Incense and the scent of roses E-Book

Angela Bauer

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 162

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Julia is a Catholic theologian and is familiar with life in the Middle East. After a divorce and economic collapse, she earns her living as a tour guide. In the early 1990s, she sets off with a group to the great sandy desert in the south of the Arabian Peninsula. Wind and sand shape the journey and what animates the evening conversations: there is talk of a festival. Many things were planned that could not be realized because a grandson suddenly went into a monastery, because a daughter fell ill, because a wall was built overnight in Berlin ... Julia talks frankly about her mistakes, about the doubt about the church that determines her life, about the lust that drives her and her love, because someone she knows from her student days unexpectedly travels with her.

Leseprobe

Incense and the scent of roses

The night was far too short. At least I made it to the edge of the bed when the muezzin called. Why didn't I leave right after dinner? I wouldn't normally sit around with the guests until dawn - as if lamb skewers and raisin rice were just mezze 1and the main course was still to come. After all, I have nine people to get through the desert.

1Appetizer

"Yes, when it's at its best ...", the Köhlers had finally pulled themselves together. The others also gradually managed to get on their feet - except for Mr. Dannenberg, who had already introduced himself as the future tail light on the first day.

It's not a standard trip that I'm leading this time. Surveys of regular customers had revealed a desire formore desert.Some wanted to go rose-picking. Others voted for frankincense country. But when the itinerary was finalized, most of them were reluctant to book because Iraq had fallen into the Americans' Kuwaiti trap: War is raging in the Middle East. Nevertheless, the Köhlers decided to go on the trip and Mr. Dannenberg is also back.

When Ali parks the bus in front of the city wall, it is already midday and far too hot for a tour of the city. March is no longer one of the winter months in Oman. So I cut my program down to a visit to two neighbouring houses, which I believe, despite their abandonment, still convey a few details of their former lives. But the air is stagnant in the rooms and many people's blood pressure seems to be in the basement. It's not long before the first people announce their retreat to wait for Ali in a more pleasant spot.

Suddenly I am alone.

At first glance, Manah's streets form a rectangular network. Anyone leaving it soon finds themselves in a network of alleyways and at the end in front of a mostly closed door. I was told that an empty house was inhabited by demons, which I initially accepted with a smile. One day, however, I found myself in one of these ruins in a strange way, as if blown in. From a premonition? Perhaps a thought that had been waiting to finally be alone with me?

The house in front of which I land here in the midday heat has no door. Perhaps it was too precious to let it weather. Fireplace. Prayer niche. A dark staircase. A corridor. The eye-catcher in the adjoining courtyard is a niche, a small liwan. There is a bench where I can stretch out.

Just don't fall asleep! But it's good to lie here - on the edge of the desert on a stone bench, even if it feels like the washing stone the other day in Damascus, in the old hamam behind the Umayyad mosque. Huda had already greeted me at the entrance with tea and fresh dates: Allah likes it when you leave the dust and sweat of a journey behind you.

What I like so much about this hamam is the tranquillity in which everything happens there. I'm not the only customer that Huda pampers in the semi-dark halls. But everyone stays to themselves. In Aleppo, on the other hand, there is usually a noisy fashion show in the dressing room. And there is also a lot of joking, dancing and singing. Lots of sweets and fruit are eaten. Huda is not completely quiet either. From the clattering of her panties to the dull thumping in my chest, all the sounds come together in the rhythm of the constantly dripping water. Huda doesn't interfere, leaning against a pillar, waiting diligently. She doesn't drive you on with her bustle either, but always arrives as if by chance when I've been lying on the washing stone wrapped in a pestemal 2for a while. The first time I was asked if I wanted a ritual ablution. But I hadn't had intercourse. Since then, the regular program has been running for me.

