighborhood curfew and asks everyone to respect the ceasefire.

The woman's footsteps pause on the wet ground.

They hesitate.

They are lost.

They go back the way they came.

The woman comes back into the room.

Upset, she drops her veil on the floor and lets herself fall, wearily, onto the mattress previously occupied by the body of her man. "I leave my daughters in Allah's hands!" She recites a verse from the Koran, trying to persuade herself of G.o.d's power to protect her girls. Then she lies down, abandoning herself to the darkness of the room. Her eyes manage to see through the dark toward the mattresses. Behind the mattresses, the green curtain. Behind the curtain, her man, her sang-e saboor.

A gunshot, far away. Then another, close. And thus ceases the ceasefire.

The woman stands up, and walks toward the plain green curtain. She pushes the mattresses aside, but doesn't open the curtain. "So I'll have to stay here. I've got a whole night to myself, to talk to you, my sang-e saboor. Anyway, what was I saying before that stupid mullah started screeching?" She makes herself focus. "Oh yes, you were wondering where I could have gotten all these notions. That was it, wasn't it? I have had two teachers in my life--my aunt and your father. My aunt taught me how to live with men, and your father taught me why. My aunt ..." she opens the curtain slightly. "You didn't know her at all. And thank G.o.d! You would have sent her packing straightaway. Now I can tell you everything. She is my father's only sister. What a woman! I grew up enveloped in her warmth. I loved her more than my own mother. She was generous. Beautiful. Very beautiful. Big hearted. She was the one who taught me how to read, how to live ... but then her life took a tragic turn. They married her off to this terrible rich man. A total b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Stuffed with dirty cash. After two years of marriage, my aunt hadn't been able to bear a child for him. I say for him, because that's how you men see it. Anyway, my aunt was infertile. In other words, no good. So her husband sent her to his parents' place in the countryside, to be their servant. As she was both beautiful and infertile, her father-in-law used to f.u.c.k her, without a care in the world. Day and night. Eventually she cracked. Bashed his head in. They threw her out of her in-laws' house. Her husband sent her away, too. She was abandoned by her own family--including my father. So, as the 'black sheep' of the family, she vanished, leaving a note saying she had put an end to her days. Sacrificed her body, reduced it to ashes! Leaving no trace. No grave. And of course, this suited everyone just fine. No funeral. No service for that 'witch'! I was the only one who cried. I was fourteen years old at the time. I used to think about her constantly." She stops, bows her head, closes her eyes as if dreaming of her.

After a few breaths, she starts up again, as if in a trance. "One day, more than seven years ago, just before you came back from the war, I was strolling around the market with your mother. I stopped at the underwear stall. Suddenly, a voice I know. I turned around. There was my aunt! For a moment I thought I was seeing things. But it really was her. I greeted her, but she acted as if she hadn't heard, as if she didn't know me. And yet I was absolutely, one hundred percent sure. I knew in my blood that it was her. So I managed to lose your mother in the crowd. Began trailing my aunt. I didn't let her out of my sight, all the way to her house. I stopped her at her front door. She burst into tears. Gave me a big hug, and asked me in. At the time she was living in a brothel." She falls silent, giving her man, behind the green curtain, the chance to take a few breaths. And herself, too.

In the city, the shooting continues. Far away, nearby, sporadic.

In the room, everything is sunk in darkness.

Saying "I'm hungry," she stands up and feels her way into the pa.s.sage, and then into the kitchen to find something to eat. First she kindles a lamp, which brightens part of the pa.s.sage and sheds a little light into the room as well. Then, after the slamming of a few cupboard doors, she returns. A hard crust of several-day-old bread and an onion in one hand, the hurricane lamp in the other. She sits back down near her man, by the green curtain, which she pulls aside in the yellowish lamplight to check that her sang-e saboor has not exploded. No. It is still there. In one piece. Eyes open. Mocking expression, even with the tube thrust into the pathetically half-open mouth. The chest continues to, miraculously, rise and fall at the same pace as before.

