Translating Nouzha Fassi Fihri's La Baroudeuse: A Case Study in ...

This idea brought an ecstatic smile to her face, a smile the deceased man's sons
could not understand.
He was happy, proud, and noble. She would be alone with him. She would
take him away from all these people who wanted to welcome him back. Soon he
would open the hand that had touched the sacred black stone and the wall of the
Ka’bah and the fence around the Tomb. He would hold her, pressing firmly with
his fingers. She was like a jewel in his hands. He opened his hand and looked at
her in his palm, sparkling, vibrant and magical.
She burned the skin of his palm like a coal and blinded his eyes that were
fixed on her. He even forgot his pilgrimage and the holy places he had been. He
followed her wake of ambergris and melted in it.
Then she remembered... he was dead, absolutely dead. She had been the
one to have him bathed in the sacred water of Zamzam and sprinkled with orange
blossom scent. She had had his hair, feet and hands anointed. When the bathers of
the dead had left, she had closed the door to be alone with him. She had kissed his
forehead and promised to join him soon in that world he had taken such pains to
describe to her as their lost Eden rediscovered. Yes, he was dead; she was aware
of it, but she could not accept it. She didn't have the strength. When the
undertakers had carried away his body in a stretcher covered with the cloth of the
Ka’bah, in the thunder of men's voices reciting the profession of faith, her sanity
wavered. When the women of the household who were standing in the
background turned toward her, they saw an old woman whose face was empty of
all signs of life, smiling insanely, adjusting the folds of her mourning caftan as
though it were the gown of a young bride. She had kept the same enigmatic pose,
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