2Bath towel

I am made sleepy with a gentle touch to my temples. The washing stone is warm. It is heated by Rafi, the tellak 3. He has always stoked the fire before the first prayer with wood waste from the neighboring craftsmen's workshops. As you would expect, he does not show his face in the women's halls. Even if he is only checking the steam vent at the entrance, he announces himself with a whispered chant: "Can't you spread your wings? Can't you spread them to fly?" Then Huda goes out - holding the soap dish in her arms - to have a chat with him, but is immediately there for me again, unfastening the bath towel without saying a word, lets the goatskin glove circle on my body - this makes me warm and ready for the massage - and piles soap foam on me, strokes, kneads, stretches and stretches my skin, muscles and tendons, pours warm water over me and spreads new, crackling foam on my stomach, arms, breasts and legs. Finally, I lie wrapped in warm towels. "In a few hours," her voice reaches my ear as if from far away, "you'll be a new person."

3Lifeguard

I don't know exactly how long I sleep each time, because I've taken my watch off with my clothes. Sometimes I wake up to the rattling of the combs. Or a hairdryer whirring somewhere. With my eyes closed, I wait until Huda leads me into the next room, where there are paint pots and brushes and a small bowl of depilatory paste, which she mixes together from lemon juice, water and sugar. "Women want to be flawless when they leave the hammam." She smiles at me over the mirror and wants to tint the gray at my temples, but I wave her off.

"Nice," she summarized the result of her efforts last time and gave me a satisfied look: "Happy too?"

"Yes, well ..." But I couldn't think of anything so quickly. "Nice will have to do," I said and slipped off my dressing gown.

In the shadow of your wings, Lord, I want to lie on a stone bench ... Old Manah also used to have a bathhouse. There was even a little tree in this courtyard, of which only a skeleton remains now. At some point, the water became scarce and eventually wasn't even enough to live on. People had to abandon their homes. Since then, no one has cared about the desert sand blown into the corners by the wind. Manah became a ghost town. Its inhabitants have built a new town elsewhere, where Ali hopes to meet the drivers for our desert trip. He said it would take them two hours to reload the luggage. The technology would also be checked again.

"Let's go, Ali! Bismillah!" - It was four years ago that I swung myself into the passenger seat next to him a little too unselfconsciously. Something steely immediately appeared in his otherwise velvety-soft gaze and I knew that he wouldn't believe your "Bismillah!". But he didn't let the sun go down on our discord and came back to it in the evening: "If you set off, Julia, without calling on God, nothing will move."

Bismillah - when Ali says it, time stands still for me. Yes, sometimes I even fear that this shrewd tourist driver, husband and father of five might dissolve into Allah's incomprehensibility for a moment of eternity - until I pull up because he turns the ignition key: "Ali, please!" But he's already turned the music down. After all, it's not the first time he's been on the road with me. Does he know that God also lives in my thoughts? After all, I studied theology.

"The Lord be with us," I said a few days ago, "especially today, on Easter Day."

"Where's my egg?" he asked straight away, turning off far too quickly onto the highway to the airport and, as soon as he had threaded his way in, asked again: "Have you got an egg for me too?" "You'll get a green one," I promised with a laugh, grabbed the list of participants from the back seat and counted through them: Mrs. Britzelberger with Benny. Dannenberg. Stocker. Köhler twice. Kunze. Wegwert and Ziegler. - Ziegler? Alfred Ziegler. Not Aunt Tine's husband? We haven't heard from him since Tine died. Born? It doesn't matter. But he comes from Berlin.

Good that he's traveling, I thought, if he is. Many people are traveling now that the wall has fallen. But why to Oman? Is he traveling alone? Or maybe with this Mrs. Kunze? I've booked a single room and an extension. Does he know who the tour guide is?

The way he approached me, he didn't seem at all surprised: "I wanted to see what you were up to, Julia." Perhaps he would have given me a hug if the ladies Wegwert and Kunze hadn't been hot on his heels. - "Happy Easter to everyone!" As soon as everyone had their eggs, the Britzelbergers rolled up with their trolleys. I just managed to ask if it was his first vacation in an Arab country before Ali arrived with the luggage carrier.

Close. Far too close. But after thirty years in which there was hardly any connection between us, what kind of beginning can be found? Incidentally, I don't have time for private matters at the beginning of a trip. After all, these people's vacations are my livelihood. In the past - yes, I didn't have to worry much about planning and organizing. Wolferl did that. Meanwhile, I was allowed to imagine how nice it would be. As soon as we arrived, I bought postcards, which I still look at now from time to time.

