Artikata

A Novel by Hisham Adam

Translated by Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

Chapter One

From Artikata to Cuenca

- Chicken Pox and Pale Complexions -

We were about to leave when my grandmother, Soledad Fidel, kissed me while secretly putting a wretched banknote in my hand. Although I did not know its value at the time, and despite the fact that I did not expect her to do so, I was angry because she found nothing but that miserable paper to show her love to me. Yet, I allowed her to kiss me with her moist lips without reciprocating just to let her know how offended I was for the insult she dropped on me. I still could remember how she cried that day for a reason I did not know, for I could not believe that she loved me enough to cry while bidding me farewell. But I discovered the contrary when we arrived to Cuenca after a long and tiring journey during which I contracted Smallpox. And maybe my mother suffered the most in the journey, as she had to care for a sick child, and my moody and turbulent sister, Juanita Serginio, who was two years my senior. My father, who stayed behind in Artikata where he worked in a diamond mine, had already stressed to my mother in one of their quick phone calls, which lacked exchanged sentimental words, to take us to our hometown to get to know our relatives there. This act of his, which aimed at strengthening family ties, carried an important meaning for him but stained with male ego he always wanted to feel since he married my mother in 1971. I felt overwhelmingly happy when I heard the train whistle announcing its departure to Toledo, and I started waving goodbye to those standing alongside the station even though I did not know anyone of them. 

During the short and sporadic times when I awakened through my weariness, I saw nothing through the train’s window but arid and rocky land, fitting perfectly with the fever that was battling with me throughout the journey, a matter that suggested to me that I might die of thirst. What bothered me even more than the fever was the sound of the couplers of the train cars that seemed to be about to separate from each other any minute, and the sound of the cast iron wheels that resembled heartbeats of a giant genie. These sounds aroused laziness and were very depressing especially with the melancholic atmosphere that engulfed the cabinet. The only thing that got stuck strongly in my mind from that journey was the smell of seat leather, which largely resembled the smell of cat fur. In that period, I was the center of attention for the female golden agers, a thing that made me disgusted with the smell of oldsters and the sight of their wrinkled skin in addition to their eating habits that made me sick to my stomach. Despite that, they were the most caring of all people. On the other hand, there was an old family grudge caused by the independent behavior of my father, which my grandfather considered as ingratitude, when my father refused to name me after him, and instead sent him a one-line telegram that said “congratulations on the newborn, Casper Serginio”. This was back in 1974. 

None of his sons or daughters fulfilled his dream of having a grandson bearing his name, which only existed in old French. That was a reason behind softening the anger of my grandfather after five years of my birth. However, flying shrapnel of that anger somehow reached his brothers and sisters who witnessed his last heart attack that hit him when he read the provocative telegram. But the truth was they were discontent with my father’s success in fleeing the hell of domineering Orville Bodin, to work in the most famous diamond mind at that time, leaving them for the iron fist of a hardheaded father, and a hard social consuetude that did not stimulate ambition. And maybe refusing to name me Orville was one of my father’s rare deeds that I could remember, for it would sound like a name of a declassed clown “Orville Serginio Orville.

We were sharing our cabin with a mouthy and snoopy woman, wearing a black dress spotted with white small circles, eyeglasses, and black gloves that matched her dress. I found out later that she was the wife of one of my father’s friends. That woman, Charlotte Corbin, was endlessly advising my mother of the best traditional methods of treating me since she had a long experience in dealing with this illness that had hit her two brothers and son lately. And I wondered how she had survived it! The worst experience I had gone through in this journey was when my mother left me for the caring of this woman and went to the bathroom.

