A year or so ago a cousin had told him, under pledge of utter secrecy, that Leila was having an affair. He knew that the cousin was envious of Leila’s social success, yet doubted that she had made up the story. He had assured the cousin that he would be keeping an eye on Leila, and, the very next day, he had asked Leila’s favourite jeweller to deliver an emerald ring home. On the note accompanying the box that contained the ring, he had just signed his name. He did not know what had prompted him to send the ring. He could not explain to himself the meaning of his gesture. He had acted on an impulse. ‘Lovely ring,’ Leila had said the evening the ring was delivered, and had worn it ever since.
‘Selim, how good to see you! I must confess that I had my doubts about your coming. I know how you feel about these sorts of events. They’re not your favourite form of entertainment, but you’re forgiven.’ It was Bella S. speaking in her usual girlish voice. She was the wife of a man he liked, a clever financier who deserved much, much better than her. She was pretty but made it far too obvious that she was aware of it – something that really turned him off. In his eyes, her beauty was also marred by the fact that she could not string two sentences together without giggling like a schoolgirl. He had been mulling over whether or not to barge in on Leila’s private conversation when Bella appeared by his side. Then, almost immediately after Bella, it was Jean K., whose principal subject of conversation was cotton prices, no matter the occasion. Then Sami M., who had inherited his father’s sugar business, and let it run to seed. And Shukri Z., an intellectual poser but actually quite knowledgeable about a variety of subjects. And Ismail F., rentier and amateur artist, whose paintings were, according to Leila, starting to sell, and whom she had persuaded to donate a painting to the charity for the benefit of which the party had been organised. The painting was one of the lottery’s prizes. So, all in all, not an entirely uninteresting crowd. Still, he felt hemmed in, standing there surrounded by them. And what he had feared would happen happened even faster than he had anticipated. Someone started talking about politics.
‘Give me patience, God; now, I’ll have to endure hearing one platitude after another. They’ll rehash the same old stories and the same old ideas, and I’ll be expected to say something insightful. What a waste of my time!’ He was starting to regret having come, but told himself he must not show it. He’d give these people a few minutes of his time and exit discreetly with Emile Z. to play a game of backgammon at home.
Ismail F. was the one who started the ball rolling, asking ‘Does anybody know the real story behind the students’ gathering in front of the offices of Rose-El-Yusuf a couple of days ago, their demanding the author of an article about the Wafd to retract his statements publicly? Any idea who was behind the group of students?’
‘Take your pick,’ Sami M. replied, with scorn in his voice. ‘It could have been the Muslim brothers, or these new extremists who call themselves “Young Egypt”, or even these crazy Marxists, who, everybody knows, are funded by outside forces.’
Bella giggled, ‘Somebody told me that these “Young Egypt” extremists really mean what they preach.’ She giggled again, ‘Imagine, they refuse, absolutely refuse, to speak any foreign language. They won’t enter stores that do not carry Arabic signs!’ She giggled again. ‘And they’ll only buy from stores owned by Egyptians, and they go so far as to refuse to buy imported clothes. And they don’t drink. The funny thing is that they’re apparently pushing for women’s education!’ Final giggles? Not quite, as she went on, ‘The nephew of a friend of mine studied in France, fell in love with everything French, including a French girl, but, since returning to Egypt, has decreed that everything here is wrong, and that it is all the foreigners’ fault, and so he refuses to speak French, has stopped writing to the girl and has asked his parents to find him a suitable wife!’ Bella’s giggle turned into a rather shrill laugh, which took forever to die down.
‘Give him a couple of years and he’ll come back to his senses,’ Jean K. asserted.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it. He might join the religious fanatics, and then there is no knowing when, if ever, he’ll come back to his senses,’ Sami M. said knowingly.
It was Shukri Z.’s turn. ‘What concerns me is that many writers known for their secular, liberal views seem to be turning religious. It’s not just the fanatics who are the problem.’ Then he said under his breath, ‘We’re among friends, so I can speak my mind. Let me tell you that the real problem is the palace. Don’t raise your eyebrows, Jean! Believe me, the palace is a big problem. If the king was not playing the religious card to emasculate the Wafd (sorry Bella), there’d be much less trouble. And the irony is that, in the end, the religious forces will turn against him. He won’t be able to control them forever and, mark my words, when the police start muscling in on these men – really muscling in – the king will be in deep trouble.’
‘Talking about the palace, the Azhar paper has not given up on the notion of an Egyptian caliph,’ Sami M. chimed in.
‘Selim, why so quiet?’ Shukri Z. asked. ‘What do you think of the present situation? Students’ discontent? Anti-European sentiments? Strikes in the textile industry? People thought that the treaty with England, extending Egypt’s independence, would calm spirits down. It doesn’t seem to have had that effect. What do you make of all that?’
Shukri Z. had put him on the spot. He answered, ‘I’m merely a businessman. To talk about politics is beyond me. Zaki, whom you knew well since you were in his class at school, was the one interested in politics. He could have enlightened us tonight.’
