The Open Door

by Latifa al-Zayyat

  The telephone rang, rang, rang; the sound grew louder minute by minute. Layla clutched the doorknob, her whole body shaking with her powerlessness, her loathing, her refusal. The ringing inflamed her nerves and pounded in her head, carving out holes there that grew bigger minute by minute, leading her to madness. She burst out screaming, pushed the door and left the apartment at a run, panting. When she reached the street and the ringing no longer resounded in

  her ears, she breathed a sigh of relief, covering her face in

  her hands.

  Mahmud was late getting home that night. Sanaa was in the kitchen, about to cook spaghetti for supper. Layla was waiting for her brother in the front room. He sat down to take off his army boots, obviously in pain from standing on his feet for such a long stretch of time.

  “What news?” asked Layla.

  Mahmud’s eyes flashed. He opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. He flipped his palms upward; that was the only way he could express the feelings he held inside. He took a deep, relaxed breath and finally was able to speak.

  “All’s well with the world, Layla.” He settled back into his chair as he went on. “A twelve-year-old boy! He came into the training center wanting to get training. I told him, ‘You’re too young.’ He gave me a look and said, ‘I’ve grown up in the past couple of days.’” Mahmud struck his hand against the chair. “And I realized that it wasn’t just him who had grown up. We all have, in the past few days. All of us, no exceptions.”

  The water boiled. Sanaa dropped the spaghetti into the pot and turned up the flame. Layla turned involuntarily toward the phone. A sense of shame and embarrassment flooded over her. She had not faced her father or Ramzi, after all. Mahmud started talking again.

  “The whole town has become one giant military camp, all abuzz. A train arrives every hour, full of volunteers.”

  Layla’s face lit up. Mahmud bent over, picked up his boots, and got to his feet as he spoke. “Guess who arrived today?”

  Layla blushed. “Husayn?”

  “No, of course not. He’s in Sinai.”

  “Then who?”

  “Guess.”

  Layla laughed, to hide her confusion. Mahmud said, triumphantly, “Isam.”

  “You’re kidding! That’s unbelievable.”

  “What’s so unbelievable?”

  “And my aunt? How could his mother let him go?”

  Mahmud turned his palms upward again, a boot still dangling from each, and distended his face, showing his amazement with theatrical exaggeration. Layla burst out laughing. He shook his head lightly as if something had happened that defied all explanation and belief. He went toward his room, and at the door he turned to face Layla, speaking in a soft voice.

  “Didn’t I tell you, Layla? We’ve grown up.”

  He was almost whispering as he said, “This is the miracle, Layla. The miracle.”

  And they heard the air raid siren again.

  Day after day the time between siren warnings shrank until there were no spaces left. Then the sirens stopped altogether, for the raids were now one constant attack. The anti-aircraft guns exploded so often that they were on the point of melting, and behind them crowds of people gathered to cheer. An old man with snow-white hair stood among the throngs, behind the customs battery.

  “Keep it up, Muhammad!” And a burning airplane fell into the sea. Another suddenly swooped down, almost touching the heads of those who stood there, and directed its fire at the gunner. Muhammad bent double, howling in pain. A soldier jumped up from behind him, wanting to take his place. But Muhammad straightened up in position and with bloody hands fired his cannon at the airplane before it could vanish. He crept back among the crowd, leaving his place to his buddy, and lay on his back, his eyes fixed on the burning plane. When that plane reached the water, Muhammad smiled weakly and closed his eyes.

  Five days later the guns were quiet. Now the airplanes had begun to flatten the city. The populace buried their dead, dressed the wounded, and waited. When the parachute troops came down in al-Gamil, al-Raswa, and Port Fuad, they found people waiting for them. The battle had joined, that was very clear; things had taken a new turn. To evacuate the remaining women, children, and elderly folk in Port Said became urgent. Yet all the roads out of town were blocked—all but one.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ELEVEN A.M. ON NOVEMBER 5, 1956. Heavy clouds clung to the air, thick and dusty. The sun penetrated from behind the clouds, cleaving blue gaps laced with white. The clouds wrapped an ash-gray, dusty sash around Manzala Lake, and on the lake’s surface black shadows trembled: boats, little and big, boats fuller than they should be and others not yet filled; and people, crossing the dock toward the boats, burdened with their belongings. Other shadows threw themselves down on shore and buried their faces in the water, quenching a thirst that could not be satisfied; and there were the unmoving shadows of those who waited. On the surface of the water was imprinted the shadow of a tall, slender young woman, crossing the quay slowly, her steps dragging, going toward the lake, her hands wrapped with delicate care around a bundle that she had packed and smoothed down painstakingly. The young woman stopped suddenly, turned, and ran back in the direction from where she had come, away from the water, shouting, “Adil! A-a-dil!”

