Season of Martyrdom Read online

  Sari Abu Amineh

  It never crossed my mind that the surprise party I planned for the evening of Fawaz Basha’s sixtieth birthday could possibly lead to so many unfathomable twists and turns.

  It seems that on that sweltering June night I completely lost my poise and forgot to think things through. It was the first time I’d ever neglected to submit a matter of such high importance to scrutiny before making a decision about it.

  It has always been part of my daily routine to dedicate half an hour every morning to singling out the most important events for the day ahead. I always immerse myself in all the related details and implications of each event, and then I decide on a course of action.

  But in all my excitement over the surprise I was preparing for the night of Fawaz Basha’s birthday, I overlooked that crucial step. It was one of the extremely rare situations when I felt myself being drawn into doing something, involuntarily, as if guided by some unseen force.

  Fawaz Basha – of course – had not himself invited the guests who came to his house bearing expensive gifts in order to congratulate him for having reached the sixtieth year of his long, long life.

  I was the one who called his friends to remind them of the happy occasion, and as it turned out, they all had remembered. I invited businessmen, journalists, managers and officials; I called them all in my capacity as director of public relations. That was the title the Basha had given me, but that’s not exactly what I was. Maybe I was bigger than a public relations director, considering the kinds of important and sensitive matters I was assigned, which made it nearly impossible to describe my job with a title like the ones given to the managers and employees of his companies and offices scattered throughout Jordan and abroad.

  Preparations for the party – which was to be held at the Basha’s expansive estate situated atop a high hill due west of Amman, overlooking the Kamaliyya area to the east and the villages and steep winding roads of the city of Salt to the west – were being taken care of by one of the catering companies that specialize in weddings, birthdays, and other celebrations.

  All of the guests were seated around a long rectangular collection of tables that accommodated thirty-one people – everyone that is except Uroub the fortune-teller. For her I had set a special place in the corner beside the Basha’s seat behind the fountain. The fountain sculpture hosted a gathering of crystal houris – virginal nymphs – nestled together and pouring water from their transparent palms into the wide round basin. It was set up amidst the grassy green walkways out in the garden, which was enclosed inside a fancy braided wrought iron fence studded with brass stars and with sharp spears for posts.

  The party was a joyful acknowledgement of the genetic predisposition to good health that had afforded the Basha the chance to reach age sixty without the least sign of illness or other form of physical frailty that might slow him down. And it was to acknowledge, too, the resilience of his marriage to Mrs Samah Shahadeh, and their good fortune for having stayed together thirty-three years.

  The Basha sat at the head of the table beside his elegant wife, conversing with her and smiling in a manner that reflected the perfect state of harmony between them. His wife, with her cascading hairdo and gown that reminded one of the leaves of a banana tree for both its color and its form, was smiling away, her lips painted with a sort of dusky olive shade of lipstick, and returning the compliments she received from the women and men in attendance.

  From time to time, however, she would cautiously look over at a friendly Persian cat with wooly white fur that one of the guests had brought with her to the party.

  One could not help noticing that the organizers had been intent on displaying all sorts of examples of wealth and luxury. Everything looked valuable and high class: the long table draped in its pearl-white tablecloth with embroidered edges, the plates resting on wine-colored silk placemats, the shiny gilded bowls, the crystal vases holding tulips the color of the sun, the emerald-tinted long-stemmed glasses with their antique etchings. And near the table were statues of eagles swooping down on circular stone bases and marble pillars wrapped in awe-inspiring sashes. And then there were the two Philippine maids and the five local women hired to serve the guests as well, in their mini-skirts and revealing blouses.

  It was a very promising beginning to a birthday party that was sure to be a success. The Basha and his wife were exchanging pleasantries with their guests, complimenting them with refinement and joining in on their conversations.

  But then something happened that brought all my high expectations crashing down, and turned my happy surprise into an evil curse – on me and on the Basha, too.

  When it was time for Uroub the fortune-teller to appear, she came toward us with a level of confidence rarely possessed by a woman.

  She wore a black hair tie about an inch thick over her forehead and head. Her wiry and uncombed jet-black hair dangled out from under it, as did the interlocking silver earrings hanging from her earlobes. Below that was a blue scarf coiled around her neck, draped over a shiny black dress with flowing belle sleeves. The dress looked more like an evening gown than something a fortune-teller would wear while reading palms and predicting people’s futures. She certainly drew the attention of the women and men seated around the table when she greeted them with a measured smile and a careful nod of her head. They all began whispering and murmuring the moment she shook Mrs Samah’s hand and then greeted the Basha with a respectful curtsy before taking her seat beside him.

  It seemed the guests were able to mask their curiosity quickly by occupying themselves with the drinks and hors d’oeuvres that preceded the cutting of the birthday cake. They struck up conversations about the unfolding Arab Spring and the terrible violence in Syria and speculated about the potential spillover effect on Jordan, their teeth chomping all the while on those little bites of food that ruin a person’s appetite.

