Haifa Fragments. khulud khamis

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      “Watch your step,” warns Maisoon, though she knows the words to be useless; the street is dimly lit. She hears Shahd recalling Allah in whispers as her sandals squash something decomposing, one of the less delightful parts about living in the middle of the souk. The night air smells of rotten vegetables mingling with the odour of fish. “It’s not far from here, come.”

      Twenty minutes later, they are settled on Maisoon’s old diwan, sipping shai with na’ana. Shahd has managed to call her neighbours and ask them to deliver a message to her family letting them know that she’ll be staying in ‘the city’ tonight, not daring to mention the word Haifa, as the mukhabarat were probably on the line.

      Shahd flicks through an old album of traditional Palestinian dresses, while Maisoon sketches her.

      “You have beautiful hair,” Maisoon says absentmindedly, “I’ve never seen such a colour.” Shahd’s long shiny hair is the colour of black olives. Her eyes a deep brown, almost black, are sprinkled with violet dots that dance when she laughs.

      “Are you a painter?”

      “Oh, you mean the sketch? No, no, it’s nothing really. Just something to do with my hands, you know, like smoking … I’m almost finished, but it’s not good. I couldn’t catch the light in your hair.” She passes the drawing to Shahd.

      It’s almost midnight, but neither of them feels like going to sleep. When Shahd asks, “How come your parents let you live on your own?” Maisoon doesn’t sense any judgment.

      “Well, I am a grown-up woman. I didn’t want to stay at home with my parents and wait until I got married, especially as I’m not planning on getting married any time soon,” she pauses, then adds “or ever.”

      The teacup in Shahd’s hand quivers. She doesn’t know if the ‘or ever’ is said as a sign, or if Maisoon is one of those ‘free, independent’ women who don’t believe in marriage. Or if she is doing this just to spite her parents. Or, maybe … but this is a dangerous space which she can’t yet explore. A space which demands careful navigation. There are moulds already made for her; their clearly defined boundaries are not to be crossed under any circumstances. For those who do—the price is always too high to pay. But this woman here, Maisoon … she lives on her own, breaking taboos herself. But you’ve only known her a few hours. And she dances like a goddess. Oh and that body—so full of sensuality … stop it.

      Maisoon finishes her tea, disappears into the kitchen, and returns with a bottle of red wine, no glasses. “Here, open this while I change into something more comfortable. I’ve been saving this for a special occasion.”

      Shahd has never opened a bottle of wine before, but she doesn’t need to be a daktora to figure it out. After several attempts she succeeds. Maisoon emerges from the bedroom wearing a men’s old gallabiyya, hiding all those lush curves.

      Maisoon holds the bottle to her mouth and tips her head back, Shahd studies her neck, one, two, three gulps and it’s passed to her. Shahd balances the bottle between her legs as she lights her third cigarette.

      “So, why did you invite me over? I mean, you don’t even know me, and you could get into trouble for having me at your place. I could have asked the parents of the bride to stay at their house.”

      “Tfaddali, my home is your home. But seriously, you just looked really desperate and I wanted to help.”

      They finish off the bottle, laughing into the night, laughing at the shock and horror on the old women’s faces when Maisoon began to dance. Their conversations are disconnected threads coloured with wine. It’s almost dawn when they finally fall asleep on the diwan.