She was worried she’d been seen and even more worried about the sensation that had flooded her body when she looked at the stranger. She wasn’t even allowed to think about it. It was too dangerous. She took a deep breath, tossed some cold water on her face, and changed out of the sweaty dress into a clean galabiya before heading back downstairs to make supper.
The next day, Sual was, as usual, the first to rise so she could make breakfast for everyone. That morning, Mahmud’s mother was harsher than ever before, but Sual kept silent and obediently cleaned the house. It was the day for her weekly visit with Aisha, and she wasn’t going to give this old crone an opportunity to deny her the few happy minutes allotted to her every week. An hour or so later, when walking down the alley to her parents’ house, she couldn’t keep from casting a quick glance at Yusuf’s hummus place, even though she assumed the stranger was a tourist and her chances of seeing him again were slim. The stranger, of course, wasn’t there. Sual’s disappointment was mixed with relief.
Throughout the afternoon, she helped her mother with housework. As the two were cooking together, Aisha told her about the relatives from Jaffa who had visited the previous day and also that her father would probably need an operation soon. Sual loved these rare moments, alone with her mother in the kitchen. When her brothers were back from work, they all sat down to eat together. Sual savored every moment. She’d waited all week long for this.
In the evening she regretfully said goodbye to her mother, hating the thought that she was now forced to return to that cold house where she now lived with her cold, indifferent husband and his malicious mother.
She popped into the corner grocery store to buy some milk. As she exited the shop, she again saw the stranger. He was dressed in a white T-shirt that showed off his muscular body and deep tan and immersed in conversation with someone on the phone. Sual’s legs started trembling again. Casting her eyes down, she started moving away quickly. Just what I need, she thought bitterly, someone seeing me and reporting. In this tiny neighborhood, nothing went unnoticed. But in the split-second before he crossed her path, she was unable to restrain herself anymore: she looked up and the blood drained from her veins.
That night, Sual couldn’t sleep. For four years, she’d been married to a man who didn’t love her. She was only nineteen and her life was over before it had begun. She thought about Mahmud disappearing into the night, leaving her alone. She thought about the religion, tradition, and family that had robbed her of the chance to be happy. Mostly though, she thought about the future that awaited her, the desolate, childless years ahead that would undoubtedly pass like the last four – in quiet, hopeless desperation. For the first time in her life, Sual decided to fight back.
Over the next two weeks, she obsessed about the stranger. He filled her nights with unfamiliar feelings. During the days, Sual couldn’t help looking for him in every Old City corner and alley. All in vain. That’s how it goes – tourists come for a visit and, sated with new experiences, go back home soon thereafter, she thought.
Time did what it always does. Weeks passed and gradually Sual stopped looking for the stranger, returning instead to the routine of her life. It’s best this way, she thought. At least she wasn’t risking her life.
One Sunday noon, Sual was at the stove frying cauliflower. It was another unbearably hot, late August day. The old fan creaked as it sluggishly stirred the warm air around. Hasham, Mahmud’s mother, walked into the kitchen. Sual, sweating, took a deep breath and braced herself for the old woman’s attack.
Hasham took a piece of fried cauliflower from the heap, stuck it into her mouth, and chewed loudly.
“Throw it in the garbage,” she shrieked, grabbing the frying pan out of Sual’s hand. “You can’t even cook! And make me some tea,” she commanded, slumping heavily into a kitchen chair.
Sual put the frying pan back in place and filled the kettle. “I don’t understand why my son doesn’t divorce you,” the old woman sighed. “You’re defective! Broken! Not a single grandchild have I gotten out of you, and you can’t even cook.” Sual, familiar with Hasham’s moods, ignored her and poured the hot tea into a glass on the table. The old hag looked at Sual, snorted, and demonstratively hurled the glass full of hot tea onto the floor. “You even mess up the tea! The only thing you’re good for is costing me money.”
Some of the hot liquid had splashed onto Sual’s ankle. It stung. Sual blushed.
“So? What are you waiting for?” the old crone screamed. “Clean up this mess and make me another cup.”
At that moment, something in Sual cracked. She dropped the red-hot frying pan onto the floor, causing the cauliflower bits to scatter in every direction. Her entire body shook. She grabbed her wallet, wrapped her head in a scarf, and ran out the door.
She spent the rest of the day aimlessly wandering the narrow alleyways of the city. In the Armenian Quarter, she stopped to buy a cold soft drink, savoring the cooling sweetness sliding down her throat. She knew what awaited her back home, but at that moment she didn’t care.
“Hello,” she heard someone say in American-accented English. The voice was coming from behind her shoulder. Probably another tourist who’s lost his way in the Old City, Sual thought, reluctantly turning around to help give directions.
Her