  Most likely they did not notice the direction the conversation was taking at the head of the table behind the fountain of houris, between the Basha and the fortune-teller who was scrutinizing his face with her pitch-black eyes outlined with a light shadow of kohl. She leaned in very close to him and softly said – I could barely hear her even though I was standing in the empty space right behind them – “Today is not your birthday, sir.”

  He raised his thick eyebrows, glanced at his wife, looked at Uroub and said, with a chuckle, “If today is not my birthday, then what is it, the Day of Resurrection?”

  Mrs Samah was following what was transpiring with much concern, and her concern only grew when Uroub smiled and said, “Cancer is not your astrological sign, sir. This birthdate of yours which falls on the twenty-fourth of June has nothing to do with you. You are a Leo. Your birth records are in error.”

  She removed the blue scarf from her neck and laid it flat on her knees. She regarded him again with those pitch-black eyes.

  “The awe that surrounds you,” she said, “is not a characteristic of Cancer or of any other sign for that matter. If you were to let your hair grow, it would grow all around your face and you would look just like a lion. Your ruddy complexion is controlled by the sun, a symbol of power and influence, not by the moon that lives by the sun’s light. The sun is your star and your planet.

  “Moreover, there are three qualities found in Cancers that you do not possess: Cancers are dreamers, while you are analytical; Cancers adore children, but you cannot stand them; and Cancers are stingy, whereas you are very generous and giving.”

  He nodded his head as if to show he agreed with what she was saying. He and his wife exchanged glances. He cleared his throat and then his voice came out from under his mustache effortlessly, “OK. And what ab
out my fortune? What’s in store for me in the coming days and years?”

  She put her hands on each side of her head. “Sir, the only way to tell your future is by looking at your palms, but you Leos only hear what you want to hear.”

  He looked at me as if to ask about this revelation that had changed the rhythm of his evening. When I leaned in closer he whispered in my ear, “I’ll be waiting for you in my office.”

  Then he got up and headed down one of the corridors leading to his office and I followed. When I stood before him he clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing as he usually did whenever he was nervous about something.

  I noticed that the legs of his trousers were so long they covered his shoes entirely, and when he turned around and faced me I could see that his belt was tightened below his belly that I now noticed had developed a bit of a paunch.

  “This is quite a surprise,” he said to me in an inquiring tone. “Where did you get this fortune-teller from?”

  “I thought this kind of thing appealed to you, so I arranged for her to come without asking permission first. I wanted it to be a nice surprise on your birthday. She’s from Morocco, and if you don’t like what she is saying, I can have the driver take her back to her hotel immediately. We’ll forget she ever set foot in your hospitable home. But I should tell you that it was very difficult getting her here for the party. I stumbled upon her by chance. She told me she would only be in Amman for two days and on the first day she met with a very important personality whose identity I have been unable to determine. I found out that the same night she traveled south of the Dead Sea accompanied by three of that same person’s bodyguards and stayed the whole night studying the stars until dawn. Tomorrow she is headed to Caracas to visit a very important man there suffering from an incurable disease, and after that she will fly out to Brunei. That is what she said.”

  “She’s that important?” he asked, raising his eyebrows with a show of interest.

  “Yes. And there is more. She possesses uncanny abilities. I found out she predicted that Nicolas Sarkozy would win the French elections seventy days prior to his being nominated as a candidate. It was all over the French papers at the time. She also foretold Qaddafi’s fall from power a month before the Libyan revolution. And she told me that the people of Syria would be embroiled in conflict tenfold, meaning ten years, and would be divided fourfold and will rebuild what the war has destroyed tenfold. And the people of Iraq would witness a fire unlike any the human race has ever seen before.”

  “True I’m interested in this type of thing, but . . . ‘Soothsayers speak lies, even if their predictions come true . . .’ Remember?”

  “That only confirms that what they say does come true sometimes, sir.”

  He was silent. Then he asked, “Do you want her to read my fortune and speak about my future in front of all my guests?”

  “This is what I was going to warn you about, but I didn’t dare. If you wish, I can request for her to come here to your office so you can sit with her in private and hear her predictions.”

  He assented with a nod of his head, without saying a word. Before I started heading back to the banquet table behind the fountain of houris, he said to me, “By the way, what she said about my birthday and astrological sign might actually be true.”

  I went back to the party to find Uroub engaged in quiet conversation with Mrs Samah; the other guests were carrying on about politics and business. Politicians, businessmen, and rich people – clearly the party had given them the perfect opportunity to do some networking and maybe even shake on a few deals.

  Shock was all over Mrs Samah’s face; her expression had changed completely, as if her real face had been snatched away, and her eyes were nailed open in disbelief.

  Mrs Samah loved surprises and distractions; she also loved swimming, classical music, and travel. She hated house pets and was one of the most patient and understanding people I’ve ever seen, but she couldn’t stand talk of politics or get involved in its dark back-alleys. She told me one time that she was much too refined to have anything to do with politics.

