{"id":27052,"date":"2023-07-02T09:33:36","date_gmt":"2023-07-02T07:33:36","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/?p=27052"},"modified":"2023-08-30T09:56:16","modified_gmt":"2023-08-30T07:56:16","slug":"the-cactus-new-fiction-from-mohammed-al-naas","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-cactus-new-fiction-from-mohammed-al-naas\/","title":{"rendered":"“The Cactus”\u2014new fiction from Mohammed Al Naas"},"content":{"rendered":"

Can a man who loves a woman prove his mettle by taking proper care of a cactus that stings him with its spines?<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

Mohammed Al Naas<\/h4>\n

Translated from the Arabic by Rana Asfour<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve killed two already. Don\u2019t let this be our third,\u201d she told him. Her desolation, he noted, lent her eyes even greater beauty. She added: \u201cI want you to take good care of this one. Do it for me.\u201d
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cFor you, anything,\u201d he answered.
\n<\/em>
\nHe had wanted to say something more profound, but staring at her lips arrested the words escaping from his own.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

He had had every intention of emailing her, despite his belief in the inadequacy and triviality of the medium. But she occupied a time and space in which he longed to belong, with her. If he were being honest, he\u2019d say that he had never liked being a writer; that, in fact, he felt like an impostor each time he wrote anything. Generally speaking, he\u2019d always thought of himself as insignificant and foolish.<\/p>\n

He started to clear the table. Everything in his room reminded him of her: his clothes, his books, his notes, his toothbrush, his coffee cup, his cologne, his leather jacket and that little cactus occupying pride of place in the middle of the well-worn granite table. He wanted to make space for his computer so that he might sit down and try, once more, to write to her. He unconsciously rubbed his thumb against his fingers, recalling the previous day\u2019s pain when he\u2019d attempted the same. He had been struggling to find the words to write to her when, in frustration, he had gotten up to clear the potted plant off the table. When it slipped from his fingers, he reflexively grabbed the prickly thing, and its spines, each no longer than a grain of rice, sank into his flesh.<\/p>\n

\n

\u00a0<\/em>\u201cI should lock you up now and throw away the key,\u201d she said. <\/em>She\u2019d been sitting on his thigh, her gaze playing havoc with his heartstrings.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cI\u2019ll find a way to escape,\u201d he\u2019d replied, with his usual foolishness. He loved to provoke her just so he could observe with fascinati<\/em>on<\/em> the unraveling of her reaction.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cI would do it. I would lock you up right here. I would tell my family that I kidnapped you, and that if anyone wanted you free they would first have to marry us,\u201d she said.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cBut how would I eat? How would I smoke? How would I drink coffee? On what would I survive?\u201d he asked.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cYou would want for nothing as long as I give you this,\u201d she said, reaching for his hand and placing it between her thighs.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

Again he stared at the cactus, and then at the window. Appear. Please appear, <\/em>he entreated what lay beyond the closed shutters. He made to open them until he remembered he\u2019d promised himself to keep them bolted at all times, even though it meant denying himself a repeat of the scene that had arrested him the first day he\u2019d arrived in the Old City. She\u2019d materialized like an apparition, silhouetted against her kitchen window which looked on to his room. Since then, he\u2019d taken to guessing what she was cooking as fragrant scents seeped through the perforations of his window\u2019s wooden shutters and wafted towards him. He imagined the heat rising in her kitchen to coax out the sweat beads glistening on her forehead. He envisioned the moist droplets running down her face trapping, in their descent, the aromas of cooked fish, tomatoes, pigweed, and onions before sliding down her neck and ultimately pooling in a mass between her breasts. He wished he could ask her how she bore living amidst all the hardships within the alleys of the Old City. He passed his hand over the wooden shutters as if willing them to magically open of their own accord, his eyes pleading for one more sighting. For a brief moment, his gaze shifted to the bathtub placed outside on his balcony, and the combined scents of the yellow flowers bathing inside it alongside pungent mint leaves served to further inflame his lust.<\/p>\n

