Read Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) for Free Online

the coup d'etat of February S.
    Outside the muddy house in that nameless village, the wind was howling, and the thunder muffled
the cries of the woman in labor while Mazloom alSa'idi sat with shaking fingers and dry lips, smoking
a rolled cigarette. Between him and Juri there was a
dying fireplace where, from time to time throughout the unbearably long night, he stirred the burning
coals to life. His cigarette fell when Juri let out a cry
that made him think the baby had finally slipped out.

    But the baby hadn't slipped out. Juri kept moaning
and gripping the bed with her fingers, while Mazloom
al-Sa'idi tried to comfort her, hoping for the morning.
    She gnashed her teeth, calling, "I can't! You have
to do something lest I die!"
    The thunderstorm didn't stop. Darkness reigned
heavily over the houses, the lamp hanging from the
low roof of the room shaking, its light flickering.
    Mazloom put on his woolen coat, rolled his koufiya
around his head, and courageously waded through
the flooded streets. The wind's sounds brought desolation to his heart, and the shaking branches produced
strange voices like the muttering of devils.
    It was one hour after midnight, and the darkness
hid the street's features. The houses' closed doors were
clothed in deep shadow. Mazloom held fast to the wet
fences, and the lightning showed him where to put
his feet. He entered a narrow, twisted alley and then
arrived at the door of the midwife, Lami'a's door. He
knocked a few times, and the echo faded in the night.
He continued knocking with cold, rigid hands until he
heard a rough voice asking him, "Who's there?"
    "I'm Mazloom al-Sa'idi. My wife is in labor."
    "Oh, man, you are terrible. How can you come at
this time of night?"
    "People don't choose the instant of their birthyou know this."
    "But my joints won't help me. Can you wait until
morning?"

    "It's not in my hands. If she could wait, I wouldn't
have come."
    "It must be a girl; their delivery is hard, and their
lives are even worse."
    He was deeply anxious while he held the hand of
the fat midwife, who carried her leather tool bag in her
other hand. He thought that perhaps God was punishing him for some offense he must have committed.
Otherwise, why was his wife giving birth to a fourth
female child? Although all these infants had died
just a few days after their births, Mazloom al-Sa'idi
was shattered every time his wife lost her baby, feeling responsible for its death because of his constant
prayers to God to give him a male child. He would
remain depressed and crushed for long days. But it
wouldn't take him long to ask God's forgiveness, saying, "Praise be to God. No one is praised for an affliction except him." Meanwhile, Juri remained broken,
feeling that she was responsible for giving birth to
female children who quickly died.
    The midwife slipped, and Mazloom was so
absorbed by his memories that he would have fallen
on top of her if he hadn't at the last minute grabbed
onto a tree. Lamia yelled at the same time as the thunder, insulting the devils who ambushed good people
every time the sky grew dark. Mazloom thought she
meant him, but he ignored her. He helped her get back
on her feet and carried her bag for the rest of the way;
her woolen wrap was soiled with mud.
    When they entered the house, they heard Juri s
screaming and choking. Lami'a said, "Heat me some water quickly," and by the light of the shaking lamp she started examining Juri and reassuring her.

    "Don't be worried. Seek the help of al-Zahra, the mother of the Hassanayn.s Don't clench."
    Although the room was cold, Juri was dripping with sweat.
    "Push. Only a little while to go. Open your legs. Don't squeeze them together. Don't worry, the baby is coming at dawn, and dawn is soon, God willing. Come on, control yourself. Push. Keep going."
    Just before five in the morning, a lump of blue flesh fell into Lamia's palms, and after a moment the yelling increased. The two small legs