Chapter Twenty-Eight
Layla’s wound was not serious. It was just a surface wound, and as soon as the shards that had gone into her right shoulder were removed she began to get better. At first the pain seemed to submerge all of her senses. It was a pain that had no harshness, no violence in it, but it was constant and hard, imposing itself so that she felt nothing else and thought about nothing else. The physician at the hospital tried to inject a painkiller but she refused, as if she had to get through this stage of pain on her own.
When the wound began to close the pain lessened quickly. And like a torrent long restrained, Layla’s thoughts flooded over her, thoughts and images, one after another, one on top of another. A moment in the battle when a bullet had whistled by her left ear as another had struck the ground; a stream of bullets raining down, marking out a wide circle in the sand; the circle narrowing around her as if an unseen hand were fixing it around her neck. And now she was stepping back, facing her father, protecting her neck with her hands, as Ramzi blocked her path and said, “It’s no use.” Now she was on the roof of their building, staring at the masses of bitter smoke on the day Cairo burned. And Husayn was saying, “This is not the end, Layla.” Walking on the seashore at Ras al-Barr, Husayn moving his finger down her arm and whispering into her ear, “I’m just waiting for you, waiting for you, darling.” In her room in Ras al-Barr, her fist contracting on the knob, the closed door, Mahmud shouting, “Goodbye, Husayn!” Hanging from the wall, the elevator cord dragging her downward. Down, dragged by the weight of dirt, buried at the quayside. Under the dirt, crawling. On the cold floor tiles after her father had beat her. Jumping to her feet, shaking the dirt off. Husayn saying, “Do you know what you’ll find? You’ll find yourself, the real Layla.” Bending to load her rifle with trembling hands, raising her head cautiously, seeing the soldier aiming at her, his face full of pockmarks, his awful yellow mustache, and jumping up, and aiming, and the enemy falling on his gun, and the circle being broken.
How many of the enemy had she killed?
At the start, when the second wave was landing at the airport, it was hard to tell whether her aim had hit its mark. The soldier would collapse onto the ground, holes filling his body as if everyone had killed him. But then . . . .
Layla sat up suddenly in her bed as she saw the enemy retreat in front of her, in front of her. She stretched her hands around her shoulders, hugging herself, quieting the surge of love and pride and confidence that swept over her body. Everything had happened just as it was supposed to. She had made no mistakes; nothing had gotten by her; she had done exactly what she had had to do. She lay down on the bed again; the wound had begun to hurt. She would live to see the enemy make a final retreat from Port Said. She would dedicate her life—if that was necessary—to see that enemy retreat before her, before her.
She sighed, feeling the tension abate. Her mouth curved into a smile when she caught sight of Mahmud, just coming into the room. He swept back the curtains from the window. “Hey? How are you doing today?” The light poured into the room and Layla stretched out in her bed. “Great.”
“The pain?”
“Gone.”
He sat down on the end of the bed. Layla took his hand and held it. “Mahmud, I want to leave the hospital.”
“Why are you in such a hurry?”
Layla gazed straight ahead, her eyes flashing. “I have to, Mahmud. I must.”
“Are you sure you are in good enough shape to leave?”
She leaned over to him and spoke in a tremulous voice. “I’ve never been better, Mahmud. Never.”
Mahmud overcame his astonishment as he spoke. “Anyway, we’ll get the opinion of the presiding physician.”
After Mahmud had left the room, Layla tried to recover the image of her father marching toward her, a weapon aimed at her, ready to mow her down. She tried to hear his cracked voice: “What do you need?” In her ears his voice echoed as he wept like a frightened child on the day she had become a woman. In her mind his image rose, leaning across the table, tears shining in his eyes, his face relaxed into a tender smile. She tried to get back Ramzi’s image, staring at Gamila’s breasts, that grimace playing across his mouth. She saw his face redden under Gamila’s gaze, like the face of an adolescent boy. She tried to imagine him as he had always appeared in class—tyrannical, powerful—and she saw him putting out his hand to dry his sweat in the depths of winter. Now here she was standing before his desk, facing him challengingly, his hand trembling as it gripped the desk edge, his lips trembling as she leaned toward him in the sitting room and said, “Would you like to know what it is I didn’t have?” And the military training suit swinging on her arm as she stood across from him on the threshold of the college building, smiling into his face, the smile of one humoring a little child. The veins flared on her forehead, she was concentrating so hard, but still she could not summon the image of Ramzi shutting the door and saying, “It’s no use.”
