bl ala hlehel b23

8/6/2019 BL Ala Hlehel B23

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A L A ’ H L E H E L

My husband is a bus driverA SHORT STO RY

T R A N S L ATED BY TONY CA L D E R BA N K

BANIPAL NO 23, SUMMER 2005 3



My husband is a bus driver.He has been for more thant h i rty ye a rs. I met him

twenty-four years ago. He had justqualified from the driving school inthe city. On his ID they had writtennext to occupation: bus driver. Thatwas sufficient, together with his beaming photograph, to tempt meinto the love nest he had built for mein our beautiful remote village.

D u ring the engagement I haddreamt day and night of the wonder-ful long trips and journeys we would

make together, and I haven’t under-stood to this very day what my eldersister meant one summer night as wesat up chatting on the roof when shesaid to me in a low voice with acheeky bashful grin on her face: “The back seat of the bus is long. You’llnever forget its taste.”

Two days before the wedding, when

all my girlfriends gathered in the vil-lage for the night of henna, they allsaid how funny I looked sitting on thefront seat behind my husband as hetook me with him on trips and out-ings they could only dream about.One of them dreamed of going to

Jerusalem, another to Jaffa, while athird announced with a curious cer-

tainty: “Banyas is the most beautifulplace in the whole world. Get him totake you to Banyas!”

None of us understood at the timewhy she was so adamant and we askedher if she had ever been to Banyas.She answered that her brother had been there the year before and hadsaid that it was the most beautifulplace in the whole world.We laughedtill tears rolled down our cheeks.Then my younger sister said very

enviously, and everyone agreed: “Weall hear of trips to these places but mysister will be the only one to see themin real life.”

I sighed with great joy and greatfear.

I wake up every morning at fiveo’clock. I make myself a small pot of sweet black coffee and greet the sunas she returns from her journey redand ripe as a hammari fig in my latefather’s orchard. I drink my coffee insilence so as not to disturb the sun

coming from her daily journey. Shemust be exhausted. She doesn’t needa chatterbox like me telling her abouther life with her husband the busdriver. I drink my coffee and dreamabout the sun’s endless journeys and Ilong for myself to make just one atleast.

During that morning time I spend

alone I have discovered, by myself,that the sun actually visits the wholeworld in twenty-four hours, everyday. How strong she is and how beau-tiful is her life. She goes round thewhole world on her own withoutweariness or boredom. Round shegoes and never gets tired, just as mymother promised me an hour before

the groom’s family came to take mefrom my family’s home. She leanedtowards me then and said with apleading in her voice I never thoughtI’d hear from her: “Make sure youremember me when you go on thoselovely trips.”

By the time my husband wakes upthe second pot of coffee has just comeoff the fire. He never cleans his teethat all but still they are as strong andshining as the teeth of a horse. My

4 BANIPAL NO 23, SUMMER 2005

AU T H O R



mother always used to say that myfather came from a family whose menwere like stallions;fit and strong with big white teeth. Even my late fatherwas unable to hide his excitement atthe grandsons I would bear him because “they would be born likehorses with their heads raised high”.

Even so I wished he’d clean hist e e t h , e s p e c i a l ly in the morn i n g,when he would want me sometimesas I was waking him up. He’d grab me

by the hand and jump on top of meon the bed and not care about a thing.

He did not wait for me to wake upproperly or to wash my face. And nosooner had I woken up properly thanhe’d have finished his quick pant withhis terrible smelling breath and rollover on his side and ask me calmly:“When are you getting up?”

But I brought my sons up to cleantheir teeth. I didn’t want any of them

annoying their wives in the morningor before they went to sleep. My sonshad to be fit and handsome and sensi-tive to their wives. If I had had adaughter, as I had always hoped, Iwould have made the best woman inthe world of her. I would have senther to the university and she wouldhave come back to me a doctor to

treat my aching bones and swollen joints. The village doctor told me Ishould rest my body and not do anystrenuous work.What an ass! It’s notenough for someone to go to univer-sity and become a doctor: he has to be intelligent too, and bright.Who’sgoing to look after the family and thehouse? Him? If I’d had a daughter andshe’d become a doctor a thousandtimes better than him, she’d havetaught him a lesson about life worth

more than all those cold potions heputs on my body whenever I go tohim. He puts them on,he spends agesputting them on and I never get fedup. I don’t know why.

Five sons and all of them are edu-cated men like red roses blooming ina rare and perfect moment. I look atthem and the only thing that grievesme is that I didn’t kiss them as muchas I did the times when I kissed them.All that grieves me is the times that Iknew they were awake studying while

I was asleep.The eldest is an engineer, the sec-

ond is a teacher, the third is a nurse,the fourth is a trader in what they callthe stock exchange and the fifthworks in the village bank. He’s stillsingle, still hasn’t flown the nest: theonly one who hasn’t settled down inhis own home.To be honest I hope he

stays on a little longer to keep mec o m p a ny on those long eve n i n g swhen my husband’s away, driving the bus, taking forty or fifty people on alovely trip.

