I’ve sat down to write this story about the séance. It’s nearly eleven o’clock, and noontime is setting in with its melancholy that is different to that of sunset. In my small office, in this big company, I cannot always sit down and write stories like these, which I love. My work is administrative and demands concentration. My time is filled with reports and paperwork. My fingers move like energetic soldiers over the keys of the typewriter, and my days are so ordered and monotonous that I am compelled to escape in stories. I’d like to tell you one of them now.
They are strange stories. My beautiful, strange stories. I tell them to my only friend Nagwa every day. Each time, she accuses me of having a horrible imagination and says that I’m trying to make up for the emptiness of my life. I laugh, paying no attention, and tell her that all the stories that I write spring out of something. I don’t know what it is, but I certainly feel happy, exhilarated: it’s as if I were laughing or crying, or feeling a delicious pain like the pain in my knee which stabs me late at night and gives me nightmares so that I doze off and then wake up in a panic.
My mother, before she died, told me that I had a vivid imagination, and that ‘a child is two-thirds his uncle’, or something of that sort. My uncle was called Hassan. We doted on him, and called him ‘Hassun’, or canary. My uncle kept a canary in his beautiful house on Al-Mazraa Street in Beirut. It woke him every morning with a special song, which my uncle named ‘Good Morning’. Each day he would awake to the canary’s morning song and go to work after kissing his wife, who looked like the film star Nadia Lutfi. My uncle had learnt about the ‘morning kiss’ from his boss and colleagues in Stockholm when, as a young man, he went there for a training course after graduating as a telecommunications engineer.
My uncle ‘Hassun’ wrote beautiful stories for himself and he would read them to us. They were all about love. Pages and pages adorned with fine decorative script flowed like water, like the blueness of the sea. With his papers unfurled about the place, words gushed from his lips, the large mole on the end of his chin laughed and my heart came alive. When he came back from Stockholm he brought a huge, wonderful notebook with him. Its covers could be locked with a small lock and key and he could hide his beautiful tales between them. Only I amongst his nephews and nieces liked to listen to these tales. I would cling to him for hours, like my grandfather’s cat Amber, as he read story after story in his beautiful voice. The loveliest of these, which has lingered long in my memory, was the story of the canary and his beloved with one wing. It was about a canary who lived with his owner - I think that this was my uncle although he always denied it. The canary lived happily for many years until he suddenly became ill, and would neither eat nor sing. When the canary was close to death his owner wept and begged him to live, telling him that he would give his life to save him. The canary was revived and asked his owner to allow him to leave the cage once a day, for an hour. His owner agreed. The canary kept his promise and every day he would fly away for an hour and then return with a smile, singing sweetly. One day he revealed his secret. He told his owner that he was in love with a canary who lived in a cage far away. She was unable to leave her cage because she only had one wing. He went to meet her every day and then came back to his owner and told him about his tryst with the poor lonely lady canary.
‘How lovely you are,’ he would say to her.
‘How I long for you,’ she would say to him.
‘How tender your voice is.’
‘How far you are from me.’
‘How happy I am to be close to you.’
‘If only I could fly with you.’
‘What do you want me to give you?’
‘Come here, stay with me.’
Yet he would return to his owner. In the first few months he returned in order to keep to his promise, but later, he came to long for his return so that he could tell his owner what the lady canary had revealed to him; and so that he could yearn for her once more, and for always.
My uncle told me this story several times, reading it in his lovely voice with enthusiastic intonation. Changing his voice for the dialogue, he tried to explain to me each time that this was a conversation between the canaries and I would get angry: ‘I can tell, I can tell,’ I would scream, ‘I know, I know’.