It was the first time for me to find out that my family, descendents of Norck tribes, favored traditional medicine and believed in it more than they trusted technology and developed medicine. They viewed medicine and science in general as less respectable, and therefore the nearest clinic was at a one-day walking distance from Cuenca. Through the train window, I enjoyed watching the peddlers in the stations during train stops, each of which lasted not more than a quarter of an hour. The sight of the stations was very miserable and attracted drowsiness, and if it were not for the passing of some generic faces, they would seem deserted. On top of that, the stations had no signboards or nameplates. I paid mind to this through the questions of Mrs. Corbin who was drooping from the window to ask a passerby “which station is this?” And I could still remember that skinny girl who was selling red drinks packed in transparent bags and arranged in a classic old bucket. When I asked my mother to buy me some of the red drink, that woman volunteered her advice to her for the contrary, arguing that cold drinks might aggravate my health condition. Although my mother was convinced of her advice, I had achieved an advanced degree of hatred for that woman, that I was not about to accept her advice, or submit to her and her snoopiness, and I even considered the matter of buying the chilled drink a private family matter. I had to resort to crying, using my illness for support, and normally such trick works, since ill people receive special treatment and they are usually pampered more than healthy people. But I did not enjoy the taste of the drink because of the bitterness in my throat, but it did not matter since I was drinking my triumph in glee anyway.

I did not know why it seemed to me that Mrs. Corbin was exchanging with me antipathetic looks through her glasses. This undeclared war between us continued until the train reached Katyusha in the afternoon of a very warm day when tens of men and women gathered for the reception. That was the last of the days of motherly warmth. I felt illogically estranged and sad while watching the melodramatic scenes of families forced to separation and displacement by war .

The sad words, which my mother and the women were reciprocating, had profound effects on me although I had not mastered the local dialect professionally, and sometimes I used the sign language and head nods to the extent that many people had confused me for a mute. I liked the way people switched between crying and laughing, and then to guffawing, but later I found that one could easily train for that. I was less than eight years old, and traditional richness was showing on my mother who would not dare to take off her golden bangles that weighed down on her wrist like guards of a Buddha temple, as if that was the only proof that she had come from Artikata, the city of diamond. I could not come up with a reason why she had to prove that, but through additional mingling with the Norck tribes, I knew they cared for such details to a great extent. 

Pale yellow was the prevailing color in everything I had seen and remembered of that town, the houses of which were scattered around leaving large spaces for people to use for various occasions. At that time, I had almost recovered and I was able to walk unsupported. “Oh my God.. he is the son of Serginio”; these were the words that everybody uttered as they set their eyes on me. Only then, I uncovered the male conspiracy that my father weaved as he insisted that my mother should take us to Artikata. I never wanted others to treat me as the son of Serginio, but our people, naïve as they were, exulted in doing so. I had endured tens of kisses from men and women unknown to me with a strange bounteousness. And although everyone had introduced themselves to me, I did not care much at the time. I was only reading joy in their faces, and the simplicity of their life was a reason for me to castaway my embarrassment, and to directly ask where the bathroom was, contrary to my habit of only confiding in my mother my need to answer nature’s call. My memories of Katyusha were not exactly perfect, maybe because I only stayed there for two days, during which we were waiting for a transportation vehicle to take us to Cuenca, the ultimate reach of our journey.

The journey was much like the illegal immigration crossings that some people were secretly organizing across the western border using various transportation means. In one of their evening gatherings under the moonlight, a woman, who still maintained the looks of aristocrats bestowed upon her by an aged estrangement that only ended a few years back, came through holding a bag full of traditional souvenirs. She gave the bag to my mother who took it gracefully and promised to deliver it to its intended person in Cuenca.

Those evening gatherers talked about issues, which were not that important to me; issues mostly about those who died while my mother was away from Katyusha when she left with her husband to Artikata, those who migrated to distant lands, and about the newly celebrated marriages with their subsequent offspring. Meanwhile, I was busy watching a big monitor lizard that was diligently digging a hole in a sandy area nearby. I thought it was an alligator at the beginning, but someone patted me on the shoulder and said, “it’s the first time for you to see such an animal… right?”, and gave me a smile that made me fear him. Next day, Georginio Amado had arrived early morning in his vehicle, the most famous in the area, sounding its musical horn, which I still remembered to this day. The villagers knew every driver by the sound of their horns. Moreover, the children used to indulge in contests to mimic those musical sounds vocally. And as an aristocratic lady, my mother lead her way to the front seat next to the driver where only elites were allowed, while everybody else started laying down their mats on the back of the truck. Mrs. Corbin was among them, and I had a reason to gloat. Although she was kind to ask my mother to have my sister Juanita stay with her, at an advanced stage in my life, I found out that what Mrs. Corbin did was a professional technique; grownups can punish children by ignoring them and diverting their attention to other ones. It was a matter of minutes before the plaza was full of farewell bidders, and the back of the truck was full of male and female passengers grouping together like African emigrants. This scenic festival was repeated every Wednesday with the same details that emphasized the importance of the receiving and farewell bidding rituals among the residents of Katyusha.

