A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore

by Mohamed Mansi Qandil

  The house could be clearly seen despite the darkness. It was her father who had chosen its location and overseen its construction. Behind it stretched the lands that belonged to them. She hurried up to the closed door and knocked upon it with her fist. Her mother would come out at any moment and put her arms around her—and then, whatever would be, let it be. But the door stood silent. From his pocket Omran drew a great key tied to a length of twine, and turned it in the lock. Had the door been locked from the outside against her mother for all this time?

  The door opened and she rushed inside. He stayed where he was, in the courtyard, while she sprang lightly up the mud-brick staircase to where her mother’s room had always been. A dim light came from the room, faint hope amid doubt and darkness. She stopped, breathing hard, before the door, and called her mother’s name for the first time in many long months. The door was ajar; she pushed it open and entered the room half-shrouded in darkness. There was a gas lamp covered in a layer of soot, and an open wardrobe displaying her clothes. In the middle of the room was a brass bed draped in white mosquito netting. Aisha called out to her mother once more—her scent filled the room, but there was no answer. She pulled aside the netting—the bed was empty. She cried out, calling her again, expecting her to emerge from some corner and embrace her daughter. But all was silent.

  Frightened, she sucked in her breath and backed out of the room. She stood at the top of the stairs; he stood at the bottom, immovable as a wall. “There’s no one in the room!” she cried. “Where is my mother?”

  “In her grave,” he replied, fingering his moustache.

  She leaned back against the wall, and her tears flowed freely. “Oh, God,” she said, “this is what I feared . . . my God . . . I won’t ever see her again.” Her legs would no longer support her—she collapsed in a heap upon the floor, unaware of him as he climbed the stairs.

  He stood before her, observing her, stone-faced, as she wept without relief. “There’s no use crying about it now,” he said. “She died ten days ago.”

  Aisha lifted her head. She couldn’t see him clearly. He had lied to her, and succeeded in luring her here. She heard him say mockingly, “Your mother did a good job of hiding you, but that foolish effendi who came here from Cairo—he gave it all away.”

  If only she could be alone now, if his shadow would just move away from her a little, so that she could weep for her mother and quell the pounding of her heart. But he came closer to her, seized her shoulder, and pressed it. Through her tears, she screamed, “Don’t you dare touch me!”

  In the same mocking tone he replied, “But I can’t help it!”

  She got to her feet and went into her mother’s room, her last remaining sanctuary. She locked the door behind her and threw herself onto the bed, empty of all but her mother’s scent. She wept softly, so that he wouldn’t hear her voice. The lamp, its fuel used up, went out and darkness fell. She had become his prisoner. Her only escape route was through the door to the room, and he was sitting in front of it.

  She heard a scratching at the door, as if he were trying to dig through it with his fingernails. He muttered something in hoarse tones—although she hadn’t understood the words, she was quaking with fear. She could hear howling in the distance. Was it possible that someone from the village might notice that she was held captive by him here? Was there any hope of rescue? She must think quickly—perhaps she could make a bargain with him, leave him a part of her inheritance from her parents, if he would let her go unharmed. Perhaps that was what he was after, and then he would release her to the light of day. At the very least, he would take her down to the port and register her arrival in the village, and then she might be able to get away, having paid the price of her bad judgment.

  She started up in terror at a great crashing sound, and the door shook with the force of his blows. She screamed, but there was no place for her to take shelter. Everything was enveloped in darkness; he had no wish to wait until morning. The bolt securing the room gave way, the two wooden panels of the door burst asunder, and his massive frame appeared. He approached her where she sat cowering upon her mother’s bed. Would begging do her any good? Was there any point in resisting him? She felt his fingers sink into her flesh and smelled the odor of his breath, rank with alcohol and tobacco. Giving way to tears, she struggled to clamp her legs together, but he inserted his knees between them. She strained her face away from him, trying to avoid his own, so he delivered a vicious blow to her temple, shouting, “I’ll have none of your tears, and it’s no use struggling!” When she tried to dig her fingernails into his face, he struck her again. Her head was on fire from the blows, and the salt taste of blood was in her mouth. He put his face next to hers and bellowed, “If you value your life, do not fight me!”