***
I told Nagwa this story after finishing work. I’d gone home and invited her to lunch. We ate and then sat drinking tea. I think that that must have been yesterday. I’m now sitting once again and I remember that Nagwa asked me about the séance that I’d said I was going to write about in the office. I had remembered after she left that in fact I hadn’t told her anything about the séance. So I sat down a moment ago to think how I’m going to surprise her. My desire to tell her what I’m going to write in the next few moments is greater than the desire to write itself. I know exactly how she’ll look at me calmly, trying to hide her admiration and perhaps even her jealousy. I know how she’ll dare to accuse me of using everything around me in stories, and how I’ll wear my voice out and bring tears to my eyes trying to make her see that a story is more beautiful than this world and how everything around me only has a meaning when I see it again, anew, on paper, and tell it to her in a story.
This story is my other life. My previous life; my time without old age; my family and my home. My mother’s eyes, who doesn’t die, and my father’s voice, which I don’t stifle out of fear. The story in which my uncle loved the canary and set him free so that he could love and be free; in which, with a laugh, he fought in the war, and planted an orchard on the ruins of his house; in which young girls and secret conversations leave and, like the spring, bring this story which becomes his boat and his river and carries him from the rapids to the valleys. I’m going there now; I’m hanging the canary’s cage in my head and opening the door. Prepare yourself Nagwa, I’m going to begin.
***
The old house looked like a palace in the dark, its architecture reminiscent of its French inhabitants during the Mandate. The garden was in ruins. The olive, pomegranate and orange trees were barren and the bars of the iron gates were staved in. They had now to go down the small driveway and open a stiff wooden door, whose sharp creak pierced the quiet darkness. The elderly man, who was wearing a grey jilbab and white skullcap, turned around and asked them to enter quietly and carefully and to close the door. They did as he asked and the door creaked sharply once more. Then he reminded them to take their shoes off and upon this the fat woman looked at her friend. The friend, who was taller with a fuller bust and more elegant and refined, smiled and took her dainty Italian shoes off. The fat woman picked up her sandals and placed a podgy foot on the first of the narrow steps which came after the wooden door and lead to the salon. A handsome young man was following the women, and he was suddenly embarrassed by the hole in his sock from which the big toe of his left foot was poking. The elderly man was known as the Hajj, the fat woman was called Nafisa and her beautiful, slender friend was called Zaynab, or Madame Shaquri. The handsome young man told the story that his name was Qadri and that a friend of his, who is darker, plumper and less good-looking, would be joining him at the séance, and that he will be called Fatah.
***
No doubt Nagwa will ask me about these people’s ages, and their occupations. But I’ll ask her to save her breath, to remember their names and to sit and listen to what happened to them from the very first moments in which the séance began, in that old house hidden away in the thick undergrowth of a ruined garden in a quiet, forgotten quarter of Rabat.
***
The silence was heavy, like the air on those stifling summer nights when the humidity descends surreptitiously and the breezes succumb. The group seemed confused and it was up to the Hajj to do something to put an end to their confusion. They were going up the last steps of the narrow stairway in growing darkness and the Hajj asked for matches. Qadri hurried to search his pockets. Zaynab was quicker and offered her gold lighter to the Hajj, asking politely if he might be able to use it instead of matches. He said no. She apologised and put the lighter back in her fine leather handbag. They were now in the hall that lead into the salon and Zaynab looked about as if she were looking for a seat or awaiting permission to sit down. After taking some matches from Fatah the Hajj lit two candles, which he had been carrying in the inside pocket of his jilbab and finally told them to sit down and that there was no need to move any further. Realising it wasn’t necessary to sit on one of the large antique settees, Nafisa briskly pulled off one of the sheets with which they were covered, shook the dust off and spread it out on the floor. The Hajj motioned to them to sit down. Nafisa sat down with a composure that gave the impression to those about her that she knew what was what. Zaynab sat next to her, folding her legs under her hips and adjusting her skirt, which had ridden up over her knees. Qadri sat next to her cross-legged after taking off the sock with a hole in. Fatah squatted. The Hajj left the room, announcing that he would be back in a moment.
***
What is this house and why are these people there? Nagwa will ask me this angrily and she’ll become increasingly scornful. Nevertheless, I’ll be able to stop her, make her hold her breath and be dying to hear what happened next. For me, what’s important is that Nagwa carries on listening to my story. If she doesn’t listen, if she ridicules or protests, the story won’t be finished and will never be finished. So, before she starts asking questions or mocks or accuses me, I’ll be quick to describe the room in which they are sitting before the Hajj comes back and the séance begins.
