Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) by Hadiyya Hussein Page A

passed slowly, and I felt like a desert sojourner lost in a
mirage that was failing to quench my thirst. I was unable
to change the map of my exile, and I couldn't return to
Baghdad.
    I climbed the long stairs to my room, and before I
reached it, I had to sit down on the last stair to catch my
breath. Umm Ayman came out to tell me that she was
about to rent my room to someone else. The carpenter
from the downstairs shop needed wood storage; otherwise, he would have to find another place for his growing
business. She apologized, trying to look sympathetic as
she explained the situation, and said that she would give
me until the end of the month to look for a decent place.
While she was rambling, I thought about the burden of
looking and bargaining for a new place.
    At that moment, my hand felt the paper in my jacket
pocket. I immediately thought of calling him; then it
occurred to me that I didn't know his name and that
he hadn't written it under his phone number. He hadn't
asked me my name either. What would I tell him? Should
I say I'm the girl from the Refugee Office? It was amazing
that neither of us had asked the other for a name.
    Umm Ayman continued, "You will be fine. I know a
nice woman in Mount Amman; I think she has a vacant
room much better than this one."
    All day long I felt an emptiness inside me. I looked at
Nadia's books on the table. They were inviting me to read them, but my head had become like a balloon, and I was
so deprived of all energy because I forgot to have lunch.

    After a while, Umm Ayman came back and gave me
Samiha's address. I didnt miss the opportunity to see her
the next day.
    ON THE RIDE from Mount al-Hussein to Mount Amman,
the bus passed through streets I hadn't seen before, filled
with grocery shops, restaurants, and clothing boutiques.
I didn't notice the din of the bus passengers; my head was
still feeling empty. I got out at the last stop. I read the
address that Umm Ayman had given me and soon found
myself standing at Madam Samiha's door. When I rang
the bell, a woman of indeterminate age and with severe
features opened the door. She was wearing flowered cotton pajamas and a transparent blue head scarf.
    "I'm Huda. Umm Ayman sent me."
    She admitted me to a small salon, inviting me to
take a seat as she sat facing me. Between us was a small,
square wooden table with a Formica top. She spoke in
a soft voice. "Welcome. Umm Ayman talked to me and
gave me an idea about you." (I wondered what idea she'd
given her about me.) "I just have one condition."
    I looked at her inquiringly. She continued, "I need
someone to help me at home, and in return I will waive
the rent and will add ten dinars monthly."
    I felt humiliated; I hadn't left my country to be a maid.
I was going to say that I was a university graduate, but as
though she read my mind, she explained with a smile,
"I don't need someone to clean the house or to wash the
dishes, as you might have thought; I already have a maid. I need someone to look after my blind brother because
my job takes a lot of my time."

    I felt better, and I accepted immediately. How could
I miss this opportunity when I was about to find myself
penniless?
    "Come, I'll show you your room."
    From the kitchen door, we walked out to a small garden. "My name is Samiha, and my brother is Samih,"
she said, leading me down a narrow stone staircase. We
walked past small budding plants and others from the
Indian fig family and under a grape tree whose entangled
branches reached out to iron trellises. After two or three
yards, we came up to a green iron door.
    "You'll feel comfortable with us, and I'll provide you
with what you need. This is the room."
    I followed her in. The room was wider than the one
on Mount al-Hussein, with a large window overlooking
the small garden. It was furnished with a wardrobe, a
bedside table with two drawers, and a wooden bed covered by a faded but clean blanket. On the floor was a