Al-Batin

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Al-Batin الباطن

She heard the noise when the teapot was still falling before shattering into a thousand pieces. It crumbled in a big bang of small ceramic bits scattered on the kitchen floor (months later she was still finding many blue and white pieces hidden in every corner of the kitchen). It has been a wedding gift from her first boyfriend and she was sorry. That nice guy who had a crush for her in the school. She thought about his beautiful smile. After cleaning the mess she heard the strange noise still another time.

It was a sharp buzzing like the metal stars of the balcony chimes colliding with each other in a windy day. Or like the small high-pitched birds nesting in a chimney in front of her house. In any case, she took the noise to be a sort of hidden signal. Like a warning you get before something happen. Here they are again. She recalled her fight with Karim, so many years before.

 

One evening in Seville, he told her that he had a conference in Istanbul. He would stay there the following days visiting the Black Sea coast. Lola, my dear, I’ll be back soon, he said as a farewell. Of course, he didn’t mention the woman he met near the Bosphorus in a previous trip.

 

Two or three days later, her boss called one morning to have a coffee with her. In the small cafeteria, she told her that she was a nice person and a hard worker but that her skills were not in harmony with the atmosphere of the company. She was paid a generous severance bonus.

 

The following Friday she had an appointment with that stupid doctor. She told her that it was necessary to make some more tests because there was something “funny” with her uterus. And it’s not butterflies, ha ha. That weekend, she had a hard time coping with fear. Then nothing happened.

 

Not that she was a superstitious person. By that time, the noise was a frequent companion to her thoughts. It appeared a few times a day and she started to take it seriously. At the keyboard, with plenty of time to spend at home, she confirmed that it was a constant G flat, albeit with variations in volume. She found relief in devising some melodies in that key. The fingers running on G flat minor, then major. Hence the noise became a sound.

 

Now she is able to identify a word or two within the constant sustained note. It is not possible to identify the words, but definitively some people are speaking there. And they speak to her. It is a sharp male voice, uttering unintelligible but threatening words. There is also the little boy, or maybe a girl, apparently asking for help. And your mother crying in in the living room. They are all hiding somewhere inside your mind.

 

That is exactly what her mother told her. You should ask for help. She is worried but has never been too inclined to intimate with her daughter. Deeply in her heart, she is afraid of her daughter. A rather weird girl. And jealous: sometimes she thinks that she loves her less than she envies her. Shameful.

 

But with Lola’s father the thing is very different. They are close friends. He doesn’t believe in shrinks, and he thinks he is the only one who can help her. He would give his life for her. Or at least that is what he sings paraphrasing the lyrics of a flamenco air. They were playing that tune when they danced together during some wedding party a few years ago. He felt like in love with her. His daughter. Lola also loves him. She is sure that he loves her more than her mother. Shame on him.

 

***

 

In the wee hours of a brilliant springtime day, Lola wakes up. Not a noise to be made now. Carefully, she goes down the stairs and takes her bicycle from the garage. Quietly places the saddlebags on the bike, fills the water bottles, checks the brakes, and starts with immense joy to pedal down to Granada.

 

She had decided to quit home long time ago but hesitated because of her dad. The bitter discussion between her parents, and her mother’s silent envious resentment became unbearable. One afternoon, when Lola was coming from her bedroom, she was standing in front of her and without a word gave her a heavy slap. She thought of reporting the incident at the police station. Her father tried to calm her down. But it was too late. Her mind was made, and she started planning her flight from home.

 

After three days cycling on dusty rural roads and deserted highways surrounded by olive plantations she arrived in Seville. Karim, her new boyfriend, was waiting at the small apartment in Calle Pajaritos, near the university. Allah has been so generous with us, he told her. Praise be upon Him. Let us say the prayers together.

 

Life took the shape of a warm coffee in the morning. Daily rides to visit the city, with its wonderful parks and attractions. Tapas at the bar terraces. Long chats with new friends. There was nothing to miss from her life with her parents in Granada. Dad’s messages remained unread, and there was never a sign from from her mother. She spent most of the time alone at home, peacefully and without thinking too much on anything.

 

The tiny box at Karim’s desk. Every morning, when he left to the university, he was sure to lock the box and put the little key somewhere. She asked him many times about it but he just said it was a gift from his mother when he left Morocco. She thought there was something there. Something that he didn’t want to share with her. She felt that he deserved to be respected. That in a couple, each one must have their own private space. But she was curious. What was he hiding there?

 

One Saturday afternoon, a month or so after Lola’s arrival, Karim was playing football with friends. She went to see the match but it was rather dull, and she decided to go back home and cook something for that evening. When she arrived, she looked at the box. She tried not to think about it. Started cooking. When the meat and potatoes where in the oven, she looked again at it. That small wooden rectangle with shining taracea inlaid pieces. The key must be somewhere around, she thought, and it was easy to find it under the desk mat. 

The decorated lid opened almost without touching it. Nothing inside. There must be something hidden here. But the box was empty. Disappointed, she left it on the same place. After a moment, a buzzing started humming on her ears. Very softly, unintelligible words were reaching her from the perfumed interior of the box. Intense, passionate voices in different pitches and languages and tones. Birds chirping, noisy motorcycles, a snow avalanche, a harp, shells exploding, the sounds of love, a piano out of tune. Screams, laughter, her mother’s sigh, a baby crying in the background. All that hatred, all that hushed passion. The intimate noise of souls falling.

 

She was scared. It was like the old voices at home. Is it true that this insignificant little box produces such a panoply of sounds? She was certain that the voices and noises came from its small interior. The apartment was quiet and in complete silence. Or were they in her mind? She could still hear the baby, gradually subsiding into a soft gurgle. The baby.

 

***

Karim refused to go with her to the clinic. He listened carefully when she left and went downstairs. He looked through the window how she stopped a taxi and went inside. He was wondering what to do next when he clearly heard his mother’s rough voice talking. She was speaking in her peculiar Arabic jargon. You must not take this, my son. You must not. It is forbidden, a serious sin. She will burn in jahnnam, and she will take you with her. Not you! Not you, my son. He tried to cover his ears but the voice insisted. She will, not you. She will burn in hell.

 

Lola paid the taxi in cash. She had felt the driver’s dumb reaction when she told him the address. Now he was looking directly at her eyes. The whole thing took a few hours and wasn’t really painful. Back at home, nobody was at the apartment. It was not their first fight. More violent arguing had arisen for less important reasons. One late night, Karim convinced her not to report the fight to the police. She was scared. 

On these occasions she was always tempted to call her dad. But she always resisted. Now was different. Karim was not there, and his absence was both physically and spiritually certain. It was the first time she felt alone. Completely alone. She didn’t want to think about it. Filled the bag with essentials and went to fetch the bike. Now it was Karim’s sweet voice telling something to her. Some enticing words. She rode through the busy streets to Seville’s Santa Justa railway station. 

There is the high-speed train leaving in half an hour. When the train arrives at Madrid she recovers her bicycle. The city is an open promise. Something will happen anytime. Just be alert. The traffic light and crowds and busy avenues with scooters and the other bicycles and their riders smiling at you. The myriad of different noises, music, light talk. And the inner voices warning about threats, violence, deceit, darkness. But also those inviting to pleasure and laughter, knowledge and desire. Hideouts of light, peace. Deep feelings from a hopeful nature.