The first time I got on the bus wastwo days after our wedding. My vagi-na was still sore from the first nightand every time I remembered the

first moment I’d rush to the toilet to be sick, with the excuse that it musthave been something I’d eaten at thereception. Even so despite those feel-ings I would always look forward togetting on the company bus which myhusband drove and setting off togeth-er on long journeys on the trail of thesetting sun – but she never set. Thefirst time we went on the bus to theneighbouring city.We had grilled fishfor dinner. It was delicious. It was a





week before I realised this “trip” wasthe honeymoon eve ry b o dy talksabout.

I didn’t worry too much about theshort honeymoon for I was sure thatlots more months of honey were onthe way, no doubt about it.After fourdays my husband went back to work.And when he went back he asked meto clean the bus that the damn stu-dents had filled with sweet wrappersand peanuts and vomit. I cleaned it asif it were our bedroom and it shonelike crystal. My vagina began to hurt

me again that night just like on thefirst night but I didn’t utter a word.Tomorrow he’ll take me on a newtrip.

He started to set off for work everymorning, going on his journeys, anddid not return until the evening.Afterhe had his dinner I’d fetch the clean-

ing stuff and get on the long bus andclean it up until it looked like it had

just come out of the factory. Overtime I became an expert in the kindsof rubbish I’d collect from the bus and

by inspecting them I’d be able toguess the ages of the passengers andtheir characters and the reasons fortheir journeys. Sometimes the bus

would come back all clean except forsome pieces of white paper withwords written on in a language I did-n’t know. Other times it would come back full of sweet wrappers and crisppackets and empty drinks cartons and bits of vomit here and there.

Also over time I no longer felt anypain when he wanted me, as if thesource of the pain had gone out for-ever. I was happy it had gone out,andstill am.

When I had the first one, my husband the bus driver promised me awonderful trip so I could get mystrength back and to make up for mydifficult first birth, but he forgot aftermy mother-in-law died three days before the eldest boy was born and Iwas too embarrassed to ask him aboutthe promised trip. He had started tocome home most nights angry and bad-tempered and he’d rant and raveand swear about his boss and work-m ates and the degrading wor k i n gc o n di t i o n s. When the second wa s

born he didn’t suggest any trip and Ididn’t bring up the subject. The sec-ond birth was relatively easy com-pared to the first and to be honest Ididn’t think I deserved a trip on myhusband’s bus for an easy birth.

By the time I had the third I waswell and truly convinced that the tripI was waiting for would not be on the

cards. How could we go on a tripwith a babe in arms and two toddlers

bursting into tears for the silliest rea-son?

I would meet my girl friends com-ing back merrily from the trips they’d

been on with their husbands to Jerusalem and Jaffa and Banyas andsmile politely as I listened to the

i n t e resting and sometimes bori n gdetails they never tired of repeating. Ieven had to ignore one of them whenonce she said unexpectedly: “Won’tyou tell us about your trips in the beautiful bus?”

And without me knowing it myrelationship with the bus turned intoone of a bucket filled with soapywater and a mop and some wet rags.Every two or three days I’d get on andwipe up the vomit and pick up the





bags the kids had left behind. I became an expert on the differentkinds of bags and their colours andthe names of the sweets they’d hadinside. That’s how I started to buythem for my own children when theywere going on a school trip. I’d filltheir satchels with the most delicioussweets and wave goodbye with tearsin my eyes as they got on the bus.They wouldn’t have slept a wink thenight before. I’d hear them whisper-ing to one another engrossed in con-versation about the place they’d be

going to and about their friends andwhat they’d bought and how I always bought them the best sweets. Exceptthat they’d always agree that my husband was the best man in the world because he took them on school tripsand always saved the long back seatfor them.

I would turn over in my bed and

look at the ceiling in the darkness andremember that their aunt was also afan of the long back seat,even thoughshe’d never tried it out in her life.

Every morning they went to schoolon the big bus, which was gettingolder now and a bit run down, andthey’d leave me in the doorway wav-ing as I breathed in the horrible black

smoke of the diesel.When the fourth was born my husband got a new bus from the compa-ny. It looked wonderful and clean andnew. It oozed the smell of new seatcovers and I nearly fell over back-wards with surprise when my husband proudly told me it had a videoand a television. In fact, I was so sur-prised that I spilled the bucket of soapy water that I’d fetched to mopthe floor that was already spotless.

The water made a mess on the floorand splashed on my sons’ feet whowere standing behind me. It caughtthem unawa res and my husbandslapped me across the face as he usu-a l ly did when he was angry andshouted:“You cow! Aren’t you happy,even with a new bus!”