  He restrained her, holding her wrists away so that she could no longer push him from her, and then he crushed her beneath his body. Panting, he talked on. “There was no escape from this,” he told her. “From the moment your mother was promised to me in marriage, I knew I would have you, although she, foolish woman, made me wait a long time.” With his fingers he seized hold of the collar of her dress and, with a yank, ripped it efficiently down the front. She felt the cold night air against her chest. She pushed him away and sank her nails into his face, but her efforts were too feeble to have any effect on him. She felt his coarse hand seize her breasts. He held her down with one hand, and with the other tore her dress off and rent her underclothes. Fully roused now, he stripped her of everything. She lay naked, cold, and desecrated. Once again he thrust his knees between her legs, opening her up entirely. She screamed piteously as the pain shot through her—he had plunged into her very depths. She heard the sound of his panting as he rose and fell above her, and her stomach roiled with nausea. She wished she could vomit—if only she could breathe—but he would not stop. Now he was roaring like a beast, indifferent to her inert form. He groped her with his hands, doing with her as he pleased, raising her legs, changing his position, pressing upon her torso—he was heavy, so heavy. He tried to probe her mouth with his tongue, and when she pressed her lips together and turned her face away he struck her yet again: more pain, more blood filling her mouth, a nightmare without end. She felt him go rigid all at once as he reached his climax within her shattered body. He moaned feebly, as if his soul were about to depart, and then she heard his voice, triumphant, saying, “This is just the beginning. You’ll get used to it before long . . . and you’ll enjoy it.”

  He got up off of her at last and hurried out of the room, leaving Aisha like some lifeless rag tossed aside. As she lay there, too weak to move, she detected glimmers of gray light creeping in through the gaps in the shutters, while the crowing of roosters rose from the courtyard. She struggled to get up, gathering her damaged clothing about her, but her knees betrayed her and she fell to the floor. She managed to crawl, despite the bruises and lacerations that covered her, and her swollen face. She wanted to get to the door, to cry for help, in the hope that someone might hear her. But before she could reach it he startled her by opening it himself.

  In came Omran once more, carrying an axe. She drew back in alarm, clutching her tattered dress to herself. Did he mean to kill her? He didn’t glance in her direction, indifferent to her there on the floor. Using the blunt end of the axe-head he set about affixing the loosened hinges once more in place. She trembled at each blow of the axe as if it had fallen upon her own head. Paralyzed, she stared at him. Then, having repaired the door, he closed it again behind him, and she heard him slide the bolt, locking her in from the outside. The room had once again become a prison, and she wept silently. She wanted to get up and wash herself clean of the stickiness that fouled her body, but she stayed motionless where she was.

  Sounds came to her from the village as it awoke: cattle lowing while the farmers urged them along, children calling—but the voices were far away, coming from another world. Supporting herself on the bedposts, she got to her feet and groped her way around the room
until she found what she was looking for: clay vessels filled with water—she knew her mother had looked after herself fastidiously. Aisha moistened a bit of her torn dress and washed herself as best she could. Her face was hurting, inflamed where he had struck her, and her wounds stung as she cleaned away his bodily fluids as well as her own blood, with which her legs and belly were stained, and from time to time she drew a sharp breath. Then she went to her mother’s wardrobe and sorted through the old dresses that hung there, from which she selected a jilbaab and put it on. It seemed to emanate warmth and safety, residual traces of her mother’s embrace. It was this that would protect her.

  She went to the door and tried rattling it, but it stood firmly locked against her. She then tried the closed window, but its wooden frame was likewise secured by large nails. He had laid the trap well before luring her into it. She was too far away from anyone for her screams to be heard. She didn’t dare approach the bed; instead she curled up in a corner of the room, her knees pressed to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs, and fell into a deep sleep, her first since this dreadful journey had begun.