Later, she tried to bring any image of him into her mind but she failed completely. Somehow his image had been blotted out of her mind, as if it had never been there. She shook her head in wonder. Of what had she been so afraid? Of her father? Of Ramzi? She smiled, hardly able to believe that all of that had happened to her. To her?
Before her eyes flashed the image of herself pushing forward onto the battlefield, the enemy retreating in front of her. She must, she must see the enemy retreat from Port Said. And she could. She could do anything. Nothing seemed impossible now. She jumped up from her bed excitedly, her eyes blazing. She began to dart every which way, grabbing her belongings, as if she did not know where to start. Her hand knocked into her clothes, hanging on a hanger; she had not noticed them. She flailed around again, trying to make sure that she had everything. She stopped, right in the middle of the room, her eyes gazing forward, shining as if she had just seen the most beautiful of visions and had heard a voice calling. She turned, her arms out, and called, “Husayn.” But when she realized that no one was in the room, she came to her senses and closed her mouth firmly. With steady hands she packed. But Husayn was with her, as he had never before been, as if he had suddenly become a reality, a tangible presence to which she could extend her grasp, a presence she could embrace. His eyes were there, melting into a tender gaze as he brought his face close to hers, his breath stirring the tendrils of hair on her right cheek so that she must pat them into place again. Then she returned to her packing, hands steady, lips set.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
WITH THE ENGLISH AND FRENCH occupation of Port Said the resistance had become very active. Every day it broadened, as more and more women and men joined. Under organized leadership the units scattered, concealing themselves in homes and clinics, in shops, in every corner of Port Said. In an old house in Abbadi Street, inside the apartment of an Egyptian resident, stood five youths studying enemy concentrations and the roads leading to their deployments on an immense map of Port Said. They belonged to the engineers’ unit of the Fourth Squadron, the ground troops that had protected the withdrawal of the armed forces on the Abu Ugayla—Ismailiya Road, then had advanced to Port Said to reinforce the defense of the city. Among those five was Husayn Amir, who had lived through every stage of the struggle, from the first skirmishes in Sinai until the attempt to rout the enemy from Port Said.
A week after the resistance began, Husayn came upon Mahmud. Husayn was in charge of communicating instructions to one of the resistance units. When he entered the room where the members were congregated he discovered Mahmud among them. His hands shook as they embraced; with difficulty he regained control of himself, and the work he had come to do began. Mahmud briefed him on the unit’s activities, and Husayn began informing those present of how successful other units had been. Everyone felt a hard joy; the future was opening before their eyes. Husayn felt a pleading hope.
Finally able to take Mahmud aside, Husayn asked about Layla. When he learned of the role she had played in the fight, he asked if he could s
ee her. Mahmud set an appointment with him, and just before, Sanaa left the apartment.
