A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore

by Mohamed Mansi Qandil

  He laid her on the bed, removed the towel, and covered her with his body. He moved slowly and gently, as if the ritual of the bath were still under way. There was no pain; his fingers were not brutal, his breath was less repugnant than before. His heavy breathing above her aroused in her a strange throbbing sensation; warmth pervaded her body despite her nakedness, along with a tremor she tried to resist, suppressing her sighs; she felt that her body was no longer her own, with every fiber of her being responding to his touches. She wanted to hold onto something, but found only his shoulders. She sank her fingernails into them. The room filled with an odd smell, which drove away the previous stench—his sweat and her own, a mingling of their bodily secretions. From somewhere there came a brief flash, as if a breach had suddenly opened up to admit light from some distance source. She cried out.

  He finished with her, but did not leave the bed. He stayed, stretched out beside her. She turned on her side, away from him, not daring to face him, but she felt his chest pressed against her back and she made no attempt to move away. She was fearful of finding herself alone in the gloom and the cold. He laid his massive thigh across her own small rump, while his hand came to rest below her waist, and his breathing settled into a regular rhythm. Her limbs were relaxed beneath this contact with him, as if her former body—the one that had refused him—had vanished entirely, and she had been taken over by another, stimulated by desire and driven by hunger, with no room for pity or tears spent on the old Aisha. There was nothing left to weep over.

  In the middle of the night he left her, not yet trusting her enough to sleep deeply by her side, and with him went the warmth. She was back in the cycle of starvation and waiting—protracted stretches of waiting, broken only when he appeared, carrying a tray of food and demanding her body. When she saw him, she responded, in every nerve and every cell, in spite of herself. Hunger combined with cold, as there would be no food for her unless she was naked, and there would be no satiety until she got into bed. Time passed as she lay beneath him, the hours of darkness being confused in her mind with those of daylight, and one day connected to the next as if they were all one. No touch of his now failed to arouse her; her mind had grown rigid since she’d entered this room, so that she was scarcely capable of speech any longer—touch alone was the last of her faculties tethering her to life, and he regulated the rhythms even of this. He controlled her body when he left her, holding it hostage to the offerings of warmth and satiety that he alone was able to provide for it. He was her only link to the world—supposing that there was any other world outside this room.

  On a certain terrifying night her need of him was greater than ever. Since midday there had been thunder and lightning without cease, and when night came flashes of light continued to flicker in through the slats of wood that blocked the window. Even the wolves were angry—perhaps the lightning had goaded them to a frenzy, rousing their instincts. Omran was not around—no doubt he was at the Greek’s tavern, on the other side of the village; and here she was in this great void, the doors secured firmly against her with their enormous locks. She urgently needed him to be there, needed the contact of his warm and vital skin. If he was gone much longer she would die. She paced around the room to bring her body to life, looking for some opening that would connect her to the outside. She stood beside the window—the voices of the wolves were more distinct now. She discovered a food tray—on which were a spoon and a dirty metal plate—doubtless he had forgotten to remove it from the room. She picked up the plate and began using it to bang on the window. She inserted the spoon into the openings in the wooden slats, and tried to pry one of them up, concentrating her efforts on the weakest section, but she managed to dislodge only one small piece. A glimpse of dark sky was suddenly revealed before her. She saw the falling rain, felt the drops on her fingertips, savored its taste on the tip of her tongue.

  She climbed up onto a small chair and, stretching her neck, saw the muddy earth below. The wolves were standing there, directly below her window, raising their heads toward her. Their eyes shone as if flashes of lightning had collected in them and now cut across the darkness to her. They were not howling, but gazed sorrowfully at her. Aisha stared gravely back at them. They were free, while she was helpless. They couldn’t do anything for her—no one, not even these creatures of the night, could extend a helping hand to her.

  She heard his footsteps mounting the stairs, and she drew back from the opening at the window, hoping he would not see it and punish her. He opened the door—she was thankful that he was there, but there was nothing she could do for him other than to run to the bed, take off her clothes and offer up her body to him, a naked sacrifice. She waited for him to come and begin touching her, but he looked at her in surprise. He had drunk a great deal, and come in this dreadful weather with the intention of having her whether she wanted it or not, but he had not expected her to catch him off-guard with so open a gesture. Trembling, she watched him move toward her—was she shivering with cold or with unwonted desire? It didn’t matter—the only thing that mattered was that he get into bed and put his hands on her.

  That night her body was compliant beneath him—eager and responsive as it had not been before, transformed from the coldness of isolation to the warmth of desire that precedes the brimming-over of ecstasy. He felt incapable of keeping up with her as she spun from one climax to another. He stopped, raised himself up a little, and looked at her in astonishment. She avoided his gaze, still gasping for breath and unable to master the paroxysms that convulsed her. He fingered his moustache, dazzled and bemused, as he realized that he could control this body, now and forever. He brushed aside her hair, which was damp with sweat, so that he could see the expression on her face and look deeply into her eyes. She stared dazedly back at him.