"And now, it's that aunt who has taken me in. She likes my children. And the girls like her, too. That's why I'm slightly more relaxed." She peels the onion. "She tells them loads of stories ... as she used to before. I grew up with her stories, too." She puts a layer of onion on a bit of bread, and shoves the whole thing into her mouth. The cracking of the dry bread mingles with the softness of her voice. "The other night, she wanted to tell a particular story that her mother used to tell us. I begged her not to tell it to my girls. It's a very disturbing tale. Cruel. But full of power and magic! My girls are still too young to understand it." She takes a sip from the gla.s.s of water she had brought to moisten her man's eyes.

"As you know, in my family we were all girls. Seven girls! And no boy! Our parents hated that. It was also the reason our grandmother told my sisters and me that story. For a long time, I thought she had invented it especially for us. But then my aunt told me that she had first heard that story from her great-grandmother."

A second layer of onion on a second crust of bread.

"In any case, our grandmother warned us in advance, by telling us that the story was a magical tale that could bring us either happiness or misfortune in our actual lives. This warning frightened us, but it was also exciting. And so her lovely voice rang out to the frenetic beating of our hearts. Once upon a time there was, or was not, a king. A charming king. A brave king. This king, however, had one constraint in his life--just one, but of the utmost importance: he was never to have a daughter. On his wedding night, the astrologers told him that if ever his wife should give birth to a girl, she would bring disgrace upon the crown. As fate would have it, his wife gave birth to nothing but girls. And so, at each birth, the king would order his executioner to kill the newborn baby!"

Lost in her memories, the woman suddenly takes on the appearance of an old lady--her grandmother, no doubt--telling this story to her grandchildren.

"The executioner killed the first baby girl, and the second. With the third, he was stopped by a little voice emanating from the mouth of the newborn. It begged him to tell her mother that if she kept her alive, the queen would have her own kingdom! Troubled by these words, the executioner visited the queen in secret, and told her what he had seen and heard. The queen, not breathing a word to the king, immediately came to take a look at this newborn with the gift of speech. Full of wonder yet terrified, she asked the executioner to prepare a cart so they could flee the country. At exactly midnight, the queen, her daughter, and the executioner secretly left the city for distant lands."

Nothing distracts her from her tale, not even the shots fired not far from the house. "Furious at this sudden flight and determined to see his wife again, the king departed in conquest of foreign lands. Grandmother always used to pause at exactly this point in the story. She would always ask the same question: But was it to see his wife again, or to track her down?"

She smiles. In just the way her grandmother smiled, perhaps. And continues: "The years went by. During one of these warmongering trips, the king was resisted by a small kingdom governed by a brave, fair, and peaceful queen. The people refused the interference of this foreign king. This arrogant king! So, the king decreed that the country be burned to the ground. The queen's advisors counseled her to meet the king and negotiate with him. But the queen was against this meeting. She said she would rather set fire to the country herself than attend the negotiation. And so her daughter--who was much loved by the court and the people, not only for her remarkable beauty but also for her outstanding intelligence and kindness--asked her mother if she could meet the king herself. On hearing her daughter's request, the queen seemed to lose her mind. She began screaming, cursing the entire world at the top of her voice. She no longer slept. She wandered the palace. She forbade her daughter to leave her bedroom, or to take any action. n.o.body could understand her. With every day that pa.s.sed, the kingdom sank a little deeper into catastrophe. Food and water became scarce. At this point the daughter, who could understand her mother no better than anyone else, decided to meet the king despite the prohibition. One night, with the help of her confidant, she made her way to the king's tent. On seeing her heavenly beauty, the king fell madly in love with the princess. He made her the following offer: if she would marry him, he would renounce his claim to the kingdom. The princess accepted, somewhat entranced herself. They spent the night together. In the early hours, she made her triumphant way back to the palace, to tell her mother about this encounter with the king. Luckily, she didn't admit that she had also spent the night in his tent. When she heard her daughter had so much as seen the king, the queen succ.u.mbed to absolute despair. She was willing to face any ordeal life could throw at her, except this one! Overcome, she howled, 'Fate! Oh cursed fate!' and fainted. Still understanding nothing of what was going on inside her mother's head, the daughter spoke to the man who had been at her mother's side throughout her life, and asked him the cause of the queen's distress. And so he told her this story. 'Dear princess, as you know, I am not your father. The truth is that you are the daughter of this swaggering king! As for me, I was only his executioner.' He told her everything that had happened, finis.h.i.+ng with this enigmatic conclusion: 'And this, my princess, is our fate. If we tell the king the truth, the law decrees that all three of us shall be sentenced to hang. And all the people of this kingdom shall become his slaves. If we oppose his intentions, our kingdom shall be burned down. And if you marry him, you shall be committing the unpardonable sin of incest! All of us shall be cursed and punished by G.o.d.' Grandmother used to stop at this point in the story. We would ask her to tell us what happened next, and she would say: Unfortunately, my little girls, I don't know how the story ends. To this day, n.o.body knows. They say that the man or woman who discovers the end of the story shall be protected from hards.h.i.+p for the rest of their life. Not fully convinced, I would object that, if no one knew the end of the story, how could anyone tell if an ending was right? She used to laugh sadly and kiss me on the forehead. That's what we call mystery, my dear. Any ending is possible, but to know which is the right ending, the fair ending ... now that is the preserve of mystery. At that point, I used to ask her if it was a true story. She would reply, I told you, 'Once upon a time there was, or was not ...' My question was the same question she, as a young girl, used to ask her own grandmother, and to which her grandmother would reply, And that is the mystery, my dear; that is the mystery. That story haunted me for years. It used to keep me awake at night. Every night, in bed, I would plead with G.o.d to whisper the end of the story to me! A happy ending, so that I could have a happy life! I would make up all kinds of stuff in my head. As soon as I came up with an idea, I would rush to tell my grandmother. And she would shrug her shoulders and say, It's possible, my dear. It's possible. Your life will reveal whether you are right or not. It's your life that will confirm it. But whatever you discover, never tell anyone. Never! Because, as in any magical tale, whatever you say may come to pa.s.s. So, make sure to keep this ending to yourself."