\"Nasrin
Nasrin Abu Baker<\/a>, Untitled, 87x72cm, mixed media on pure canvas, 2014.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Perhaps her name is C\u00e9line<\/em>, he mused, likening her to his beloved from whom distance, war, and the scrum of life separated him. He surveyed the flowers, trees, bushes, and shrubs in this city, nicknamed the \u201cCity of Jasmine\u201d and marvelled at the constant intermingled scent of jasmine and strewn garbage. There\u2019d been a time when he hadn\u2019t had to make such promises to himself, a time when he could have opened the window to anything and anyone, to the sight of an entire garden of blue, yellow, red, purple, and orange flowers in which insects and birds sang along to the rhythm of the sea that adjoined the villa of the French journalist now buried in its grounds.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cYou know I have to leave,\u201d he told her while stroking her hair.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cYes I know,\u201d she replied, desperately wishing it were otherwise.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cThis is my chance; I’m going to write down everything. Absolutely everything,\u201d he said.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cYes. You will write, and I will love it all,\u201d she replied. <\/em>He knew that if he were to taste her tears he\u2019d fall into a drunken stupor.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cYou know I will never give up on us,\u201d he said instead. \u201cIt\u2019s only for a few months. We can do it. Everything will be al<\/em>l <\/em>right,\u201d he added, confident in his sentiments.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cI fear otherwise,\u201d she said. \u201cBut I understand your need to travel and to experience the world. You\u2019ve always cherished that idea,\u201d she added, trying to save him the embarrassment of further deceit.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cYes. I\u2019ve always cherished the idea,\u201d he repeated. <\/em>He kissed her then, slipping his hand under her skirt.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

He snapped back from his reveries and moved away from the shuttered window. He could feel the cactus watching him, and he, in turn, gazed back at it. Gripped by a sudden impulse to leave he grabbed his leather jacket and headed out. Nothing around him resembled his country. Everything was so different: the cold, the air, the smells, the songs, the color of the sky, and people\u2019s clothes, conversations, and shenanigans. Even the city\u2019s gateway to the sea was in huge contrast with Tripoli\u2019s Bab al-Bahr.<\/p>\n

It amazed him when his friend Oren, a poet he\u2019d met at the French journalist\u2019s house, detailed the similarities between the two countries, and waxed lyrical about the effervescence of his city and its stories. He failed to see the likeness that would inspire his friend\u2019s poetry each morning on the subject:<\/p>\n

He realized that he had reached a street commemorating the man who had begat freedom a home in Tunis. He noted that the cold hadn\u2019t impeded the birds from confiding their secrets to the trees strung along both sides of the street. As he made his way through the corridor of people accompanied by the trilling symphony of African reed warblers, it occurred to him that if C\u00e9line, who hated all birds, had been with him at that moment, she would certainly have collapsed from the intensity of birdsong.<\/p>\n

Every day since arriving in the City of Jasmine, he would walk for an hour in the villa\u2019s garden. The dusty paths were bursting with foliage, and he couldn\u2019t help noticing their lushness compared to his puny, rigid, and prickly cactus at home. And as he maneuvered his way through the masses of bodies in the street of that beloved man, his Bedouin passions awakened to the women around him, his ardor inflamed by the myriad colors of their hair: blue, yellow, red, purple, and orange, a blooming garden with no danger of a single thorn in sight to puncture his heart.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cI will write to you,\u201d he said, as he made his farewells.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cThat\u2019s good,\u201d she replied, her eyes never letting go of his.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cEvery day,\u201d he added for good measure. \u201cAbout everything. It will seem as if we\u2019re barely apart. As you read my words, it\u2019ll be as if my mouth were close enough for your fingers to trace the lips that speak words created just for you.\u201d
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cStay a while,\u201d she pleaded, desperate now that he was finally getting ready to leave. \u201cI want to hang on to your scent, your kisses, and your warm hands a bit longer. Won\u2019t you stay?\u201d Forever was what she wanted to add, but didn\u2019t.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cI\u2019ll stay another hour,\u201d he offered as he <\/em>en<\/em>circled her waist.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cI wish I could conceal you from the world, hidden here within my embrace,\u201d she said, squeezing him tightly to her as though coercing his body to fuse with hers.
\n<\/em>
\nHis hands reached under her shirt to squeeze her breasts as he kissed her neck, ears, and shoulders. He slid his hands downward, slipping them under her skirt where they got busy relieving her of her underwear. \u201cIf I am to take the cactus with me like you want me to,\u201d he said, \u201cthese will have to be part of the bargain too.\u201d
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cYou can’t do that,\u201d she said.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cThen it\u2019ll just have to be something else in return for my troubles,\u201d he said pointedly.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