  “We can’t go on like this,” he said, “or continue living in this place.”

  She said nothing. He placed his hand on her belly to stop her shaking, then spoke again. “Let’s sell this accursed land,” he said. “Let us leave this miserable village and go to some big city, where we may be able to live and no one will recognize us.”

  She had nothing to say to this. There was no place for her to take shelter in the state she was in. He pressed against her from behind, and she responded at once to the warmth he gave her. She had become his creature, his private object, no longer possessing the ability or the will to oppose him.

  “We’ll leave at dawn,” he continued. “I’ll saddle the donkey and we’ll go together to the trade center to arrange matters for the sale. All you have to do is make me your agent and I’ll see to the rest.”

  He grasped her by the waist and pulled her to him, hooking his great thigh over her. She sensed that he wanted her again, so she shifted onto her back and gave herself to him once more.

  He woke her before first light. She had been sleeping deeply beside him, dreamless and free of nightmares. “Get ready,” he whispered to her. “Put some clothes on while I go down to saddle the donkey. We’ll leave in a little while.”

  He got out of bed, and she heard him descend the stairs. She got up obediently and went to the wardrobe to look for one of her mother’s old dresses. She found the sheath her mother had most liked to wear when Aisha’s father took her to town. Pulling it on, she paused when she heard strange noises coming from downstairs—animals snarling with fury, as close as if they were in the courtyard. She heard the sound of Omran shouting angrily, “Get out of here! Go on!” But the snarling only grew more savage. She dressed quickly, but dared not open the door. She retreated to a corner of the room and huddled there. Then she raised her head in astonishment as Omran’s shouts turned to moans, and then to cries for help. She could scarcely believe she was hearing this powerful man cry out—she felt as though fangs were tearing at her own flesh as well. Then Omran went quiet, but the snarling continued; before long it became a sustained howling, like the announcement of a kind of victory. Aisha’s fear turned to an uncontrollable trembling that shook her to
her core, as if she had reached another climax that came from some unknown source and took her unawares. Silence fell. There was only the sound of the wind. Once more she was alone in a world in which silence prevailed.

  She stayed huddled where she was, expecting him to open the door and come to her, shout at her to get ready and follow him. But the soundless minutes went on and on. She got up and went to the door, listening from behind it. Then she reached out a trembling hand and tugged at it. It was unlocked. She stepped over the threshold into the dim morning. No sun had risen, and traces of the rain made the stairs slippery. She descended several steps, to where she could see the whole courtyard: the clay oven, the chicken coop, the donkey’s shed, the pump, the earthenware pitcher, the row of crockery jars that held cheese and butter—everything in its place. Omran was there too, lying in the mud, his eyes bulging, nearly naked, the only garment that had covered him now in shreds. He was as huge as ever, his moustache neatly curled, but his face was frozen. He could see her drawing near and peering at the blood that stained him, but he didn’t rise up, lay her out on the ground, and have his way with her. His eyes and lips expressed his lecherous desire even now, but he was motionless. His body bore the marks of rending teeth, his flesh red and ragged. Evidently the wolves had all had a turn at him, and been powerful enough to bring him down, toppling him from that place of lofty invincibility in which he could rape and ravage at will. She looked about, seeing that the ground was covered with the tracks of claws, and the door was open. The lock, also unfastened, hung from one of its panels. Doubtless he had unlocked it in preparation for saddling the donkey, but the wolves had seized their opportunity and attacked him: he had opened the door to his own destruction.

  She stood for a while by the body laid out before her, not daring to touch him or address him. She was afraid to make a move, lest the vitality seep back into him. Distant voices came to her from the village, along with the lowing of cattle as the villagers made their way to the fields. She didn’t know what to do. She shut the door to the house and sat down on the staircase, facing him and studying his body, which seemed poised to rise. But he did not get up. She felt as though she needed him, as though no one would be able to gratify her senses as he had; at the same time, she felt that she was free of him—desire and disgust mingled within her, and she wept at the frailty of her body, the weakness of her will. She wanted to offer him to the wolves and let them devour him, ridding her of him once and for all. She tried to remember the body of that other Aisha, as memories of ephemeral moments from a distant past floated through her mind: of the rose that Isis’s brother had given her once when he asked her to dance; of sitting in the open air with Sister Margaret; of the madman Howard Carter painting her in the guise of a pharaonic princess; of riding in a carriage beside the Leader; of receiving her first kiss from Mukhtar—fragments of memories that seemed to record events that had never occurred.

  She went upstairs to the bedroom. She found the case she had brought with her tossed into a corner, untouched from the moment she had arrived with it. She searched her mother’s wardrobe, looking in the secret places she knew so well, where she found some banknotes and leftover silver riyals. She tucked them into her bag, draped her mother’s velvet shawl over her head, and went downstairs. There he still was, laid out in his place, but his skin had a blue tint to it now, and his expression seemed angrier, more savage. She turned her face away and went out, securing the door from outside by means of the lock. Let him stay where he was and rot.

