From the bowels of prison, born again to the face of the earth! Abbas’s face appears before me, and I take him in my arms. Weighed down by shame and humiliation, I bury my face in his chest. “How badly we’ve treated you,” I whisper. “I wish we’d died. Then you’d be rid of us.”
“It’s only your words that hurt me,” he answers gently. I can’t help weeping. “We should be thankful now,” he says. “Let’s think about the future.”
“You’re all alone, son. God has seen fit to take away your wife and child,” I say, shaking with sobs, “and we weren’t there to comfort you.”
“What’s past is past.”
With his father he scarcely exchanges a word. We are all together in the hall of the old house the way we used to be, sometimes, in the old days.
“I beg you not to bring up the past,” he says. Then, pausing for a moment, he goes on: “I’ve been thinking things over. Does Father want to go back to his old job in the theater?”
“No. Never, damn them!”
“I can turn the reception room into a shop. We’ll sell some of the furniture and set up a snack shop. It’s an easy business and fairly profitable. What do you two think of that?”
“Just as you see it, son,” I say with gratitude. “And I pray to God that I may hear good news about you soon.”
“I hope so. I think I’m about to come up with a winner.”
I invoke God’s blessing on him over and over, until he says, looking at us from one to the other, “What matters most is that you cooperate with each other and that I don’t hear things that hurt me.”
“I have often dreamed of living with you,” I say with a sigh.
“If God means me to be successful, everything will change.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and take her with you!” Karam says, growling.
“You must cooperate with each other. I’ll do all I can to give you a decent life, but you must learn to get along together.”
What cooperation? The poor boy doesn’t understand anything; he’s too naive to comprehend the secrets of the heart even when they’re displayed right under his nose. How can he understand what his father did when he’s never seen anything but the man’s melancholy exterior? My son can make sacrifices and be as generous as his devoted heart wants to, but doesn’t he realize that he’s shutting up two adversaries together in a single prison cell? From one prison to another, from loathing to sheer hatred. There’s no hope for me, son, unless you can succeed, unless you can rescue me.
I glance at him as he works, selling peanuts, melon seeds, popcorn, and chickpeas, throwing the piastres into a half-open drawer. He wallowed so long in a life of sin that he’s probably dreaming now about going back to the habit that prison cured him of. If it weren’t for Abbas, his stipulation that we divide the earnings between us, we’d have been ruined again by now. That permanent look of melancholy he has! Except when customers come in, the gloomy mask never falls from his face. He’s aged so much he looks older than he really is, and that means I’ve aged too. The years in prison. The night of the raid when detectives kept slapping my face…Ah, the bastards, not one of them came to see us! Al-Hilaly is as big a bastard as Tariq Ramadan. Detained at the police station just one night and then released. We bore the punishment alone. Our neighbors say the law is only hard on the poor, and they accuse us and gloat over our misfortune. They do business with us, though. My only hope is that you succeed, son.
Time passes. We have nothing to say to each other. The fire of hatred is stronger than the heat of an oven. When I clean this hateful old house, or when I cook, I feel so miserable. Why am I condemned to this wretched life? I used to be pretty, all piety and decorum. Fate. Fate. Who will explain the meaning of fate to me? But God is on the side of the patient, the long-suffering. My destiny is in your hands, Abbas. I’ll never forget your visit that night, on the feast of the birthday of Sidi al-Sharany,*1 and your words, which relieved my torment and opened up the gates of heaven: “My play has been accepted at last!”
I hadn’t been so happy since he was a young boy. Even his father’s face shone with joy. What have you got to do with it? I don’t understand. You hate him just as you hate me. All right, he has grown up to be a dramatist, contrary to what you predicted. To you his idealism was stupidity, but good will always win out. His strength and energy will sweep away the dross of riffraff like you.
I don’t like autumn, except that it brings us closer to opening night. Where do they come from, these clouds that blot out the light? Isn’t it enough that the clouds cover my heart? I hear the man speaking to me:
“Look.”
I see Tariq Ramadan coming toward the shop, looking as if he were someone bringing news of an accident in the street. Has he come to congratulate us or to gloat over us?
He stands there in front of us, his greeting lost in the empty air.
“Our loyal friend, paying us a visit for the very first time,” I say.
I pay no attention to his excuses until I hear him intone, “I have bad news.”
“Bad news doesn’t mean a thing to us.”
“Even if it’s about Mr. Abbas Younis?”
My blood turns cold, but I remain as calm as I can. “His play’s been accepted,” I say proudly.
“It’s nothing but a deplorable joke. What do you know about the play!” He goes on to summarize it, citing the most important episodes, and ends by saying, “That’s it—everything!”
Hiding my anxiety with my head spinning, I reply, “What do you mean? You hate Abbas!”
“Go see the play for yourselves!”
“You’ve been blinded by hate.”
“By the crime, you mean.”
“The only criminal is you.”
“Tahiya’s murderer must be brought to justice!”
“You’re a low-down crook yourself. Why don’t you just get lost!”
“How can they say that prison teaches people manners?” he says, laughing sarcastically.
I grab a handful of chickpeas and throw them at him. He draws back jeering, then leaves.
What has Abbas written? What has he done? My son would never kill anyone or be disloyal; at least he wouldn’t betray his mother. He’s an angel.
The man and I look at each other. I must haul myself out of this unending loneliness. “Tariq is lying,” I say.
“Why should he lie?”
“He still hates my son.”
“But there’s the play, too.”
“Go and see Abbas!”
“I’ll see him, sooner or later.”
“But you aren’t making any move.”
“There’s no great rush.”
He exasperates me; like Tariq, he has no love for Abbas.
