She deliberately played with her skipping rope under his window and every time she skipped, she would peek into the room. She could not see everything clearly because her head went down too quickly but she did manage to glimpse a painting hanging on the wall, a large suitcase on top of the wardrobe, a desk with books on it. She loved the coloured painting more than anything else and, jumping under the window one day, said to him:
‘I want a coloured painting.’
‘Come in and I’ll give you a painting,’ he said to her.
She could not go without her mother’s permission, and her mother refused, saying firmly:
‘You’re too old to skip in the street.’
She threw herself onto her bed, shaking with rage. She hated her mother at that moment and envied her friend Saadia whose mother had died in childbirth. But she soon got up and tiptoed out, shoes in hand, and ran into the street.
Her heart was racing as she knocked at his door. She was happy because she would get a coloured painting, but she knew that the picture was not the sole reason for her happiness. She wanted to see his room from inside, wanted to see the shape of his wardrobe, his bed, his slippers. She wanted to touch his books and papers and pictures, wanted to touch everything.
He opened the door and she entered, out of breath. She stood by the wall shivering like a plucked chicken. He spoke to her but her voice was stifled and she could not answer. He came over to her and she saw his blue eyes close to her. She felt afraid. Close up, the shape of his face was strange, a sharp look in his eyes like that of a wild cat. He pulled her towards him with his long arms and she screamed, fearing that he would slaughter or stifle her. He slapped her face saying: ‘Don’t scream!’ but she only grew more scared and screamed all the more. While trying to escape from his arms, she heard a rap on the door. He let go of her to open it and she nearly fell to the ground. There stood her mother, flesh and blood, in the middle of the room.
She opened her eyes to find herself lying on the bed shivering with cold. It was dark and the window was open. She imagined a ghost moving behind the window and trembled, even though she knew it was only the eucalyptus tree shaken by gusts of wind. She got up to close the window, then went back to bed and got in under the blankets.
Thinking that she heard breathing other than her own in the room, she peered out from under the covers and looked fearfully around. Her eye fell on a long shadow standing beside her wardrobe and she was about to scream when she realized it was only the clothes-stand with her coat on it. She closed her eyes to sleep but then felt the movement of something that seemed to come from under the bed. She wanted to reach out and turn on the light but she was afraid to put her hand out in case the ghost crouching under the bed grabbed it and so she stayed curled up under the covers, wide-eyed, until sleep coursed through her body as warm as blood.
* * *
The rays of the sun were filtering through the slats of the shutter when Fouada awoke. She remained curled up under the covers, wanting to stay there for ever. But she got up and dragged her body over to the mirror. Her face was sallow and seemed even longer than usual, her eyes larger, her lips paler, between them that ever-widening gap that made her teeth appear even more prominent. She gazed into her eyes for a moment, as if searching for something, then pursed her lips in displeasure and went to the bathroom. She took a hot shower and, feeling refreshed, smiled as she looked at her body in the mirror. She was tall and slender, with long arms and legs, and felt a hidden power in her muscles, an unspent power, an imprisoned power, which she did not know how to release. She dressed and went out into the street. The air was fresh, the sun bright and warm, and everything sparkled and quivered with animation. She strode along swinging her arms briskly in the air, feeling strong and energetic and greeting the new day eagerly. But where was she going? To that putrid tomb which smelled of urine? To that shabby desk at which she sat for six hours a day doing nothing? Would that strength and that eagerness dissipate into nothing?
She saw a horse pulling a cart, its hooves striking the ground with strength and vigour. She stared at the horse in envy. It spent its power pulling the cart, it released its energy, moved its feet happily. If she were a horse, she would be the same, pulling her cart, clattering on the ground with her hooves, perfectly happy.
When bus 613 came, she stood still and looked at it, motionless like a stubborn horse. No, she would not go to the Ministry, would not waste the day on nothing, would not waste her life signing the attendance register. For what? For those few pounds she took home every month? Sell her life for a few pounds? Bury her intelligence in that closed room with its stagnant air? Yes, it was that stagnant air that dissipated her vigour, the stagnant air that shut off her thoughts, killed them before they were born. She often had thoughts, research ideas often occurred to her, she often came close to making a discovery, but everything withered away in that room with closed doors and windows and sombre, dreary desks and those three mummified heads.
Another bus came. She almost got on but stood her ground and looked at it steadily. This moment came every day without her triumphing over it. If only she could manage today, she could manage every day. If only she could triumph once, that once would break the awful habit.
The bus was still there, but she stayed where she was and raised her head to the sky. Another moment and the bus would be gone without her and it would all be over. The sky would remain just as high and blue and silent. Nothing would happen. No, nothing would happen.
