Then the doctor came and examined her. He said she’d had a heart attack and would require extended bed rest and intensive care, and as he normally did, he prescribed some medicine.
I told him she’d fainted after an argument with the servant.
In reply he said, “The argument was a secondary cause, but the underlying condition has been there for a long time.”
That night was a dismal one. Rabab, feeling responsible for what had happened, disappeared into our room and cried her heart out. As for me, all I could do was try to console her.
Patting her on the shoulder, I said, “You’ve cried enough now. This was God’s will, and may He cause everything to work out for the best.”
58
It wasn’t long before the house was filled with visitors. Rabab’s family and a group of her relatives came to see us, as did my sister Radiya and her family. Rabab also came to see the patient, kissing her hand and tearfully asking her forgiveness. I even hoped that, through this incident, we could start a new life free of rancor and hearts in conflict.
Then, taking advantage of a few moments when no strangers were in the room, Radiya said to me, “I’d like to ask your permission to take Mama home with me until she gets her strength back.”
“That’s impossible!” I said, alarmed at the suggestion.
Smiling at me sympathetically, she went on, saying, “Don’t you see that she needs constant care? Who will care for her here? You’re busy with your work and so is your wife, and Sabah is responsible for taking care of the house. So who will you assign the job of taking care of our mother?”
However, her suggestion remained totally unacceptable to me, and I resisted all her compelling arguments.
With an insistence that came from the depths of my heart, I said, “She won’t have to stay in bed for long, God willing. According to the doctor, she’ll only need someone to be constantly at her side for the first week, and I’ll be sure to find a servant who can devote herself full-time to caring for her.”
Radiya tried valiantly to persuade me of her suggestion, but to no avail, and the discussion ended with her deciding to stay in our house until I was able to find a servant. On the third day after my mother’s heart attack, my brother Medhat—whom I’d informed of her illness by special delivery letter—arrived with his wife. During the first days after her attack, she was very ill indeed. She didn’t move a muscle and she would hardly utter a word. When she opened her weary eyes, they were languid and dull. She would look around at us in silent resignation, and I felt as though my heart was breaking. We didn’t leave her side, and if she revived slightly, she would look back and forth among us with a smile on her parched lips, or spread out her hands and look heavenward, murmuring a prayer of supplication in a low, feeble voice. However, she didn’t remain in this near-comatose state for long, and by the end of the first week she’d begun to improve slightly. She realized clearly that all her children were gathered around her, and it gladdened her as though she were seeing them all together for the first time in her life. One day when we’d congregated around her bed, she sat there happily and looked at us for a long time without saying a word. Then, her face glowing with joy, she said in a feeble whisper, “How happy I am with you all! Praise and thanks be to God!”
Her eyes glistening with tenderness and emotion, she continued, “If illness brings us together this way, then I hope it never ends.”
Despite her illness, then, she seemed happy, and her happiness found its way into our hearts as well. Our family, which God had caused to be scattered in its earlier years, had been united. We were all under one roof now, eating and drinking together, and our hearts beat as one. What wondrous days those were! Our very beings breathed out sympathy, tenderness, and joy. However, the togetherness was short-lived. It wasn’t long before my mother’s health improved and the danger passed, although the doctor insisted that she not get out of bed for a month at the very least. Medhat bade us farewell and took his family back to Fayoum, promising to visit from time to time. Radiya also went back to her own house once I’d succeeded in finding a servant for my mother, with the agreement that she would visit our mother every day. And thus it was that the gathering broke up, we went our separate ways, and everything went back to the way it had been before. Hardly two weeks had passed before my mother began recovering her vitality and alertness and was able to sit up in bed with a pillow folded behind her back. It thrilled me no end to see Rabab fulfill her obligations toward her mother-in-law, and never will I forget the bitter pain and distress she suffered during the first days of my mother’s crisis.
Now that our peace of mind had been restored and all my mother needed was rest, albeit of an extended nature, we resumed our usual ways of life. Rabab went back to entertaining herself with evening visits to her relatives, and I took off again to my old haunt. I had asked my mother for permission to go out several hours a day for rest and recreation, and she’d given her enthusiastic consent, telling me how it pained her to see me having to stay by her side like a prisoner. And I left the house thinking: If I were the sick one, would she ask my permission to leave the room for rest and recreation? Life’s logic seemed harsh to me. But what was to be done about it?
I went flying back to Inayat. She would telephone me at the ministry every morning, so she knew why I hadn’t been able to see her. We went back to meeting the way we had before in our lovers’ nest, where we would get drunk and make love. It was a strange life. However, what I fear the most is that my memory may have failed me, if even in relation to a few of the details. Was I really happy? My heart was divided between my mother, my wife, and Inayat, between memories of the past, a sublime, ethereal love, and another love that was torrid and down-to-earth. I felt that I’d found refuge from life’s storms in a tranquil harbor. Even so, the old anxiety began knocking cautiously and hesitantly at my door again, as if shyness prevented it from storming in for no apparent reason. It’s true, of course, that I was proceeding on my way, but I would pause and hesitate every now and then as though I were wondering if there was something I’d forgotten. I’d think to myself: Should I keep on going full steam ahead, or would it be better for me to stop and take a look at what’s around me? However, I would conclude that there was no reason for hesitation and continue merrily on my way.
