The Past Before Us

Pomegranate Wine

[This is an English translation of the previous story.]

It was midnight in the house that used to be our mother's. I was lying on the ground, looking up at the ceiling. The limestone walls glowed like white crocodile scales under moonlight. Now that it was dark, the linen wallpaper was more apparent. It looked like gauze. The room was mummified but a heart still beat inside, pecking at its confines: mine.

The dry Sahara sand scratched my bald head and neck, though I lay on my straw mat. Uncomfortable and sleepless. I wanted to sit down on the stool in the corner of the room, to look out the window and find the blue eyes I knew would be waiting for me in the neighbour's window. This thought tightened the knots of fantasies in my head; the tension made my muscles stiff. Then again, harvest season was over and the weather was getting cooler...

I had to sleep, so I slept. I did not want to wake my brother.

Whose were those eyes that had looked at me that day, deeper than the Nile, white-marbled like lapis lazuli, bright as quartz? Were they from this world?

When I awoke in the morning, my brother was shaving his body hair at the river, soap and pumice stone in hand. Why all this zeal? I asked him. He smiled a small smile and scraped the pumice over his arms. What can I do, he said. I can't go out into public with all this hair. And I have to get to the barber on time. As you can see, my head is in desperate need of a shave. He paused and raised an allusive eyebrow. Yes, I was the rightful culprit. I had tried to shave his head and made him look like a leopard, all patchy. When our mother was appointed to the Pharaoh's harem as a supervisor, she had told us that it was time to look after ourselves. The housework was my responsibility but when it came to aesthetic beauty, I left a lot to be desired. I could not look after my brother properly if I tried. Fortunately, he was the eldest and not in need of my help...

I held out my hand, head bowed. Will you trust me? You've missed a spot on your back. He furrowed his eyebrows and handed me the pumice stone. As I scrubbed his back, I realized how alienated I had become to my brother's body. From his neck to his tailbone, strings had been replaced by strong columns of muscle; the dark hairs I knew he hated sprung with vitality from his skin, under which one could see the glow of melting copper. He was what they would call a man.

One thing that did not change was his smell. He had always smelled of amber and roses. Me, I spread the lovely aroma of onions and dates, which probably made me a woman. Of course, in a village smelling of burning manure and salted meat, there were plenty of solutions. I myself regularly filled a broken perfume bottle I had found, with the money our mother sent us from time to time. My favourite at the perfumerie was the blend of touch-me-nots, cardamom, cinnamon, myrrh and southernwood, its base was olive oil. It was a recipe from far-away lands (they say it came from a large island in the Mediterranean). In any case, it must have been nice to not need perfumes. My brother heard me take a deep breath and laughed. Hey, are you sniffing around again? I laughed, too. We joked that I would end up finding a job at the perfume workshop. If you always stunk, wouldn't you search for good smells, too? He chuckled and that was it.

As long as you don't take your time, smell all you like, he said. As I said, I have to get to the barber early. There's a convoy arriving from up North, so everyone is rushing to look good...