It’s a spacious square room with antique settees dotted about which, covered with the white dustsheets, resemble ghosts. To the front of the room are some huge plants that, like statues, throw shadows on the walls, some of which are adorned with cheap pictures and masks. In a corner, tables of varying sizes are stacked up. Zaynab asked about the owners of the house. Nafisa told her that its owner was an engineer who had been possessed by djinn several years ago. They had come to him in this house and asked if they might stay, but he was afraid and refused, so they had no alternative but to drive him out. Nafisa hurried to explain to Zaynab before the Hajj came back that she shouldn’t ask too many questions about the djinn. This annoyed them and one of them might delight in getting so angry that he give her a slap. Zaynab looked scared. Nafisa laughed and explained that a djinn’s slap would be very soft since they also loved having fun, especially with pretty women. Then, murmuring to herself, she added that with the exception of Sidi Hamou they were all nice and obliging, only Sidi Hamou was tricky. Zaynab smiled wanly. Nafisa said she knew the Hajj very well and that this wasn’t the first time she had taken part in a séance with him. At this point the Hajj came back carrying a small cushion and sat down cross-legged between Nafisa and Zaynab. Fatah sighed, while Qadri was trying hard to stop his crooked big toe curling in like a little snake.
The Hajj cleared his throat and everyone fell silent. Then, between a whisper and a hiss, he began reciting a mixture of charms, numbers and spells. Suddenly he screamed. The women trembled, as did he, and the men looked at him, readied for action. His face was hidden behind his hands, his body was swaying and his head hung over to one side as if he were going into a trance without the aid of drums or repetitive beats. However, after a while, his voice rose up again, uttering chants and proverbs in a hiss which changed to a whisper and then to a gentle wavering and it was as if the masculinity of his voice had given way to something akin to the breaking voice of an adolescent boy. Nafisa said that this séance would be with Al-Sharifa. The Hajj, in a clear calm voice, asked for the niqab. Nafisa reached over to the nearest settee and took hold of a piece of muslin, which had caught her attention when she had first arrived. ‘Here you are Al-Sharifa,’ she said, handing it to him, and the Hajj draped the white muslin over his head as if to veil himself.
‘In God’s name, place your trust in Him,’ he said huskily, his voice having taking on the tones of Al-Sharifa.
Everyone muttered in agreement. Zaynab began to cry. Nafisa touched her foot and told her to stop because tears would make the séance difficult. The Hajj, in Al-Sharifa’s voice, told them that everyone here was held dear and that ‘they’ liked smiles and didn’t like distress. They drew near when the atmosphere was good, and fled from a bad one. If Zaynab was to get what she wanted she should stretch her hand out and state her request without fear or shyness. Zaynab faltered.
‘Speak, speak,’ Nafisa prompted her, ‘tell Al-Sharifa what you want.’
So Zaynab spoke of her fears about the women who had snatched him away, the men who were putting holes in his pocket, and the scoundrels who were leading him into bad ways. Qadri, who had been looking at her, hid his face behind his knees. Zaynab said that she wanted the man and that without him she burned like a fire with no water to quench it. She said that they were all after his heart and what was in his pockets and that he was always in the alleyway while she was on her own at home, forgotten. Zaynab wept and gasped, her chest quivered, her arms flailed. She folded her knees and straightened her skirt. Her sorrows raged and her senses languished in the wreathes of incense that had begun to emit its fragrance and pervade like a faint torpor. She wiped away her tears. Her cheeks were flushed and the veins at the top of her thighs protruded. The Hajj pulled her to him and hugged her. ‘Don’t be scared,’ he said gently in the husky voice, ‘say more.’