Then one day I noticed that Rabab wasn’t her usual cheery, energetic self. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me she’d had a tiring day at work and that she thought she might be coming down with the flu. I stayed home that evening, and the following morning, not long after she woke up, she vomited unexpectedly, then lay down exhausted. I suggested that I call her a doctor, but she rejected the idea, saying it was just a minor cold and that she could treat it without a doctor’s help. Her mother came to visit her and stayed the entire day in her room. However, on the third day Rabab insisted on going back to work, telling me she felt well again. And in fact, she went to the kindergarten despite my having advised her to stay home for a day or two longer. When she came home from work that afternoon, she was worse than she had been in the morning. Even so, she insisted that she was perfectly healthy. In fact, she got dressed and left the house the following two days as well. When she came home from the kindergarten on the second day at her regularly scheduled time, I was at the seamstress’s house. But when I got home at half past eleven, I didn’t find her in our room. Sabah, who appeared to have been awaiting my arrival, came rushing up to me and said, “Miss Rabab will be spending the night at her mother’s house, and they sent the servant to inform us of it.”
Bewildered and upset by the news, I asked Sabah, “Why is she going to do that?”
In a fearful tone of voice, the servant replied, “She’s fine, sir. I visited her and saw her myself. But she has a bit of a fever, and the Madame wasn’t willing to expose her to the night air, so she thought it best for her to spend the night at her house until the fever goes down.”
I left the room straightaway in exasperation, saying
, “I warned her that this might happen, and I told her again and again not to leave the house!”
I was met in the living room by my mother’s servant, Nafisa, who told me that my mother wanted me to come see her. When I went to her room, she expressed her regret over Rabab’s illness and instructed me to tell Rabab that she was praying for her. I thanked her and left the house, furious and worried.
59
Everyone was asleep and the house was completely dark except for a light that emanated from the mother’s room. I went directly there and found Rabab lying in bed and her mother sitting in a bed opposite hers on the other side of the room. Rabab greeted me with a smile, while the mother slipped out of the bed she’d been sitting in and came toward me, saying, “That’s what we figured! We said, ‘He’ll be upset and come the minute he finds out.’ However, it’s just a touch of the flu.”
I went over to Rabab’s bed and took her hand.
“Didn’t I advise you not to go out?” I asked reproachfully. “What’s wrong? Why didn’t you come home?”
In reply, she pointed to her mother with a smile and said, “I wanted to, but Mama wouldn’t let me.”
“Her condition isn’t anything to worry about,” affirmed Madame Nazli hastily. “However, it could be very dangerous to be exposed to the outside air.”
“I’ll call the doctor right away,” I said decisively.
“We already did that,” said the mother. “In fact, it was the doctor himself who advised her not to go out. It’s nothing serious at all, though, and she’ll be back home within a week or ten days at the most.”
Feeling at a loss, I sat down on a plush sofa between the two beds. However, the mother’s seeming composure gradually made me feel calmer myself.
The mother then went on, saying, “Influenza is nothing serious in and of itself. However, we have to be careful that she doesn’t have a relapse.”
As I listened absently to the mother, I looked over at my beloved with both my eyes and my spirit. Rabab looked over at me with a wan smile. There was a look of exhaustion in her eyes, and a veil had descended over her usual sweet, sunny look. Silence reigned for some time. Then suddenly I remembered Gabr Bey and asked about him. The mother replied that he was on an inspection tour and would be back at the end of the week. When the clock struck eleven-thirty, I excused myself, kissed my wife on the forehead, and left the house.
The next morning, I left the house twenty minutes earlier than the usual time. Sabah had requested my permission to visit Rabab, so we turned household affairs over to Nafisa and I went right away to Gabr Bey’s house. When I met Muhammad and Rouhiya on the stairs, I greeted them and asked them about Rabab, and the little sister replied that she was fine. Once inside the flat, I went to the room, where I found Rabab in bed and her mother sitting on the couch. She returned my greeting with a gentle smile, but her eyes were so dull, she seemed not to have slept a wink the night before. Seeing her this way, I felt fretful and dejected. However, rather than letting on how I was feeling, I lied, saying, “I see that you’re better!”
With a resignation that made my heart ache, she replied, “Thanks be to God.”
I sat near her on the edge of the sofa and gazed steadily into her face. She’d wrapped her head in a brown handkerchief that framed her face, which looked gaunt and pale, and her eyes were solemn and lackluster. A pall of gloom descended over my spirit, the world looked dismal to me, and her face looked ashen and unattractive.
Noticing my dejection, Madame Nazli said in astonishment, “Is this the first time you’ve seen somebody with a cold? You pamper her too much, Kamil!”
It consoled me somewhat to see that the person who was making light of her condition was her mother herself, since if my wife had been suffering from something truly worrisome, her mother would have been beside herself. I leaned slightly toward the bed and placed my hand on her cheek, which was hot.
However, she smiled at me and said, “If I’m not doing well, it’s because of some insomnia that came over me last night. If I can manage to sleep even a couple of hours, I’ll get my energy back.”