She took a deep breath and said aloud: ‘Nothing will happen.’ She put her hands into the pockets of her coat and walked off humming to herself. She looked about her in surprise and joy, like a prisoner emerging into the street for the first time after long years in prison. She saw a newspaper vendor, bought a paper and glanced at the headlines on the front page, then bit her lips. They were the same headlines she saw every day, the same faces, the same names. She looked at the date on the top of the page, thinking she was holding yesterday’s paper or that of the previous week or year. She turned the pages, scanning them for a new subject or a new face but reached the last page without finding anything. She folded the newspaper and tucked it under her arm but then remembered having seen a familiar pair of bulging eyes in one of the pictures, eyes that looked like Saati’s. She opened the paper again and, to her astonishment, her eye fell on the photograph of Saati himself. She read his name under the picture: Mohammed Saati, head of the Supreme Board for Building and Construction. Unconsciously, she ran her fingers over the eyes as if they protruded from the paper, even though the page was soft, smooth and flat.
She read the text under the photograph. It described in detail a meeting that Saati had held with the board workers, in words she seemed to have read so many times before. She had often read the name Saati and seen his picture. Fouada was amazed that she hadn’t made the connection between all this and Saati the landlord whom she knew, but she never imagined that this same Saati could be the subject of an article in a newspaper. She looked again at the picture and the name, then folded the paper and put it under her arm.
The caretaker was sitting on his bench in the sun when she reached the building. He jumped to his feet when he saw her and ran towards her, holding out a small piece of white paper. She unfolded the paper to read: ‘I will come by at six p.m. today. It’s important. Saati.’ As she entered the lift, her fingers toyed with the paper and unconsciously tore it to shreds, which she then tossed through the iron grille of the lift.
He would come by at six in the evening. Something important. What could be so important? What could be important from her point of view? The matter of research? Where Farid was? The collapse of the Ministry building? That was her life. Nothing outside that was important. But Saati knew nothing about research or Farid or the Ministry, so what could be so important in his visit?
She entered the laboratory, put on the white overall, arranged the gleaming glasses and bowls on the table, lit the burner and grasped the metal cla
mp in order to pick up the test tube. But instead she left it in the wooden rack, upright, its empty mouth open to the air.
For some minutes, she gazed at the empty test tube, then sat down, head in her hands. Where to start? She didn’t know, didn’t know at all! Chemistry had evaporated from her head. Ideas crowded her mind when she read or carried out experiments in the college laboratory or whilst she walked in the street or slept. Where had all these ideas gone? They were in her head. Yes, they were there. She felt them move, heard their voices. A long conversation took place between them which culminated in results that surprised her.
She often arrived at a new idea that made her almost mad with joy. Yes, almost mad. She looked around in surprise and saw people walking as if they were beings of a species alien to her. And she? She was something else! In her head was something not in the head of anyone else, something that would dazzle the scientists, something that might change the world. A car or bus might almost hit her and she’d jump onto the pavement in fear and cautiously walk alongside a wall. Her life might be lost under some wheels and with it the new idea for ever. She walked faster, wanting to communicate the idea to the world before something happened to her, almost running, then really running and panting, then stopping and looking around her. Where, where was she running? She suddenly found that she didn’t know, didn’t know!
She turned off the burner, removed the white overall and went out into the street. The movement of her arms and legs relaxed her, relieved the pressure in her head, released that pent-up energy inside her. She noticed a telephone in a shop and stopped suddenly. Why didn’t they put telephones in less obvious places? Why did they have to display them like this? If she hadn’t seen the telephone, she wouldn’t have remembered. She reached out and lifted the receiver, put her finger in a hole and began to dial. The bell echoed in her ear, sharp, loud and uninterrupted. Quietly, she replaced the receiver and took some steps, then stopped abruptly, saying to herself: ‘Is it Farid? Is Farid’s absence the reason? Why has everything changed? Why has everything become unbearable?’ When Farid was present, her life was the same, only Farid made everything bearable. She would look into his shining, brown eyes and feel that worldly things were without value. The Ministry was transformed into a small antiquated building, research became just another empty illusion, and discovery, yes even discovery, became another wan, childish dream.
Farid used to absorb her pain and her dreams, so that with him she was without either pain or dreams. With him, Fouada was someone else. Fouada without a past or a future, Fouada who lived for the moment, while Farid became her every moment.
How had be become her every moment? How had a man become her whole life? How could a person consume all her attention? She didn’t know how it had happened. She wasn’t the sort of woman that gives her life away to anyone. Her life was too important to give to one man. Above all, her life was not her own but belonged to the world, which she wanted to change.
She looked around anxiously. Her life belonged to the world, which she wanted to change. She saw people hurrying around, cars speeding about, everything in the world running without stopping. She alone had stopped and her stopping meant nothing to that pushing, rushing movement. What did her stopping mean? What could a drop in the ocean do? Was she a drop in the ocean? Was she a drop? Yes, she was and here was the ocean around her, its waves thrashing and wrestling and racing each other. Could a drop defeat a wave? Could a drop change an ocean? Why was she living this illusion?
She caught her breath and shrank into her coat, walking engrossed in thoughts with head bowed until she arrived home. She went in and threw herself down on the bed fully dressed.