She eats. A crust of bread, a layer of onion. "Once, I asked your father if he knew the story. He said no. So I told it to him. At the end, he paused a long while, then said these poignant words: You know, my daughter, it's an illusion to think you can find a happy ending to this story. It's impossible. Incest has been committed, and so tragedy is inevitable."

In the street, we hear someone shouting, "Halt!" And then a gunshot.

And footsteps, fleeing.

The woman continues. "So, your father disabused me of my illusions. But a few days later, when I brought him his breakfast early one morning, he asked me to sit down so we could talk about the story. Speaking very slowly and deliberately, he said, My daughter, I have thought long and hard. And actually, there could be a happy ending. I was so keen to hear this ending that I felt like throwing myself into his arms, kissing his hands and feet. Although, I restrained myself, of course. I forgot your mother and her breakfast, and sat down next to him. At that moment, my whole body was one giant ear, ignoring all other voices, all other sounds. There was only the wise, trembling voice of your father, who after a great slurp of tea said the following: As in life, my daughter, for this story to have a happy ending there must be a sacrifice. In other words, somebody's misfortune. Never forget, every piece of happiness must be paid for by two misfortunes. 'But why?' I asked with naive surprise. He replied in simple words: My daughter, unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, not everyone in the world can attain happiness, in real life or in a story. The happiness of some engenders the hards.h.i.+p of others. It's sad, but true. So, in this story, you need misfortune and sacrifice in order to arrive at a happy ending. But your self-regard, and your care for your loved ones, prevents you from considering this. The story requires a murder. But who must be killed? Before replying, before killing anyone, you must ask yourself another question: who do you wish to see happy, and alive? The father-king? The mother-queen? Or the daughter-princess? As soon as you ask yourself this question, my daughter, everything changes. In the story and in you. For this to happen you must rid yourself of three loves: love of yourself, love of the father, and love of the mother! I asked him why. He looked at me quietly for a long time, his pale eyes s.h.i.+ning behind his gla.s.ses. He must have been searching for words I would be able to understand. If you are on the daughter's side, your love for yourself prevents you from imagining the daughter's suicide. In the same way, love for the father doesn't allow you to imagine that the daughter could accept the marriage and then kill her own father in the marital bed on the wedding night. Finally, love for the mother stops you from considering the murder of the queen in order that the daughter can live with the king and conceal the truth from him. He let me think for a few moments. He took another long sip of tea and continued: In the same way, if I, as a father, imagined an end to this story, it would be the strict application of the law. I would order the beheading of the queen, the princess, and the executioner, to ensure that the traitors were punished and the secret of the incest buried forevermore. 'And what would the mother suggest?' I asked him. With a small private smile, he replied, My daughter, I know nothing of maternal love, so I cannot give you her answer. You yourself are a mother now; it's for you to tell me. But my experiences in life tell me that a woman like the queen would rather have her kingdom destroyed and her people enslaved than reveal her secret. The mother behaves in a moral way. She will not allow her daughter to marry her father. My G.o.d, it was hard, listening to those wise words. I was still desperately seeking a merciful outcome, and I asked him if this was at all possible. First of all he said yes--which comforted me--but then he shouted, My daughter, tell me, who in this story has the power to forgive? I replied naively, 'The father.' Shaking his head, he said, But, my daughter, the father--who has killed his own children, who during his warfaring has destroyed whole cities and populations, who has committed incest--the father is as guilty as the queen. As for her, she has betrayed the king and the law, certainly, but do not forget that she too was misled, by her newborn daughter and by the executioner. Desperate, I concluded before I left, 'So there is no happy ending!' There is, he said. But, as I told you, it involves accepting a sacrifice, and renouncing three things: self-regard, the law of the father, and the morality of the mother. Stunned, I asked him if he thought that was feasible. His reply was very simple: You must try, my daughter. I was much affected by the discussion, and thought of little else for months. I came to realize that my distress came from one thing and one thing only--the truth of his words. Your father really knew something about life."

