Talking through the Door: An Anthology of Contemporary Middle Eastern American Writing

E u g e n e P . Na s s a r

191 E u g E n E P . n A s s A r Summer 1958 t hE housE was in deep shadow though it was noon. The wind had whipped up through the elm trees, the clouds were pushing fast and wild on the black sky and Mintaha could hardly hold herself up. As she wrestled with flapping sheets and clothespins in her apron pockets she hoped the rain would not come. The neighborhood was somber though it had been in bright sunshine two hours before. But it was much the same to Mintaha as her life has been mainly within herself; she hardly knew the neighborhood, what was East or West. She knew other things; she knew moral beauty from moral ugliness, and courage from the lack of it; she knew a hardy plant, and she knew grief as the first cousin to joy. These she knew: some of the houses of Lebanese and a few others, a few stores, a few streets, and the people who came into her house. Her house was no longer a center; the father of the house had been dead one year and the house had half-died. Mintaha knew now the emptiness of a house without its father and husband and lost heart daily, but daily she struggled to gain heart, to not withdraw from what she knew was life; from duty and family and laughter. The thunder cracked and the wind blew furiously; the sheets snapped. Mintaha turned and at her side found Shafee’a. “The Devil has a sick stomach today, Mintaha, soon his bowels will be moving.” “Ya, Shafee’a, I thought the Devil liked the ladies. Why then does he do this?” T a l k i n g T h r o u g h T h e D o o r 192 “Mintaha, you don’t know! The Devil comes to the ladies at night; in the day our Lord punishes the devils and ladies.” “My sweetheart, the Devil I’m sure came to me last night and brought me such a dream . . .” “Stop with your dreams! You dream too much; I have heard enough of your dreams. Have you coffee?” “If you want my coffee you must hear my dream.” “That is a heavy price to pay. Your cucumbers are not big yet. You have a few days left before your lady friends come to visit you. Yellah, here is your rain.” It began to sprinkle. They left the wash and the wind and entered the house. Shafee’a had seen that Mintaha was tired and dispirited and quickly made coffee and did around the kitchen what she saw had to be done, despite her friend’s protest. She had been coming to Mintaha twice a week ever since Mike died and Mintaha looked forward to the visits since Shafee’a never cried. (Shafee’a damned up and down in Arabic and in the loudest tones of her loud voice the women who came to dump their load of misery in a house which had its share.) “Speaking of Devils, Butros was in the house at seven-thirty this morning.” “But Butros, Shafee’a, is one of the biggest saints, isn’t it so?” “Saint! Butros, may his mother never rest, is a devil with six horns; he is Luciforus’s own son. Every morning, every morning before I have even my coffee he runs across the street zipping up his pants as he goes and knocks on my screen door, ‘Shafee’a, Shafee’a, may your sleep have brought you health.’ I say to him, ‘May this day see you in the river, Butros,’ but he comes in and drinks my coffee and stirs up my blood with his malicious gossip and his drooping eyes. I tell him, ‘Seventy-eight years old and still a fool, Butros? Is it not time at last to be a good man?’ And he tells me, may the flames take his father’s son, ‘I bear your words lightly Shafee’a, because I know you love me.’ Love him! If it were not Friday, I would cook him in the oven and eat him!” E u g E n E P . n A s s A r 193 They told Butros stories. One of Butros drunk rapping on Minnie ’s door long ago and asking for a tomato to be eaten in the right way...