A Small Spot of Sun

            by Nadia Brunner-Velasquez

 

The ring on her finger hadn’t been polished in a long time.  It had undoubtedly belonged to someone else before and it no longer shone; she resented wearing a ring to which she meant nothing, and which meant nothing to her.  She looked out the window, out onto a different and unfamiliar world.  Long streets snaked through hundreds of pastel colored houses, and dozens of street vendors were beginning to set out umbrellas to protect their goods from the searing sun.  She lived in a grand villa set on top of a hill, a spectacle in itself, with the perfect outlook on the city of Casablanca.  A wide veranda wound all around the perimeter of the villa.  Above it, a ceiling of green morning glory vines and purple bougainvillea had grown on a lattice to create a warm shade.  Something on her far right caught her attention, and she tore her gaze from the window to the turning doorknob on the front door.  He was home.  But not for long, she remembered; he had a meeting with the men at the bar in fifty minutes.

“Hello, dear,”  he said, startled to see her standing right before him.  His normally glossy hair looked tousled and his tie was loose around his neck.  The cuffs of his shirt were unbuttoned, like he had just put it on, and his face was red.  But she knew why he looked that way.  She was used to seeing him that way almost every other night when he came home from work.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Oh, it was okay.  Did you remember to clean the carpet like I told you?”

“Yes.” 

He walked into the sitting room and stood in one place for a few seconds, staring at something in the room.

“Anything wrong?” she asked. 

He put down his briefcase and quickly turned to look her straight in the eyes.  “Its those flowers.  They smell peculiar. I don’t like the smell.”

“A friend stopped by and gave them to me this morning.  I thought they would look nice on the table over there…but you don’t like the way they smell…” She looked down at her fingers fiddling with her apron.

“No, I don’t.  Who is your friend?” His eyes met her downcast face.  She looked up and saw the sides of his face clenching and unclenching- angry now.  She walked past him and into the room where the bouquet of flowers sat. 

“I’ll move the flowers,” she said submissively.  She quietly picked up the vase with both hands and carried it out to the veranda, into one of the last small spots of sun.  This way they’ll have a little bit of happiness, she thought. 

                                               

~                    ~                    ~

 

The eggplant began to simmer and hiss together with the olive oil that she poured into the pan.  She sliced an onion and added the pieces to the eggplant. A warm smell of baking garlic pita lingered heavily throughout the house.  She emptied a bowl of olives onto a plate, and gently set it on the table, next to a bowl of steaming lentils.  She ate her afternoon meal alone in the sitting room and continued to look out the window.  The house was quiet, besides the wooden panels that creaked and the occasional songbirds that chirped in the branches of the tree outside.  After lunchtime, she usually lay in the hammock to digest and to think about what she needed to do around the house.  Bound to the house, as if strapped to it or trapped in it, she didn’t do much, nor did she have much to do.  It wasn’t her choice to live there, in that enormous house, where she was alone most of the time.  Her father, with whom she no longer spoke, was to blame.  He had chosen her husband for her and arranged that he take her away from California to live in Morocco for the rest of her life.  She was half Moroccan, from her father’s side, and half American from her mother, a meek and smallish woman in nature, subservient to the words of her husband.  And their only daughter, Mona, was therefore raised beneath her father’s strict conditions of his family tradition.  Thus, Mona had no other alternative than to be unhappy in a marriage to a man just like her father, a man she did not love.  Her energy and strength weakened with each passing day; she had suffered even more after every pregnancy eventually concluded in a miscarriage, each time losing great amounts of blood.  One would wonder if the miscarriages had happened naturally, or if they were indeed the accomplishments of a wretched and lonely heart.

She picked up the phone and dialed a number.  Raising it to her ear, a blithe smile slowly appeared across her face as she anxiously paced around the kitchen, waiting for the other line to answer. 
            “Hello.” She paused for a few seconds.  “How are you?”  She sat down on the bench next to the telephone and listened.  “Yes, I know.  Well I’m glad that it worked out for you…oh, that…yes, he hated them.  He made me take them outside of the house.  He almost made me throw them away…yes, but I told him they’d die very soon anyways.”  She untied her apron and swung it across the back of the bench.  “But I’m looking at them right now, they’re sitting out on the veranda…oh, they’re beautiful.  Thanks again…yes, we’ll talk soon.  Okay…all right.  Bye.”  She reached for her cup of tea that sat on the counter.  With a sip, she could tell that it had been left it out for more than an hour.  But it was her favorite – cold, unsweetened tea.