I was doing well - back then. I thought we were a happy, successful family. But I was mainly focused on my own work. A lot of good things went undone. It was as if we left bills lying around. In the end, I think they piled up - a fact that Allah is not at all happy about either: And if you only owe the thread on a date seed ... Isn't that what he says? Allah calculates well. And I have paid. In the meantime, it's other people's trips that my life revolves around.

In the little temple above the ponds in Wadi Bani Khalid - yes, we could have struck up a conversation there: Ali had driven us through the Batinah, the fertile coastal land. He then turned off in a south-westerly direction, following the course of a wadi. Bushes and tufts of grass still covered the land, but soon all we could see were stones and sand. Eventually the road wound its way up between gray-brown rocks. When we reached the top of the pass, we got out to walk down the other side and meet Ali and the bus at the ponds. - It was lunchtime and there was hardly any shade between the rocks. After a good hour, a few dusty palm trees appeared below us. Overheated and, of course, completely sweaty, we finally arrived at the bottom of the valley, balanced the last stretch between man-high rushes and grasses along the walls of the Falaji canals until we had it in front of us: the first jade-green shimmering pond. Not even thirst seemed to matter now. Exhausted gazes dipped into the water and at some point - smiling in disbelief - emerged again. Just sit and watch, said some. Others wanted to cross the bridge to the restaurant. Benny had a cave in his program and the Köhlers had long since strolled along the shore in search of a suitable swimming spot. The ladies Kunze and Wegwert had joined Alfred, still undecided. He pointed a little way up the wadi: "To the little one," he said, "I mean the island with the little temple on it."

"And what are we supposed to do there?"

"I don't know. Look around, or maybe argue about Allah." - He didn't seem to be aware of the humor of his suggestion and just stood there, calmly tying his backpack. Quietly and as if in passing, he said that, looking at these magnificent ponds, he thought it might be appropriate to ask why Allah had chosen such a plain rock as a setting for his precious stones. Mrs. Wegwert then decided that the view from there could not be more beautiful than here, and Mrs. Kunze agreed with this opinion.

1

Through the ornately forged temple roof - finally - the sun cast squiggles and streaks on my legs, on my rucksack and hats and on his shirt. He stood at the railing and watched the flight of dragonflies, flickering red and blue across the water. Perhaps he was also counting the cleaner fish, just waiting for someone to cool their feet so that they could immediately get to work on their calluses.

Emerald green sparkle. A turquoise glow. On the sandy shore, the water sparkled like aquamarine. Dazzled by the rays, I made myself comfortable on the corner bench and lost myself in the sight of the arches and diamonds in the roof above me. What circles intersected here? No line stood out. None held back. Infinite patterns that give you peace as long as you don't want to understand them. - Should I have dared? Just say something? Ask him about his marriage to Tine at that moment? About her illness and her death? And why they hadn't both come to the West when there was no wall? But had he booked the trip to talk to me about things I was never curious about in Germany? No, it was really too nice that afternoon for rehashed family stories. Such a little temple - but I have heard steps. It's time. I have to go. One last look at the withered tree and then I go back into the hall. A temple like this would be called Janah here, I would have liked to tell him. But there he is - in the entrance, directly opposite, a dark figure in front of a bright light.

"When Tine died ..." he speaks so abruptly about his life that my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, "when she died, you know, I was basically ..."

"... also dead?"

Luckily, he looks up at the house number above the door frame. This gives me time to compose myself. "No feeling," he tries to make me understand his condition, "no feeling, no thought, no sense ... "

I know, I say to myself, and at the same time I realize that I can't even fathom what he lost with Tine, because - yes, because the companionship between these two people was so intimate. With Wolfie, on the other hand - well, to awaken my demons, Alfred certainly couldn't have chosen a better place than this ghost town. With Wolfie -, what can I say? Our marriage came to a terrible end. And that's what counts. Memory depends on the ending. Organizers know that, as do mothers who organize children's birthday parties.