  She covered her face with the edge of the shawl as she made her way along the narrow track between the cane fields. There was no trace of the wolves. Some farmers passed by her, pulling their animals along, and she pulled the shawl more tightly across her face. The wooden building that housed the train station came into view, shrouded in mist, the exhalations of the earth. At last she ascended the gravel-strewn platform; the place was still empty, the tracks stretching into the distance, waiting. Aisha crouched in a corner—it was all she was capable of now.

  The stationmaster Amm Bakri arrived. His appearance had not changed since her childhood—his olive-colored gallabiya worn at the elbows and knees, and the lantern, always lit, that he habitually carried. He hung up the lantern and rang the bell. He waited until he heard its echo resounding across the fields and then, sighing and at ease, seated himself on a bench, stretching out his legs until his feet touched the rails. His workday had begun. He did not notice Aisha huddled there.

  Little by little the platform began to fill with people, some of whom she knew. She hid her face carefully. Most of the passengers were women taking village goods to the nearby port, while a few were men, who mingled with the women, strutting their specious virility. They chatted with the stationmaster, none of them noticing anything unusual afoot. Everyone in the village had passed an ordinary night—all but Aisha. They were in possession of ordinary bodies, which moved about freely and without shame, undergoing their share of cold, of morning light—all but Aisha. Her body was incapable of resistance; she possessed the body of a base animal that responded only to forbidden feelings and gratifications, dirtied with sweat and other bodily secretions—his secretions; contaminated by blind desires, by utter, abject degradation.

  From afar came the sound of the train’s whistle, and soon it appeared over the horizon, trundling along slowly, until at last came the moment of her deliverance from this place. She didn’t know where she would go—she must simply get out, wrest herself away from here, and then perhaps her sense of shame would diminish a little. The train pulled into the station. Amm Bakri rang the bell with delight, as if he had not expected the train to turn up. The women swarmed, carrying their baskets. Aisha felt her stomach contract, and her mouth filled with bile, and she made haste to distance herself from the crowd. The train whistle blew shrilly, but Aisha was staggering, as a burning eruption rose up from her innards. She bent over the ground and vomited, a stream pouring from her mouth in spite of her, while the train’s whistle went on urgently shrieking.

  8The Red-Light District

  NABAWIYYA AL-MUSTAHIYA struggled to open her eyes while the black serving girl kept on shaking her. Radiant light stole in through the window—it was noon: still early.

  “There’s a visitor who insists on seeing you,” said the serving girl.

  Nabawiyya al-Mustahiya turned over and tried to pull away. “No customers in the morning,” she muttered. “Impossible.”

  The previous night had been exhausting—a pack of Australian soldiers had descended upon the house like desert rats. They were frightened of the war—of the eccentricities of the Turks, the precision of the German gunners. They suffered interminably from nightmares, even at the critical moment of their business with her. Their manner with her was rough and primitive, and she took no pleasure with them.

  Yet the serving girl would not let her be. “It’s not a man,” she said, “it’s a young girl. Poor thing—her face is covered in scratches and bruises.”

  Nabawiyya al-Mustahiya’s own body bore its share of scratches and bruises: the tax on a night’s earnings, as people called it. “Girls like this are not my concern,” she grumbled. “Send her to our mistress. Send her to the Madam.”

  But the servant did not withdraw—she seemed to sympathize with this unknown girl. She went on shaking Nabawiyya, until Nabawiyya was obliged to get up out of bed. She proceeded barefoot across the cold tiles through the silent corridors of the house, heading for the main hall, which was overlooked by the other rooms. At first she couldn’t get a good look at the girl, who was swathed in black, and hiding her head in her arms, as if acutely embarrassed to find herself in such a place. They were all like this in the beginning. Then the visitor lifted her head and Nabawiyya gasped, clapping a hand to her chest. The girl’s face looked as though a whole battalion of Australians had had their way with her.

  “Aisha!” she exclaimed. “Who did this to you? And where have you been all this time?”

  Aisha f
lung herself into Nabawiyya’s arms and gave way to tears. “Forgive me,” she said, “but I had nowhere else to go.”

  Nabawiyya thought, Can the world have shrunk so much for you that you come of your own accord to the red-light district? Aloud, she said, “When I went to inquire about you, Umm Abbas told me you’d gone home to your village. What happened to you?”

  Aisha didn’t know what to say. The thing was too mortifying to mention even to Nabawiyya al-Mustahiya. She withdrew from Nabawiyya’s embrace and looked at the black servant, who was standing there watching them. Nabawiyya understood the meaning of Aisha’s glance, and drew her by the hand. “We’ll go to my room,” she said, and she led her through the silent passageways, so intricately interconnected that Aisha would not have remembered how to find her way back out of them.

  The room was narrow, the largest object in it being the bed in which Nabawiyya plied her trade. A mixture of odors hung in the air: of strong perfume, of powder and tobacco and wine. There was a small cupboard, slightly open, crammed with glittering clothes, a round mirror, and a small white basin containing water muddied by a mixture of strange colors. Aisha did not sit upon the bed, but retreated to a small chair in a corner of the room.