  When she opened her eyes there was not a trace of light left; darkness had returned, and there was no more sound of voices. She felt cold, dehydrated, and hungry. She had eaten nothing since leaving the house of Umm Abbas when—like a fool—she had followed him and given him his chance to do to her as he wished. What did he intend to do with her now? Would he give her something to eat, or rape her again, or leave her here in the darkness to starve to death? She dared not move from her place—she expected only the worst.

  Hearing the sound of his footsteps coming up the stairs, she clung harder to the wall, wishing she could make herself invisible to him. The door creaked harshly and rays of light appeared, as he walked into the room with a lamp in his hand. He turned around slowly until he discovered her whereabouts. Hanging the lamp on the wall, he sat on the edge of the bed and fixed his gaze on her, as if enjoying the sight of her wretchedness and her obvious terror. He seemed exultant at his triumph over her slight body, the unexpected ease with which he had taken possession of it.

  “You must be dying of starvation,” he said. “Hunger is the best sauce, as they say—there’s plenty of food, but you’ll not have a single bite of it until you do everything I tell you.”

  He stopped speaking to observe her reaction. She neither moved nor made a sound. “Don’t cringe like that!” he bellowed furiously. “Get up off the floor!” He sprang from the bed and pitched himself at her—she could see he was prepared to beat her again. As she struggled to her knees in an effort to stand up and face him, she was assailed by all the pain he had already inflicted on her. He stared at the garment she was wearing. This enraged him further. “I don’t want to see your mother ever again!” he shouted. “I’ve seen enough ghosts and demons. Take that thing off.”

  “Don’t do this to me,” Aisha sobbed. “I’m your brother’s daughter!”

  “My brother be damned, your mother, too—and you. All of you deprived me of what was rightfully mine. Do you know what they did to me? And all for the sake of a miserable little fool like you. My father—your accursed grandfather—disinherited me on the grounds that my mother was a Gypsy, a transient, and he gave everything to your father. Then, after your father died, they forced me to marry his widow, that dried-up old crone. Then I found out that he had left everything to you. I was bought and sold, may you all rot in hell!”

  She stared at him, stunned by the savagery of his anger—his mouth was flecked with foam, his eyes bloodshot. The mention of her father had driven him into a frenzy. She backed away from him, fearful he would resume his assault on her. He reached for her, and she stiffened; then he took hold of her mother’s dress and, as before, tore it off of her. She tried to shield her breasts and groin, while he, heedless of her fright, stared at her in her nakedness, his mouth agape.

  “I didn’t get a good look at you the first time. This is not like your mother, bony as a tree branch; this is the body I’ve always dreamed of possessing.”

  He took off his jilbaab. She shrank from him, crying, “My God—not again . . . ,” but he advanced on her, picked her up, and flung her onto the bed. Her limbs were weak with hunger and cold; he engulfed her with his body, overcoming her struggles with ease. She could only weep helplessly. “It only hurts the first time,” he sneered, seizing her breasts and swamping her with his breath. It was painful still, although to keep him from hurting her even more she made no attempt to resist him.

  This time, fortunately, he finished with her quickly and got up off of her. “That body of yours won’t be so lifeless for much longer.” He flung this at her like a challenge. “I’ll bring it to life in spite of you.” Slinging his jilbaab over his shoulder, he strode naked from the room, and she heard the sound of him locking the door from the outside. She remained where she was, splayed naked upon the bed, not caring even to get up and wash herself: in such a state, let death come to her.

  Darkness descended once more, along with a paralyzing cold. By leaving her this way he meant to break her will and subjugate her entirely. She sank into a series of nightmares without end, waking in terror at the slightest disturbance. It was strange that her body could still house any scrap of life, that life hung on and would not leave. She felt that he might descend on her at any moment.