It came like a stab back then - the end. It drilled into me with the creaking voice of a lawyer who - to cut a long story short - stated after my first consultation that in all the years of marriage together, my husband had become a cheater. He could have put it differently. But the facts were true. Perhaps my bewilderment left him no other choice. In any case, I experienced Wolferl's loss and everything that collapsed for me in terms of security and order at the time like a violent death.

It was clear that we would figure it out. At some point, I had thought. But here, already here in Manah? It was a good thirty years ago that we spent an evening at Lutter & Wegner at Tempelhof station. We didn't know at the time that Tine's illness was incurable. He cared for her - for years - when relapses came and new paralysis remained, full of confidence and good ideas, reliable, patient and almost always with a sense of humor. They sent a photo after their silver wedding anniversary. He stayed with her until the end. Did they have friends, neighbors who helped them? Did he get support from the brothers in the monastery? - How much easier it is for me to imagine his situation now that he is walking beside me.

***

There they are - all three of them clad in ankle-length dishdashas 4as if they had stepped out of an advertising poster. The brightest white ever!

4Men's garments

"Marhaba! 5As-salâm álaykum! 6"

5Hello!

6Peace be with you!

"Wa álaykum as-salâm! 7"

7Peace be with you too!

Talal - tall and lean - comes to meet me. He is going to take us to the antelope camp and on through the desert down to frankincense country. Navid and Said, his nephews, look at us one after the other in friendly silence. Said, the fatter of the three, can't quite hide his extra pounds even under a dishdasha. He is also the first to enter Manah's "Kitchen and Dining" with us a little later. Rice and roasted onions, fried chicken, salad and cardamom tea - what a sumptuous meal before we head off into the desert! However, we still have to say goodbye to Ali:

"Thanks for everything, Ali!"

"Ma'a salâma 8, Julia. Stay healthy! Next winter, God willing, I'll see you."

8Goodbye!

"Shukran 9, Ali!" I wave - I'm still waving when the ochre-colored haze has long since blocked my view of him. Then we hurry back. With three vehicles and ten people, one of the guests won't have a window seat: So who sits where during the desert drive? Experience shows that this question does not answer itself in German groups. - "Then everyone has to sit in the middle seat in the back," I intervene in the debate: "It's best if we take turns every day." - To show how serious I am, but also because Benny is already sitting - rather cheekily - next to Talal at the front, I throw my bag between Ms. Wegwert and Mr. Dannenberg on the back bench, start counting the water canisters, check three first-aid kits, hand out sour drops and music cassettes: "Arabian Night. Music for Dreaming" in case my guests get bored of the desert. - Does Benny know that he's challenging the tour guide for the passenger seat? He certainly doesn't have a mother who could help him with this question in Mrs. Britzelberger. She has long since made herself comfortable in the back seat with Navid in the Rover and has put so many handbags between her and Mr. Stocker that no one else can fit between them.

9Thank you!

"Music for Dreaming" - a song that ruminates, one would think, and is perfect for a digestive nap. Benny is already dozing off, and Mrs. Wegwert has also slumped away from time to time. Only Mr. Dannenberg is wide awake - one who, it seems, can't get enough of the emptiness all around him. He pulls out an exercise book. "Thoughts on the desert" is written on it. Who knows, he said yesterday, maybe it will become a collection of wild thoughts. - Gray, he writes in it: gray or everything that is possible between black and white, and then he clears his throat. He has a few more questions: for example, what about the prices for green and yellow rose water. Unfortunately, he hadn't listened to him in the factory yesterday.

Alfred also bought a bottle there. Not rose water, no: precious oil! - Perhaps for Mrs. Kunze? - Two days ago, as we were driving up Jebel Akhdar, I overheard the two of them. They were sitting right behind me. They were talking about Mrs. Kunze's garden and the rose growers' association, of which she is a member. Meanwhile, he was cleaning his lenses. I could see it in the mirror above me. - She wanted to know how he had come up with the idea for this trip in the first place. To which he just shrugged his shoulders. "Incense ...", he finally said and put the photo stuff back: "Incense - yes, that will have been it. Incense and the scent of roses." A smile played around his lips that only I could see in the rear-view mirror.

Wanted to see what you're up to, Julia ...