Another crust of bread and layer of onion, swallowed with difficulty.

"The more I think of your father, the more I hate your mother. She kept him shut up in a small, sweaty room, sleeping on a rush mat. Your brothers treated him like a madman. Just because he had acquired great wisdom. n.o.body understood him. To start with, I was afraid of him too. Not because of what your mother and brothers kept saying about him, but because I remembered what my aunt had suffered at the hands of her father-in-law. And yet, bit by bit I became closer to him. With a great deal of fear. But at the same time a shadowy, indefinable curiosity. An almost erotic curiosity! Perhaps it was the part of me haunted by my aunt that drew me to him. A desire to live the same things she had lived. Frightening, isn't it?"

Full of thoughts and emotion, she finishes her onion and stale bread.

She blows out the lamp.

She lies down.

And sleeps.

As the guns grow weary and quiet, the dawn arrives. Gray and silent.

A few breaths after the call to prayer, hesitant footsteps can be heard on the muddy courtyard path. Someone reaches the house and knocks on the door to the pa.s.sage. The woman opens her eyes. Waits. Again there is a knock. She stands up. Half asleep. Goes to the window to see who this person is who doesn't dare enter without knocking.

In the leaden fog of dawn, she makes out an armed, turbaned shadow. The woman's "Yes?" draws the shape to the window. His face is hidden behind a length of turban; his voice, more fragile than his appearance, stammers, "C-c-can I ... c-c-come in?" It's the breaking teenage voice, the same one as yesterday. The woman tries to make out his features. But in the weak gray light she cannot be sure. She consents with a nod of the head, adding, "The door is open." She herself stays where she is, next to the window, watching the shadow as it moves along the walls, down the pa.s.sage, and into the doorway. The same clothing. The same way of hesitating on the threshold. The same timidity. It's him. No question. The same boy as the day before. She waits, quizzical. The boy is struggling to step into the room. Glued to the door frame, he tries to ask, "How ... m-m-much?" The woman can't understand a word he's saying.

"What do you want?"

"How ..." The voice breaks. It picks up speed--"How ... m-m-much?"--but not clarity.

Holding her breath, the woman takes a step toward the boy. "Listen, I'm not what you think I am. I ..." She is interrupted by a cry from the boy, fierce to start with, "Sh-sh-sh ... shut up!" and then calm, "How ... m-m-much?" She tries to move back, but is halted by the barrel of the gun against her belly. Waiting for the boy to calm down, she says gently, "I'm a mother ..." But the boy's tense finger on the trigger prevents her from continuing. Resigned, she asks, "How much do you have on you?" Trembling, he pulls a few notes from his pocket and throws them at her feet. The woman takes a step backward and turns a little so she can cast a furtive glance at the hiding place. The green curtain is slightly open. But the darkness makes the man's presence imperceptible. She slips to the ground. Lying on her back, looking toward her man, she spreads her legs. And waits. The boy is paralyzed. She cries impatiently: "Come on, then, let's get this over with!"