“Try to sleep no matter what it takes,” I said imploringly.
I gazed into her eyes for a long time. She looked at me for a minute, then quietly looked down again. I had to go, so I got up, promising to visit again after coming back from the ministry. Then I left.
I arrived at the ministry at ten past eight and set to work. However, the work wasn’t sufficient to make me forget myself. I went back to thinking about Rabab. I pictured the grave look in her eyes and felt a forlornness I couldn’t explain. I tried valiantly to lose myself in the task at hand, but it did no good. I was defeated by my own thoughts, which have always had a tendency to create fear out of nothing. Feeling more worried than ever, I thought to myself: Here’s Rabab unable to come home and looking gaunt and frail, so how can I be at peace? And how can I leave her? Faintheartedness in the face of the most minor misfortune was nothing new to me. After all, there were countless times when I’d been unable to sleep on account of some minor indisposition afflicting my mother. So, I thought, maybe this fear I’m feeling is an effect of that chronic faintheartedness of mine. But oh, what a terrible, heavy gloom had come over me! My heart shrank in fear and pain as though it were holding back a cry for help that was trying to make itself heard. Why torture myself by forcing myself to endure such a wait for no reason? And with that, I folded up my papers and requested permission to leave, explaining that my wife was ill. I left the ministry at nine-thirty and got to the house a few minutes before ten. The closer I got to the house the more forlorn I felt, and I entered the building in near dread. I rang the doorbell, and before long it opened. But to my astonishment, the person who opened the door for me was Dr. Amin Rida. The doors to the small parlor onto which the front door opened were closed, and he was the only person there. I hadn’t seen him since the day of the luncheon that had been hosted in this same house. What on earth would have brought him here at such an early hour? And why would he be staying alone in this closed room?
I extended my hand, saying, “Peace be upon you!”
“And upon you be peace,” he replied as he extended his hand in turn.
I seemed to notice him looking at me strangely through his spectacles as he said, “Won’t you come in?”
Then he turned away from me, saying, “I’ll wait for you in the reception room.”
Then he headed for the reception room, opened the door, and went in. As for me, I went to the large parlor, opened the door and went in, then proceeded to Madame Nazli’s room. However, I’d hardly taken two steps when my ears were bombarded by an eerie sound that I don’t know how to describe. Was it a prolonged sigh? A muffled scream? Whatever it was, it was clearly coming from beyond the closed door to Rabab’s room. I went rushing toward the door, turned the knob, and went in, my heart aflutter with dismay. I looked over at the bed and saw Rabab lying there. She was covered up to the neck and her handkerchief was wrapped around her face from the top of her head to below her chin. Her eyes were closed and her face looked haggard and sallow, with a frightening whiteness to it. The handkerchief-bound face brought back vague memories that I didn’t have time to clarify. However, it awakened an unspoken terror deep within me. The next moment I became aware of the fact that Madame Nazli was sitting on the edge of the sofa sobbing piteously with her head buried in the bed pillow. As for Sabah, who hadn’t seen me come in, she stood at the foot of the bed weeping and wailing.
Lord! Had Rabab really died?
60
I cried like a madman, “Tell me what’s happened!!”
Turning toward me, Sabah shouted hysterically, “Sir! Sir!”
The woman looked up in obvious terror and gaped into my face with eyes red from weeping. For a moment she froze and neither spoke nor wept as though my arrival was, to her, a fate worse than death. Then she gasped and burst into tears. I looked back and forth between the two women in a daze, then my eyes came to rest on t
he handkerchief-bound face. How was I to submit to the verdict of this terrifying reality? My shattered heart made me want to throw myself on my wife and to blubber and scream till I died. But I didn’t move a muscle. A strange force caused me to stay frozen in place and filled me with a ruthless madness. I was overtaken by a wild rage that was willing to defy the power of death itself and the tyranny of Fate. I refused to believe my eyes, and it was impossible to convince me. What did this mean?
Gesticulating wildly in the mother’s face, I asked her in a voice that I was hearing for the first time, “How? How?”
She spread her arms in despair, too choked up to speak. However, Sabah came toward me, terrified and delirious, and in a muffled scream, said, “The miserable operation! God damn the operation!”
Turning toward the servant in bewilderment, I shouted, “Operation? What operation?”
It was then that I knew something suspicious was afoot. I looked around the room until my eyes fell on a table in one corner. On the table I saw some medical instruments arranged together with some containers and cotton. I came up to the table and examined it with eyes that could hardly focus. When had they brought all this? When had the decision to do it been agreed on? How had this happened? Then I looked at my mother-in-law and found her eyeing the servant with a strange, cruel look. Now I was more alarmed and confused than ever, and my heart turned hard, unforgiving, and frantic.
“What operation is Sabah talking about?” I asked in a terrible voice.
The woman looked at me in bewilderment and alarm. Then, in a low voice choked with tears she said, “My daughter’s condition suddenly got worse, so I called the doctor, and he advised that an operation be performed right away.”
Having been transformed into a new, formidable person quite unlike the one the world had known thirty years earlier, I asked her, “In which part of the body?”
The Mirage Page 34