 

~                    ~                    ~

The next day was hotter than usual, and fewer people walked the streets.  The regular street vendors had already begun their end-of-the-day shouts at the few customers still out and about, offering half price on the chopped lamb and a free bag of olives to go with it.  They packed their goods and display tables away into their individual cars and set off on their own ways, bidding goodbyes until the next day.  It was only an hour past noon and the walkways were nearly empty. 

Mona stood beside the window again.  She too felt flushed from the wave of heat; it was impenetrable, almost suffocating.  The villa was able to retain some coolness and hints of fresh air, but it wasn’t nearly enough. She took out an ivory pin from her hair, letting locks upon locks fall to her back, while she walked to her bedroom to change into some airier clothing.  She effortlessly slid on a sleeveless top that fit over the tender curves of her breasts perfectly and felt like air itself.  After removing her linen pants, she slipped into a silk red skirt that gently hung to touch her bare ankles.  She folded her clothes neatly into the drawers and walked to the kitchen. 

The phone in the kitchen began to ring and startled her in mid step.  She walked over, trying to guess who it could be, and picked it up, “Hello?  Hi!  Good, that’s very good.  Well, when can you drop it off?”  She waited for a moment, biting her lip nervously.  “That’s fine…okay, bye bye.”  She paced around the kitchen, thinking about how she should begin conversation with her husband when he should return from work – or from wherever he usually came home from.  The topics of conversation between the two were very limited because he spoke little English, and she understood neither French nor Arabic.  But it had been worse when she first moved there; she hadn’t yet learned how to cook traditional Moroccan dishes, the way her husband had expected.  Having grown up practically an American, she also hadn’t been exposed to the religious aspect of a Moroccan woman’s life.  At first, he was understanding and knew that Mona would have some difficulty adjusting to a new life in a new country.  But as time passed, his sympathy turned to frustration; he began avoiding her, leading a very separate life from her own.  He was never around, rarely to be seen.  Frustration fermented into anger and resentment – it came to a point where he was no longer afraid to hurt her, as he had noticed the pain and agony she already felt being married to him since their first encounter.

He’ll be home soon, she thought.  She didn’t have much time to do what she’d planned.  What if he comes home earlier than I expected?   She heard a knocking at the door and hurried over to the front of the house.  Looking through the eyeglass, the same smile as before appeared and she gently opened the door.

“I hope I’m not late.  Here it is.”  He was a tall and handsome man with prominent masculine features and a clean-shaven face.  Well-dressed and smooth, just like the words that seemed to roll off his tongue.  He stood in the doorway and looked around for a moment to see if anyone was watching him.  He bent in to kiss her lips as he placed a package in her arms.

“Thank you,” she said softly in his ear through her parted lips.  He hugged her firmly and looked deep into her eyes, as if to say farewell.  And with that, he turned to make his walk down the street, making a few glances back at her here and there, until he disappeared behind the corner of the street.  Mona shut the door and looked down at the package in her arms.

 

                        ~                                  ~                                  ~

 

A quarter past seven, and he still hadn’t returned.  Mona had already begun preparing dinner, when she received another phone call.  “Please come, I need you,” she said.  “Tonight’s the night and I want you to help me explain,” she begged.  “He’ll be home any moment now, so be here at nine…yes, goodbye.”  She gently lay down the receiver and rushed her eyes to the clock hanging on the wall.  Licking her lips, she could taste faint traces of blood, as she couldn’t stop from biting them.  Nervous.  What am I doing, she thought.  The heat also hadn’t passed away for the day and trickles of sweat began to stream down her back and on the inside of her thighs.

The front door shut loudly behind him as he called her name and asked for dinner to be served.

“It’s all done.  Come to the kitchen, dear,” she said, setting his chair aside for him to be seated.  “How was your day?”

“I don’t understand why you always ask me that- you know that its always the same…”

“Well, how does the food taste,” she asked and sat herself across from him at the table.

“Its fine, why aren’t you eating?”

“I was hungry earlier, so I already had my dinner.  Its new, you know.”

“What’s new?”

“The dish.  I mean, this is a new recipe I’m trying out.”  She sat rigidly and closely watched him eat.

“Well, I think you’ve made this before.  It doesn’t seem new,” he said, continuing to shovel the food into his mouth.

“Oh, but its new.  Its probably just similar to something else I make.”  She stole a glance at the clock again, then looked under the table at her fidgeting legs.  She paused and slowly looked up.  “Ahmed, I need to talk to you.”

“What about?” He ceased eating and put down his fork.  He viciously wiped his mouth with a napkin, slammed it down onto the table and glared at Mona.  “Can’t I eat in peace?!” he shouted.