  From the boat, her mother called, “Fayza! Fayza!” But Fayza did not respond. With difficulty she cleared a path for herself amidst the hundreds of children, women, and elderly people lined along the shore. She almost collided with a child whose eyes were opened to their widest, as if he felt a burning pain there. The child looked at her almost knowingly, disapprovingly, as if to say, “What are you in such a hurry about? What is there to make anyone hurry so?” The child’s gaze was more that of an elderly man, suddenly decrepit; as if he had instantly grown into adulthood and beyond, nourished on the terror he had witnessed day and night for five full days. Fayza patted his shoulder clumsily and went on pushing her way as rapidly as she could through the crowd, trying to summon enough breath to go on shouting. “A-a-adil!”

  A youth in the uniform of the popular resistance turned. He had given his back to the crowd of reluctant passengers but now he came running toward Fayza. He put his hands on her shoulders and stood facing her, looking into her eyes without speaking. She regained her breath and then began running her tongue around her lips, unable to express what she felt. She bit on her lower lip and spoke in a whisper. “You’ll come—won’t you, Adil? You’ll be coming?” Her eyes reflected depths of anguish, as if the collective grieving of those women crossing the quay to the lake, having left on land sons and husbands, and the bodies of sons and husbands, had coalesced in the eyes of this young woman who could not have been more than seventeen years of age.

  Adil smiled. “It isn’t me who will be coming. It’s you—you’ll come back, Fayza. We’ll get married here in Port Said—in our city.” Fayza gazed at him fearfully, and her eyes met his in a long look. Her pretty face brightened with a lovable smile that set dimples in her cheeks, her eyes shining with a sweet hope as if a hand had brushed away the frightening apparition she had lived for five days. Her eyes had room only for the vision of herself and Adil, happy as children on the golden shoreline of Port Said, as if she were running, Adil chasing her, catching up to kiss the back of her neck, the sun teasing her body and dancing like a scattering of diamonds on the azure surface of the water.

  The water? The shore? Where were they? It seemed as though she had not seen either one for one hundred years. Had she always lived amidst fires and decaying corpses? Her eyes swam, and she clutched the bundle she carried closer, as if to protect it from an enemy lying in wait.

  “When? Adil, when?”

  “Right away, Fayza. Right away, love. If the enemy comes in he’ll have to come in over our dead bodies, and if he stays one day, he won’t stay two.”

  Fayza hugged the bundle to her chest and said in a choked voice, “Adil, you have to stay alive, you have to, Adil.”

  Concealing the stra
in he felt beneath a layer of nimble softness, Adil said, “Don’t worry, Fayza. The troublemaker lives long.” Fayza did not laugh at his proverb, though. “Promise me, Adil. Promise me,” she whispered. In a half-serious tone, Adil said, “Okay, I promise you, sweetheart.” Fayza’s tears and her smile mingled; amidst her tears, her eyes filled with the image of her love. Adil had promised her; Adil had never lied to her. Adil would rout the enemies, Adil and the thousands of Egyptians whose courage she had seen with her own eyes. Hadn’t they destroyed the parachutists in Port Fuad and al-Gamil?

  She would come back. Of course she would return to her city, her home, to the sea and the shore. She would return to Adil and they would be together, and alive, both of them. This was her right and his. God could not possibly allow anyone to steal what was rightfully theirs: their right to love and their right to live.

  Adil said in a whisper, “I promise you, Fayza, that you will come back to Port Said and that all of those folks down there will come back, too.” His eyes swept the shore. The boats that were already filled with passengers were unfurling their sails, and the launches were firing their engines in preparation to leave. In front of the quay a small white launch sat, empty except for a woman in braids, dressed in black, carrying in her arms a sleeping child, fearful eyes glued to him as if she were drawing her capacity to stay alive from his presence there, sleeping on her breast, as if she did not sense her own existence except through his.

