States of Passion

by Nihad Sirees

  “You look like a moron who’s kidnapped someone and then finds himself in a tough spot.”

  “So that’s what you think of me, huh?”

  “Precisely. You’ve got try to understand where Ismail’s coming from. If you knew the reason why he doesn’t want you to hear this story, you’d forgive him. Anyway, I’m happy to see you fighting so hard for this. If you keep it up, I’ll stand with you. We’ll find a way to work things out with Ismail. I just ask that you think kindly of him despite his actions. Come on, let’s go to the bathroom.”

  I helped him get up and put on his robe. I slid back the bolt and opened the door. The breakfast tray was sitting right there. The old man and I smiled. Ismail had done his job to perfection. We walked the five paces to the bathroom. I was listening intently, trying my best to hear any movement Ismail might make to announce his presence.

  “Ismail told me that this story is his story as well, the story of his life.”

  “Yes,” the old man said, not looking at me. “That’s true.”

  “What did he mean by that?” I asked as he opened the bathroom door.

  “You’ll understand everything once the story is finished. Are you or aren’t you patient enough?”

  I told him I’d be patient. Then I helped him into the bathroom, took off his robe, and left, shutting the door behind me. I moved towards the staircase and crouched down in a fighting posture, rifle at the ready.

  The ground floor was quiet. Everything was as it should have been, clean and organised. Where was Ismail? What was he up to? What did he have in store for me? I heard a sound coming from my bedroom. I stood up and pointed the rifle at the door. I walked without making a sound, and when I reached the door I pressed my ear up against it. No sound. I pulled back. I was afraid. I was the one with the rifle, but I wasn’t going to be able to use it. I didn’t have the right to do so. The old man had just asked me to think kindly of Ismail, to try and understand where he was coming from. The story was his story, too. I never thought I would become so obsessed with a story about a person like Ismail. It was his own past he hated so much. I heard another noise coming from my room. I was certain it was Ismail. Maybe I was wrong. I retreated to the bathroom door and waited there until the old man was ready. I went in when he called out for me. I helped him with his robe and he left me there to clean up myself. He told me he was going to wait outside until I was finished. He was my only protection then, not the rifle.

  After we’d had breakfast and sat down on the couch, the old man said:

  “The following days passed extremely slowly. Every time there was a knock on the door, I expected it would be Widad, or someone with news from Widad. I spent those nights in real anguish. Sleep abandoned me, and I became more and more distracted. I started being able to recognise Widad’s sweet facial features in the photographs more easily after having met her in person. I would place the photograph directly under the light and begin drifting off with the idea of her until morning. After a week had passed without their calling me as Suad had promised, I became increasingly anxious, increasingly suspicious that Khojah Bahira had forbidden them from getting in touch. She must have really hated me. I would ask my uncle Ibrahim Pasha for permission to leave the soap workshop to hurry over to the Khojah’s street, which wasn’t far from work. I’d just stand there staring at the door, waiting for Widad to look out. Then just as abruptly I’d head back to work when I grew tired of waiting for another chance to ask for the Khojah’s permission, and on and on.

  “Inside Khojah Bahira’s house what actually happened was exactly what I suspected. Much later Widad told me everything. I had been on her mind ever since I had wandered into the women’s gathering at my uncle’s house. I had impressed her. I was the spitting image of the heroes in those tales her housemaid Fatima used to tell her. Widad would confide in Suad, talking to her about me at times. Suad was able to confirm that I was Hamideh Khanum’s son, and Widad learnt that I was an orphan, just like her. Apparently this commonality made her care about me even more. There’s something else I have to mention that also helped me win this round against Khojah Bahira. I was a handsome and elegant young man in his twenties, brimming with vitality and sophistication, whereas the Khojah was nearly fifty-five. The truth of the matter was that Suad herself preferred the company of men, and she began to encourage Widad’s desires. The two of them would talk about me whenever they were alone together. But the Khojah, her ablaya, could sense that her sweetheart’s mind was elsewhere. She asked her about it, but Widad hid her feelings for me from the Khojah. Suad warned her not to talk openly about me for fear of stirring up Bahira’s jealousy. On the day I went to visit them, when Suad informed her of my arrival, her cheeks turned all red and she started crying.

