Once the sun had drenched the earth, Umm Abbas left her room, her face pale. There was nothing to be said; they took no breakfast, but sat in silence, waiting for nothing. In the middle of the day, Aisha rose and dressed. When the old woman looked questioningly at her, she said, “I’m going to visit the shrine at Sayyida Zaynab.”
She made her way through the streets with bowed head, not wanting anyone to see last night’s despair in her face. She slipped in among the crowd of people weeping and begging and clinging to the shrine, which was draped in green velvet embroidered with Qur’anic verses in gold thread. The sound of prayers rose from within the ancient mosque, along with the voices of the black-clad women wailing their entreaties. Aisha felt a powerful urge to weep. She was one with the others in their weakness, their poverty, their helplessness. “Umm al-Awajiz,” she cried fervently, “protector of the unfortunate—bring back to me the Mukhtar of old, whom I loved! Sow in his heart the seeds of love for me, that he may find peace and be at ease.”
She would need a miracle, truly, to get him back before he was lost to her entirely. She went to a corner of the shrine and curled up there. Someone came to a stop by her, and she knew who it was without raising her head. At such moments Nabawiyya would always appear. Aisha remembered that it was Thursday, the time when Nabawiyya regularly attended, and now here she was, standing before her, swathed in black, like the dozens of other unfortunate and powerless women. Her face was free of makeup, her eyes filled with tears. She, too, sought help and redemption. Their eyes met, and their fingers entwined in sympathy. Together they left the mosque and sat in the busy, marble-paved square. All at once Aisha felt herself in need of this meeting, even though she had not intended to tell Nabawiyya a of what had happened.
Nabawiyya al-Mustahiya sat cross-legged on the ground. She looked into Aisha’s face and tried to smile. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you?” she said.
“Is my fatigue so obvious?” Aisha replied.
“Maybe,” said Nabawiyya, “but I know the reason for everything that shows in your face.”
“What is it . . . that you know?”
“I can’t talk about it here, or I’ll make the lady of the shrine angry. Let’s move away from here.”
Nabawiyya stood up briskly, held out her hand, and helped Aisha to her feet. They walked together, disregarding the beggars’ hands reaching out to them. Aisha didn’t mind when Nabawiyya placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I know,” said Nabawiyya, “that Mukhtar loves you dearly, and that no other woman has replaced you in his eyes. Perhaps the time he spent in prison is responsible for his recent conduct. I wanted to tell you what happened, so that you would be aware, and know how to deal with him.”
Aisha’s heart sank—she didn’t need any more troubles having to do with Mukhtar. She halted in her tracks, turned and looked at Nabawiyya in dismay. Nabawiyya swallowed hard and said, “Mukhtar came yesterday to the house in the red-light district, paid the price of admission, and asked for me. I was startled to find him at the door to my room.”
“He wanted to sleep with you?”
“Naturally, I refused. I have my principles, and I don’t betray a friendship. I knew he was not in his right mind. One look at him—the state he was in, the way his eyes flashed—was enough to tell me what sort of madness had hold of him. He might even have hurt me if I’d given in to his wishes. I shouted at him until I succeeded in embarrassing him, and he went away from my room.”
Shocked, Aisha heard her out. Should she believe these words? Was it Mukhtar Nabawiyya was talking about, or someone else? In a faint voice, she asked, “Did he go to another woman then?”
“There’s no use in lying. The truth is I can’t say one way or the other—I never left my room, and I didn’t ask any of the other girls. What I can say with certainty, though, is that he wasn’t in a fit condition to manage anything.”
Aisha walked on beside Nabawiyya, but she no longer heard anything she said. At every turn she was discovering a new and alien side to Mukhtar. She didn’t really know him at all. Did he just need a warm body more than he needed love? Were her love and devotion not enough? Was this the reason he had withdrawn from her—not just what had happened to him in prison? She said good-bye to Nabawiyya and went back through the narrow lanes.
