The Occasional Virgin Read online

  As the bus drove the girls to the women’s swimming pool, Huda wished all the passengers knew she was going to the sea. If only she were carrying a straw basket with her own swimsuit in it instead of wearing this borrowed one under her clothes.

  The moment the bus heading for Ras Beirut crossed Burj Square it started filling up with students from the American University and surrounding schools. Huda studied their different clothes, especially their white socks, and wished she could wear the same. They wore tennis shoes, the likes of which Huda had never seen before. She tried in vain to catch the eye of a student carrying a tennis racquet, and swore to herself that she would finish her studies at the American University. The bus stopped among beautiful buildings and the aunt descended only after she had made sure that all six girls were on the pavement. They passed by mixed beaches and all kinds of hotels and came to a halt where a blast of noise was emanating from an entrance with no door or sign. The ground was wet and as Huda followed the other girls she saw the place was plunged in semi-darkness, and there was a woman with a cigarette in her hand whose brown breasts showed beneath her unbuttoned blouse, for all the world like a child’s bottom. The woman held out her hand to the aunt to take the entrance money she had collected from the six girls in the bus, then asked if any of them needed to borrow a swimming suit. She lit another cigarette as they all hurried to the small changing room, which was also dark, and from there out to the covered pool, where the noise of the waves competed with the noise of the bathers.

  Huda descended the few steps where the water came in from under the wooden balcony and broke in waves on the rock in the middle of the pool. Could this really be the sea? The water crashed against the walls, and she wanted to escape out into the open sea away from the children and their mothers and grandmothers and the woman with red sores all over her body like hibiscus flowers with yellow pus on them. Another woman was wearing a baggy swimsuit, revealing pubic hair that reminded Huda of the brown whiskers on a corncob.

  The eyes of the five other girls from her neighbourhood were fixed on Huda’s skinny body, as she stood there without her voluminous skirt, four pairs of knickers and two cotton vests, alone with the nicknames she was known by locally: Umm Sa’dallah, after the famous old woman of their quarter, who was over a hundred years old and whose body had shrivelled and creased like a pleated skirt; Bone Soup; and Kibbeh on a Skewer. But her best friend quickly rescued her from this humiliation, taking her enthusiastically by the hand, and Huda submitted, abandoning herself to the water, which began to spill over her, leaving behind specks of salt soft as dew where it touched her. She saw her body under the water, brown, hairless. The water washed her feet clean from the black shoes she had been wearing that day. Her mother always dyed her white shoes black in winter and so far hadn’t bought her any new white ones. The water made her light as she clung to a rock, wrapping itself around her as it pleased. Archimedes was right then. She was floating. She felt she owned something: her body was a gift, not created merely to fulfil certain functions. It wanted to play, so she played with it, floating, turning round in circles, splashing happily like those around her, while mothers scooped up water as if they were picking fruit and sprinkled it over their children’s heads.

  Nobody made any attempt to swim. Mothers shouted at their children to be careful they didn’t drown. The sea was treacherous. The sea was the sea wherever it was, even imprisoned in this room. Even if it only reached your waist. Even if big black car tyres encircled the bathers’ bodies like lifebelts. The water was not blue, not azure. How Huda used to love that adjective: the azure sea. And the word ‘Venezuela’. And ‘ocean’. And laughed at the word ‘albasifiki’, because as well as the Pacific Ocean, it could mean in Arabic ‘You’re wearing my knickers.’ The water had no colour. She took hold of it. It wasn’t white. Why do they call the Mediterranean the White Sea? The water was there and not there. It was the first giant, or was it the second? She could no longer remember what she had learnt in her reading book about the two giants, water and fire. Water was like candy floss: the more you had the more you wanted. They all came out of the women’s swimming pool with their features somehow clearer, brighter. The aunt seized hold of Huda’s plaits and said thank God they’re not wet, and Huda answered that she’d thought of that and pinned them on top of her head before she went in the water.

