These sensitivities hurt Mahmud. He loved his father, perhaps more than he loved anyone else. On the day of his wedding, when his father had called him to his room at the time of the contract writing and had stuffed into his pocket two hundred pounds, he had cried like a little child and had tried to embrace his father. But the older man had pushed him away coldly. It was like being stabbed, at a time when his heart and soul felt so open to his father, at a moment when he was far more in need of his father’s love than of his father’s money. It hurt him deeply, his father’s refusal to give him love even though that would not cost anything, when the money had been so difficult to scrape up. Only God knew how much that had cost him!
And then, on the day he was to travel to Port Said with his wife, at the moment when he was to start a new life, he stood before his father’s room, knocking on the door to say goodbye. But his father had left the door closed. He had left it in place that it might divide and separate the two of them, and to this day it remained shut.
Each time his father had asked, “Son, do you need money?” Mahmud had always answered, “Thank you, Papa, no.” But what he really wanted to say, each time, was: “I don’t want anything—except for you to love me the way you used to love me.” But words like these were not to be uttered. And love was not something that could be summoned at will. Either it was there or it was not. His mother’s love for him, for instance, had not changed at all. She was exactly as she had ever been, her beaming face, her vast love that she was so shamefaced about demonstrating, her shy touches, the little eyes that a mixture of worry and tenderness always governed. And his sister. His sister Layla loved him. Indeed, it seemed that her love had doubled in recent days. But she had changed. It was as if the water of life had dried up in her.
Had there been some development in her relationship with Ramzi? Sanaa said that she loved him, and had much esteem for him, and that Our Lord was above and Ramzi just below as far as Layla was concerned. But then why did she avoid any mention of him? And why had she changed? Had she discovered that Ramzi did not love her? That he was incapable of love? Ever since that conversation with Ramzi, he had been uneasy. He wanted to intervene but Sanaa told him not to get involved. She said that any demolition of Ramzi was equally destructive to Layla, because she had such a deep-seated belief in him. But what had happened? Had her conviction been shaken? Had the god been shattered before her eyes? Had she come to recognize in him the individual who hid his scorn for himself under an appearance of strength, and who justified his weakness by means of profound theories? The person who grew at the expense of others—like a creeping vine—and who felt confident only when he had crushed any will that might oppose his own, the opportunist who consecrated his own intelligence and the humanity of those around him to achieve his own personal, self-interested aims—had the veil been stripped off? Had she seen him for the person he truly was?
But then why was she so utterly compliant? Why had she submitted, without saying a word? He had tried hard to make her talk about herself, her coming marriage, and future life. But she fled from him every time; she made him talk about himself and Sanaa. When he did so, her behavior bemused him. She would take his hand between hers; squeezing it, she would smile and cry at the same time. She would look at him in mute adoration as if he were a legendary hero. One time, fear in her eyes, her smile had faded suddenly. She had leaned close to him and whispered. “Take care of Sanaa, Mahmud. Watch out for her.”
“What are you afraid of?” he asked her in bewilderment. “Layla, just tell me what you are afraid of.”
She straightened up and said bitterly, her eyes gazing into the distance, “It’s not enough that you are building something beautiful, Mahmud. What is important is that you preserve its beauty.” She leaned toward him again, as she said brokenly, “Always, Mahmud . . . always.”
She seemed almost to choke on her affection for him, as if her whole life depended on his happiness—his and Sanaa’s—and as if her own happiness did not concern her at all. She acted as if it were no one’s concern. And she ascribed the change in her health to stomach pains. “I’m not digesting, well, Mahmud, that’s all.”
“What do you mean, you aren’t digesting well?”
“Whenever I eat, right away I get a burning in my chest and a headache.”
“Are there any particular foods that bother you? Eggs, for instance, or milk?”
“Everything, even dry bread.”
He examined her more than once but could find no specific physical cause for the pains she felt. Her gall bladder was fine; her liver was not inflated; there were no colon cramps that would suggest chronic intestinal or bowel problems; there was no . . . But she would moan in pain whenever he probed her stomach wall even lightly.
He yanked the stethoscope from his ears and stared at her. “It’s nerves, Layla. Your abdominal nerves are suffering.” His gaze revealed dozens of questions. Layla’s lips trembled and she turned her face away. She sat on the bed and said, laughing as she straightened her clothes, “Nerves? So now doctors don’t have any tricks up their sleeves except to say it is nerves? Or is this what you say, Mahmud, when you don’t know how to diagnose an illness?”
He did not laugh. He was determined not to let her slip from his grasp this time.
“Layla, what’s wrong? What is it? Tell me—I’m your brother.”
Layla closed her eyes. Her face convulsed as if someone had just slapped her. Their mother entered the room. Mahmud tossed his stethoscope angrily into his bag. His mother always came in at precisely the wrong moment, as if she were delegated to do so. Maybe his father was afraid for him to be alone with Layla.