Everyone was looking at Zaynab as the candles burned and melted. Trembling, the Hajj, as Al-Sharifa, called out to the invisible presences and announced the request, rubbing Zaynab’s fingertips with his rough hand. Weeping, her sweat flowing like the drips of melting wax on the candles, she begged that the man be rescued and that the fire be quenched. Qadri hid his head in his hands and bent forward over his knees. The Hajj shrieked and everyone trembled; he blew the candles out and darkness prevailed. He pulled Zaynab towards him forcefully so her head ended up under the niqab and he put his arm around her. With her head nestled in his embrace, he could hear her whimpering and gasping.
‘My dear lady,’ he asked gravely, ‘do you have the necessary item?’ Nafisa opened Zaynab’s handbag, her hand trembling, and took out a plastic bag that was wrapped around a damp cloth. She gave it to the Hajj shyly. In the darkness, Qadri glared at the bag and tried to fix Zaynab with a sharp look but was unable. The Hajj took it and tucked it between his knees. ‘Please gentlemen,’ he said, ‘if you would be so kind, allow us some privacy.’ He indicated to the men that they should go to the adjoining room. Fatah went quickly and Qadri followed slowly.
‘There my child,’ the Hajj whispered huskily, ‘cheer up, everything will be fine. He’ll be as obedient as a donkey and as strong as a horse. His desire will only be aroused when he’s with you and will only be satisfied by you.’
Zaynab stopped crying and caught her breath. The Hajj squeezed her arm and patted her on the chest. Then he lifted the niqab and opened a small cloth pouch hanging on a cotton thread around his neck. Smiling at Zaynab, he rubbed the cloth with powder and oils from the pouch and said that although she should be doing this, he would help her and would stand by her until her every wish was fulfilled.
‘Listen my good lady,’ he said, ‘and repeat after me.’
‘Very well sidi,’ she replied.
The Hajj picked up some scissors and began to cut the damp cloth into pieces. ‘This is for the dirra,’ he said with a grin, ‘I’ve brought it with me. Now my lady, repeat after me:
‘So and so, son of so and so,
No sleep without her and no repose
Your head by mine, your legs on my bed
Say ‘by God’ and say ‘by the Prophet’
So and so, daughter of thing
Daughter of the Sultan of the Djinn
She says in this rhyme that
He will be mine, he will be mine’’
Zaynab repeated what the Hajj said and asked him to write it down so she could memorise it. He said he would and told her that she must burn the pieces of cloth at home while repeating the chant; then she should get another cloth. He laughed and said that men were far too randy. Zaynab smiled, Nafisa burst out laughing and in the other room Qadri decided he must do something. ‘After the deed,’ said the Hajj, ‘when the man is asleep, take the cloth and mix in some rue. Dry it out, add some liquorice and some thyme and then say:
‘I burn it with rue so he is true
I burn it with liquorice so I’m his only wish
I burn it with thyme so he is mine.’
Zaynab took a folded wad of money out of her handbag, and placed it under the Hajj’s cushion. He unfolded it and then grabbed her hand. She tried to pull it away but he held onto it and dragged it up to the opening at the top of his jilbab. As he rubbed her hand over the hair on his chest, Zaynab trembled, and so did Al-Sharifa.
***
Will Nagwa get upset? Will she be angry? It’s as if I’m only telling her about bitterness and decay. She likes birds, flowers, and love, as I do. She listens to my stories time and time again, without tiring of them, especially if the man in them is noble, kind and tender. She was with me that day. We visited the Hajj for a reason I can’t reveal lest she be angry with me. I told her that I’d accompany her for the sake of a story, and even though the séance was upsetting, when I saw Zaynab and Nafisa I realised that my story had begun and that the glances that Zaynab harboured for the handsome young man were a reason to find out what had happened before the séance.