‘God bless his soul,’ Shukri Z. said. ‘Yes, we all miss him. I loved discussing politics with him.’
‘But really Selim, you must have some opinions!’ Sami M. insisted.
All of a sudden, he remembered a conversation he had had a couple of weeks earlier. ‘Alright. I was having coffee with Mirit G. two weeks ago. He’s writing a book precisely on these questions. His position is that the country is past the question of independence, that nationalism and religiosity are side issues, that the real questions are economic. Mind you, the man himself is an economist. In short, he says that what ought to concern us is poverty and the unemployment of the hordes of students graduating every year with degrees that seem to mean less and less. He is very persuasive. I asked him whether he thought the answer is a faster pace of industrialisation. “Absolutely not,” he said emphatically. He favours concentrating on the agricultural sector. I’m not sure about that solution. It seems to me that there should be some balanced growth of both sectors. But I do agree with him that nationalism and religion are almost red herrings today.’
‘Oh, Selim, you are so down-to-earth!’ Bella almost shrieked.
‘Well, I’m getting hungry,’ he said, more pleased with his little speech than he cared to admit to himself. ‘I’ll see what these ladies managed to organise food-wise.’ He left the group probably too brusquely, but then he had had enough. He wanted to say nothing more, hear nothing more.
Not a single dish of the dozens of dishes beautifully laid out on the buffet table tempted him. He pointed to a couple of appetisers, which the waiters behind the table heaped upon on his plate, then he started wandering round the room, plate in hand, looking for Leila. There she was, still in the nook. Still talking vivaciously to the same youngish man. What a fool he had been to tear himself away from his desk to try to be, more or less, on time for the event. Had he arrived much later, he would have been happier, and she would not have missed him. So what should he do? Interrupt her conversation? Simply leave and tell her, in the morning, that he had suddenly remembered an urgent matter he had to attend to, and had to rush back to the office?
For the second time in the evening he did not have to take a decision. Somebody took him by the arm, saying, ‘Now, Selim, don’t disappear on us; something tells me that you’re tempted to do just that. I’m very tempted to leave too, but our wives would greatly disapprove, so let’s make the best of it. Let’s find a table wh
ere we can sit quietly, you and I. I’m thinking of branching into the property market and may come to you for advice in the next few weeks.’ Things were starting to look up. Farid T., the man who had just taken him by the arm, was the sort of man for whom he had time. A man who was smart, open to suggestions, low-key and very successful in his line of business, textile production.
‘By all means, do come and see me, any time,’ he replied, perking up. ‘Let’s grab this table in the far corner.’ He was already considering whether he should, one day, enter into some partnership with Farid T. If there was one man whose fortunes he might consider associating with his own, Farid T. would be that man. That he was Muslim was not an issue for him. In fact, in the current political climate, such an alliance might be a good idea. He ought to give the idea some serious thought.
The table to which he had pointed was at the very opposite end from where Leila was standing. Let her be this evening! After all, it was her evening.
Just as he and Farid T. were about to sit at the secluded table, a large group of men and women waved at them, pointing to empty seats at theirs. Both he and Farid T. smiled, nodded their heads in acknowledgement, yet proceeded to sit in their isolated corner.
It was then that he noticed a young, unescorted woman stepping into the room. Their table was close enough to the entrance doors for him to tell, despite his failing eyesight, that she was very attractive and was wearing no jewellery. At least, none that he could see from that distance. It was quite out of the ordinary for a woman not to be wearing jewellery at such a party. Her dress – a black, sheath-dress showing off her slender waist – was simple, flattering and elegant, but then anything would have looked elegant on that woman. Beautiful women who wore no jewellery always sparked his interest. He found the fact that they wore no jewellery seductive. It conjured up, in his mind, alluring images of nudity. Zaki too had been partial to unadorned women. ‘Bedecked like Christmas trees,’ his brother used to say derisively of many of the society beauties that happened to be the talk of town. The first time Zaki had introduced his wife to the family (they were married abroad), the only piece of jewellery she was wearing was small amethyst earrings. Lynx-eyed, their mother had immediately made a note of this, telling Zaki, while his sisters were entertaining his wife, ‘Isn’t she a bit too austere?’ And Zaki had replied, smiling, ‘That’s one of the many things I love about her, Mother.’ Leila, on the other hand, had always adorned herself like a Christmas tree – a fact Zaki had been gracious enough never to joke about. He himself had suggested to her, more than once, that she would look more attractive with less hanging around her arms and neck, but to no avail. She loved wearing jewellery. So, in the end, he had got used to her ‘Christmas tree’ look. But, every now and then, when he saw a beautiful woman walk in a room, free from the gold, the diamonds, the pearls, the rubies, and the turquoises typically adorning women in his circle, shameful but delicious fantasies would take hold of him.
He glanced at the young woman. He would love to meet her. He really would. Perhaps later. All of a sudden the evening acquired an unexpectedly pleasant complexion. First, the meeting with Farid T., whom he liked a lot and had not seen in a while, and now the prospect of getting to know this woman. He was about to ask Farid T. if he knew the woman, when two men surrounded her; and off she went with them, projecting a reserved yet, at the same time, a self-assured air. So he said nothing. Farid T. started talking business. He put the woman’s fair skin, dark hair and slender body, out of his mind.