  Sadness hung over the scene, a gentle melancholy, gentle and soft like the glistening water, its sting lightened by the hope of rescue and of meeting again. Quickly and soundlessly but for the kisses and heartfelt words of farewell, the rest of the boats and launches filled. On the quay a mother roughly pulled away a boy who clung to his father’s neck; a son carried his elderly mother to a waiting boat; a wounded man with his leg bound leaned heavily on a woman’s shoulder.

  On shore were left only a few people, standing in scattered groups, and an old man sprawled on the ground, his hand on his cheek, waiting patiently, submissively, while the submissive tears dribbled from the eyes of a full, comely young woman standing with a thinner young woman whose lips were pressed together tightly, next to two young men in the uniforms of the popular resistance. Silence had come over all four.

  Layla could not keep back her tears. She felt a profound sense of defeat, as if someone had hit her very hard, so hard that she could not even scream in protest. Her tears pooling at the corners of her mouth, Layla said, “Do we really have to leave, Mahmud? Isn’t there anything we can do here? Can’t we help?”

  Mahmud leant down, pushing the suitcases closer together, then straightened up and said in a stifled voice, “Are we going to get into this again? I told you—you would just slow us down. You’ll get in our way. The woman who truly wants to serve leaves the place to the men.”

  Layla’s eyes widened as they met Isam’s gaze. Isam saw the insistent, silent plea in those eyes and averted his gaze. Sanaa pressed her lips tighter in anger. The sound of a woman’s voice came, calling, “Fayza! Fay-ay-za!”

  “Mama’s calling.” Adil pulled her closer, took her in his arms, and kissed her on one eye after the other. He brushed quavering lips against her cheeks and let her go. “Goodbye. Goodbye, love.”

  She clung to him madly. He repeated with an insistence that seemed forced, “Goodbye.” She whispered, “I don’t want to leave you, Adil. I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

  Her voice shaking, Sanaa said, “And why you? Why should you stay here by yourself?”

  Mahmud answered roughly, more roughly than the situation called for. “I’m a man.” Then he added in a softer tone, “I think we’ve already discussed this, Sanaa.”

  She looked at him accusingly, tears glistening in her eyes. Since their marriage she had shared every moment of his life, every emotion, every experience. Why did he want to banish her now? Why must he set her aside? She opened her mouth and raised one hand to give her words emphasis, but then seemed to think better of speaking; the words froze on her lips and her hand hung in the air.

  A woman’s voice rose, moaning in terror and fright. “Fayza! My daughter, my girl.” From above dove a flock of airplanes, the terrible screech growing as they neared the lake. Layla whispered, as if in prayer, “No, impossible. Impossible, Lord. No.” The answer to her entreaty came in Mahmud’s anxious stare upward. Adil’s hands shook on Fayza’s body as he said, no longer able to keep the anxiety out of his voice, “Run—run, Fayza!”

  Fayza smiled securely in his embrace. “Don’t worry. All day long they’ve been barking like maddened dogs.” Her mother’s voice floated to them again, louder than ever, in frenzied despair. Fayza kissed Adil again. “Wait for me, Adil. Wait for me.” She turned and began to run toward the lake, Adil’s eyes on her. From time to time she whirled halfway round, her face shining with a lovely smile, her left hand waving, her right folded carefully around the bundle she carried. She began to cross the quay. This time she turned completely around, to give Adil a final wave.

  She fell on her face; the bundle flew from her arms. The woman in the braids raised frightened eyes from the child she clutched and stared skyward. She screamed, and the crazed, pained echo of it reverberated as she waved both hands wildly. The surface of the lake was suddenly roiled with big round circles interspersed with explosions and yells. Scream after scream, scream upon scream, a mountain of screams leaping from earth to sky. A short scream lasted only seconds, but a whole life weighted it, a terror, a torrential desire to go on living, a painful despair of life. Revolution, love, hatred, submission, all the specters of the past and the glimmer of what might have been in the future were in those screams.