“So what is there, son?” she said. “What did you find?”
Still angry, Mahmud said, “Nerves, ya sitti. Her nerves are a complete wreck.”
“Nerves?” His mother’s tone of voice made it clear that she did not believe him. “What do you mean, nerves, son?” And his father waved off his diagnosis with the word “nonsense!”
But the father’s anxiety was growing. He must broach the subject of setting a date with Ramzi. Layla was approaching her final exams, and there no longer seemed any justification to put it off.
He sat listening to Ramzi, waiting for a gap that would allow him to launch into the subject. But it was not easy to find one. Ramzi had an amazing ability to focus the conversation on himself; on the plots that had been mounted against him and how he had foiled them; on the plans he had sketched out and how they had succeeded; on the books he had written and on the ones he intended to write; on the victories he had chalked up, and the ones yet to come. He was equally skilled at enveloping his words in an aura of importance that reached almost the level of sanctification, as if the fate of the entire world depended on the point he was about to make or on the next step he would take to crush his adversaries. It was impossible for his future father-in-law to interrupt; that would certainly be outside the bounds of polite exchange. So Ramzi went on and on while the father fidgeted. When Ramzi paused to collect his thoughts, the father could no longer contain himself. The words rushed out.
But, no, no—there was no reason to rush things. Everything required due preparation; everything had to be given sufficient consideration. Choosing a place to live, for instance, was a very important operation and must be mounted on a firm foundation. That could not happen until Layla had started her new job. Their residence must be as close as possible to her place of work so that she would be able to take care of all domestic matters. Good organization was the basis of married life. He could not make any compromises on the question of organization, because he intended his home to work like a well-oiled machine—everything in its place, everything in its time. How could Layla possibly undertake all of these duties if her workplace was far from the home? No. Getting married in July would be premature indeed. It wasn’t like boiling an egg. It must be studied from all angles.
What would he suggest? He proposed that all the necessary preparations be made
, and then they could leave the question of setting the date until after Layla had been appointed to her post.
This time, though, the father did not comply. He would set that date, even if it was to be months away. They must set the date. He could no longer stand to leave it up in the air. So they agreed on the first of October 1956 as the date for the wedding of Layla and Ramzi. The father was not content with this postponement, which seemed so unjustified. It meant waiting three months, more than three months. And who knew what might happen in three months? Layla was a good girl, but she was under bad influence, that of Mahmud and the other woman. Had her father known that Layla had begun to meet Sanaa daily and to spend as much time with her as possible, his worry would have been even greater.
Chapter Twenty-Three
SANAA HAD SETTLED IN CAIRO so that she could take her final exams. After each one she and Layla headed for their old corner behind the library. On the grass, in the shade of the big tree, they sat. Suddenly, everything was as it had been so long ago: everything was good. Layla was the fun-loving girl, laughing from deep in her heart, until tears would spring from her eyes.
Abruptly Sanaa would ask, “And how’s Ramzi?”
Still laughing, Layla would say, “He’s crushed half the world and has the other half still ahead of him.”
Sanaa gazed into the distance and began yanking out handfuls of grass. Without looking at Layla, she said, “So why don’t you leave him, Layla?”
Layla sighed. Her voice was calm. “Everyone has their own lot in life, Sanaa.”
Sanaa straightened up and faced her. “There is no such thing as a ‘lot in life,’ Layla. We make our own fates.”
“Well, I made my own fate, with my own hands.”
“Okay. But that’s no reason to destroy yourself.”
Layla bent toward her and spoke in a whisper, as if to reveal a secret. “Believe me, Sanaa, I don’t deserve any better.”
“You’re wrong. You are a girl who—” But Layla put her hand firmly over Sanaa’s mouth and said in a decisive voice, “Don’t trouble yourself, Sanaa. I know myself very well.”
Sanaa pushed Layla’s hand away from her mouth gently and took it between her own hands. “And Mahmud? Mahmud can’t help you out, Layla?”
Layla snatched her hand away. With a bitter laugh, she said, “Mahmud? Can he raise the dead after they’ve rotted away?” But Sanaa grabbed her knees and almost shouted. “Why? Why, Layla? Why are you so full of hate for yourself?”
“Because it is all the truth.”
Sanaa and Layla walked toward the university’s main gate, their faces somber. As they passed by the tables in the courtyard Sanaa stopped suddenly and turned to face Layla. “Guess what, Layla? Do you know who visited us in Port Said?” Her voice had softened musically and her eyes shone.
A tremor ran all the way through Layla, as if an exposed electric wire had touched her. “Who?” Her voice was a whisper. She did not really need to ask, though, since she already knew. The blood rushing to her heart knew; like that sense of electric shock, it collected in her head.