  “The Khojah tried to forbid Widad from seeing me. She asked Suad to kick me out at once. But the kamancheh player convinced her it wasn’t such a bad idea for Widad to spend time with me because I was the nephew of Hamideh Khanum, one of their most important clients. She argued that there was nothing to fear from Widad spending time with someone of my social class. After I left, Bahira had felt, with the expert and subtle intuition of a woman, that this love story might have been developing. She became irritable, perpetually on edge and began to forbid Widad from going out except when she was with her. She would constantly talk to her about the savage men who took women by force and tore them limb from limb—like feral dogs, wild animals. They didn’t know anything about love but would seize a woman and destroy her virginity, impregnate her and force her to have their children. They planted impurity at the core of women, who then demanded ritual cleansing. They insisted that women wash their feet. If they got sick, women had to become their nursemaids. If they grew tired of a woman, they would kick her out and replace her with someone else.

  “But all that talk couldn’t convince Widad to hate me or stop thinking about me. She would simply listen to her ablaya and nod her head. Yet she would be thinking about the day when we could be together. Suad told her to be patient. But what could I do in the meantime?

  “One day our chance came. I was sitting on the veranda looking out onto the street when I saw a boy approaching our building. He stopped at the garden gate and tried to find a way to knock on the door. At first he didn’t see me, so I stood up so that he could. My heart told me he had a message for me, just as Suad had promised. I went down to meet him at the gate. He told me that I should go to the Roxy Cinema at once. He handed me a ticket for the three o’clock screening as well as a handwritten note from Suad asking me to come in only after the film had already started, so that it would be dark and nobody would be able to see me. I gave the boy a respectable tip and hurried back upstairs. I put on some nicer clothes, slapped on some cologne, greased my hair until it was shiny and then styled it. I placed a white rose in my coat pocket and raced over to Baron Street. I stood at the entrance to the cinema, listening to the brass band playing while people filed inside. The film was a French tragedy. I didn’t happen to notice the title, and I couldn’t understand why the two women had arranged for us to meet at the screening of a depressing foreign film. As soon as they announced that the film had begun, I handed my ticket to the attendant and went inside. The usher escorted me to a private box for families. He led me inside and then left, drawing a curtain aside for me. The film was showing a woman weeping over the dead body of her husband or beloved. As I stood there in the box, my own beloved Widad and her friend Suad were sitting right in front of me. Both of them turned towards me. In the glow of the screen I could see both of them smiling at me encouragingly. I was perhaps a confusing sight. Or maybe I looked funny with my shiny hair and the rose jammed into my coat pocket. Suad gestured towards the empty seat beside Widad, and I sat down. We sat there in silence watching what was happening on the screen in front of us. Neither of us knew what to do. I had to offer the first word but I had forgotten everything I had planned to say. Finally we bridged the gap by turning to look into each other’s eyes.
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br />   “Widad was exceedingly beautiful in the darkness and the glow of the screen. In that moment I knew I was in love with her, that I would do whatever it took to win her love, no matter what it cost me. I also knew that she loved me. She would smile whenever we locked eyes. I cautiously reached out my hand, asking for hers. As she turned back towards the screen, she held my hand. It was warm; her touch gave me indescribable feelings. I could feel her soft and regular pulse. I squeezed her hand gently and she reciprocated. She became increasingly soft and pliant. After a while, her hand started to sweat. I took out my handkerchief and dabbed at her hand.

  “‘This is the second time my hand has started sweating when we’ve seen each other,’ she whispered, leaning her head towards mine.

  “‘Don’t worry. I’ll dry it off with my handkerchief.’

  “‘But you’ll miss the film.’

  “‘I’m here to see you and you alone.’ I felt myself bursting with words as I whispered, ‘I’m so happy I found you. I’m even happier that you love me back. Do you have any idea what’s going on inside my heart?’

  “She stared back at me, as if to ask what was going on in my heart.

  “‘I’m yours. I’ll do whatever it takes to be with you. I want you to love me as much as I love you.’

  “‘I…’

  Her hand, still in mine, had started to sweat again and I dried it once more. She really did love me.

  “‘I want to marry you,’ I said.

