June 5th, 19201
The blood ruined the walk. I noticed it when I was turning at the irrigation ditch on the way back to the house. An impression of blood and dirt in the shape of a heel. I checked my shoe to confirm what the footprint hinted. I yelled at myself for being so careless. I stamped my foot hard, dragged it and shook it, until I settled on the idea that walking would help me escape the blood.
Every 15 steps, 7 with the left and 8 with the right, I would stop and look at my uncomfortably positioned foot to see the progress of the shoe cleaning. At some point, I realized that I kicked up dirt when I walked and must’ve done the same with the blood. The red spots on the hem of the caftan confirmed the frightening thought. I was unsure of what to do get the offending substance off. I could drop down and roll around in the dirt, but that would make me look crazy. So, I trudged with the blood and the thoughts of what interaction with the plasma would do. Disease was in the air, so it must be in this blood.2
I must have made a wrong turn, because after all the walking I couldn’t make any sense of where I was. I always was terrible at directions. Unable to listen to more than one “turn this way” without my brain wandering. I shuddered whenever someone asked me “where was….” Lost, I could only turn around and follow the bloody steps back. I retraced the path laid out by my marks in the earth, careful to skirt my footprints. I did this until I reached the dusty black puddle I had stepped in.
I first thought it must have been drippings from a freshly slaughtered lamb, the peasants were so nonchalant about this, and all other types of filth. I, sometimes, wished I had their disregard, but then I would have to accept the other realities of their lives, which I was less excited about. But then I noticed that there were other drops covered by the sharp little blades that grew on the side of the irrigation ditch. Past the crest of the ditch, they grew bigger and longer until they became crimson and black streaks. The peasants were dirty, but they would never drag a precious carcass through the dirt. Nor would they leave a slaughtered sheep, now mutton, with so much blood. They were as efficient as they were unclean.
I tried to pull my eyes from the blood, but that only dragged my whole body towards the ferrous tracks. I slowed my steps and focused my eyes. I saw the red runnels meandering down the irrigation ditch. There was no choice but to follow them. My fear of slipping into the fluke- filled water3 was quickly joined by the indelible sight of the red tarboosh on its side, in repose on a blanket of blood. It had fallen from the mud-caked head, which now rested motionless; a small pebble had kept the whole portly body from sliding into the water. The tarboosh itself had served as a dam for the blood dripping from the red-spotted body, but there were a few tributaries that skirted the dam and made their way to the irrigation water.
He lay belly down with his legs pointing to me, arms slightly bent around his head. If not for the blood, he could’ve been a drunk taking an ill-advised nap. There were three visible red spots in his seersucker suit. What an ugly suit! How could his wife allow him out of the house like that? The snafu was not why he was dead, I scolded myself, but frivolity was better than the dread that rose from the body. Should I scream? Should I go to the body?4
It was quite hot. I felt the perspiration on my back. I wanted to get back to the house immediately and sit under its high cool ceilings, but I couldn’t move. A stabbing pain entered my chest. I looked for a bullet hole, like I saw in the back of the man, but there was nothing but my light caftan. The buzz of the surrounding land started to dull and the bushes that festooned the ditch started to blur. I needed to find some shade from this awful heat. How long had I been walking? What was the last thing I drank? I willed my feet through the dusty path back towards the house. I might not reach the walls of the compound, but I might be able to rest under one of the casuarinas that shaded the path to the front gate. For a moment I felt the shade of the trees overhead. The angry sun quickly popped out again. My hijab felt damp from the outside, but I dare not take it off. I wanted to continue walking, but my legs told me to sit down. I tried to breath, but the air was thick with the smell of iron. I needed to get back. I was dying, I thought. The heat of the dirt warmed my legs through the caftan, there was no escape. I heard my heart beat and waited for it to explode out of my chest. I knew this damn place would kill me.
Entry from the journal of Mehri Hanim, found in the French-style country mansion my great, great grandfather built in a Nile Delta village. People often refer to the village and surrounding land as the daira [Eng. precinct]
She had lost her son and three aunts to influenza.
It was rather most-lily filled with the worms that cause bilharzia.
She didn’t know it, but it was the body of the son of her husband’s first cousin, Anis Bey Fawaid