When he\u2019d finally left, he\u2019d taken the cactus with him, but not before he\u2019d kissed his love one final time, her eyes shining like two precious pearls he wished he could steal for safekeeping. Eventually, he\u2019d stopped trying to count the number of times the hairline spikes had made a meal of his fingers. When he was ready to leave, he\u2019d packed the plant in his suitcase, but not before another batch of spines had had a go at his flesh. On the plane, all he could think about was the cactus and whether or not it would survive the ten-hour flight delay. As he looked down at the pale, dusty palms, olive trees and cypresses, he had prayed his plant would have enough oxygen to last it the journey. I\u2019ll have to carry it back with me, <\/em>he\u2019d thought to himself, imagining its size six months down the line and the amused looks he was certain to receive from his fellow passengers as he boarded the plane. He quickly dismissed this last image, knowing he\u2019d never be allowed to bring the plant aboard anyway.<\/p>\n

\"nasrin
Nasrin Abu Baker<\/a>, “Self,” mixed media on wood, 122x81cm, 2014.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

After a full day\u2019s delay, feeling thoroughly spent, he\u2019d arrived in the City of Jasmine in the early hours of the morning, and had finally been able to unpack the cactus from his suitcase before crashing into bed until midday. He wasn\u2019t sure whether the sound of rumbling waves were coming from somewhere close by, or if they were part of his dream in which he dove into the water over and over again to scoop up his love\u2019s pearly eyes, only to come up for air to myriad cactus spines impaling the tender flesh under his fingernails instead.<\/p>\n

Three months later, he still hadn\u2019t written a single word. Not about her, for her, or even to her. Each day he woke up to the same morning routine, which started with a breakfast of eggs, coffee, butter, strawberry jam, and a croissant. Most days were spent in the company of Oren, whose habit of bellowing his verses out at the sea had both men falling to the ground in rapturous laughter. Other days he\u2019d spend in solitary walks around the garden, stopping for a rest at his favorite bench beside a nearby pond. It never failed to amuse him how his arrival always startled the frogs, who leapt into the water and upset the serenity of the bright-colored lilies floating gracefully on the surface. Were his love here, he would have reached down and plucked one out of the water in offering. As if privy to his intent to de-home them, the lillies appeared to keep their distance, drifting \u2014 it seemed \u2014 as far away as they could from where he stood watching them. He named them all C\u00e9line.<\/p>\n

As he watched the frogs return to the surface, the scene reminded him of a childhood resplendent with stories of frogs, ghosts, and flowers as well as thorns, death, and escape. He supposed that a novel about his childhood might just be the thing he needed to work on. He recalled how C\u00e9line had relished his stories, her eyes melting into his as he regaled her, her attraction turning to devotion by the time he came to the end. Buoyed by the memory, he resolved to follow through with this idea, unaware of its folly.<\/p>\n

He returned to his room to find the cactus right where he\u2019d left her. As he watered the plant he conceded to himself that its care was turning out to be a burdensome, loveless obligation akin to that of caring for an irksome child. Nevertheless, he carried out his duty, all the while resenting that all the ungrateful plant administered in return was pain.<\/p>\n

He picked up a guidebook for writers that he had taken to reading each night before going to sleep, knowing full well that in a few hours he would wake up to another day that would siphon away a little more of his desire to write as he negotiated all the excuses and distractions that kept him from sending her a single word.<\/p>\n

The following evening, when the full moon was already high up in the sky and the tide had gone way out, the two friends met at their usual spot at the top of a slight slope overlooking the sea. When each had picked a comfortable rocky surface to sit on, it struck him how the cacti dotted around them bore no resemblance to the one waiting for him at home. It wasn\u2019t long before the two of them were deep in conversation about the war, the sea, God, and all living beings.<\/p>\n

\u201cSay, Oren, do you know the names of these plants?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you asking me from a scientific or aesthetic point of view?\u201d Oren asked glibly, which only reminded him that Oren had trained as a doctor long before turning to poetry.<\/p>\n

\u201cFor a scientific answer you\u2019ll need an encyclopedia. However, as any poet worth his salt will tell you, one is free to name things as one pleases.\u201d Oren\u2019s answer only served to replace his friend\u2019s previous look of confusion with one of frustration.<\/p>\n

\u201cFor example?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, take the cactus over there. Who\u2019s to tell me I can\u2019t call it the orange-hued cactus<\/em>, when clearly it is orange? Or the blue-colored one right next to it. Why can\u2019t I name it the cactus that lives beside the orange-hued cactus<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n

They both went silent after that.<\/p>\n

\u201cI believe plants have feelings,\u201d he said, startling them both out of their lull. \u201cThat\u2019s why I can\u2019t stand vegetarians who cry to anyone who\u2019ll listen about how animals have feelings, but then dismiss the notion that plants, as living beings, could have feelings, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Nasrin
Nasrin Abu Baker<\/a>, “Women, Cactus, Fish,” acrylic on canvas, 160X160 cm, 2018.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

