A photograph of Yaqub with six words on the back sharpened the urges of this compulsive letter writer. However, she didn’t answer the love letters sent by doctors and lawyers, which Zana read in tender tones, and with some degree of hope. Rânia tore them all up, and threw the pieces into the brazier.
“Is that a way to treat your suitors?” her mother said.
“Smoke! They all turn into smoke and ashes,” she replied with a smile, biting her lip.
In secret, Zana would invite some suitor for dinner on her birthday; she did this every year, for I saw lots of men come into the house with two bouquets, one for the mother, one for the daughter. The next morning, the leaves in the garden were sprinkled with petals. Rânia shredded the letters and took the petals off the flowers quite naturally, and, when she did it in front of Zana, even with a certain pleasure. Her mother warned her—“You’ll become an old maid. It’s sad to see a girl aging that way”—but to no avail.
Old age was still a way off, and if there was any bitterness, Rânia knew how to hide it. She hid a lot of things: her thoughts, her ideas, her sense of humor, and even a good part of her body, which I always admired. However, she was a virtuoso when it came to more humble matters, and in that regard she was always a help to me. It’s sad to think she only used those dark hands with their long, perfect fingers to change a lightbulb, mend a leaking tap, or unblock a grate. Or to do the accounts and count the money: maybe that was why the shop stayed open for so long, even when business was thin; then, she would go out with a box of trinkets, for the sustenance of the house and the family. She did all this during the day. After dinner she shut herself in her room, where the night awaited her.
Who knows what happened in that mysterious encounter? Probably not even the night pried into her gestures and thoughts. But Zana’s birthday party was, for Rânia, a break in her nocturnal confinement. This was the night when she made one of her suitors hopeful, and he was the one who would not return to the house on next year’s birthday. She led them all on, one by one, on every festive occasion, as her mother got older. I smelled Rânia’s scent before I heard her footsteps along the corridor on the upper floor. She let herself be admired at the top of the stairs; then, with meticulous movements, she came down, and one by one there came into view her shapely legs, her plump, bare arms, the wavy hair covering her shoulders, and her low neckline, which emphasized her breathing. We saw her dark-skinned body, almost as tall as the twins, with makeup and lipstick on for this one night of the year, and her eyes, mystified or stunned, seemed to ask why on earth she was coming into this room full of people. Rânia brought shivers to my almost adolescent body. I had the urge to kiss and bite those arms. Anxiously, I awaited her close embrace, the only one of the year. Waiting was torture. I kept quiet, but inside I was ablaze. Then the minx came over to me, gave me a squeeze, and I felt her breasts pressing against my nose. I smelled the jasmine, and spent the rest of the night intoxicated by the scent. When she went away, she stroked my chin as if the beard was already there, and kissed my eyes with lips wet with saliva, and I had to run away to my room.