He puts his gun down next to the door, then, hesitantly, walks over, and stands above her. Inner turmoil has made his breathing all jerky. The woman closes her eyes.

Abruptly, he throws himself on top of her. The woman, struggling to breathe, gasps, "Gently!" Overexcited, the boy awkwardly grabs hold of her legs. She is frozen, numb beneath the wild flapping of this clumsy young body as it tries vainly, head buried in her hair, to pull down her pants. She ends up doing it herself. Pulls his down, too. As soon as his p.e.n.i.s brushes her thighs, he groans dully in the woman's hair; very pale, she keeps her eyes closed.

He is no longer moving. She neither.

He is breathing heavily. She too.

There is a moment of total stillness before a light breeze lifts and pulls apart the curtains. The woman opens her eyes at last. Her voice--weak but forgiving--whispers, "Is it over?" The boy's wounded cry shocks her. "Sh-sh-shut ... sh-sh-sh-shut your mouth!" He doesn't dare raise his head, still buried in the woman's black hair. His breathing becomes less and less intense.

The woman, silent, gazes with infinite sadness at the gap in the green curtain.

The two entwined bodies remain still, fixed to the ground, for a little while longer. Then a new breeze creates a slight movement in this ma.s.s of flesh. It's the woman's hand that is moving. Gently stroking the boy.

He does not protest. She continues stroking. Tender and maternal. "It doesn't matter," she a.s.sures him. No reaction at all from the boy. She perseveres: "It can happen to anyone." She is cautious. "Is ... is this the first time?" After a long silence, lasting three slow breaths, he nods his head--still sunk deep in the woman's hair--in shy, desperate a.s.sent. The woman's hand moves up to the boy's head, and touches his turban. "You had to start somewhere." She glances around to locate the gun. It is far away. Looks back at the boy who is still in the same position. She moves her legs a little. No protest. "Right, shall we get up?" He doesn't reply. "I told you, it doesn't matter ... I'll help you." Gently, she pushes up his right shoulder so she can s.h.i.+ft onto her side and free herself of the boy's broken weight. Having done this, she attempts to pull up her knickers, first wiping her thighs with the hem of her dress. Then she sits up. The boy moves too, at last. Avoiding the woman's eyes, he pulls up his trousers and sits with his back to her, staring at his gun. His turban has come undone. His face is visible. He has large, pale eyes, outlined in smoky kohl. He is beautiful, his face thin and smooth. He has barely any facial hair. Or else he's very young. "Do you have family?" the woman asks in a neutral voice. The boy shakes his head no, and quickly winds his turban back up, hiding half his face. Then, abruptly, he gets to his feet, grabs his gun, and flees the house like lightning.

The woman is still sitting in the same place. She stays there a long time, without a glance at the green curtain. Her eyes fill with tears. Her body huddles up. She wraps her arms around her knees, tucks in her head, and wails. A single, heartbreaking wail.

A breeze flutters, as if in response to her cry, lifting the curtains to let the gray fog flood the room.

The woman raises her head. Slowly. She does not stand. She still doesn't raise her eyes to the green curtain. She doesn't dare.

She stares down at the crumpled notes scattering in the breeze.

Cold or emotion, tears or terror makes her breath come in gasps. She is shaking.

Eventually she gets to her feet, and rushes into the pa.s.sage, to the toilet. She washes, and changes her dress. Reappears. Dressed in green and white. Looking more serene.

She picks up the money and goes back to her spot by the hiding place. Pulls the curtain tight shut, without meeting the man's vacant eyes.

After a few silent breaths, a bitter laugh bursts from her guts, juddering her lips. "So there you go ... it doesn't just happen to other people! Sooner or later, it had to happen to us, too ..."