***
I know the area where the old house is and what Zaynab wants. Before she went to the séance with Nafisa, she had gone to the post office to call Qadri from a public telephone; she was unable to call him from home after her brother-in-laws had come home. She asked Qadri to restrain himself during the séance that evening, and not to ask about the cloth. She swore that her husband and she no longer shared a bed and that it was she who had broken with him, not he with her. What she wanted from him now was not a reconciliation: rather, after ten years, she couldn’t finish her marriage as she had entered into it – with nothing. The man owns the money and the property, and after all these years, she was entitled to more than what she had by way of jewellery and what she had kept aside from the housekeeping. He should sign a piece of land over to her, or give her the marital home. The Hajj will solve the problem she said. He’ll keep him quiet and stop him going to the whores in the alleyway. If he, Qadri, were understanding, if he wanted her, he would agree with her about all this. Something in Qadri’s heart troubled him, yet it didn’t matter, it would pass. Zaynab was better than most, a woman of means who was still young at heart and attractive. He would live in her house and eat her food.
When the Hajj gave them permission to rejoin the séance Qadri came out of the other room. Zaynab wouldn’t look at him and Qadri’s annoyance was obvious. ‘And you, my honourable lady,’ the Hajj asked Nafisa with a smile, ‘are you still after that man?’ Nafisa lit the candles and sighed. She asked what else she could do. Life was tough and he was better than others. He would at least feed her and put a roof over her head. Others would use her and then cast her aside, like a dog. She would end up going hungry and thirsty with her beloved telling her to get lost. He was better than the others. She asked the Hajj to help her by writing a charm for him. ‘We can give something a try,’ said the Hajj laughing, ‘but is the noble lady still up to it?’
‘Without a doubt,’ said Nafisa.
***
Nagwa will be quiet and she’ll look miserable. She’ll say that she expected me to tell her a love story, a story called ‘A Séance for Love’ in which I started telling her about my uncle, the canary, the bird’s love, the sparkle of secret conversations and the delicacy of revelations. She’ll say she thought Zaynab would be a sorrowing lover, Nafisa a wronged sweetheart, Qadri wracked with longing and Fatah in search of a woman, beautiful as a gazelle, who had gone astray. She’ll say that she thought the Hajj would sit with them through the night listening to their sighs and tears, their days of sorrows and yearning, and that he would dispense justice and wisdom. But Nagwa, the story isn’t how you want it to be. It is how it is.
***
Qadri was accompanying Zaynab, and Fatah had come with Qadri. Fatah was hoping that the Hajj would now begin with him. After inscribing an amulet for Nafisa and arranging for her to visit him the following Friday to tell him what happened, the Hajj turned to Fatah. ‘Now Sidi,’ he said, I’m at your service.’
Fatah, who was from the far south, drew closer, his dark skin blushing. He said he was possessed and suffered from fits. He said that the Hajj must throw him to the ground and with the voice of Al-Sharifa or the powers of Al-Amira, drive the spirits from his body. They had possessed him many years ago; they sent him into faints and ordered him about. He would never get the better of them without the Hajj. The Hajj invoked the name of God, moved the others away and told Fatah to lie down. A long silence prevailed. Zaynab and Qadri exchanged glances, agreeing that everything would be fine and for the best. As for Nafisa, she wanted to help the Hajj to show everyone she knew how. Fatah was thinking of the spirits. They made him laugh and cry and told him not to go to work or to spit in his boss’ face. His boss would beat him and his mother would take him back to the shop contrite, begging forgiveness. He had attended the festival of Maulaya Abdullah several times, and visited the shrine of Sidi Al-Barnousi; his mother had taken him to healers and faqihs who burnt alum and frankincense around him, hung salt and radishes around his neck and put scissors under his pillow; she had hidden an amulet on which a faqih had written a charm in his wardrobe; he had been scrubbed with soap in the middle of the qasbah and had attended a séance with Layla Ayisha Qandisha. Yet he continued to itch and weep and spit and take his trousers off in front of the house and pee in front of women. After a while he calmed down a little, and his boss was amazed to see the speed at which he embroidered. Within months he moved from winding silk thread to embroidering, and the kaftans emerging from his fingers began to gleam.
Fatah produced ten thousand riyals and placed them at the Hajj’s feet. ‘I’m depending on you,’ he said.