Talk of business and the young woman’s image, which gradually crept back into his mind, made him hungry. ‘I’m famished,’ he told Farid T., ‘the appetisers weren’t enough; let’s get something more substantial.’ At the buffet table, the dishes seemed more tempting than they had earlier. He joked with the waiters, who served him abundant portions, and told himself that he would have to remember to congratulate Leila on the choice of dishes. Not bad at all for a buffet dinner! As he and Farid T. were heading back to the table, with very full plates, he saw the woman again. And again, from some distance. The two men who had welcomed her in the room were still with her. A third one had joined the little group. The three men seemed to be talking to her, more so than with one another. She stood still, with a vague smile on her face. She seemed so self-contained. ‘If I find out who she is, I’ll send her flowers later this week.’ It had been a long while since he had done that sort of thing. He used to send flowers to women who happened to strike his fancy for an evening.
‘Farid,’ he suddenly said, ‘tell me, who is that charming woman, standing there with the three men? The one in the black dress. Probably the only woman here who’s not wearing jewellery.’
‘You mean the dark-haired, fair young woman?’ Farid T. asked, sounding baffled.
‘Yes, yes. That’s the one.’
‘But … but … Selim, is it possible that you don’t recognise your niece, Zaki’s daughter?’
The two men were silent for what seemed like an interminable time for both of them.
‘I know that you had a falling out with her years ago, but don’t you get to see her sometimes?’ Farid T. said in a hesitant tone.
He felt so stupid, so stupid! For the first time in years – no, for the first time ever – he felt he wanted the earth to swallow him. What a loss of face! His cheeks were burning. He could feel them. Shame on him! So that woman was his niece, Zaki’s daughter? She would be in her late twenties now. He muttered, looking down, ‘I haven’t seen her in years.’
Farid T. looked at him, then looked at the young woman, after which he gently removed the plate from his hand, put it down on the buffet table, put his own plate down too, and said to him, ‘She’s a lovely and accomplished young lady; Zaki would be proud of her.’ And, nudging him, walked with him towards her.
He let himself be guided. He could not say no. He did not know whether he wanted to say no.
When she saw them coming towards her, she quickly walked towards them, stopped right in front of him, and with a delightful smile, said: ‘Good evening, Uncle Selim.’ She gave him a light kiss on the cheek. It was as simple as that.
‘If she is poor, then poverty suits her,’ he had to admit to himself. She was even more lovely from close up than from afar. She was truly irresistible, totally unaffected. She seemed to have no idea how attractive she was. Desire dissolved into an immense, all-enveloping tenderness for this niece of his – Zaki’s daughter. How foolish he had been to have kept her out of his life for all these years. ‘Zaki, forgive me,’ he prayed deep down inside. ‘I am guilty, a thousand times guilty.’ And she, after all these years, had greeted him as if everything had been alright all along. She had had the graciousness, tact and know-how to spare him any public embarrassment.
‘What happened to your hair?’ he asked a bit gruffly. ‘It used to be much lighter.’
‘I wish I knew, Uncle Selim. It just got darker and darker. I’m not used to how dark it has become.’
‘And where’s your husband?’ Again his tone was a bit gruff.
‘He’s in Alexandria.’
‘So, what are you doing here? Why has he left you behind?’
She laughed softly: ‘Well, he is working, Uncle, and working very hard. He will be back at the end of the week. When he works very long days, I prefer being in Cairo than in Alexandria. He understands that.’
Without any transition, he said firmly: ‘Come with me now. We must go and find your Aunt Leila, and then you must have dinner with us. We’ll find a suitable table. And you, Farid, why don’t you look for Nevine and join us for dinner? We would love that.’
He gave her his arm, which she took with much grace.
Arm in arm, they walked through the room in search of Leila who, he was certain, would be delighted to see the girl, having always taken the position that he had been far too uncompromising in this unfortunate affair but, since it was his family, it was not up to her to interfere. In reality, Leila rather liked the man his niece h
ad eloped with. She found him entertaining and, until the falling out had occurred, used to invite him regularly to her parties, for his good conversation. Leila would be all in favour of a reconciliation.
As they were walking through the room, people were looking at them, or rather at her. He made a point of slowing down. She quickly adjusted her pace to his. ‘This is happiness,’ he found himself thinking, and he wished that moment could last forever.
Heat
‘I must be out of my mind to be chasing after tomatoes at two in the afternoon in the middle of August in Cairo,’ she kept telling herself, walking like a zombie under the scorching sun. She should have been napping – not on a pavement whose blistering heat she could feel through the soles of her sandals. But now that she was there, she wasn’t going to turn back until she had found the right tomatoes – firm yet ripe, with the aroma of vines like those she had bought a couple of days earlier from an itinerant street vendor who had only tomatoes on his cart.
Cairo Stories Page 10