  Four years passed before Huda immersed herself in the real sea – she was sixteen by then. She walked on the white sand and lay on a bright towel in another borrowed swimming costume, while European pop songs thudded in the air and she thought about boys and dancing to noisy music. She was afraid of lying in the sun for long, didn’t want to get caught. But it was the sun that ultimately exposed her, or rather the lack of sun turning the salty water in her rolled-up towel and swimsuit into a foul odour after she came back from the beach. She carried them around from place to place, like a scorpion carrying its young on its back, thinking she would spread them out to dry on the communal roof terrace, but she was afraid her neighbours would report her to her parents. What if she dried them on the balcony of the neighbour on the other side, though? The one who liked reading and would understand? No, her husband raised pigeons that might soil the borrowed suit. Days went by without them being dried and they began to stink. Yet only Huda’s mother smelt them, as she was used to sniffing out the food that Huda’s grandmother persisted in hiding under beds and in cupboards until it went rotten.

  When her mother finally caught her, Huda defended herself, denying that she’d ever been to the beach or worn a swimsuit in public, insisting that she’d only had it on at her friend Salwa’s house, whose bathroom contained a big bathtub, ‘so we float around in it as if we’re at the seaside, because you won’t let us go there. We’re trying to be like other girls – like other people.’ But her mother was ready for her: ‘What about the sand in the folds of the bathing suit? Look! Here’s the proof. See the sand, the little shells?’ Huda had collected them and wrapped them in a sheet of newspaper, but denied that the sand and shells were an indication of any wrongdoing, and shouted at the top of her voice: ‘Obviously we scatter some shells and sand in the bottom of the bath, so that we feel as if we’re really in the sea, since you won’t let us be like other people. In any case, I don’t understand why you’re so angry. Especially since my father loves the sea. Didn’t he tell the woman who cried black tears to go to the sea and swim, even if the waves were high?’

  Huda remembered this woman who came to her father with her eyes outlined with kohl to make them look bigger, and when Huda’s mother offered her tea, black tears ran down her cheeks and she muttered, ‘Our Master’s fatwa will decide whether I live or die.’ Huda’s mother comforted her: ‘Think good thoughts, sister, and put your trust in God.’ This woman had come from the far south of Lebanon, from Naqoura, to ask for a ruling from the shaykh, intending to follow his instructions. She would never agree to let the bean-seller mount her, even if that meant he killed her. She wanted to choose another man. Huda only understood as time went by that ‘mounting’, the word the woman used, meant having sex like a mule. The first husband of the woman with black tears, who had divorced her three times, was not permitted to return to her until she had slept with a second lawful husband for one night and he had divorced her in the morning. The woman dried her tears, took a deep breath and said in a voice that the whole house could hear, ‘Master, I can’t bear to let the bean-seller come near me, so how can he be my husband for a night? He gives off such a stink of onion and garlic that I can’t breathe.’

  Huda’s father nodded sympathetically, saying, ‘Cleanliness is part of our law. The Prophet (praise be upon him) used to say, “Make sure you are well dressed whenever you go to the mosque,” and he refrained from eating onion and garlic before he went to pray.’

  Huda’s father looked distracted and stared at the ceiling before arriving at a strange fatwa to solve this woman’s problem. Still staring at the ceiling he said, ‘You come from Naqoura,
don’t you? Now, my question is, can you swim?’ The woman looked embarrassed and hesitated before replying, thinking perhaps that he was going to tell her to take the bean-seller to the sea to wash all traces of the foul smells off him in the salty water. She answered that she was a good swimmer, so he said to her, ‘Go with your sisters or female relatives to the sea and expose yourself to the powerful waves and the spray so that they enter you, like a lawful husband entering you, then you can return to your first husband.’ A strange fatwa, as if her father considered the attack of the raging sea on the woman equivalent to sex. Was he being wise here, was his understanding of religion modern, or inspired, or even based on medical knowledge, or could it be that he was just a realist, wishing to avoid complications! And the sea was masculine of course. She wondered if this was his way of interpreting the saying ‘Religion is there to make things easier, not harder’; then again maybe he was simply being pragmatic, irresponsible even.