Umm Abbas was sitting in her spot, from which she had not moved since the break of day. They tried to talk to each other of trivialities, everything but Mukhtar. Aisha prepared food, as a distraction, but neither of them ate much, each with a lump in her throat. They ran out of things to say. Aisha sat by the window, waiting for nothing, as the light faded and darkness fell. She fell asleep where she was, overcome with fatigue.
She awoke, shivering, to the sound of a knock at the door. The apartment was dark; no one had lit the gas lamp. She got up and went barefoot to the lamp, while the knocking at the door continued as she tried to light the flame. The wick quivered and the apartment glowed with a pale light. Umm Abbas was asleep, open-eyed, in the place she had occupied since noon. Aisha called out to inquire who was knocking, but no one replied. Heart weary, she wanted no more surprises, but she picked up the lamp and opened the door to find Mukhtar standing before her, his eyes reflecting the light that illuminated his pale face.
Her hand shook and she took a step back. Waking, Umm Abbas gasped as if she had seen a ghost. Mukhtar stepped forward into the room. Aisha hastened to set the lamp down, lest she drop it. He remained standing close to the door, as if expecting to be sent away at any moment. Umm Abbas rose, leaning upon her cane, muttering that she would go to her room.
Mukhtar looked at Aisha and said, “I couldn’t go away without speaking to you first.”
She was having trouble breathing, her lungs struggling to take in air—if only he would approach her and put his arms around her, she would forgive him everything, forget the foolishness of which Nabawiyya had told her. But he stood there, tall and thin and cold. “You cannot imagine,” he said, “what happened to me in prison. I, an artist and a mayor’s son, found myself all at once among thieves, murderers, and brigands. All the demonstrators who had been around me were let out, while I was left there to suffer degradation in place of them all.”
It seemed to Aisha that she ought not to hear all this out in silence. “They testified on your behalf,” she said. “All of them said that you had not struck the police chief, and that the horse reacted to the crowd. Even those who were at the edge of the square and didn’t see anything gave witness for you.”
“But they got out, and they left me there alone to suffer the real torment of prison, where there are no witnesses, and where unspeakable things happen. When I left that place I had lost my faith in everything.”
“You’re not in prison now. We can take up our life again.”
“After all that’s happened, I’ll never be able to forget, or submit, or be happy. If I stay here I’ll march in every demonstration, put myself in the vanguard of any protest movement I can. I won’t be able to draw or paint or sculpt—my anger and outrage will prevent me. I’ll be at risk of arrest and humiliation all over again, and I’ll lose even more of myself. This is why I must go away from here—to retrieve myself.”
Fighting tears, Aisha said, “And what about me? Have you given me not even a moment’s thought?”
“There is nothing you can do but wait for me—only I don’t know until when.”
“Such a vague promise.”
“It’s the best I can do!”
He spoke sharply, and held himself back, keeping his distance from her. Aisha’s mouth felt dry as he spoke his last words to her, then turned away without offering so much as a touch. All at once she was angry, angry that he should treat her so, and she shouted at him. “Did you go to the red-light district? Did you try to sleep with Nabawiyya al-Mustahiya?” He turned and looked at her, confusion in his face. In an uncertain voice he said, “Perhaps I did, and perhaps I didn’t. I am not myself, and this body is not mine.”
>
Then he turned once more and went out the door, closing it behind him. Aisha stood frozen in place, hearing the sound of his footsteps descending the stairs.
7The Village of Beni Khalaf
A SMALL CASE BESIDE HER, Aisha stood on the railway platform, all but carried off by the cold wind. A few meters away from her the man stood, keeping a furtive eye on her. He loomed tall and massive, his jilbaab billowing in the gusts. A woolen scarf wound about his neck largely obscured his face, and his head was wrapped in an enormous turban. All that showed plainly was the thick moustache that divided his face in two and his cold, implacable stare, which sent shivers up her spine each time she felt it upon her. The station was not crowded; there were just a few passengers, trudging heavily along, toting bags and bundles larger than themselves. He carried only his cane. He had been confident of the success of the brief errand on which he had come: to bring her back.
