Short StoryHeir Apparent [Archives:2006/944/Culture]

By: Ramziya Abbas Al-Iryani
Khadija touched her belly anxiously while muttering supplications that this time she would give birth to a boy and make her husband, Masoud, happy.

His words coursed through her body and wounded her.

“How barren your soil is, Khadija! Six girls one after another. If you had given me one son to watch over his sisters in my old age and after my death, then life would have been easier.”

She tried to placate him.

“There's no distinction between girls and boys anymore. They all go to school and get jobs.”

“Believe me, mother of my daughters, girls cause a lot of worry and trouble.”

Then he added with affected calmness and indifference, “You remind me, Khadija, of our land. The only thing it generously bestows on us is qat.”

“You baffle me. Is it my fault that I'm just the soil? What you sow, you reap. Take care to sow crops other than qat and you'll see what the land produces for you. But all you care about is hurting me and your daughters.”

Khadija moaned from the pain as she tried to forget her sorrows by recalling beautiful memories and by occupying herself with tidying the house. But the pain refused to go away.

She said to herself, “What a pity, Khadija, if you have another girl in your belly. Masoud will remain angry with you for one or two whole weeks because of his bad luck.

“I pledge a dozen candles and a half a pound of incense for the saints and holy men, a celebration for the Prophet to be held at home, and the recitation of the Koran in the big mosque. The important thing is that Mohammed will arrive.”

She had chosen this blessed name for her son. Masoud would surely approve of it, for he only cared about the child being a boy. The name did not matter to him at all.

That sharp pain had persisted in her back since the previous night. Her belly was burning like an oven full of flames. She had been pregnant six times before and had never experienced such pain.

This midwife who assisted the neighborhood women in childbirth always shouted joyfully, “There is no god but God!” when she saw her, declaring that this time her pregnancy was different. Her complexion was pure, her belly round, her voice clear, her eyes bright, and her walk light. And soon the boy would arrive.

How happy it would make her to hear the midwife announce Mohammed's birth! The pains of childbirth would vanish and she would give a celebration deserving of Mohammed. On the day of the boy's circumcision, Masoud would slaughter a big lamb, and they would invite all the family and neighbors. Blessed be her sisters, for they would prepare a feast to honor the boy and present his father favorably.

She could no longer suppress her screams. The labor pains got closer and closer together, and her body convulsed from the excruciating contractions, which felt like they were splitting her body in two.

She screamed in pain. Masoud woke up startled. They awaited time had come, and fate was approaching.

He rushed out of the house to seek help, and returned at once with the midwife. She proceeded to assist Khadija, who had collapsed.

“I've been pregnant six times, Umm Ali, and never before have I experienced this pain.”

The more she screamed, the more Masoud feared for her life. He insisted on taking her to the hospital. Perhaps there she would get something to ease the pain.

He felt his limbs stiffening when the doctor informed him that his wife's condition was critical, and that only God, the benevolent, could save her.

He waited a long time, his heart pounding.

The nurse came out with a gloomy face.

“Congratulations. It's a boy, and

He jumped to his feet with childish joy and headed for the operating room. The sound of his son's crying rang out, rising higher and higher.

The nurse grabbed him. “Where are you going?”

“To see my son and his mother. Have you told her? Let me share with her our joy over Mohammed's birth.”

“His mother is mother asked about the sex of the child before she breathed her last.”

At that moment, he wished he had been told that the baby was dead and the mother alive.

“She died? It can't be! How did she die? How could she leave six little girls and a newborn child who hasn't yet opened his eyes to the world nd me? Who will look after them?”

He broke down in tears as he burst into the delivery room utterly incredulous. The doctor led him to her.

Choking his tears back, he held her cold hand with longing.

“Come back to us, Khadija. I don't want a boy. I want you. Your daughters need you. They have no one to look after them but you. Your baby may not survive without your tender breast and merciful hand.

“How will I return to your six children without you? They don't understand the meaning of death and life. All they want is your presence. Will you abandon them? Will you abandon your own flesh and blood?”

The baby's crying grew louder and louder, and Masoud sobbing became more anguished. They all tried to release his hands which were grasping at the body lying prostrate on the table. Meanwhile the nurse approached with the newborn child to put him in his father's trembling arms.

From “Arab Women Writers: An Anthology of Short Stories,” published by State University of New York Press.

Translated by Dalya Cohen-Mor.
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