* * *
She opened her eyes and looked at her watch. It was seven. She stretched her legs under the cover, feeling pain in her joints. She closed her eyes to go back to sleep, but could not. She had slept continuously for four hours, something she never did during the day. Then she remembered that it had not been continuous, she had awoken once at five o’clock. She hadn’t forgotten the meeting with Saati at six, but had closed her eyes, telling herself that she still had another hour. She woke again at a quarter to six and moved her arms to lift the covers and get up, but instead had pulled them up over her head whispering to herself: ‘What will happen if I’m a little late?’ The next time she opened her eyes it was seven o’clock.
She stayed under the covers stretching, picturing Saati with his huge body and thin legs standing at the door of the laboratory, pressing the bell and getting no answer. She was pleased that sleep had rid her of Saati for ever.
These feelings filled her with energy. The ache in her limbs disappeared, she got up, dressed and went out. As she was going downstairs, she saw her mother open the peep-window in the door. Her pale face, criss-crossed with lines behind the narrow iron bars, looked like the creased and crumpled page of a book.
Fouada heard her weak voice saying: ‘Are you going to the laboratory?’ ‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘Will you be late?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied distractedly. She wanted to ask her something but instead looked at her in silence, then descended the stairs and went out into the street.
The air was cold and dense but the darkness of the night was even denser. She walked along the street slowly and carefully as if about to collide with something, as if parts of the darkness had solidified, become obstacles she might walk into. She quickened her pace to get out of the dark streets and walk beside the flower garden, inhaling the scent of jasmine. Her heart faltered. Why did she still sense his smell? Why did she still feel his lips on her neck? Why did she still taste his kiss in her mouth? Why did these things remain with her whilst he himself had disappeared? Disappeared – flesh, bones, smell, lips, everything about him. So why did anything – these tangible memories of him – why did they remain?
But, did they remain? Wasn’t this smell her own smell, this touch that of her own skin, this taste her saliva? Why did what was him and what was herself seem entangled and mingled? Was it possible that he was a part of her? Or that she was a part of him? She felt her head and limbs. Which part could it be? She felt her shoulders, chest, stomach. Suddenly she was aware of being in a broad, well-lit street and that many glances were on her. She hurried to the bus stop.
She took the bus to Tahrir Square and walked towards Qasr al-Nil Street. She saw the building in the distance and felt a hard lump move in her heart. The laboratory too had become something oppressive, those empty test tubes, waiting, with mouths open to the air and their transparent glass walls revealing emptiness, ranged in their wooden rack, flaunting their meaningless existence.
She opened the laboratory door and went in. On the floor was a piece of paper. She picked it up and read the reproachful words: ‘I came by at six and did not find you. I’ll drop by at nine. Saati.’ She looked at the clock. It was half past eight. Just as she was making for the door, she heard the bell, hesitated and stood for a moment behind the door without opening it. The bell rang again and she called out: ‘Who is it?’ The caretaker’s voice reached her and she took a deep breath and opened the door. With the caretaker were a man and a woman.
‘They were asking for an analysis laboratory so I brought them here,’ she heard the caretaker say.
She led them into the waiting room where they sat down. In the research room, she put on the white overall, then went out to them.
‘We’ve come for an analysis to see why my wife’s sterile,’ the man said curtly.
He pointed to the woman who was sitting, head bowed, in silence.
‘Have you been to the doctor?’ Fouada asked the woman. The woman stared at her in silence and the man replied:
‘I’ve taken her to many doctors. She’s had analyses and X-rays but we still don’t know what the cause is.’
‘Have you also been examined?’ Fouada asked him.
The man looked at her in astonishment.
‘Me?’ he snapped.
‘Y
es, you,’ she replied quietly. ‘The man can sometimes be the cause.’
The man got to his feet, pulled his wife up by her arm and shouted:
‘What’s all this rubbish! She’s not going to be analysed here!’
He might have taken his wife and left, but the woman did not move. She stood, staring at her husband, wide-eyed and unblinking, as if she had died and frozen into that position. Nervously, Fouada went over to the woman and tapped her on the shoulder saying:
‘Go with your husband, madam.’
As if there were an electrical charge in the touch, the woman started and clung to Fouada’s arm with all her strength, crying in a strangled voice:
‘I won’t go with him! Help me! He beats me every day and takes me to doctors who put metal prongs in my body. They’ve examined everything, they’ve analysed everything and said I’m not sterile. It’s him that’s sick! Him that’s sterile! They married me to him ten years ago and I’m still a virgin. He’s not a man! In the dark, he doesn’t know my backside from my head!’
The man pounced like a wild beast, hitting out at her with his hands, feet and head. The woman hit back. Fouada moved away from them in fear, muttering to herself:
‘He’s mad! He’ll kill the woman in my laboratory! What shall I do?’
She rushed to the door and went out into the corridor to call someone. Suddenly, the door of the lift opened and out came Saati.
In panic, she said:
‘A man’s beating a woman in there.’ At that moment, a piercing scream rang out and Saati rushed into the laboratory. The woman was on the ground with the man kicking her. Saati grabbed hold of him with one hand, slapped him across the face a number of times with the other, then threw him and the woman outside the room and slammed the door.
God Dies by the Nile and Other Novels Page 24