the actors are superhuman characters, surging forth from the terraces and public baths of the neighborhood to enter into eternity, smoking and stinking.
Naphtalene is an extraordinary book about Beginnings, a kind of Bildungsroman of Baghdad (a narrative which assembles all the fragments of a prophetic childhood, and which, in remembering the primary elements of subjective life, proposes a vision of the world and an art form). The expression “Bildung,” which speaks of genesis, of formation, and of education, is not, however, sufficient for Naphtalene—for here genesis is also chaos, and apprenticeship is constantly turned upside down, while a wind of revolt blows, shatters, and scatters each scene at the very moment it begins to crystallize. Naphtalene is volcanic; the narration and its narrator are perpetually exploding. Neither family structure, nor institution, nor streets, nor feelings—nothing at all—can resist the fireworks of the naphtha named Huda—genial Huda, devil of society, of the City, and of the novel—a trail of gunpowder. She gives the narration its lightning rhythm: one has never seen a story run so fast, rush so heedlessly toward all its limits, doors and walls, in order to break them open. Huda? In appearance, a girl. In action, a boy. In poetic truth, a fiery daughter.
She is fire, the daughter of an inflamed man, of a mother devoured by tuberculosis.
Fire rules in Naphtalene. The Father, a central character, hated and adored partner of the daughter’s combat with the gods, catches fire at the end of the story as if he had caught his daughter. Fire, masculine and feminine naphtha, never reduced in this text to a banal opposition between sexes or emotions. That’s what is great and free about this work. Love and hate do not oppose each other but mix and blend. In the same way, good attaches to evil and fusion marries effusion. The strong melt, the weak knock the strong to the floor. If the women are slaves and prisoners, the men are the paramount prisoners of the prisons they run.
Freedom? It gushes uncontrollably from the body. It is secretions, odors. A country of odors. Acridities, repulsions, and seductions: everywhere is the penetrating odor of Naphtalene, which kills and bewitches. It is the first version of writing. Freedom? You can’t imprison Voices. Naphtalene is a magnificent hurricane of Voices: the screams of aunts, the chanting of the grandmother’s prayers, the Mother’s coughing, the children’s laughter, the pigeons’ cooing, “the Arab Voices.”
This world is full of Voices: in this, Naphtalene is an enchantment bordering on myth. A marriage of the primordial and of modernity, of fury and of love.
Hélène Cixous
Translated from French by Judith Miller, 2004
Naphtalene is narrated by Huda, the central character. Readers experience the various incidents and see the different characters through Huda’s eyes. Yet Naphtalene is not entirely an “I” novel, although the “I” of narration is frequently present. Mamdouh has chosen to use also the second person singular where Huda seems to be talking to herself, as in the opening line of the novel: “The clouds are over your head and the trials of life are always ahead of you.” There are also occasional lapses into the third person. In this way readers have the impression they are witnessing events from different perspectives.
abaya: long black cloak covering head and body, worn by women in some Muslim countries.
Abu: title used to address men, whereby they are known by their eldest son’s name. Hence Abu Adil is Adil’s father.
khishkhash: a mild opiate used to quiet young children.
Umm: title used to address women, whereby they are known by their eldest son’s name. Hence Umm Jamil is Jamil’s mother.
A reference is made on page 89 and page 92 to a precious flask containing hairs. This refers to the 27th day of Ramadan when people visit the Mosque of Abu Hanifa in al-A‘dhamiyya and revere the holy relic of the Prophet’s hair.
The clouds are over your head and the trials of life are always ahead of you. Just look at your father. It seems to you that he is driving a truck. Your mother is sitting in the back, monopolizing the silence and illness. The rest of the herd are playing inside the detention camp, growling a little, then falling silent.
Your grandmother knew how to withdraw from company and free herself from all chores, as if she were created only for worship. She was content with this distinction, showering us with prayers after every meal to protect us from the wiles of Satan.
She was well aware of devils. She used to recite to you and your aunt the verse of the Throne so that your aunt’s hell would become more bearable and you would steer clear of any evil temptation.
“May God show you the right path and bring you closer to Munir!” she cried to your aunt, and the strength of her faith inspired you.
When Munir thrust his fingers around your aunt’s upper arm, the mark remained for days, indelible, like that of a slap. He used to show up without notice and leave without excusing himself. When he was silent we knew there was trouble. He chattered about things which could not be understood. He was short and stocky, always wearing a suit and a new tie. His shoes gleamed, and so did his bald head.
He mocked and ridiculed. He laughed and winked. He jumped like a field locust and scurried like the cockroaches in the cesspool. He moved the way the movie heroes did, pinched me on the cheek when he came in, and slapped my behind when he left. He filled the plates with cigarette butts. He drank a great deal of water and tea.
Yet there was something of an evil spirit about him. You could never tell by his face whether he was serious or joking. He spat on the ground and coughed violently. Your mother vanished out of his way. He always asked about your brother; Adil was afraid of him. I always provoked him, and my grandmother watched everything.
To us he looked big and scary. You learned his age, approximately, when Aunt Najia told your grandmother, “No, dear, he’s too old for her. He might be forty, and Farida only came of age a few years ago.”
Your grandmother lit two cigarettes and they smoked. This aunt’s voice fluctuated between masculinity and femininity. She was full-figured and fortyish, and wore gold-framed eyeglasses; her teeth were yellow, big, and jutted forward. She left her hair in two narrow black braids, streaked with white.
She always wore the patterned silk robe with the low neckline. Underneath it was a pink, beige, or orange slip with the bosom worked in lace and threaded with silver or gold. She would tie a wide headband of shiny black fabric over her wide, high forehead. As soon as she entered a strong scent emanated from her—the scent of a woman in labor. We gazed at her as if she were a fashionable lady, at the expanse of her wide, freckled chest, exposed to us, and the crevice between her ample breasts that were pushed up by her brassiere. When we looked further down, we would be dazzled by her large shining brooch with its colored stones, and stunned by the big turquoise stone. After taking off her veil she would wipe away her sweat with a handkerchief of soft material whose edges were embroidered in brilliant colors. She would then bury the handkerchief in her bosom. She would have a long coughing fit and spit out a thick clot of phlegm. Your aunt would
