Djalila #4
At last, I think that perhaps she could gain confidence through faith, for some women find great solace in it.
Kairouan is a holy city. The water from the Bi’r Barouta well is holy, for a river supposedly flows between here and Mecca.
If you drink enough of it you are exempted from a visit to Mecca, so I take Djalila to the well, that she can drink and feel blessed.
We stand by the blindfolded camel who trudges round and round to pull up the water.
We drink the fresh cold water from little cups and I tell Djalila that she is a lucky woman to live in such a holy place.
She sips from the cup and nods, silent and meek as a cowed child.
I take her to pray at the towering mosque with its myriad ancient columns, but she is uncomfortable with crowds and prefers to pray in her own rooms. I do not know what she asks Allah for, what desires she has, for even to me she is closed.
I try to encourage her in meeting other young wives with whom she might pass the time.
But on the few occasions when such a woman seems friendly, a neighbour, the wife of a fellow tradesman, Djalila shrinks from them, stays silent as though displeased and I see them falter in their speech, their smiles fade and they do not invite her back to their homes, do not return to visit ours.
***
At last, I speak with her. “Ibrahim is a kind man,” I tell her. “But the moon has waned twice since you were married and he will lose patience. You must succumb to him, you must be his wife in more than name, Djalila, or he may force himself upon you or even put you aside.”
Her eyes well up.
“I know you are scared,” I say to her. “I will ask him not to visit you often. But if you can give him some children you will secure your place as his wife and then he might even be persuaded to go elsewhere for his pleasures. Please, Djalila.”
“Watch over me,” she begs.
I gape at her. “I cannot watch you while you are with your husband,” I say.
“I need you there,” she says. “I feel safe when you are by my side.”
***
I stand in the shadows where I will not be seen.
My heart beats hard for I will surely be turned out if Ibrahim catches me and yet Djalila asks this service of me and so I must obey, to try and secure her happiness.
I try not to look but still I catch glimpses, of Ibrahim’s body as he strips off his robes and his limbs intertwine with hers.
I cannot fault his patience. He offers gentle caresses and soft words, he uses his lips to touch her skin and his hands smooth her dark hair where it lies tumbled on the pillow.
When he enters her, he is not rough and his arms hold her with tenderness, though her hands stay clenched throughout and her eyes stay fixed on me over Ibrahim’s muscled shoulders.
Ibrahim leaves her room with a smile rather than a frown, though it is I who must hold her while she cries afterwards.
“You might come to enjoy it,” I suggest, thinking of his soft words, his lips on her skin. But she only shakes her head in misery.
The next day Ibrahim gives her a magnificent necklace and places it smilingly about her neck, but she hides her face.
I follow him as he goes to his rooms. “I am sorry my mistress is not more willing,” I say. “She is very timid. I ask on her behalf that you do not visit her too often, but I will tell you the days when she is most likely to conceive a child.”
He is not best pleased; this I can see. But perhaps he believes that the matter will improve over time. “Very well,” he says, his good humour lost as he turns away.
***
His visits to her rooms grow fewer and I need only watch their twisting shapes in the flickering light of lanterns for a few days in each month, sometimes casting my eyes down, sometimes drawn helplessly to watch. Djalila still shrinks from his touch but at least she does what is expected of her.
She has other duties. Ibrahim is firm on few things, but on this he is certain.
“Your place is by my side when we entertain guests,” he tells Djalila.
“As my mother sits by my father’s side. You must dress well, you must smile.
A trader who buys carpets must think of luxury when he buys from us, of beauty and perfume, of comfort and generosity.
Our carpets are not just the knots that make them but the reputation that goes before them. ”
And so Djalila dresses with care and descends to entertain guests.
She twitches beforehand, she trembles but I stand in the room where she can see me and she learns to do this one thing well.
She speaks little but she smiles and she stays by Ibrahim’s side, no matter how late the evening wears on, no matter how dull the talk.
Guests to the house notice her beauty. Her silence they take for the appropriate demureness of a woman from a good family and they praise her for it.
They buy in large quantities from Ibrahim because of the quality of his hospitality and in turn Ibrahim smiles on Djalila, comforted that in this duty, at least, his wife is accomplished and a credit to him.
On the nights when Ibrahim does not need to entertain traders, he entertains his own choice of guests, philosophers and men of the law, holy men and they talk for many hours.
On these nights Djalila is excused early and it is only I who stand in the shadows or squat outside the door, the better to learn from these men.
The months pass and at last, at last, Djalila retches and turns pale.
I place my hand on her and feel a new life beginning.