On the threshold of the open door Layla stood facing Husayn. She raised her head to meet his gaze and they stood for a moment without speaking. The affection she had buried for so long sailed from her eyes. She could show the proud delight she felt in those feelings now, and her joy burst from her eyes and showed on her lips, her cheeks, to the tips of her fingers, every atom of her body, as if those feelings composed a translucent light running with the blood in her veins. In Husayn’s eyes astonishment quickly gave way to unbelieving joy. He had come to see her, perhaps for the last time, and suddenly now he discovered that he would wake up every morning to see her face. He had come to visit assuming that she was bound to another man, was the beloved of another man, and now he discovered, standing on the threshold of the open door, that she was his beloved, his, all for him. From his eyes poured the tenderness of years, the longing of years, the deprivation of years, and a happiness so strong that it nearly caused him, sturdy as he was, to lose his balance. In a trembling voice he called her, with trembling hands he brought her closer. And on his broad chest she rested her head and wished time could stop and she could stay there, her head on his chest, her heart beating on his, with his. His hands brushed over her hair, went to her shoulders, feeling them, joy pressing on his heart. The dream was no longer a dream; the lovely mirage had become a real presence in his embrace. He felt an overwhelming desire to gaze at her face, and gently he pressed his fingers against her chin to raise her head. She said his name with a brightness that enveloped them both. He slowly brought his face to hers, slowly his lips searched out hers, as if he wanted to take the moment in completely, but withheld it, fearing that it might end. Their lips trembled, and a trancelike bliss enveloped them. Then they heard footsteps out in the street, a heavy, regular tramp. The trance vanished. Layla’s face stiffened, her eyes fierce with hatred. Husayn straightened, shook his head as if awakening from a dream to a dismal reality. Layla turned and went to the window, while Husayn shut the door to the apartment and followed her.
Carefully, Layla pushed aside a bit of curtain. She saw an English patrol in the empty street; she felt a void in her heart, a hole, as if a blade had suddenly pierced her. Her hand knocked against the window as she dropped the curtain into place. The glinting gold ring had struck the glass with a clink. Layla spread her fingers, staring astonished at her engagement ring, as if she had forgotten that it occupied her hand. She pulled the curtain back again, again the blade stabbed her heart, and she whispered, following the patrol with her eyes as it almost vanished, “This isn’t the end, Husayn, is it.”
His voice held a note of disbelief. “This isn’t the first time you’ve asked me that question, Layla.” She smiled lightly and turned to face him. “It isn’t a question, Husayn. I’m just confirming a fact.” Calmly she sat down. His gaze focused on her face, his attention drawn by something he had never seen in her eyes, even when she had been at her most fiery. He thought he saw an assured and peaceful confidence there, that rare and amazing blend reflected only in the eyes of a person who has found the way—a person who knows, through experience, that the way is only found in the strength that allows one to stand by what one believes is right.
He spoke gently, coming nearer. “You’ve changed, Layla.”
She shrugged lightly. “Who doesn’t change, Husayn?” Her gaze settled on him a moment and her voice shook slightly as she said, “Now what do we do?”
The words were about to rush from his mouth; he thought at first that she was referring to their future together, then the words stopped on his tongue as he realized with his wonderful capacity to understand her that she meant something else, something bigger. After a pause he said, “The leadership is taking everything into account, and the resistance has really begun its work.”
“What about you? Are you part of it?”
He nodded without speaking. She leaned her head forward and said, “And me? Can I help with anything?”
His gaze settled on the gold ring on her finger. And he said, provokingly, “Can you?”
“Do you have any doubts about it?”
His features relaxed into a smile, and he shook his head. In a whisper pulsing with feeling, he said, “All my life I have believed in you.”
Her eyes shone with tears. “Even when I didn’t believe in myself, Husayn?”
But something kept pulling Husayn’s gaze to the ring. He could not keep the displeasure from his voice. “And what will you do right now?”
She stood up. “I’m coming with you.” When she saw the astonishment in his face she smiled. “I want to join the resistance. Can’t you suggest my name?”
He smiled and shook his head in wonder. “Enough surprises today. My nerves can’t take any more.” She laughed, and said in childish stubbornness, “Are you going to put my name up for it or not?”
Husayn said, testing the extent of her mettle, “It isn’t that easy, Layla. It isn’t a question of a day or two. The resistance might go on for a long time. You might have to be in hiding for a few months.”
She turned. “I’ll get my coat.”
He put his hand on her shoulder to stop her, turned her gently to him, and said, focusing his gaze on hers, “And your family, Layla?”
“Mahmud can tell them I’m fine.”
Husayn sighed with relief. Layla turned again and went into her room. Gloom spread across his face, as if an obstacle lay in his path. She came out of her room, a white overcoat over her white wool dress. His face lit up when he saw her, as if his fears had vanished and his dreams were to be realized.
“C’mon, let’s go,” Layla said. She walked before him to the open door.