  Faint glimmers of light stole in through the locked window; she took refuge in a corner of the room, her ears alert for any sound coming from the direction of the door, but it seemed he was oblivious to her existence. He went out to carry on with daily life, secure in the knowledge that she was his hostage and would remain so. It didn’t matter to him whether she was alive or dead; perhaps if she were to die that would be the best outcome as far as he was concerned.

  Days—or perhaps hours—later, she heard his footsteps, the door opened, and then he stood before her holding a metal tray. She shrank back as he approached her. He set the tray down in front of her and took a step back. She couldn’t help looking at the food on the tray: gleaming tomatoes, slices of cheese, and rounds of bread. Her stomach churned, but she tried to maintain her composure. Seated on the edge of the bed, he stared mockingly at her. She tried to reach for the food but he snarled at her. She stood up and lifted her eyes to him pleadingly. “You’ll not eat unless you take off your clothes,” he commanded. “Remove your dress before you touch the food.” She backed away fearfully, shaking her head, so he stepped forward, picked up the tray, and turned to leave.

  Aisha watched him in alarm as he opened the door. He was on the threshold when she cried, “Wait . . .” He turned, but stayed where he was. She lifted her hand and pulled the dress off, exposing her body to him herself. He set the tray before her and sat watching her. She was like a ravenous animal struggling beneath his feet as she tore off pieces of the bread with her teeth, devoured the cheese, and plunged her face into the tomatoes.

  How much time passed between the first pale manifestations of light and utter darkness? How many days went by with her in his clutches? He would thrust himself upon her without warning, beat her for no reason, and take her without resistance. Sometimes he brought her food, but he always prolonged her intervals of starvation, and forced her to disrobe before he would permit her to eat. He bent her to his will, rousing her basic instincts—hunger, fear, and desire—always punishing her without compunction.

  Then, at last, he allowed her to leave the room. He stood by the door and beckoned for her to follow him. It didn’t matter what he might do—there could be nothing worse than this. She caught the scent of the damp fields; all at once she could see different colors—the crowns of the palm trees, the clouds tinged with red, the pigeons returning to their dovecote towers—and her eyes filled with tears. She descended the staircase into the courtyard.

  He barked an order. “Go in and relieve yourself.”

  The cramped chamber beneath the stairs was familiar to her. He stood by the door, locking it after her. She made an
effort to empty her bowels soundlessly, then washed herself and went out to him. He gestured for her to walk to the middle of the courtyard. She caught sight of the door leading out of the house, which was secured from the inside by an immense iron lock. An enclosure for chickens and ducks occupied one corner, as well as a shelter housing a donkey; in the middle was a pump, beside which was a metal tub—the very tub in which her mother had been accustomed to bathe her when she was small. In its center was a little wooden stool. The memory stirred her soul—the memory of that intimate ritual in which her mother would seat her on the stool and begin pouring warm water over her; suddenly all the familiar fragrances grew vivid in her mind: of the colored soap, the scented powder, and of her mother herself—it all came to her like a dream, and she forgot that he was there, staring at her. She took off her dress without shame at her nakedness, and sat cross-legged in the tub. She quivered at the sensation of hot water coursing down her body—water he fetched from a black earthenware kettle with a fire going beneath it. She felt fingers separating the strands of her hair and untangling the knots—were they his fingers or her mother’s? The fingers soaped her all over and scrubbed her with a sponge, rousing every cell in her body. Aisha kept her eyes closed, leaving the fingers to pass over her breasts, her belly, her back; they stood her up in the middle of the tub to wash her thighs and her legs. She felt no rough touch as the water flowed over her like a warm cloak enfolding her in its intimate embrace. Her cuts and scrapes hurt, but heat dissolved the pain; she wept with longing, and the heat soothed her tears. A sense of new life crept into her limbs. He wrapped her in a towel soft as down and dried her flowing hair, her belly, and her legs. Then he picked her up in his arms—she made no sound, no protest. She was still lost in the world of her childhood as he carried her up the stairs, and warmth still enveloped her.