Medina by Donna Obeid

Photo by Said Alamri on Unsplash

You asked me to come, and I did, even though I knew it was wrong. 

In that city of beaten red clay and ramparts, you took my hand and led me through medieval keyhole arches and thin, ribbonlike passages meant to confuse the enemy and disperse the jinn. Some doors led to cool, leafy fountain courtyards. Other doors led to riads rotting from neglect. We were in the medina on the other side of the world, far away from anyone and anything familiar; we could do whatever we wished. We skipped through the souks admiring the beauty of the ordinary – this ancient stone, these odours of cinnamon, clove and rose. Brass lanterns and swords. Bins of talismans. We spied on men in long saffron robes smoking hookahs in their cafes. Young teenage boys cried out – Hey! Who are you? Where you go? I take you.  – and we walked past them laughing, as if you already knew the way. You had finished your lectures, and the days unfurled before us now like a fresh piece of paper. 

Do you know where you’re going? – I asked, hearing the oddest thrill of excitement in my voice, looking vaguely round and letting myself be drawn further in.

A bright-eyed boy sold the sweetest orange juice in the square and a suited man named Azeem had shone shoes beneath the clock tower for all his life. The barber, the cobbler, the tooth puller – each shop was nothing more than a wobbly chair. Children behind every shop counter cheated you of change but you didn’t care. You chuckled at the mule with a carburetor tied to its back and the crooked man who called out Balak! Balak! as they passed. From the tiny bakery, you chose a slice of the thousand-layer cake and ate it in three bites. 
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In the mosque, you pointed out the calligraphy that was engraved on the ceiling and walls, the calligraphy that was almost everywhere in the city, you said. For these people had always believed that writing was sacred. Writing was their word of God. Outside, the smiling guard who’d been watching us mistook us for married, asking if this was the honeymoon. But no, I wanted to say, covering my hair again. There’s a wife who knows nothing of this. We are in the realm of the Forbidden. 

A man stepped out of a doorway and invited us into his carpet shop, away from the heat, and rug after rug was spread out before our feet as three cups of mint tea were poured. When we emerged, it was from a door on a different side and the scene had changed completely. A girl sat weaving in a dark room beneath a single bulb. A blind boy stood singing. 

~

I woke from the dream (of what?), the call to prayer echoing through the sky. Come back, you said, pulling me in again and slipping a hand between my legs.

~

Every night at dusk, the main square filled with musicians and storytellers. An old man, remarkably tall and thin, held up various props – a giant ostrich egg and feather plume and sword – as he told tales of choices and danger and fate. A wide-eyed woman with a ruby on her forehead felt it her duty to translate to me. You have the eyes to see you are caught in one story, and the heart to know you could change it to another. 
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We ate sheep brains at the stall of a boy who pointed the way to his brother’s rooftop bar, promising it had the best view of anywhere. Dozens of people just like us were there. You gave me a tiny pill and my heart quickened in beat with the drums. It was our last night and I spun round and round, the sounds echoing loudly within me because perhaps it was true that I was hollow at the core. In the morning, I’d leave, and you’d switch cities, and your wife and children would join you. 

I glanced up and saw you watching me from the other side without any expression at all. I am alone, I thought, leaning into the sparkly air. Sometime later, I went back down to search for the toilet. There, through the tiniest window, I looked into the yellow room across the alley where someone, sitting before a mirror, was drawing a picture of herself.

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Donna Obeid is an award-winning writer and educator who has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize. She earned a BA in English and Comparative Literature from the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, and an MA and MFA from American University. She currently lives in Stanford, California. Read more of her writing at: www.donnaobeid.com and @donna0writes.