Aisha was alone and apprehensive. Mukhtar had made his stealthy departure months before, without seeing her, and without bidding farewell to Umm Abbas. He left the key to the basement room with Zahran, who kept a store at the corner of the street, instructing the shopkeeper to return the key to its mistress and to tell her to dispose of the rest of his things—including the sculptures—to consign them to the rubbish heap if she wished. Umm Abbas wept bitterly on receiving the key, and vowed that she would never open the basement room. Aisha understood that, no matter how long she waited, he would not return.
The winter grew colder, and every day the rain fell in torrents, filling the alleyways with mud and making passage through them difficult. Aisha tried to resume her ordinary life, but in vain. Al-Liwa stopped printing, beset by relentless pressure from the British on one side, and from Sultan Hussein Kamil on the other. Mohammad Farid left Egypt, forced into exile. Everyone at al-Liwa was put out of work, and Aisha could not find in herself the fortitude to go and seek work with a different paper.
The ground shook as the train pulled into the station, puffing out a thick, black cloud. It must have come from the train yard, for it was empty, discharging not a single passenger. Without a word the man stepped onto the train, not waiting for her to board first—he had no doubt she would follow him. Aisha stood where she was, watching the platform fill up suddenly with people—she didn’t know where they had all come from: passengers carrying baskets made of palm leaves, women clad all in black, disgruntled effendis, and one Englishman, twisting the ends of his moustache. Aisha stared at the iron girders that formed a lofty bridge, upon which the pigeons had made a nest for themselves. They could take wing and soar to the other side without anyone’s being able to catch them. She lamented that she had believed the man and followed him through all these streets, from the Sayyida Zaynab quarter to the railway platform—but how could she take a chance on whether he was lying or telling the truth?
When she had arisen in the middle of the night to the sound of loud knocking at the door, she had imagined for a moment that Mukhtar, unable to bear a protracted separation from her, had come back to her. She was ready to follow him to the ends of the earth. But on opening the door she had found this man standing before her. She recognized him at once, despite the passage of years, as if he could follow her and it was no use her trying to escape. He bore no trace of a resemblance to her father; they were not full brothers. He was the black sheep of the family—as her father had used to say—causing no end of trouble. She drew a sharp breath, horrified, and tried to close the door in his face, but the man had crossed the threshold before she managed it. He had planted himself in the middle of the entryway, in his voluminous jilbaab, the woolen scarf wrapped around his neck, forcing his presence on her, as if she had never left his sight for an instant.
“How did you find me?” Aisha gasped.
He looked at her for a moment, as if in mockery of her flight and concealment. “Your mother,” he said “sent me herself. She fears she may die without seeing you.”
Aisha’s heart contracted, even though she knew such sentiment was uncharacteristic of him—still, the reference to her mother made her gasp with shock. She heard the sound of Umm Abbas as she struggled to get up and make her way out of the room. She paused before the two of them, and studied the strange man. She pointed her cane at him as if to say, “Who is he?” But Aisha didn’t dare speak.
He turned to Umm Abbas, placed his hand upon his chest, and said humbly, “Your servant, Omran, Aisha’s paternal uncle and her mother’s husband, one and the same.”
Umm Abbas paid no heed to his polite gestures. At a single glance she had apprehended the state of deathly fright that gripped Aisha.
“What do you want?” she said.
Disregarding her hostile tone, he said neutrally, “The lady who is Aisha’s mother, my wife, is very ill. It is she who asked me to come here and inform her daughter that she wishes to see her—this is her last wish.”
Umm Abbas’s hand flew to her chest, but Aisha backed away and said in a hoarse voice, “I won’t go anywhere with you.”
In the same neutral tone he said, “As you wish—I am only the messenger. I shall return today, at once, to the village. Her state of health does not permit me to linger here in order to persuade you. I have informed you of her condition, and no one will blame me if you never see her again . . .”
Umm Abbas interrupted. “Is she so very ill?” she asked anxiously.
“She is dying. I am here in a race against time—had she not asked me to come here, I would not have left her, with her condition so grave.”
