Velvet by Huzama Habayeb

Author:Huzama Habayeb
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The American University in Cairo Press
Published: 2019-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

6

The clock shows 4:20. A sense that the day is evaporating hovers in the world as it seeps into the room from the window. Nonetheless, the end of the day seems far away—or perhaps it’s desirable that it remain far off.

The leaden gray cloud, with its many spreading burn marks, breaks up in the sky. But the sky is still gloomy. To the same extent that Hawwa’s anticipated happiness is urgent in her spirit, fear just as urgently grabs her heart by the lapels, spreading inside it a confining cloud, withholding its water and its hope. The cloud is formed from the surprises of time. It spreads out gigantically, building up, until at last it scatters. Even so, it leaves behind a feeling of imprisonment and siege, of dark night even at midday, lurking heavily, deep inside, making the soul tumble down, deep down.

The ring of her cell phone shatters the quiet settled in the room. The picture of her grandson Abdallah at three months fills the screen, and the voice of her daughter Aya comes on the other end of the line.

Aya had waited seven years before a boy came at last. Three girls preceded him, Hanin, Dalia, and Jana. They surround Hawwa with love, tenderness, and gentle kisses, filling her world with stickiness that doesn’t bother her, flavored with mulberries and strawberries, from packets of ice cream, kisses planted on her face by small, moist lips. They have soft hair hanging over their shoulders, and colored ribbons; sandals of pink, lilac, and red, with gold and silver buckles; little purses, over-ornamented, that she buys for them; dresses with wide, ruffled skirts; and dolls they put in their grandmother’s lap so that she will clothe them in the most splendid dresses. Hawwa is at the height of her happiness when they gather around her at the sewing machine, watching her foot press on the pedal with exciting speed as her hands guide the piece of cloth under the needle that runs atop it. When she lifts her foot from the pedal and cuts the thread at the last stitch, their eyes shine as they watch her putting the final, magical touches on the dress with her hand needle—like lace around the collar or sleeve cuffs, or a few beads on the breast, or a soft ruffle at the hem, or a belt around the waist. They express their astonishment with cries of “Allaaah!” over the obvious difference that a few beads could make, or a strip of damask lace, or a belt from a leftover tape of rhinestones. Their mouths gape and their eyes open wide as they inspect their dolls, whose new dresses give off a special scent, a mixture of warmth, yearning, orange wedges, chestnuts crackling in the oven roaster, the dominant aroma of rosewater on platters of rice pudding, ready at any time—a scent they smell only in their grandmother’s house. They assert time after time that their grandmother is something really great. When they come

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