My sons did nothing. In fact theyt u rned their heads away and gotsilently off the bus, leaving me to drymy tears and wipe up the water off the bus floor very quickly and verycarefully, so he would leave me alone.

The children were watching.From that moment on I hated the

new bus. I would clean it reluctantlyand very half-heartedly. I would even“forget” to pick up little bags or wipeup splashes of vomit, even though Iknew he’d smell it the next day. I did-n’t care. If he’d bothered to clean histeeth I’d have bothered more about

him.

The sons began to leave home to goand study and I would spend moreand more time sitting by the door inthe afternoon waiting for the new busto appear. My eldest became reallygood with his hands, I mean reallygood. One time he fixed a big round

dish up on the roof. He said it wouldadd a hundred extra channels to ourtelevision. I didn’t believe him untilhe started flipping through them.Then a right row broke out betweenthe other boys and my husband; eachone wanted to watch a different sta-tion. In the end my husband yelled atthem to shut up and then flippedthrough the channels until he came toone where two men were shouting ateach other.After a while my youngest





s a i d : “ T h at ch a n n e l ’s called A l Jazeera. It’s a news channel.”

I never liked Al Jazeera.They werealways shouting at one another. I likedwat ching songs and pro gr a m m e sabout herbal re m e d i e s , and A r a bsoaps. To this day I don’t know how Imanaged all that time without thosesoaps. I swear I can almost rememberentire episodes of ‘Mad man Moufid’or ‘The Birds of Prey’ off by heart.Assoon as one episode finishes on a cer-tain channel, they broadcast it againon another channel. Then the first

channel repeats it again late at night,and then another one shows it, and soon and so forth. I soon began toignore everything else and becamethe best of friends with the big rounddish. I’d keep him company in the sit-ting room and he’d take me on jour-neys a bus driver never dreamed of.

Every time my husband appeared in

the distance, the memory of thatmortal pain on the night of consum-mation would come back to me and Iwould go round the back of the houseand throw up. Later the doctor toldme I had a stomach ulcer and that myconstant vomiting was caused by thecleaning substances I was using. Headvised me to change them. So I

changed them. When the vomitingdidn’t stop he said: “The importantthing is not to eat too much, thenyou’ll vomit less.” I started to eat less.I didn’t vomit as much and I lost a lotof weight. I started to let the doctorspend longer placing his instrumentson my body however he liked. Some-times he didn’t use the instruments atall and felt the places where it hurtwith his trembling hands until thepain went away.

When I saw the long sheath of rubber I didn’t understand what it was.Nor was I sure what the slimy liquidtrapped inside it was. The sheath of rubber had been left at the end of the bus on the long back seat, that sameseat my sister had told me about somany years before that I would neverforget its taste.When I recognised thesmell of the slimy liquid I couldn’tcontrol myself and I vomited all overthe back seat and made a real mess of it.After that incident I would pretend

to be asleep on those mornings whenhe came at me from behind. He’dshoot his load while I was ‘sleeping’and that way we’d both be happy.

I sit by myself every morning, atfive o’clock. Silently I ask the sunabout her long journey. I look at the

bus my husband drives on his many

journeys. I’d love to ask him about theplaces he’s visited and the peoplewho’ve spent the whole day dancingand singing on the seats. Even mysons, whom I love, visit less now

because they’re occupied with theirwives and my grandchildren. I love itwhen they visit and I can’t wait to seethem.

Since my grandchildren were bornall my sons and their wives have beenaway on long trips.They never tire of them. I’m always waiting when theycome back with a winter shawl forme or a piece of cloth I can sew up asI fancy. My sons are as close as youcan get to globetrotters. They love journeys more than anything else.That’s how I taught them when theywere little. Never ever let a journeypass you by. Never miss the opportu-





nity to travel as long as you live. Lis-ten to me. I’m your mother. I knowmore than you do about journeys.

I started to travel however andwherever I wanted. Sitting in front of all those channels I came to hate realtrips and the bus and my husband. Iwent out less on to the veranda andrarely left my place in the sittingroom. After illness and arthritis hadexhausted me the national insurancepaid for a home help to come andgive me a hand with the chores andtidy the forlorn house. My youngest

had decided to fly the nest at last andgo and live in the city where his older brother was. There were “better jobopportunities” there.

I would sit for hours and hours,going on any journey I wished,on any bus I chose through any soap I caredto watch.And although my sight got

worse and my hearing more so, Icould still make out the pictures andthe words and the characters and theplaces that I saw on the screen.

So one day I heard his voice frominside crying:“Help, help. I’m dying!” but I didn’t help him. I didn’t do any-thing. What does he want me to do?His cries for help quietened downthen stopped altogether. I think he’sasleep now. Let him sleep.What doeshe want me to do? Let him wait. I’mon a journey now and he’ll have towait till I get back.

“ Z owji Saeq Bass” [“My Husband is a BusDriver”] is unpublished in Arabic



bl ala hlehel b23

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