\u201cNot all vegetarians are like that, my friend,\u201d answered Oren. He sensed, probably for the first time, that Oren had more to say but was being uncharacteristically hesitant. \u201cIn the West, animals are subject to terrible conditions,\u201d Oren continued, \u201ccramped pens, growth-promoting hormones, and filthy quarters.\u201d \u201cBut who\u2019s to say that plants, too, do not loathe being confined in pots, walled gardens, and cramped beds, harvested according to man\u2019s whims?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cScience hasn\u2019t yet confirmed whether plants have feelings or not. As for animals, any human with eyes can see the suffering they\u2019re being put through.\u201d<\/p>\n

When he\u2019d packed his bags to move to the Old City, he\u2019d decided that the cactus would travel on his lap in the taxi. When he\u2019d gotten into the car, the driver greeted him while throwing several curious glances at the plant.<\/p>\n

\u201cHindis<\/em> are tasty plants,\u201d said the driver in a bid to engage with him while misidentifying the cactus as an Indian Costus.<\/p>\n

\u201cTrue, but this is a different type of cactus,\u201d he replied, trying to balance the plant on his lap while avoiding contact with its barbs.<\/p>\n

The journey was long and difficult. The taxi driver appeared frustrated by his passenger, who seemed reluctant to engage in conversation, prickly or otherwise, and while away the monotonous journey between the two cities. He finally gave up and switched on the radio to keep company with his thoughts.<\/p>\n

When the taxi dropped him off at the station closest to the Old City, he discovered that he\u2019d have to walk the remaining distance to the guest house. And so it was that he navigated the last kilometer dragging a heavy suitcase in one hand and carrying a potted plant in the other, making his way through the narrow alleys and markets. By the time he arrived, cranky and sweating, he felt completely spent, his thoughts flashing back to their last time together.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cKeeping this cactus alive proves you\u2019re ready to care for our future child,\u201d C\u00e9line said.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cBased on our track record it means our first two will die,\u201d he joked. Then, more soberly, he remarked: \u201cI seriously don\u2019t know where you get these crazy notions <\/em>\u2014<\/em> of\u00a0 signs and symbols <\/em>\u2014<\/em> from.\u201d
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cFrom here,\u201d she said, tapping her index finger on her forehead.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cMost likely from back here,\u201d he said, slipping a finger to reach back there where he <\/em>\u2014<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

Just then, the pot slipped from his grasp, smashing to pieces on the street. The cactus lay sprawled on the dirt, its roots naked, exposed, unearthed from their sanctuary beneath the soil. The dirt seemed to come to life as a light breeze arrived, scattering it every which way, while whatever remained was trampled underfoot by passing pedestrians. As he surveyed the scene, he registered his incompetence, his worthlessness at keeping anything alive, let alone the child that C\u00e9line desired. When he glanced back at the cactus he could feel her pleading with him to rescue her. A sudden urge to abandon her exactly where she was overwhelmed him, but it disappeared just as quickly and he sprang into action. He collected as much of the soil as remained and stuffed the roots back into it. Fairly satisfied, he continued on his way to his new abode.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cIt\u2019s settled. You are taking her with you,\u201d she demanded.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cAside from everything, why are you so insistent that I do?\u201d
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cShe\u2019s my informant. Anything you do, she\u2019ll let me know.\u201d
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cBut plants can\u2019t speak,\u201d he said. The hypocrisy of his words struck him. Didn\u2019t this contradict his theory about plants as sentient beings?
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cShe may not be able to speak our language, but she can still prick you whenever she knows you\u2019ve strayed,\u201d she answered. <\/em>She turned to the plant then, and, gripping the pot in both hands, she leaned in to address it: \u201cPromise me you\u2019ll plant your spikes into him when he thinks of cheating on me.\u201d
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cI promise,\u201d he replied playfully putting on a voice he thought the plant might make. They both laughed then, although the incident had left him with an unsettled feeling.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