Umm Abbas looked questioningly at Aisha—what was her decision? Aisha did not know how to answer this. With half her mind she believed him, while the other half recalled her mother’s warnings not to trust him under any circumstances. Umm Abbas went to her and patted her shoulder—Aisha had not told her everything, but she sensed her confusion. “Don’t you want to go?” whispered Umm Abbas.
“I want to see her,” replied Aisha in an unsteady voice, “but I’m frightened of him.”
Omran took a step toward them, and spoke directly to the older woman. “I’ll bring her back as soon as her mother has been assured that she is well. If her fate is to live, then she herself will return here with her daughter. But if her time has come and God takes her, I’ll bring Aisha back myself.”
He spoke in a gentle, persuasive tone, but who could guarantee her return? Who would protect her if her mother died? And who would pardon her if her mother should die alone and grief-stricken? If only Mukhtar were with her at this moment—he was the only one who could have protected her. Umm Abbas decided the matter.
“The wishes of the dying are sacred,” she said. I’ll help you pack your case.”
Umm Abbas fought back her tears as she assisted Aisha. She bade her farewell at the door, and Aisha followed the man who proceeded in front of her without a backward glance. He struck the earth with his cane and the wind filled his jilbaab, as if it were the sail of a boat making ready for departure.
She stood long on the platform. From the window Omran cast his level gaze upon her and said nothing. An old man approached with doddering steps, and rang the brass bell. In response, the train whistle blew. Her stomach lurched as she bent to pick up her case and, without meeting his gaze, mounted the steps to the train. She proceeded down the aisle between the wooden seats, and sat across from him. He leaned his head upon his cane and closed his eyes. She knew he could still see her. The train whistle blew for the last time before it began to move. The houses of Giza began to recede behind them. The minarets disappeared and were replaced by palm trees. The edge of the mountain appeared, dark blue, in the distance. The shining surface of the Nile came into view, stirring in her feelings of regret and longing.
She closed her eyes and surrendered to the endless rocking, through long hours during which the train stopped occasionally for passengers to disembark and others to board. She opened her eyes and saw doum palms and Indian fig trees alongside the tracks. Behind them were plantations o
f palm and sycamore and lemon. The mountainside was closer, and in it appeared the openings for the tombs carved into the rock, as well as the dusty white domes of the saints’ mausoleums. Vendors who worked the little stations boarded and began crying their wares—dates and tangerines—in singsong tones. Still Aisha and the man sat cloaked in silence. He opened his eyes from time to time and looked at the distant horizon, ignoring her presence. Night’s shadows crept up on them and hid all the familiar landmarks around them. It seemed as though the train had entered a dark and endless tunnel.
Nightmares assailed her even though her eyes remained watchful. At last a gray light split the horizon. Green fields appeared, covered in a fine layer of mist. He was asleep with his head on his cane. Mud-brick houses came into view, huddled as if in fear, their drab color further darkened by moisture from the dew. The train stopped for three hours at a remote station to take on water and coal. They were the only ones who did not get off. They sat on in silence, face-to-face, each avoiding the glances of the other. The train resumed its journey and the scattered villages followed one after another, clustering along the riverbank until there was no more space.
Flickering gaslights, mounted on poles, illuminated nothing but a tiny area around them. She got off the train, stood outside the wooden shack, and gazed upon the village, which was wrapped in darkness. The crowns of the palm trees concealed beneath them houses that looked like faint shadows. Her father’s house was outside of the village, far from the congestion of these dwellings. Passing among the sugarcane fields, they walked a narrow corridor from which rose the sound of powerful winds. The howling of wolves mingled with the noise of barking dogs that came from the direction of the village. Hearing at last the voices of the wolves, she found them oddly familiar—a sign of welcome to which she was unaccustomed. Omran walked faster—was he anxious about her mother, or unnerved by the wolves’ howling? She caught the scent of her house—the emanations that rose from every house: of mud-brick walls, combined with the smells of salt bogs, of curdled milk, of the stagnant water in the irrigation ditches, of dung patties, and of the little calves just born. In spite of herself she cast back into her memory, and her eyes filled with tears of loss and longing.
A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Page 28