  “She continued to stare at me. She squeezed my hand. She said she wanted the same thing, but then she corrected herself, ‘I have a problem. And you have a problem, too.’

  “She was right. I had a serious problem in my cousin Jalila, and the matter of the inheritance. Her problem was Khojah Bahira.

  “‘Khojah Bahira?’ I asked her.

  “‘That’s right.’

  “‘I’m going to give up the inheritance, and you’re going to run away from the Khojah. Isn’t that what you want?’

  “She gazed into my eyes for a long time, unable to respond. She continued watching the film. ‘Isn’t that what you want?’ I asked her a second time, but she didn’t answer. I just left her damp hand resting in mine. What I understood in that moment was how difficult the whole thing seemed to her. We remained in that position until I heard Suad ask me to leave before the film was over. She told me she would send the boy again with a new card and a new appointment. Then she said goodbye. The promise of another appointment put me at ease. Widad stared into my eyes and squeezed my hand one more time. She took the rose from my coat pocket, then raised it to her lips and kissed it. I said goodbye, stood up and left. As I closed the curtain behind me, they watched me go. Once I had left the cinema, I couldn’t go home right away. I wandered around the citadel, breathing in the smell of her sweat on my handkerchief. At home, too, my nose was filled with her scent. I was so happy that I forgot all about the hardships that lay ahead of us.

  “We met up several times in the private box at the Roxy Cinema. The more we came to love one another, the bolder we became. The last time she let her head rest on my shoulder, her hand in mine, as we watched the film. We attended many screenings together and often didn’t remember a thing about the films themselves. But Widad with Umm Kulthum was one of my favourites because it had the same name as my beloved. The heroine Widad was a slavegirl with an angelic voice in the time of the Mamluks. Baher the merchant was her master, and he loved her very much but had to sell her after he lost all his money when bandits raided his caravan. We cried for the two lovers separated by fate. And oh how we cheered along with the audience when Baher was able to recoup his money and bring back his sweetheart. I saw that film several times, either by myself or with my friend Sad Malek. When we watched the film together, my Widad told me I was like Baher, the film’s hero. I told her I was ready to spend all of my inheritance on her if Khojah Bahira were willing to sell her. We were both very moved by Umm Kulthum’s singing. We memorised all the songs, especially ‘You Like the Way I Love You’. Often Widad would whisper the opening line of that song in order to express her pure affection. I used to sing the song out loud when I was alone in my room. It was a way to call out for my sweetheart.

  “We saw The White Rose with Mohammed Abdel Wahab three times together because the cinema extended its run for several weeks. We would sing along with Galal Effendi, a man forced to be apart from his love, Raga, played by the fresh-faced Samira Kholoussy, songs like ‘O Rose of Pure Love’ and ‘My Moaning Makes You Sad’ and ‘My Pain, My Unhappiness’. I went to see the well-known film Long Live Love by myself a year and a half later. At that time I was in very bad shape, psychologically speaking.

  “We also saw Anthem of the Heart by George Abyad, which was about a European dancer who drove a husband to leave his wife. We didn’t like that one very much because the dancer was a bad person, whereas my beloved dancer was amazing and mind-blowing. But together we watched the films of Naguib el-Rihani, in which he played a character called Kashkash Bey. That was an indispensable opportunity for us to forget about the world altogether. We would laugh from deep in our hearts at the adventures of Kashkash Bey. We saw Kashkash Bey, His Majesty and Yaqout Effendi and The Adventures of Kashkash Bey. The last Naguib el-Rihani film we saw together was He Wants to Get Married, and we laughed so hard, tears streamed down our cheeks.

  “I told you how I would hold her clammy hand all the time. Every time we met, I would pull a new handkerchief from my pocket and soak it with the sweat from her hand. Then, when I got home, I would hide it somewhere cool so it would stay damp and retain her sweat and its smell for as long as possible. Eventually I had about a dozen of those handkerchiefs. I still have all of them to this day.”

  That last sentence really struck me, so I jumped up.

  “Do you really still have all those handkerchiefs?” I asked, interrupting him.

  “Yes, I kept them all.”

  “May I see them?”