  She said that, in fact, in the presence of one of the Basha’s acquaintances who was a government minister, who smiled and responded, “You are absolutely right, Mrs Samah.”

  I wasn’t able to make out what Uroub was saying. I waited a little for Uroub to stop talking and then I whispered in her ear. She excused herself from Mrs Samah and joined me.

  As I walked beside Uroub I noticed that her clothing made a swishing sound and released a pleasant fragrance. But most likely it wasn’t perfume; it smelled more like essential oil.

  The Basha greeted her respectfully and seated her in the chair across from his. Then he asked me to stay with them.

  He looked her over carefully – her eyes, her body – with his big, wide eyes. The Basha’s large brown eyes had the ability to swivel inside their sockets with great ease, and they had an amazing capacity to remain fixed and peer into things and people and faces in a disconcerting manner.

  Despite that, Uroub did not display the least bit of uneasiness when her eyes met his. With an air of delight, she said, “Open your palms, sir.”

  He looked at me and smiled, and I smiled back encouragingly. He opened his palms and she took them into her hands and began touching them and examining them: the lines of the palms, the hills and valleys, the fingertips, the knuckles, the grooves of the fingernails. She examined every part of his palms with her tapered fingers. While staring at her fingers I noticed that the gold ring on her ring finger was in the shape of a scarab. I also noted while looking at the side of her head that her dark face had sharp features and her looks were nothing like the looks of women I had come to know over the course of my life. There was something different about her.

  As for her age, I guessed she was forty-five at most.

  Samah Shahadeh

  Uroub. Uroub.

  That fortune-teller drove me insane with what she said about the dream I had the night before my husband Fawaz’s birthday party.

  She said some obscure and frightening things. It is quite possible of course, though I doubt it, that she got information about me and my husband ahead of time. Information nowadays is readily available with the help of the Internet. All astrologists or fortune-tellers need is people’s names and they can easily find out their history and relationships, can find pictures of them in groups or individually – all before sitting down with them to discuss their past and future. We are living in the third millennium, a time in which fortune-tellers are in high demand, to the point where some leaders and heads of state seek their advice before making important decisions.

  In spite of all this, some fortune-tellers elicit my curiosity and my anxiety, too, especially when something close to what they predict comes true. Or something related to their predictions, no matter how slight.

  Uroub was nothing like the other fortune-tellers I had encountered.

  Each fortune-teller has her own spiritual imprint. At least this was the impression I got whenever I met one.

  First of all, Uroub was a beautiful woman, with an enviable liveliness. Usually fortune-tellers and palm readers are old and wrinkled with disheveled hair.

  In my eye, Uroub was as bright and shiny as the little pearl bead attached to her left nostril, and her hair was pitch-black and curled in a style that flattered her face beautifully.

  Uroub’s body was tight and toned; she didn’t look more than forty years old at most. It reminded me of my own ripening body back when I was forty years old.

  The day after the party I told Fawaz that Uroub ought to be a dancer with that slender figure of hers, and her well-proportioned body, and her bewitching smile. Maybe she had been a dancer before becoming a fortune-teller.

  He asked me if what I was saying was a compliment or an insult.

  And second of all, Uroub had the ability to soot
he one’s spirit and calm one’s nerves with that deep voice of hers that crept its way into my soul, silenced my tongue, and shattered my concentration.

  I felt as though my soul had quieted down, gone limp, and was being held captive in her cage – despite all the noise of the guests – as if enveloped and cradled by her words and the tone of her voice.

  Her voice emanated from a very deep place within her soul.

  I got the feeling her inner self was a vast expanse full of never-ending distances.

  Her fingers tickled the tips and edges of my fingers and fondled the palm of my hand, sending chills up and down my entire being. Things seemed like a puff of flimsy fluffed up wool; I felt weightless.

  It was delightful.

  It had been a very long time since I’d felt those sensations whose sweet wellsprings I thought, in my advanced age, had long since dried up.

  I got Uroub’s personal phone number.

  And third of all, she figured out that my husband is a Leo, not a Cancer as he had presumed.

  I had told him once that I thought he was more like a Leo than a Cancer, but he didn’t react.

  His date of birth was not really certain, because his father did not register it at the time of his birth via a neighborhood midwife. It was registered later on using a rough estimate.

  That is what his late mother told me before she died of lung cancer nine years after we got married – may God rest her soul.

  Sari Abu Amineh

  Uroub sighed and then began an incantation seeking God’s protection from the devil, in a deep, undulating tone that transformed the Basha into a silent listener who didn’t make a peep or move in the slightest, except to wrinkle his thick eyebrows together at that very moment. His eyes, however, remained fixed on Uroub’s face.

  She said to him, “Sir, people love to hear good news and hate to hear anything unpleasant. This is what causes them to lose sight of the truth, in favor of a moment’s satisfaction and happiness.”