That evening, just before sunset, he took a seat at a caf\u00e9 he happened to pass by on his way home. It had been three hours since he\u2019d ordered his first coffee, and both the frequency with which customers entered the caf\u00e9 and the number of people in the street were visibly dwindling. Having lost count of the number of coffees he\u2019d consumed and the chain of cigarettes he\u2019d smoked, he looked around to find that except for two other tables \u2014 one occupied by a man and two women eating their dinner and another taken by three Libyan youths he could hear conversing about the war \u2014 the caf\u00e9 was empty. The cat roaming around the place entreating its patrons for food certainly didn\u2019t count; neither did the overweight flower vendor trying to forcefully sell off what remained of her roses to unwilling customers. It wasn\u2019t until he shifted in place that he noticed a woman sitting alone at a table eating an ice cream, whom he\u2019d missed seeing earlier. A powerful longing to get up, converse with her, and to watch her as she ate, washed over him. The emotion dislodged a memory of a long-ago conversation with C\u00e9line.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cI dreamed that I was alone when I gave birth to a baby girl,\u201d she said. \u201cI suppose you had traveled, as you always do. She felt like something alien, foreign to me, so that I found it very hard to bond with her, even to look at her. I couldn\u2019t even tell you the color of her eyes, her hair, her skin. I felt neither tenderness nor love towards her. Breastfeeding her felt like a duty rather than an act of motherly devotion.\u201d
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cWhy?\u201d he asked.
\n<\/em>
\n\u201cI don\u2019t understand it myself,\u201d she answered. \u201cMaybe \u2026 if only \u2026 I\u2019d allowed myself to look into her eyes, I\u2019d have found some answer.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

He spent the rest of the evening alone at his table, imbibing what energy he could from the constantly dwindling flow of passersby. He scrutinized faces, lingering longer on the women. The absence of birdsong aroused an intense desire for the voice of that other woman, who he surmised to be in her thirties, the beauty he stole glimpses of in the window across the alley, the wife of an absent husband, and the mother of the little girl she sang to.<\/p>\n

His lucid thoughts were cut short by the shouts of the flower vendor, who was now making him the target of her aggressive designs. Go on!<\/em> she shouted, pushing a rose towards him. Just take it<\/em>. He thanked her and declined. He thought of his cactus, and the promise he\u2019d made to covet no other but her. But the woman was relentless, and tried several times to place the flower behind his ear, telling him how handsome it made him look. Dammit it, woman, I said no!<\/em> he said, his rebuke more aggressive than it should have been. You\u2019re unworthy! <\/em>the woman spat before gathering her flowers and moving away from the table.<\/p>\n

The encounter put him on edge and rattled his nerves. Drained and exhausted, he was barely able to carry himself home, where he was greeted with a familiar melody as soon as he\u2019d stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Despite not opening his own shutters, he knew that her kitchen window was open, as the verses of her song drifted towards him loud and clear: \u201cThe resentful begrudge me my love \u2026 they asked me, what it is that I saw in her?<\/em> To refute my detractors I told them … Take my eyes and look through them\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

He moved towards the table and took a seat opposite the cactus, which appeared to him to be as transfixed by the melodious voice as much as he was. They sat and listened to the woman singing her heart out as she washed the dishes. It seemed that they would spend all night this way, until the calling of Mama, Mama<\/em> interrupted the woman\u2019s flow. What is it? she asked her little girl. I\u2019m hungry, came the reply. Alright, I\u2019ll fix you something to eat, she replied.<\/em>\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

He could detect a palpable change in her tone, one that had gone from seductive melody to another laced with frustration and resignation. He felt a twinge in his chest, so he got up from his chair and moved to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face through the openings of the wooden louvered shutters. A while later, the clatter of pots and pans could be heard as she resumed her place at her kitchen window. He detected the faintest sound of a tune that he couldn\u2019t make out this time. From this viewpoint, he watched her like a hawk as her silhouette moved about the kitchen, amazed how much it resembled that of the one he loved.<\/p>\n

Overcome with exhaustion, he finally retired to his bedroom, all notions of writing long gone from his mind. As he set eyes on his cactus for the last time that day, he could feel her thistles piercing holes in his heart, and as he fought the urge to close his eyes and succumb to sleep, he was reminded of a conversation he\u2019d once had with Oren not too long before.<\/p>\n

\u201cAll women will come to resemble the one you love, but only if you truly love her,\u201d Oren had said.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut no two women are ever the same,\u201d he\u2019d replied.<\/p>\n

\u201cTry it. Imagine a woman. What does she look like?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cExactly like the woman I love. But this proves nothing. There are more than a thousand species of cacti, and any similarities they share does not mean that they are one and the same.\u201d<\/p>\n

Before he finally drifted off to sleep that night, he resolved that the first thing he was going to do the following morning was to relegate the cactus to the dumpster.<\/p>\n

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