The smile on Doha’s lips came through in her voice as she thanked him for being such a gentleman, and reassured him, saying, “There are no problems. Canceling the show was what I wanted.”
He longed to ask her why she had asked to cancel the show, but did not want to pry too much, so he contented himself with the question, “Are you happy with your decision?”
“Completely,” she said calmly.
“Forgive my saying it, but that’s a total transformation.”
“It’s the transformation from the stage of the caterpillar into a butterfly with wings to soar.”
“Sorry?”
Doha laughed as she said, “I’ll explain when I see you.”
Right away he said, “When?”
“When you come back from the show.”
“I’m not going to the show. I’ve apologized to my friends.”
“Let’s have dinner then.”
That evening, when the guests had headed off to the catwalks, Doha was sitting in the hotel restaurant with Dr. Ashraf. The sadness he had seen in her eyes that morning had gone, and her face was once again radiant. Doha needed to talk to someone about her decision, and Ashraf was eager to know what had happened. She looked at the piece of butter that the waiter had carefully placed with the bread on her side plate. Then she said, “There was no need for you not to go to the show. What’s happened doesn’t merit all of that.”
He was telling the truth when he said, “What prompted me to accept my friend’s invitation was the presence of an Egyptian show at the Salon. Besides, their son’s show is also tomorrow, not tonight.” He fell silent for a moment, then continued, “Actually, I was interested to see your designs, and also keen to know how the audience would react to a show coming from Egypt.”
Because most of the hotel guests had left for the opening reception, the restaurant was nearly empty. Small wall lamps bathed the room in a low light. Each lamp had a pink shade, which cast a romantic glow.
Doha tried to cut a piece of butter with her knife, but it was still hard, almost frozen. She carefully put the knife down again. In the background, a beautiful piece of music started to play.
Ashraf ventured a comment: “What lovely music!”
Doha replied, “It’s the Capriccio Italien by Tchaikovsky.”
They listened in silence for a while, then Doha asked him, “Why were you so keen to see my designs, seeing as you’re a politician?”
“I’m very interested in anything related to our image abroad: how we appear to the world and how people view us. The show would have given me a chance to get to know a section of public opinion completely new to me.”
That was what he said to Doha, but there was another reason that he did not think it appropriate to mention and that he kept to himself. He had started to have feelings for Doha and anything to do with her. He found himself eager to attend her show and become acquainted with her work. But he did not tell her this. He said, “So when the Egyptian show was can-celled, I felt very disappointed and lost interest in seeing the cut of other people’s fashion designs.”
“But on the phone you sounded a little anxious.”
“I was afraid there was some problem.”
“Are you reassured now?”
“In that respect, yes. I just hope you didn’t cancel the show because you were afraid of the audience’s reaction.”
“Not in the least. This might have been my first show at Milan Fashion Week, but that didn’t worry me.” Doha cut easily into the butter, spread some on a piece of bread, and sprinkled it with salt.
He asked her, “So what happened?”
Chewing the bread, she said, “I’ve come out of my chrysalis, that’s all. As a result, my view of life has changed. My horizons have expanded, and the clothes I designed from inside the chrysalis don’t satisfy me any more and don’t express my vision in life.”
“I see you’re still in the world of the butterflies.”
“No, I’ve just entered it for the first time. It’s a rich world, not much different from the world of the ants and bees. But I only ever saw it from the outside. I was dazzled by their colors, but then I learned that there was so much more to them than that. For example, I discovered that there are native Egyptian butterflies with a history that goes back thousands of years. Did you know that one Egyptian butterfly can spend years in its chrysalis in the desert, waiting for rain? And when it rains it emerges as a butterfly despite all the years that have passed. I also discovered that the butterfly isn’t just a small insect with nothing special about it except its colored wings. No, it’s also a creature with a history. It has staved off extinction for thousands of years during which other creatures became extinct. That’s because it’s able to transform from a soft and helpless caterpillar into a free butterfly with beautiful wings to fly among the plants and flowers.”
Ashraf continued listening to her speak as Tchaikovsky’s beautiful melodies flowed in the background. The waiter came with the food, and there were a few moments of silence between them. It was as if their words should not be spoken before anyone else, even if that person did not speak their language.
Doha swayed silently with the music and Ashraf said, “The music is so full of joy.”
“I haven’t heard it for years,” said Doha. “Tchaikovsky composed it during a trip to Italy. He was inspired by the folk tunes he heard in the streets of Rome. He said they filled him with life after the frozen wastes of Russia.”
“He really managed to capture the delightful atmosphere of Italy and the warm emotions of the Italians. Just as you’ve managed to capture the essence of the butterfly.”
She said, smiling, “I never imagined that a conversation with a politician would revolve around the world of the butterflies, and that he would seem interested.”
“Does that seem strange to you? What would you say if I told you that the subject of my speech at the Palermo Conference is the butterfly?”
“I would say, ‘This man of politics is making fun of me.’”
