The Pistachio Seller

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3 1 How does a woman fall in love? When she sees a man from a different angle. It was a Saturday. The electricity was out for two hours. When it came back on, most of the light bulbs in the hall were burned out. A main fuse in the apartment had also blown. My mother looked baffled; my brother was at a loss; even my father was at his wits’ end. It was Ashraf who got up and volunteered to replace the fuse and the light bulbs. He stood on the table. He was tall—very tall. His legs seemed to reach to the sky. He was tall and brown with a thin face and a smile like that of Ikhnaton. That tired and sarcastic smile seemed to say: I don’t believe you, and I am fed up with your tricks, but I don’t care. Ashraf Daawood knew he was good-looking. There are men whose eyes shine with enough arrogance to mask the sunshine. His eyes needed no sunglasses, for arrogance was glittering and oozing from them. My mother looked fondly at her nephew and said, “Have you always been an electrician?” “No,” he said, shaking his head, “but I like manual work.” Everyone watched him in silence. It was a Saturday, I remember. And while he was standing on a stepladder in the hall, changing a light bulb in the faint light coming through the window, I decided to love him. There was something about his white shirt, his jeans, his hand as I saw it in the dim light, the veins of his hand, that drew my attention to him for the first time. That was the beginning of my love story with Ashraf. When he stepped down from the ladder, he took a towel from his aunt and 4  T h e P i s t a c h i o S e l l e r started wiping his hands. I was gazing at his hands and at the towel, and my heart was pounding like never before. I looked at his trouser pocket, where he kept some pistachios. Two of them dropped to the floor, and the sound startled me. They were round and small. The first pistachio peeked cautiously from its shell. It was beautiful , and its green color revealed its innocence. The second pistachio looked pale and terrifying. It was as if it were counterfeit currency, antiquated laws, policies: democratic, capitalist, and radical all in one; it was like all subversive and arrogant ideas. It was as if it were the pain of days past and days to come. It was a cheap pistachio, as cheap as modern civilizations and as rotten as ancient ones. It was exorbitantly priced and of unknown origin. Was it originally from the East or the West? Was it from one of Ashraf’s various countries? Or from the Zionists, the Americans, the Iraqis, the Syrians, the Iranians, the Turks, or the English? It was a small, frightening pistachio, and as grave as death. Its mystery never left my imagination—just like the enigma of death. As for Ashraf Daawood, my love for him was succulent and violent. Before that day, I had hated him passionately. Now everything had changed. I don’t know why. I smiled shyly, since I didn’t know what to do. Perhaps it was time to give my mother a hand. Yes, if I would do that, he was bound to see how good I was, and he would love me. Heading for the kitchen, I called: “Mother, I’ll do the washing up and then prepare dinner. Do you need anything else?” My mother looked at me—as if she were aware of everything: “No, Wafaa, darling. Just make some coffee for Ashraf. It’s time for his coffee, you know.” Making his coffee, I went damp with perspiration. I put the coffee down in front of him and sat looking at him. “Maybe I’m not in love with him,” I thought. “Maybe. I don’t know how to explain these strange feelings of mine. Maybe I just find him good-looking. No—there’s a big problem for me here. I don’t look at men. Then again, Ashraf is different.” I stared at the floor without uttering a word—while he was looking at me, rather surprised, and with a measure of curiosity. Then he said, “Wafaa, if you would like to study, do go...