  This lie about Salwa’s bathtub did not stop her father from striking his face and weeping. Shaking his head and looking skywards, he mumbled: ‘My daughter clothes herself in depravity and exposes her body to men. Where shall I turn my face, I a man of religion, who shows others the way? Where shall I direct my prayers? How can I stand by and let my beloved daughter perish in hellfire?’ Meanwhile Huda’s mother wore even more black after this event, prayed more often, spoke in hushed tones and no longer addressed a word to her.

  *

  A young man hovering nearby brings her back to the present. He reminds her of someone she’s met, his face is familiar and he’s approaching with a smile. Most of the men she has known have admired her body, starting with the first boy in her life, on the beach in Beirut. His gaze had forced her to wrap a towel round her, even though she was wearing a one-piece then, unlike now as she stood facing this Italian in her bikini.

  ‘Would you like to swim at the villa’s private beach?’ he asks her first in Italian, then in French and finally in English, pointing down the rocky path, and she remembers he is the artist who was sketching a pine tree at amazing speed. She hadn’t recognised him at first because now he is only wearing trunks and has a straw hat on his head. Before she can answer, he adds, ‘You can have a walk in the gardens too. I look after them.’

  ‘I thought you were an artist.’

  ‘I’m a landscape architect. I’m responsible for the trees and plants in this area . . . The villa’s gardens are famous and its private beach isn’t rocky or stony.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m waiting for my friend.’ Huda points over towards the rocks.

  ‘Ask her to come too. I’m working at the villa all day. Actually I’m living there for the time being.’

  ‘I’ll ask her, thanks.’

  ‘You must be on holiday . . .’

  Perhaps if they weren’t both in their bathing suits, this would be going more naturally, she thinks. They don’t know whether to look at each other’s bodies, or into the distance.

  ‘I wish! This place is so dear to me. I’ve spent the best summer holidays of my life here with my boyfriend. I’m just here for a couple of days this time.’

  Then her eyes fill with tears and she turns her face away from him, sensing his embarrassment. Although she’s looking down at the ground, she hears him whispering, ‘Try to come, please. I’ll be waiting for the two of you.’

  Yvonne, as she dives for the fourth time, has to outshine the boys, who stand there astonished by her energy and daring. When she examines the water, it is with eagerness and excitement, not hesitation or anxiety. She takes a deep breath, tenses her body for the dive, and plunges into the sea, which is dark for a moment, then luminous and transparent as she opens her eyes underwater. As usual when she dives and manages not to drown, then shoots back to the surface like a yo-yo, she thinks it’s a miracle, like the Virgin Mary giving birth to the Messiah.

  The boys ask her where she’s from, since she’s obviously not from around here even though her hair’s naturally blonde. It’s as if she is too beautiful to be climbing rocks like these and challenging them to dive from the other side, which is higher and rises to a sharp point.

  ‘I’m from Lebanon, from the north. I was born by the sea.’ Yvonne answers their questions happily, full of confidence, studying the boys one by one, like her uncle who used to go around the towns and villages searching for the meanest birds for the cockfights he organised in their local town square. Old and young would bet on these birds with what little cash they had. Of course she’s looking for the most attractive one now, not the meanest. They are younger than her, only students, but she is more daring. She was born in a house whose windows all looked out to sea – or did the sea look in at them? As a child, Yvonne didn’t believe that there were cities like Beirut and Tripoli with shops and cinemas, couldn’t picture a vast area where aircraft took off and landed, or mountain tops covered in snow. The sea was the world. The changing seasons came from the sea. She discovered the existence of strange animals like seals. She saw death there when the sea cast up bodies on the shore. Yvonne ate from the sea. She witnessed magic the first time she saw the fish her father had caught coming out of the oven with its flesh transformed into soft, succulent matter falling off its big bones in the roasting tin. Even the people’s expressions came from the sea: ‘I love you a whole sea’; ‘We have a sea of rice’; ‘He’s very smart: he can take you to the sea and bring you back thirsty’. Their swing was an old boat slung between two trees.

  The sea washed over her bed, too, nestled in her thoughts. She heard the roar of the sea all the time, but as soon as she slept, it slept too, only waking when she awoke. As the house opened its eyes, the questions began: what’s the sea like today? Stormy or calm? Rainy or sunny? Like a mirror? Like oil? What shall we eat today? Sea urchins? Whitebait? Or shall we shovel the wet sand into little mounds and sieve out the cockle shells from it?

