The Book Smuggler by Omaima Al-Khamis

Author:Omaima Al-Khamis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The American University in Cairo Press

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It was not an easy thing to forget Rashid ibn Ali once you were out of his company. The way he raised his eyes from his books and fixed them on his interlocutor; the way he paused between sentences to choose his words; in a word, his presence impressed itself upon me as the other Voyagers’ had. The coarse features of his face; his neck, thick and veined like a tree trunk; his curly hair shining with perfumed oil, shot through with white; and the library he proudly displayed . . . what manner of books lay in it? I must not be too hasty in seeking answers nor tear them open too roughly. Answers lie dormant like butterflies in their chrysalises: when they are complete, they flutter free to perch on your finger.

My heart trembled as I walked, knowing that this was the path taken by the caliph every night on his way out of his palace. I glimpsed around me ruined mansions and abandoned houses, whose inhabitants had left them empty to be taken over by some shepherds and their handfuls of sheep, and a few water carriers: these sat, smiling and friendly, outside houses with the windows taken out, the doors broken in. I was certain that if I entered the house of any of these men, they would share their supper with me.

On my way back to Cairo, I walked along the Water Carriers’ Alley, so as not to become lost in the many streets. The water carriers of Cairo had their own streets, through which the camels and mules, gourds and containers of water on their back, came and went from the Nile. They were always squabbling with the passersby, either because the water in their gourds had splashed on someone’s clothing or because they insisted on being paid in advance: half a daniq, which is one-sixth of a dirham, for every floor ascended in someone’s house.

I must return to my home now. I had asked Mabrouk to purchase for me some mugwort and sweet basil and plant it in pots around the circumference of the upper balcony and throughout the house, for the mosquitoes had given me great distress the previous night, especially with our proximity to the river. My “blood was sweet,” as Shammaa had told me when the mosquitoes bit my face as a child.

Shammaa of the House of Wael! Her memory was like a needle pricking at my heart. I thought of her headscarf with its yellow flowers: she always bought a new one from the pilgrims returning from Mecca. In the evening, when she slept, she removed it and washed it, then undid her long braids and let her hair hang loose over her back. The next morning, when it dried, she would wrap it up and place dried lavender in it, so her hair would smell of lavender all day. I would not remember her too vividly, for my heart ached.

The scent of mugwort and basil was powerful at the entrance to my house.

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