She counts the notes, "poor thing," and puts them in her pocket. "Sometimes I think it must be hard to be a man. No?" She pauses for a moment. To think, or to wait for a reply. Starts again, with the same forced smile: "That boy made me think about our own first times ... if you don't mind me saying so. You know me ... my memories always. .h.i.t me just when I'm not expecting them. Or no longer expecting them. They plague me, I just can't help it. The good ones and the bad. It leads to some laughable moments. Like just now, when that boy was all distraught, and our first, belated honeymoon nights suddenly flashed into my brain ... I swear, I didn't mean to think of you, it just happened. You were clumsy too, like that boy. Of course, at the time, I didn't know any better. I thought that was how it was supposed to be--how you did it. Although it often seemed to me that you weren't satisfied. And then I would feel guilty. I told myself that it was my fault, that I didn't know how to do it right. After a year, I discovered that actually, it was all coming from you. You gave nothing. Nothing. Remember all those nights when you f.u.c.ked me and left me all ... all keyed up ... My aunt is quite right when she says that those who don't know how to make love, make war." She won't let herself continue.

She pauses for a long time before saying, suddenly, "Anyway, tell me, what is pleasure for you? Seeing your filth spurt? Seeing the blood spurt as you tear through the virtuous veil?"

She looks down, and bites her bottom lip. Furiously. The anger takes hold of her hand, grips it, turns it into a fist, and crashes it against the wall. She groans.

Falls silent.

"Sorry! ... This ... this is the first time I've spoken to you like this ... I'm ashamed of myself. I really don't know where it's all coming from. I never used to think about any of this before. I promise. Never!" A pause, then she continues. "Even when I noticed you were the only one whose pleasure peaked, it didn't bother me. On the contrary, I was pleased. I told myself it was normal. That it was the difference between us. You men take your pleasure, and we women derive ours from yours. That was enough for me. And it was my job and mine alone to give myself pleasure by ... touching myself." Her lip is bleeding. She blots it with her ring finger, then her tongue. "One night, you caught me in the act. You were asleep. I had my back to you and was touching myself. Perhaps my panting woke you up. You jumped, and asked me what I was doing. I was hot, and shaking ... so I told you I had a fever. You believed me. But you still sent me to sleep in the other room with the children. What a b.a.s.t.a.r.d." She falls silent, out of dread, or decency. A blush appears on her cheeks, and spreads slowly to her neck. Her gaze is concealed behind dreamily closing eyelids.

She stands up, buoyant. "Right, I must be going. My aunt and the children must be worried!"

Before leaving, she fills the drip bag with sugar-salt solution, covers her man, closes the doors, and disappears into her veil, into the street.

The room, the house, the garden, all of it, buried in fog, disappears beneath that sad gray mantle.

Nothing happens. Nothing moves, except the spider, which for a while now has been living in the rotting ceiling beams. It is slow. Slothful. After a brief tour of the wall, it returns to its web.

Outside: They shoot a while.

Pray a while.

Are silent a while.

At dusk, someone knocks on the door to the pa.s.sage.

No voice invites him in.

He knocks again.

No hand opens the door to him.

He leaves.

Night comes, and goes again. Taking the clouds and the fog with it.

The sun is back. Its rays of light return the woman to the room.

After glancing around the s.p.a.ce she pulls a new drip bag and a new bottle of eyedrops from her bag. Goes straight over to the green curtain and draws it aside so she can see her man. His eyes are half-open. She pulls the tube out of his mouth, takes a cus.h.i.+on from under his head, and inserts the drops into his eyes. One, two; one, two. Then, she leaves the room and returns with the plastic basin full of water, a towel, and some clothes. She washes her man, changes his clothes, and settles him back into his spot.

Carefully she rolls up his sleeve and wipes the crook of his arm. Inserts the tube, fills the dropper correctly, and then leaves, carrying everything she must remove from the room.

We hear her doing the was.h.i.+ng. She hangs it out in the sun. Returns with a broom. Brushes off the kilim, the mattresses ...

She hasn't yet finished her task when someone knocks at the door. She walks to the window in a cloud of dust. "Who is it?" Again the silent shape of the boy, wrapped in his patou. The woman's arms fall wearily to her sides. "What do you want now?" The boy holds out a few notes. The woman doesn't move. Doesn't say a word. The boy heads for the pa.s.sage. The woman comes out to meet him. They murmur a few inaudible words to each other and slip into one of the rooms.

To start with, there is only silence, then gradually some whispering ... and eventually a few m.u.f.fled groans. Then once again silence. For quite a while. Then a door opening. And footsteps rus.h.i.+ng outside.