  He nodded for me to go over to the dresser. I hopped over there, opened it and peered inside. He gestured towards the top shelf where there was a wooden box inlaid with pearl. I brought it down and took it over to him. He asked me to open it. There were several things inside: some old silver currency; an ornamental sash that dancers used to wear around their waist in the olden days, women’s barrettes; a lock of blonde hair; folded-up papers that looked like notes; a large number of torn Roxy Cinema ticket stubs stamped with identical numbers; a plastic bag with a dozen white handkerchiefs folded carefully; and a few other small inconsequential things.

  I took a handkerchief out of the plastic bag and held it to my nose, searching for Widad’s smell. I imagined I could detect the delicate smell of feminine sweat, mostly evaporated over the years. I didn’t smell soap or detergent, which meant that the smell on the handkerchief, whatever it was, was the smell of Widad. I pressed the cloth against my nose for a moment, until I had memorised the smell, and then returned everything to its place and closed the dresser.

  I sat back down near the old man. We needed a few moments’ silence: for him to remember that smell, and for me to inscribe it in my memory. Without my prodding him, Shaykh Nafeh began again:

  “We were very happy during those innocent trysts under the guardianship of Suad, who chaperoned us and whom we loved, under protection of the darkness of the cinema, until the day we had feared and always knew would come. Khojah Bahira found out about our meetings.”

  I detected a cloud of sadness rolling over Shaykh Nafeh’s face.

  “How did she find out?” I asked him. “Who told her? Did someone catch you there, God forbid?”

  “Nobody ever saw us together. We continued to take the same precautions whenever I was at the Roxy Cinema. I would come out, as I explained to you, before the end of the film, that is, before the lights went up.”

  “So how did that bitch manage to find you out?”

  “The boy who used to deliver the tickets and the messages ratted on us.”

&n
bsp; “My God…” I said. I was surprised.

  The old man was silent for a moment before explaining to me how it all came to pass.

  “Bahira could feel Widad growing distant from her. She noticed that she was becoming distracted all the time. She no longer responded to caresses or kisses. She asked to be left alone, and spent time with Suad in a bedroom or on the rooftop. They would gossip with one another for long stretches of time. Khojah Bahira would ask Widad to join her at the hammam when she bathed. She began to notice how Widad would shrink away from her ablaya’s ageing female body. Widad would even avoid going to the hammam with her. In bed she would yawn and pretend to be asleep whenever Bahira tried to get intimate with her. When the Khojah asked why her sweetheart was drawing away from her in body and in spirit, Widad responded that everything was totally fine—she was tired—or she gave some other excuse. Bahira also asked Suad about it, but she would only ever say that she had no idea about Widad’s state of mind. She allowed Suad to accompany Widad to the cinema to try to keep her happy. She was a young woman who had always adored love stories. She loved films. And although Bahira had refused at first, she eventually relented when she saw how sad Widad had become. The two young women would go to see a film every week and then tell Bahira the plot of whatever they had seen. As soon as they got back from the cinema, Widad would ask Suad and Aisha and Faridah to play for her so she could dance. Dancing to their music put her in a good mood, one befitting a woman who had just come back from a rendezvous with her sweetheart. At the end of the night, once she had danced and laughed to her heart’s content, she would evade Bahira’s caresses and kisses and advances. If her ablaya tried to embrace her once they were in bed together, she would ask her to leave her in peace so she could sleep. Widad was becoming happier and more beautiful but also more distant. Bahira sensed this right away because of how much she loved her and how jealous she could be. Nobody likes to see their significant other so affected by experiences they have nothing to do with. One time she sent Bahiya, the oud player married to the pimp, to follow them and find out whether they were actually going to see films together. Did they go inside together and come out together? Bahiya reported that there was nothing to be suspicious of. But with Widad’s continuous and inexplicable coolness, Bahira started to monitor her more closely. Finally she noticed how the baker’s employee who delivered their bread every day would speak to Suad for a long time. The last time, after Suad and Widad had left for the cinema, the Khojah summoned the young man and told him he should tell her everything because she already knew what was going on anyway. She threatened to report him to his boss if he didn’t tell her the truth. If he told her what she wanted to hear, she would reward him with a silver majidi coin. The young man spilt the beans. He told her all about the tickets and the messages he delivered to a young man named Nafeh. And immediately Bahira knew it was me. My visit to her house was unforgettable.