  But learning to swim was what confirmed her existence. As soon as her father sensed she was ready to swim, he told her to move her arms and legs as powerfully as she could, assuring her he would keep his hand under her stomach at all times. She relaxed and struck out in the water with all her might, forgot about his hand and found she was floating. She held her breath as he instructed her, for ten seconds, twenty seconds, becoming an expert in controlling the activity on which her life depended. She put a stone on her stomach so as not to rise up in the water. She imagined the water filling her ears and overflowing into the back of her nose, and when she felt the need to breathe again she was sure the water had filled the space behind her nose and had no alternative but to go up into her brain, making her feel so light she was flying. She never tired of this feeling. She began to discover many secrets from her swimming. The sea was like a school: the pupil had to move up from one class to another. Being content with swimming and holding your breath for a few seconds would be like staying in the same class year after year.

  Diving was what all the children of the neighbourhood, children of the sea, aspired to. They used to form pyramids, standing on each other’s shoulders and taking it in turns to jump, and the moment Yvonne reached the top she would plunge into the sea. One day her mother bought her a bathing suit composed of panties plus a bra, not just panties like the younger ones had. ‘Because your chest is bursting out,’ she said. Like eggs being cracked open before they are thrown into the frying pan and the oil splutters and the liquid turns white and frothy. Her chest was like two eggs, growing bigger all the time. That day, Yvonne didn’t want to climb on to somebody else’s shoulders and throw herself into the water. She wanted to dive from a rock like her three brothers. Her desire to do this was so great that it outweighed her passion for the cheese and cucumber sandwiches that her mother brought to the beach, wearing a straw hat, trousers and a long-sleeved blouse, as she liked neither sun nor sea nor sand.

  Yvonne rushed to find her brothers: ‘I want to learn to dive. I’m old enough now.’ She stood looking at the water, regretting her decision, and woul
d have changed her mind, but her mother’s voice echoed in her head, scolding, sighing, complaining, ordering, and she was compelled to stare down at the water again, as if she was waiting for one of her brothers to push her in. In no time at all she was aware of her heels pointing skywards as she plunged downwards into a dark chamber and, invigorated, shot back to the surface like a bubble in fizzy water. She became so addicted to diving that when she had her injections against typhoid, TB and smallpox at school and was told she couldn’t go in the sea, she believed she had discovered the true meaning of despair. All the same, she left the house, went down the hill, past olive trees, thorn bushes, rocks and thyme, wearing those plastic jelly shoes to protect her from the sharp stones, and sat on the rocks and imagined the dark room she entered whenever she dived from a height, and the way her head would break free from it in response to a magnetic force that brought her happily to the surface again.

  By the third time she dived she was confident, able to think clearly. Imagining the resentment she felt towards her mother vanishing into the sea, she told herself that from now on she wouldn’t protest when she was asked to help with the housework, or lose her temper every time her mother spoilt her brothers, or shout at them to come and help their mother too. She would even agree that the perfume from the orange trees outside the tiny bathroom window mixed with the steam and made you dizzy, as her mother maintained.

  The new light blue swimsuit that her mother bought for her because of her breasts ‘bursting out’ inspired her to rush one early morning to the rock that was forbidden to all but her big brother. She stood on the forbidden rock for more than five minutes, looking at the calm water. It called to her until she threw herself in, shouting, ‘My brother Tanius, my brother Tanius.’ This time she went down until she almost touched the bottom. She understood why this rock was forbidden. The higher the spot you dived from, the deeper you went, unable to see anything but seaweed, water and silence. Her attempt to rise to the surface from the very bottom of the sea was the test that would prove she was confident, had complete control over her breathing and all the related parts of her body – nose, throat, feet, hands, eyes – in short, that she had become an expert swimmer and diver. And so it happened: she found herself rising up and up until she reached the surface, then she swam to the shore and ran home, shouting, ‘I dived from the high one!’ She woke up the household, relating what she had done, indifferent to the slaps and blows that greeted her news, although the pinches her mother gave her made her believe in the existence of fishes that were poisonous despite looking beautiful.