“No, I swear. To be more precise, let me say that in my speech I refer to the butterfly effect.”
Doha displayed interest as she continued eating. He said, “It’s a theory by the famous meteorologist Edward Norton Lorenz, which says that every butterfly, however small, has an effect on the world’s weather. If a butterfly flutters its wings on one side of the globe, it affects the wind in some way on the other side. That is, any natural phenomenon is actually the result of the accumulation of small steps that might seem unimportant or irrelevant but have far-reaching effects.”
She looked amazed and said, “I’ve not heard of that theory before.”
“Lorenz proposed the theory for the first time in a famous lecture he gave in 1973 entitled, ‘Does the Flap of a Butterfly’s Wings in Brazil Set Off a Tornado in Texas?’”
“I wish I’d known about it before.”
“The butterfly effect shows that every living being, no matter how small, can affect the world.”
“It’s a brilliant theory. How do you use it in your speech?”
“I use it to give a scientific proof that the seemingly powerless individual can cause a whirlwind and have an effect on the state of the world. That’s the power of civil society.”
“When are you traveling to Palermo?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“I’ll come with you.”
He said nothing and started to fiddle with his beard. She realized that he was caught between embarrassment at welcoming her company and the rudeness of refusing.
Hoping he was wrong, Ashraf asked her, “Is it an Italian caprice?”
“Absolutely not,” she replied at once. There was another silence as Tchaikovsky’s music continued playing. Then she said, “I’ve visited most regions of Italy, but I’ve never been to Sicily. Now that I’ve decided not to take part in the Salon, I have nothing to do in Milan.”
He did not reply.
Doha finished her meal and neat
ly placed her knife and fork next to each other on the empty plate. She said, “Besides, I’m actually interested in observing this conference of yours. I still remember the NGO conference in Durban years ago. It was the talk of the world at the time.”
He smiled his genuine smile, which Doha had started to grow fond of, and said playfully, “I thought you said you didn’t like politics.”
“I really don’t like politics,” she said at once, “but I follow political news. Don’t think I’m a complete fool. Also, the Durban thing would have been hard for anyone to avoid. News of it was on every channel. At the time I was happy that there were organizations that represented ordinary citizens and were able to stand up to the world’s official governments and give people a powerful voice.”
This time Ashraf laughed as he said, “You’re a first-rate political activist, or at least a prospective activist.”
“I hope I won’t become that. I hate politics and politicians more than you can imagine.”
He looked at her with questions in his eyes. She looked at what was left of the butter on her side plate. It had all melted during their conversation.
17 Father
Ayman left Hassan’s house having resolved to go to Tanta in the morning. There he would find the woman whose name he had heard his father dictating to Abdel Samad more than six years before. A name that Ayman had repeated to himself every now and again over the years to make sure he did not forget it. His trip to Tanta would be the resolution to the story. Whenever he told it to his friends at college, they were dismissive, saying, “What film did you get that story from? You must have a really fertile imagination.” Just a few days before, his classmate Medhat had said, “Won’t you tell us the end of the never-ending saga?”
By making this trip, Ayman would know whether his mother was really still alive or whether this woman living in Tanta and married to another man, not his father, just had the same name.
He would have to go to Tanta first thing next morning. He could not wait in anticipation any longer. In his confusion, every second that passed played with his nerves, and they could not take it any more. His friends at college called it a black-and-white movie, and Ayman wanted to know the ending before they did. Did he have a mother who was still alive, or had his mother died years before as his father claimed?
Ayman’s relationship with his father had become quite cold. Whenever he was tormented by his confusion, he blamed his father, who had hidden the truth from him for all those years and who still refused to reveal any details about his mother or his life with her. There were periods when, for days on end, Ayman would exchange no more than a brief hello with his father in the morning or in the evening when he came home. And when he did come home, he would go to his room and stay there so he did not have to sit with his father in the living room.
Ayman was not happy about this situation, which was getting worse over time. Yet he did not have the resources to do anything about it. He loved his father, but his anguish had created a wall between them that he could not break through.
That day he decided to challenge his father’s silence. He would tell him he was going to look for his mother; going to find the truth that he had concealed from him.
On his way home, Ayman stopped at the kiosk at the end of the street and called Salwa on her cell phone. He said, “Don’t worry, my darling, I won’t be at college tomorrow. I’ve got an important trip to make. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.” She told him to take care of himself and blew him a kiss over the phone.
At home, Ayman found his father alone in the house. He was sitting on the backless divan in the living room watching TV. “What’s wrong?” asked Father.
“Nothing,” replied Ayman, “but I want to talk to you.” Ayman sat next to his father on the divan, the same one he had been sitting on the day he heard his mother’s name for the first time; the name he had since learned by heart.
Years had passed, and now Ayman sat on the same couch to tell his father that he had found his mother. He did not tell him how he had learned her address, but he gave him all the details he had. He told him he was going to see her the next day.