“Yes, sorry.  But I have a family friend who wants to stop by for a visit.”

“You don’t have any friends.  None that I know, that is…Is this the same friend who gave you the flowers?”

“Yes.”  Sweat formed on her brow as she bit her lip.

“Who is it?  Is he a man?”

“Yes, but he’s been a friend of my family for a long time.”

Just then, a knock at the door broke the tension and Mona hastily stood up to open it.  She came back to the kitchen with a man behind her, whom she quickly introduced.  “Ahmed, this is Max.  I’ve known him since we were children and he’s here on a business trip from California.”

            “Hello,” said Max, beaming.  He took Ahmed’s hand into grip and shook it firmly.

            “Hello,” said Ahmed, with a forced smile.  “Do you want to join us for dinner?”

            “Well, yes actually.  That’d be great!  I think I’ve built up enough of an appetite.”

            “Mona prepared this new dish, isn’t that right,” he said, glaring at Mona.

            “Yes,” she replied but focused her attention on the clock instead.  Perfect timing.

            “Oh, is that so?  How did she tell you – do you two regularly converse over the telephone?”

            “No, just recently.  We found each other…again.”

            “I see.”

Mona set a plate of food in front of Max and served Ahmed another plate full of food.  “Let me know if I can serve you more.”

The minutes passed by with some talk, but mostly silence.  Ahmed was suspicious of Max, while Max maintained his cheery façade with ease.  Mona remained silent throughout, eyeing the two men before her and the guarded glances they stole at each other when each looked down to take a bite of food.  She stood up to prepare the desert.  “I hope you still have room for desert,” she said happily. 

            “Yes, bring it,” said Ahmed. “So, Max, what business do you have here in Casablanca?”

            Max’s eyes followed Mona around the kitchen for a moment, until he elegantly replied, “actually, I am here to take your wife away.”  He stared back intently, leaning into the table, hands spread across its surface.  “I don’t know if she’s told you this already, but…we are in love.  Plain and simple.”

Mona let a plate drop to the floor, which quickly shattered.

            Ahmed’s mouth hung slightly open, but he quickly snapped it shut.  “This is news to me!”

Mona took a few steps toward her husband and stared apprehensively.  With a trembling voice she confessed.  “Ahmed, this is what I’ve been wanting to talk to you about…”

“Shut-up!”

“I am unhappy!” she finally yelled.  She looked down at her hands and tears streamed down her face.  She bit and sucked on her lips to keep from saying anymore.

“Unhappiness is a habit of yours, isn’t it!  But it can’t be!  Its only a feeling. You are not unhappy, you are married to me and you live with me…You belong to me!”

At that moment, Max stood up from his chair and glared at Ahmed, rage written all across his face; his breathing was fast and impatient.  He kept his glare and saw that Ahmed, too seemed exasperated.  Mona watched on, expecting the two to rip each other apart. 

“She doesn’t belong to anyone!” yelled Max.  Only, Ahmed, instead of shouting back, grabbed for his throat and a glaze of panic swept over his eyes as he stared Max and Mona in the eyes, one at a time, back and forth.  Within seconds he fell to the floor and convulsed wildly, like a headless dying chicken.

His body shuttered to stillness and he no longer breathed.  Eyes still open, fingers tensed and gnarled.

“Is he still alive?” asked Max indifferently.  He looked at Mona, who was still staring at her husband on the floor.  She slowly brought her gaze up to meet Max’s question,

“No,” she whispered.

“Well, that’s that, isn’t it…you got what you wanted, didn’t you?”  Taken by the severity of it all, Max stared on helplessly.  He stood motionless and then, with one big gasp for air, he clutched his throat and stumbled to the tiled floor.

 

“Yes, I got what I want.” 

She stood still, looking down at the two cold bodies on her kitchen floor.  Raising her gaze to an opened package on the counter, she moved to the sink, where she picked up a small brown glass vile.  She filled it with water and scrubbed it with soap, setting it atop the rack to dry.  After wiping her hands on her skirt, she turned her back and quietly walked to the front door.  Before closing it behind her, she took one more look at the inside of the villa.  With a breath, she was gone, and closed the door shut.  She stood at the top of the steps and stared down at her left hand.  Fingers spread, she slipped the ring off and tossed it in the bushes, where it landed at the base of a tree.  She began her walk down the steps and up the street, walking slowly and with time.  Her lips tasted bitter, as she continued on up the street with a tear streaked face and wind-swept smile.