Here's a brief excerpt:
The last gardener Shafiqa had hired asked for three months’ advance on his pay and disappeared. Just as well. He didn’t do much without supervision, and her every waking minute was consumed by a sick man who could barely chew or swallow without gagging. Mashing his rice and daal, putting fruit and spinach into the blender. A whole hour would pass between bringing a tray to his bed and coaxing a few spoonfuls of goop into his mouth. Scolding him for not sitting up, yanking at his wrist, prodding with increasing degrees of impatience until he uttered a soft oath and allowed her to shovel the spoon into his mouth.
She had scolded him with every spoonful. Eat! Eat! Eat a bit more, for God’s sake! Will you kill me with trying to keep you alive?
She hadn’t been able to keep him, of course. Five months of turning him this side and that side and, yet, bedsores all over his back. Between the feeding, there was the cleaning, the bandaging, the laundry. Wiping the corners of his mouth. Shaving his chin. She barely had time to bathe herself. At the end of the day, she would simply lie prostrate beside him and whisper her prayers, underlining each Arabic phrase with just one thought: Let him stay alive.
He slipped away, complaining about the lack of salt in his porridge. By the time she returned from the kitchen with the salt shaker, he was gone.
He could have asked for a bit of sugar instead, she thought later. He hadn’t tasted sugar in years. She often left out a bowl of temptation, disappearing into the garden for a bit so he could sneak a spoonful. If he asked, she was duty bound to refuse. No, the doctor said, no. Sugar is poison for you. Still, she would leave a bowl of kheer to cool on the dining table. One spoon wouldn’t kill him, but he never touched it. She always knew when her kids stole a few spoons of kheer or halwa. She’d know if the surface of the dessert bowl had been disturbed, no matter that they made clumsy attempts to level it flat again. But her husband?
He had wanted to live. But five months ago, he had begun to murmur in the dark. Enough. Enough. Enough what? she wondered. Pain? Being turned, his sores suppurating, smelling his own shit? He never said anything more than that word, enough.
She had scolded him with every spoonful. Eat! Eat! Eat a bit more, for God’s sake! Will you kill me with trying to keep you alive?
She hadn’t been able to keep him, of course. Five months of turning him this side and that side and, yet, bedsores all over his back. Between the feeding, there was the cleaning, the bandaging, the laundry. Wiping the corners of his mouth. Shaving his chin. She barely had time to bathe herself. At the end of the day, she would simply lie prostrate beside him and whisper her prayers, underlining each Arabic phrase with just one thought: Let him stay alive.
He slipped away, complaining about the lack of salt in his porridge. By the time she returned from the kitchen with the salt shaker, he was gone.
He could have asked for a bit of sugar instead, she thought later. He hadn’t tasted sugar in years. She often left out a bowl of temptation, disappearing into the garden for a bit so he could sneak a spoonful. If he asked, she was duty bound to refuse. No, the doctor said, no. Sugar is poison for you. Still, she would leave a bowl of kheer to cool on the dining table. One spoon wouldn’t kill him, but he never touched it. She always knew when her kids stole a few spoons of kheer or halwa. She’d know if the surface of the dessert bowl had been disturbed, no matter that they made clumsy attempts to level it flat again. But her husband?
He had wanted to live. But five months ago, he had begun to murmur in the dark. Enough. Enough. Enough what? she wondered. Pain? Being turned, his sores suppurating, smelling his own shit? He never said anything more than that word, enough.
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