Father shook with anger. He punched one of the cushions between them and shouted, “I forbid you to do that! How can you rebel against me after all this time? Have you no gratitude?”
Ayman answered, “I’m thankful for everything you’ve done for me. But it’s my right to know my mother, and you didn’t tell me anything about her. Why didn’t you say that my mother was alive?”
“How am I supposed to know whether she’s alive or not?”
“In that case, let me go and look for her. She’s my mother and it’s my right to see her.”
Father did not know what to do to shield his son from this experience, which he did not want him to go through with. He was still only twenty years old and might not be strong enough to deal with what awaited him on his quest. What if it turned out that the woman was not his mother? Would he be strong enough to cope with the situation, or would he suffer crushing disappointment? What if she was his mother, but rejected him to save her new life? Would he be able to bear the shock? Father wished he could go with his son and not leave him on his own. The journey to the truth is the hardest journey in life. The boy was still young, so how could he abandon him to this journey, not knowing how he would return? Life was so hard, stopping him from accompanying his son on that fateful journey that he must make alone.
“I didn’t have to tell you all of this,” Ayman said to his father. “I didn’t have to let you know that tomorrow I’m going to find my mother. But I didn’t want to hide anything from you in the way you hid everything from us.”
“You don’t know anything,” said Father. He went quiet for a minute, then continued calmly, “There’ll be a day when you understand everything, just wait a little.”
“Wait for what? Wait for my heart to break or to have a nervous breakdown? I can’t bear to wait any longer. I don’t know how I’m going spend the night until tomorrow when I find out the truth you hid from me all these years.”
A momentary silence fell between Ayman and his father, which was broken by the cat meowing in the stairwell. Father lifted the armrest between them and put his hand on Ayman’s shoulder. He said, “Listen, my son, I’m not disputing that it’s your right to look for your mother and find out if she’s still alive. All I’m saying is wait a little. You’re in your final year at college and I’m worried that any shock will have a bad effect on you.”
Ayman responded quickly, “Waiting will kill me, Baba. I have to look for my mother. I have to look for myself. I don’t know who I am.”
Father gave in to Ayman’s wishes. His young son’s desire to find himself, to fulfill himself, was stronger than his father’s fears for him.
Father took some money out of the breast pocket of his gal-labiya. He gave it to his son, saying, “Here’s some money for the trip.” There was a knock at the door and Abdel Samad came in. He said hello to them and went into his room. Ayman thanked his father and kissed him. He told him he was tired and wanted to sleep before the next day’s journey.
It was midnight and Ayman had still not fallen asleep. Neither had his brother in the bed next to his. The light had been off since they had gone to bed more than two hours ago, but neither had been able to sleep.
Ayman sensed his brother’s tossing and turning in bed and said, “Are you still awake?”
He replied, “Yeah. And you?”
Ayman turned on the lamp by his bed and said, “I don’t think I’m going to sleep a wink tonight.”
“Me neither.”
As if lifting a heavy burden off his chest, Ayman said, “Tomorrow is a fateful day in my life.”
“In mine too,” replied Abdel Samad immediately.
Ayman could not keep the secret any longer and briefly told his brother that the next day he would go to Tanta to find their mother. He explained that he did not want to burden him with the details and cause
him more anxiety when he was about to start his new life.
His brother said, “My new life starts tomorrow.” In response to Ayman’s questions, he said, “Tomorrow, I’m going to meet Hagg Abdel Mu'ti, who’s arranged the employment contract in Kuwait. I’ll give him the five thousand pounds, and he’ll give me the contract and the plane ticket.”
“Where and when are you meeting him?” asked Ayman.
“At ten-thirty in the morning at an office downtown. Why do you ask?”
“I would have liked to go with you so you’re not alone. But by ten-thirty I might already be in Tanta. I’m leaving very early.”
“Don’t worry about your brother. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Ayman responded, “But you’re going to go out with all that money.”
“Don’t worry. I went to the bank yesterday and changed the whole amount into two-hundred-pound notes. I’ve put them in an envelope, and if anyone notices it, it will look like an ordinary letter.”
Ayman questioned him again: “This Hagg Abdel Mu'ti, do you know him?”
His brother sighed, as if he had heard or thought about all these questions before. “I’m not interested in knowing him,” he said. “I know where his office is. Anyway, he’s only an intermediary between me and the Sheikha. If he doesn’t give me the contract and the ticket, she’s sure to deal with him.”
“Can’t you put the meeting off for a day until I come back from Tanta? Then I can come with you, along with a few friends?”
His brother yelled at him, “Are you crazy? Do you want me to go at the head of a procession? What’s gotten into you? Do you want to ruin everything for me?”
Ayman kept trying to persuade his brother, but without success. In the end he said to him, “I’ve been waiting a long time for the day when I sort out the issue of my mother. But I’m willing to postpone it till the day after tomorrow and come with you on my own, without any friends.”
Butterfly Wings: An Egyptian Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) Page 9