Men’s hats and women’s handkerchiefs, were slipping away from sight along with the houses, and sinking in a red twilight river, while we were heading north to Cuenca through Guadalajara, the rocky valley that our ancestors used to pass through with their cattle to the fertile ground of the Savanna. This valley turned to a streaming river during rainy seasons, which sometimes lasted more than three months. I had no curious desire to observe the road or know the landmarks.  I also missed the sight of Ojos Del Sol, the mountain known to have the sun slide through a wide orifice at its peak, but later I read about it in some travel books.

I used to wonder about my mother’s strange ability to sleep all through the annoying vehicle movement caused by the bumpy road. It felt as if we were on a howdah, a top of an Arabian camel, and what helped intensify the feeling was a red piece of clothe ending with embroidered velvety strands, Amado used as a decorating ornament dangling from the ceiling of his car. Suddenly, my mother awoke in panic and made the sign of the cross with her hand in a mechanical worshipping way when Amado suddenly cried “Lourdes…Lourdes”. I wondered about the sudden devoutness that engulfed them while they were looking at something outside. I looked out of the window to see while smiling at the contagious curiosity I contracted from Mrs. Corbin. I only saw a pyramid shaped building with a cross at the top. It looked like a monastery, the designer of which probably did not select the right location. I looked at my mother, she was still in her catholic religious fervor, and I asked her “what is this place?”, but she signaled to me to keep quite. However, Amado smiled at me, pulled me from the arm, and sat me next to him.

Son, I’ll tell you the story ... it had been said that a teenaged catholic girl called Bernadette Spyros came to Grotto of Massabielle, which you can see in front of you over there, withdrawing from life and people, and asked the Virgin Mary to appear for her if she could do that

And did the Virgin Mary really appear to her?

I guess so!

Although I liked tales that involved ancestors and long gone people, this particular one was very depressing and lacked interesting details, and so I resorted to my childish imagination to add more dramatic and interesting twists to Amado’s abridged story.

Despite the privacy of sitting in the front seat and its bourgeois significance, I did not feel comfortable, for I could not stretch or make the slightest move without getting one of my mother’s hard line looks. She was very keen for us to look very polite in front of others, especially grownups and I used to work hard to meet her expectations, but all she could notice was the rare slips.

Amado stopped the car, turned down the engine, and announced a half hour rest. We all got out of the car, and some started stretching and unfolding their bodies, while others were on their knees peeing nearby. It was very cold and men were breathing out white vapor clouds like mystic dragons, while women wrapped their faces with cotton shawls. I liked the sight of white clouds and it gave me a perverted idea; I exhaled through my first and second fingers pretending to look like a professional smoker. What I liked most about this was that I was not afraid of my mother. Juanita was begging mother to take her to the front seat compelled not by a bourgeois flair, but seemingly, she got bored of the company of Mrs. Corbin. I enjoyed my mother’s firm position, although I felt pity for Juanita. Some of the passengers gathered in circles and started talking and laughing, disturbing the calmness of this desolated place. Amado was sipping on his evening coffee from a pot that he neatly hid away. I used to wonder about adults’ addiction to coffee and tea, things that I never developed a taste for. It seemed as if they were meant for grownups, and having a cup of tea was a sign of being an adult. For us children, our mothers cooled the tea in a very laborious way, and sometimes they added cold water to it. Anyway, I never drank tea in my life, saving this adventure to later.    

 Out of somewhere, we heard the voice of a young girl shouting, cursing, and name-calling someone. We later found out that he was hitting on her while she was peeing. Quietness then prevailed, while some were gossiping and making fun of the event. I pitied the girl as her mother smacked her on the face and grounded her for the rest of the journey. I could not understand why the mother punished the girl, since she was the victim, and why no one condemned the incident, and instead everyone just raised their eyebrows in displeasure that vanished in few minutes. This incident caused all other mothers to do the same with their daughters. I felt that they were like helpless flocks of sheep, that had no way but to befriend wolves, which played double roles; protecting them and devouring them at the same time.