I Sweep the Sun Off Rooftops by Hanan al-Shaykh Page B

in Arabic, telling them that thanks to them my room was no better than the Italian’s pig farm on the outskirts of our town; we used to spit on the ground whenever we went near it, shouting exclamations of disgust, even though all we could see of it was the outer fence.
    Why was I doing this? Pouring water over them while they yelled at each other? Perhaps similar things happened in the neighboring rooms, which were occupied by all different people. Their noise had stopped me from sleeping: shouting, shattering glass, the word
police
echoing here and there.
    How glad I’d been in those first nights with him. I’d believed he would protect me from these sounds. Now they were happening right inside my own room. I tried to shout like the two of them, but my cry came out strangled and distorted; I still didn’t know how to express my anger in English. So I reverted to the role of crazy horse, raging bull: wheeling, rearing, plunging, now attacking, now drawing back. Were they shouting? No, they were laughing. Actually laughing.
    It was the music that brought me in from the hall where I had been lying. A single note repeated over and over again, throbbing in my head, making my chest tighten. Ihad to be rid of them. I decided. I had to be rid of the English boy. I’d give him a choice: he could either stay on his own or leave. I knew he had no home, but that wasn’t my problem. I was going to pull the tape out of the machine, interrupt the music right in the middle of the song. It had been on loud all evening, and now it was the early hours of the morning. They had no sensitivity, no conscience.
    I charged like a bull. When I saw no one in the middle of the room, which had been full of music and smoke and pungent with the smell of hashish, I thought he must have forgotten to turn off the music before he went to sleep. I found myself thinking affectionately that I ought to be straightforward with him; the English liked that. Perhaps he didn’t understand why I’d become so angry and distant. Suddenly I stopped and stood still, staring in amazement. A man was lying by his side. They were both naked. They were lying in each other’s arms. I saw their uncircumcised members as clear as day and shuddered. That was the first time I’d seen a man’s penis up close and my mouth and throat went dry. I went dry between my legs for several seconds, then I charged again. Shocked, they started up, but they made no attempt to cover their nakedness.
    Then, as if they’d recovered from the surprise, they began to laugh, snorting and giggling in delight at the water being thrown at them, like two children playing a game.
    I must be dreaming, seeing the opposite of what I thought I was seeing. In reality they should have been dumbfounded, wishing the floor would open up and swallow them in their embarrassment. Or hiding themselves from me, thinking up a whole range of lies and excuses. How would the English boy go on living now that he’d been found out?
    They continued to call on Jesus Christ, trying to dry themselves off, then laughing again. The English boy pointed to my face, unable to control his mirth. I must have looked like the mad ape that wandered the streets of our town with its gypsy owner.
    Their laughter so infuriated me that I began to have thoughts of revenge. But how, when he had nothing that I could take by force, steal, hide, break in front of him, tear up or trample underfoot, to vent my rage and spite? All he owned were the clothes on his back and a few cassettes, which I’d partly paid for anyway. I looked wildly about me a hundred times, unable to think what to do; then I threw my coat on over my nightdress, pulled woolen socks over the wool trousers I wore to protect me from the cold, and ran to the door, without listening to what his friend was trying to say to me. I went out and slammed the door behind me, turning the key in the lock as if I wanted to safeguard the proof of the crime and its only witnesses,