“Husayn,” said Sanaa triumphantly. In silent accord the friends headed toward one of the tables. Sanaa ordered two Cokes. She changed the subject immediately, as if she meant to keep Layla in agony. Layla’s hand trembled on her glass, and questions crowded into her mind. But she did not ask them. She waited, her heart pounding, for Sanaa to come back to the subject of Husayn.
Sanaa did return to the subject, eventually, and she answered all of the questions Layla had wanted to ask but had held back. All except one, the most important one.
Yes, Husayn had returned from Germany, two months ago. As usual, he looked splendid. He had changed a bit; he seemed more attractive, more manly; he had acquired a quality that was hard to pinpoint, but it was visible in his walk, his voice, his eyes. A new contentment, as if he had undergone a trial and had discovered that he was stronger than he had believed. He was so pleasant, Sanaa exclaimed. He had spent two days with them in Port Said, which had been among Mahmud’s happiest days, she thought. Mahmud was astonishingly attached to him, so much so that Sanaa could not help but feel jealous. And Husayn had an amazing amount of influence on Mahmud, but Sanaa did not object to this at all; in fact, she welcomed it, for Husayn made Mahmud feel that all was well with the world, that people were good, and that everything was within reach. He convinced Mahmud that dreams really could become realities.
He had joined the army and was working in the munitions factories. He still had dreams for the future, of course, he always did. He had spent three hours sketching blueprints and explaining them to Mahmud, who had been dazzled, while she had been on the point of screaming, she had gotten so tired of hearing the details.
“And you know what he was sketching out? The High Dam, ya sitti.” Sanaa laughed. “And the way he was talking about it? You’d think he was talking about his beloved.”
Layla smiled fleetingly. Sanaa looked at her and said mischievously, “And can you believe it, Layla?”
Layla stopped breathing.
“Can you believe that Husayn is still in love with you?”
Layla felt her eyes water and she blushed. She bent over the table and tried to say, “That’s ridiculous.” But instead, what came out was “How did you find that out?” Sanaa burst out laughing. Layla’s face was a study in bewilderment, for she felt completely undone by this. It had been a long time since anything had been able to shake her. And here she was, trembling away, as if she were just a young teenager. Everything, everything inside her was trembling. And Sanaa was laughing at her. Layla spoke with an anger directed more at herself than at Sanaa. “What are you laughing at?”
Sanaa went on laughing. Then she pulled herself together and extended both hands in a theatrical flourish. Imitating Layla, she said in a heightened stage voice, “Can he raise the dead after they’ve rotted away?”
Layla could not keep from laughing. “You’re a disaster!”
“God’s truth, the only disaster around here is you. Acting as if you are on your deathbed without any justification at all. You? Dying? You have enough life in you for ten people.” She started laughing again. Then both were silent, Sanaa suddenly despondent, as if she had grave matters to contemplate. She leaned forward over the table toward Layla, her face calm. “Go on, Layla, marry Ramzi, since that is what you want to do. But face the truth first, the truth that you keep on trying to escape.” She stopped talking as Layla’s hand crept across the table, trembling like a tiny, wounded animal. In her friend’s eyes Sanaa saw a look of supplication, begging her not to speak, as if the facts, the truth, would not be real as long as she did not speak, as long as the truth was not shaped into living, breathing words. Sanaa hesitated, but then she flung out her words roughly, as if slapping someone out of a faint. “The truth is, Layla, that you love Husayn. You have always loved him and you always will.”
Layla felt dizzy, as if she were suddenly bleeding inside. She put up her hands to cover her face. Without looking at Sanaa, without saying a word, she took her bag from the table and got up. As she walked away Sanaa called after her, but she would not stop. Her steps were long and fast, as if someone were chasing her. She threw herself onto the first bus that stopped in front of the university gate, not even looking to check where it might be going. She sat down, head bowed, shrinking into herself, clutching her book bag. Husayn’s words echoed in her ears. One morning you will wake up and discover that you love me. The words stopped in midair, they swam together, they piled atop each other. But they were always the same words. One morning . . . you will wake up . . . one morning . . . But that morning had come so late. So late that it would have been better never to wake up, better if that morning had never come. Everything was so clear now. Clear, sharp, rough; and now it was not all the same to her. Her love for Husayn was sharp and rough, and so was her loathing for Ramzi. And her disgust with her own inabilities and weaknesses was even sharper and rougher. And there were the facts, the truth
s, bared. And Layla faced them, her eyes open, but feeling absolutely powerless over her own affairs.
Chapter Twenty-four
AT HER DESK, LAYLA RESTED her head in her palms. Her eyes were bright, gazing into the distance; her ribs could barely contain that astonishing fire that, so long absent, she had thought would never return. She had been pacing the room, pacing, pacing, yet the flames still burned, the embers glowed, still called her to cry, laugh, scream, jump; to kiss someone, anyone, to talk with someone, with anyone and everyone she could find.
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