  No one could see anything. The earth exploded, and from it whirled a thick storm of dust that veiled one’s eyes. The airplane withdrew, lighter now, having dropped its burden onto the people there—shadows in the lake, shadows on the shore. The dust cloud was breaking up, its place filled by a sticky black smoke mingled with the odor of roasting flesh. Smoke rose from a fire that leapt across the lake surface, covering distances occupied by boats full of people as well as empty ones. The screams grew quieter; the air cleared; the scene was visible. Little by little the circles carved by drowning bodies dwindled, until the lake was completely smooth and even again. The water once again washed to shore gently, quietly; on the surface floated bits of burning wood and a rubber doll, its eyes closed, smiling, bobbing, up and down, up and down.

  Layla had felt nothing, except that the earth had given a violent shake as if a volcano had exploded directly beneath her feet. Something had thrown her to the ground. Buried under a heap of dust, she lost consciousness. When she began to come out of it, and before she was fully alert, the thought formed in her head that she had died and here she was, buried. The dirt filling her nostrils and weighing down her body was her grave. She wanted so much to let her body go, to lose herself, and to submit quietly. But something kept her from letting go. A broken moan, coming from here, from there, rising on all sides, as if the world itself was moaning, the world and the heavens, shaking her, again and again, keeping her from slipping into nothingness.

  Now it was not just the moaning that vibrated through her. She could make out voices, frightened voices, calling out names. And one of the names was hers. Among dozens and dozens of others, hers.

  And now it was not just one voice calling her name. They were all shaking her, all keeping her from going. She opened her mouth to scream, but the dust fell in and almost choked her. She closed her mouth and realized that she must shake off the dirt that had piled over her, she must do it herself, she must scrabble out her own path back to life. She supported herself on her hands and began to shimmy and crawl, slowly, as if bearing massive weights of iron, the dust still in her mouth and nose, her breathing constricted, her chest burning, her limbs wooden. A weight seemed to drag her earthward. It was not just the weight of the dirt; something else, soft, gluey, was summoning her to collapse, to rest,
just one moment, and everything would be over. A single moment and she’d feel nothing. She would sleep.

  But now the voices were calling her again, more and more insistently. All the voices, all calling her, all trying to get her to stand up, all preventing her from giving in. Something inside her was responding, too, something vast springing from deep within, something new and powerful that would not leave her be, something stronger than the fire that burned in her chest, than the iciness that shuddered in her limbs, stronger than that overwhelming desire to let go, than the dirt, than death.

  She scrambled to her feet. The light blinded her and she closed her eyes. Her hands groped for surfaces, for her body. Gradually she realized that she had come out of a massacre, whole. She opened her eyes to the light, now more bearable and familiar, but closed them again immediately and ran, staggering, as if someone had stabbed her from behind. She paused, hesitating, then turned. Her eyes swept across the scene, and then began to focus on one detail after another, slowly, as if she feared that she might miss something. She saw figures stumbling and swaying in confusion, wading through blood, colliding with scattered body parts—arms, legs, ripped-out bits of intestine, exploded skulls. The living trampled them and ran on, overturning the corpses, gazing into the faces of the wounded. No one was calling out any more. The dead would not answer; the wounded were too weak to respond with anything other than moans. Some of those still alive had stopped searching, for the answers to their calls had come. The man bending over the bodies of his wife and two children had been answered. The elderly gentleman crouching on the shore mounding the dirt, his face grim, his hands smoothing the little mound, never pausing, as if his soul was ransomed to preserving this perfect rounded mound from collapse. Over there, the handsome youth in the uniform of the popular resistance folded carefully a white wedding dress splattered with blood and dirt. He, too, had received his answer. What had the pretty, dimpled girl called him? What had she called this young man whose eyes burned without tears, as if suddenly packed with grit? Adil. That was what she had called him, the beaming young woman with the flowing hair and dimples who had danced with the joy of life as death circled over her head. The idea of death had never entered her mind; her imagination had had room only for love—of Adil and of life. Now nothing was left to Adil but a white wedding dress spattered with blood and dirt. Adil smoothed the gown with care, as if he were patting his beloved’s hair, as if he were whispering promises into her ear. He straightened up abruptly.