Chapter Thirty
THE STREETS OF PORT SAID were packed with people, colliding waves, as if all its homes had emptied themselves, tossing the inhabitants into the street, wave after wave, to blend into a turbulent human sea. People laughed, or wept without knowing what sort of tears these were. Were they tears of joy at their rescue? Or tears of the painful memories that suddenly came to the surface on evacuation day? Or tears that gazed into a better future?
People carried victory banners, some were calling out, others danced alone. People clapped, hearts full of the exhilaration of victory, eyes full of tomorrow. They knew that all that had happened had been necessary: it was the price of victory. People ventured out bearing flowers to their dead but the flowers never arrived; on the way they were scattered on the victory parade, the parade of tomorrow. For those they mourned had died for the sake of tomorrow.
Where the Canal met the sea, and just slightly apart from the statue of De Lesseps, a group of people stood waiting silently. A young man in the uniform of the popular resistance stood on the highest step, plying a hand drill to carve a hole in the body of the statue. At this moment, for this young man as he stuffed the hole with explosives, the figure could no longer be a statue. Nor was it so for the crowd awaiting the explosion in agitation. It was a symbol of the ages of slavery and colonialism that they had inherited, a symbol that pulled them back into a loathsome past, that put a barrier between them and a finer future. That symbol must be shattered. The youth bent down to the base of the statue, lit the wick, and moved back to join the onlookers. The explosion shook the ground and a wave of smoke and dirt rose, veiling the scene. Then a buzz of displeasure rose. Agitated, Layla shouted, “The head! Only the head is gone!” Indeed, it was only the head and the paint that had gone; the body remained crouched in place as if its roots extended deep into the ground. Husayn grasped Layla’s hand. Mahmud fidgeted. He saw himself burying his face in his palms and saying after the Cairo fire, “All that blood—it went in vain.” Sanaa’s eyes clouded as she thought suddenly of her mother and father, who had cut off communication with her on the day she had married Mahmud. And Layla’s hand shook in Husayn’s, as she saw Gamila lying on the chaise longue, Sidqi at her side, and heard Ramzi saying, “These are the laws of natur
e. Nature wants it like this.” Layla yelled, “Rules! We must follow the fundamentals!” Then she corrected herself. “The foundation—that is what is important.” The crowds pushed forward determinedly toward the statue, and the space around it narrowed again. The youth mounted the steps and began making another hole. The operation took longer this time, for he had to go deeply, as deeply as one could go. When he had finished and lit the wick, the sound of a far larger explosion rent the air. The statue and its base scattered, torn limbs and body parts. And Layla sighed in relief.
In her ears echoed the sound of another explosion in the battle, the explosion that had announced the death of Isam and of his enemies. She could see him, leaping monkey-like from above the wall, blood pouring from his wound, his right hand fisted around a bomb, his pale face shining with an ethereal transparency, his eyes gleaming, flashing, as if he saw the most beautiful of visions.
The sound of the people rose like a roaring wave, as they rushed forward to occupy whatever empty spaces remained in the lanes leading from the place.
*
Husayn seized Layla’s hand so he would not lose her in the crowd that had swallowed up Mahmud and Sanaa. The masses pushed them forward, and they exploded into laughter as they moved, as if a huge wave carried them forward. The pressure lightened but Layla kept running, her hand in Husayn’s, laughing her short, breathless laughs like the peals of musical bells. It was as if she could not do otherwise; she had to push forward, to run, to laugh, to do something with this eruption of happiness that fluttered like a bird’s wings, in her chest and on her lips and under her skin and to the tips of her fingers and toes. Husayn looked at her hair, flying around her forehead, to the gleam shining in her eyes, the glow that had returned, the radiance that had almost made him shout out when he saw her in the elevator, that very first time. His heart pounded and he squeezed the hand that lay softly in his. She gave a shout. “Husayn!” But she had no need to shout, for he was right there, his shoulder almost against hers. Yet she shouted again, her voice trembling. “Husayn!” Then, “I want to show you something.”
The Open Door Page 34