By now, the Hajj was calm and prepared. He ordered the troublesome spirits out. ‘I’ve told you, be on your way, get lost!’ There was a rattling in Fatah’s throat and foam emerged from between his lips. Nafisa hid her face in her hands, parting her fingers so that she could watch the spectacle with delight. Zaynab wept for herself and for Fatah. Fatah moaned and kicked. The Hajj wrestled with the spirits and tried to drive them out by force. In Fatah’s weak and faltering voice, they told him that they wouldn’t leave, and that if they did they would go to the Hajj’s house. ‘What are you going to do there?’ asked the Hajj defiantly, ‘have a cup of tea or coffee?’ He laughed and ordered them out once again. Fatah flushed deeply and wailed. Then he went pale and foamed at the mouth and the relief sent his arms and legs flying. The Hajj restrained him and asked the others for help. They came nearer. Zaynab held onto his arm, the Hajj covered his mouth and Qadri held onto his feet. Nafisa sat on his stomach, and the Hajj told her to go gently. She adjusted her position and made do with pressing down on his ribcage with her knee. Fatah became calm and his body went limp. Then he started and vomited. The Hajj promised him rest and told him he’d marry a beautiful woman. ‘A gazelle by God, I swear, you’ll get nothing but a real beauty.’
Everyone sighed with relief and the Hajj looked at his watch and pulled out the wads of dirhams from under the cushion. He quietly arranged them in his leather wallet, which was attached to the inside pocket of his jilbab with a pin. ‘Well now,’ he said, after blowing his nose, ‘all that remains is for me to bid you farewell.’ Then, all of a sudden, he turned round to look at the wall and shrieked like a woman. ‘No, no, no! Shame, shame, shame on me. How could I forget? Damnation! The woman told me I must give the bird to its owner and I forgot. Damn, damn, damn.’ Everyone looked towards where the Hajj was pointing. He stood up quickly. There was a beautiful cage hanging from the wall over the window. Inside it, in a corner, a small yellow bird lay on its front. Its eyes were clouded over and its wings were weak. The Hajj stretched out his fingers and tapped on the bars of the cage. The bird flinched.
I too flinched, just now. I stopped writing the story and put the paper aside. I’ve remembered that Nagwa is coming in a while. Shall I wait for her? No, I shan’t. I won’t finish the story either. I’ve remembered. Remembered the cage, the real cage; my uncle’s canary’s cage. I’d seen it. I saw it. There. There in that old house. When the Hajj was the Hajj, that Hajj, the other one, not the Hajj in the story. I’d seen it. How could I forget? The canary was inside. My uncle’s canary. My uncle’s canary, the very same one, was inside. It was sad, its voice had vanished and its sight was weak. I said on that day that I’d ask the Hajj if I could have it, I’d ask him if he’d sell it. I thought I’d tell him how it looked like that canary, my uncle’s canary. Then I forgot. I was carried away by the séance and thinking about the story. I forgot the canary, forgot my uncle, his book of stories and those days. I’m going back now and I can see him. It is that canary, with his gaze, his joy, his wings and his song. Maybe my uncle came back and forbade him from flying away to see his one-winged beloved. Maybe he went but couldn’t find her. Maybe she’d left. Maybe she’d died. Maybe my uncle died. But the canary isn’t dead. I saw him alive with the Hajj and I saw him alive in the story. He’s my uncle’s beautiful canary. The Good Morning canary. I want it, I want it.
I stretched my hand out towards the paper, the story, Nagwa, the Hajj, my uncle, my head. Where’s the cage? Where’s the canary? Where’s the séance for love? Love is with the canary, and the canary is in the cage, and the cage is in the old house, and the old house is in the ruined garden, and the ruined garden is in a distant quarter, and the distant quarter is in the old city, and the old city is behind the walls. The walls are past the gates and the gates are secret, guarded by seven demons with seven ears of corn on their heads, and with seven cows in front of them. Sprinkle the salt ladies and gentlemen, the séance for love is about to begin, the séance for… the séance for, for …