“He has to know what’s going on behind his back!” I yell.
“And if he confesses?”
“You’ll get an explanation for everything.”
“I wonder!”
“A real murderer doesn’t expose himself.”
“I don’t know.”
“Go see him, that’s the main thing!”
“Of course I’ll go.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“You haven’t got anything fit to wear.”
“Then it’s up to you to go. That crook is lying.”
“He detested the way we lived. He was so idealistic you’d think he wasn’t my son at all, but someone else’s bastard,” the man says. Then he seems to change his mind. “But he didn’t double-cross us. And why would he kill Tahiya?”
“You’re asking me?”
“I’m thinking aloud.”
“You believe what the wretch said!” I shout.
“You believe him, too.”
I press my lips together to hold back the tears. “We’ve got to hear what Abbas has to say.”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t believe him.”
“You’re raving!”
“Damn you!”
“I was damned the day I got tied to you!”
“The same applies to me.”
“I used to be pretty.”
“Your father was a postman, but mine was employed on the Shamashirgi family estate.”
“Which means that he was only a servant.”
“I come from a family.”
“What about your mother?”
“Just like you.”
“You’re a windbag. You don’t want to go, do you?”
“I’ll go when it suits me.” Then, changing his tone, he says, “He’s most likely to be at home in the afternoon.”
Praying for patience, I surrender to his indolence, though doubt is killing me from my feet upward. What is it they say about the best people? A rose among the ruins—in a community of thieves and their victims. The man has bought me material to make a dress so I could go out, but I’ve put off making it. I’ll start cutting it out right away and then see about getting it made. The son of a whore insults me about my origins. But Abbas could never betray his mother. He may have scorned everything else, but not my love. Love is stronger than evil itself.
My happy childhood home in al-Tambakshiyya, where the sun always shone, even in the winter, even at night, the home of Halima, beautiful daughter of a beautiful mother and a father who always brought home nice things, things we liked. “Let her go on,” my mother used to say to him. “Education will give her the opportunity of a lifetime. I wish I’d had the chance.” That was before he died.
Our good cousin, Amm Ahmad Burgal, came visiting one day. “The girl’s father is dead, and keeping her on at school has become a hardship.”
Mother asked, “So what should we do, Amm Ahmad?”
“She has a certificate, and she’s clever. She must find work. They’ll be looking for a cashier at the theater.”
“Would that kind of work suit you?” asked Mother.
I answered with apprehension, “I suppose practice will make up for what I lack in experience.”
“El Shamashirgi is a friend of al-Hilaly Bey. Your father never worked for him, but he’s the biggest man in the district and he’s been our benefactor. If you mention his name when you have your interview, I’ll take care of the rest.”
And thus I was poised, the first time I set foot in the theater, to enter a different world. It was a marvelous place. It even had a special smell. Amm Ahmad shrank in stature: his work there was not very important. Summoned to meet the producer, I entered his magnificent inner sanctum in my old shoes and my simple white dress, and walked timidly, step by step, toward him. His tall frame, piercing eyes, and masterful expression made him almost awe-inspiring; and he scrutinized me at such length that I thought I’d nearly die. Finally, he gave me a sheet of paper to see how fast I could write the numbers.
“You’ll need some practice before you can take over the job,” he said in his domineering voice. “What’s your name?”
“Halima al-Kabsh,”*2 I said shyly.
“Al-Kabsh!” The name made him smile. “What of it? You’re a good deal more attractive than the actresses in our company. I’ll want to examine you after you finish your training.”
So I set to work in a burst of enthusiasm, inspired not by concern for my future, but by the wish to please that wonderful enchanter. I described him to my mother, and she said that was what the upper classes were like. If I could only win his approval, I thought, what a lucky break it would be for me.
When I stood before him, I was panting. “You’re the jewel of the company, Halima. God is beautiful and He loves beauty.” At what point did he begin to fondle me? Sunlight piercing the window shone full in my face; out in the street someone was playing a dance on a rustic flute. Gasping, I shoved his huge hand away, and said, “No, sir. I’m a respectable girl.” His laugh made my ears ring.
In the silence that ensued in that vast locked room, my protests expired. A rush of hot breath, a cunning approach, and all my determined resolutions were confounded. It was a nightmare of the kind that draws tears but wins no sympathy. In the world outside that room other people came and went. My mother died before she found out.
In the afternoon he gets a move on at last. My taut nerves relax a little. I’m clutching at a straw, but what can I expect? I’ve got to get the dress ready, just so I can do something. My son will tell his secrets to me, but not to that despicable man. What have I got left now except Abbas?
The disappointments came with—no, even before—the opium. My expectations—all dead and buried now—had been so sweet. I remember one night when he drained the dregs from his glass, leered drunkenly, pointed to the room next to the reception room, and said, “My mother used to go into that room alone with the master sergeant.”
The disclosure was so brutal it shocked me. Abbas was tucked up in his cradle, asleep. I couldn’t believe my ears. “You’re drunk, Karam.”
He shook his head. “She used to warn me to stay in my own room.”
“That wasn’t right.”
He interrupted me. “I don’t like hypocrisy. You’re a hypocrite, Halima.”
“God forgive her. Do you still feel resentful toward her?”
“Why should I hold it against her?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Your husband is unrivaled among men. He doesn’t believe in any man-made lies.” What does he mean? He’s not a bad husband, but he makes fun of everything. He ridicules my faith, the things I hold sacred, my principles. Doesn’t that man respect anything at all? He’s just exposed his mother shamelessly. “And that’s lucky for both of us,” he went on, “because if it weren’t so, I’d have divorced you on our wedding night.”
I was pierced to the heart and tears welled up in my eyes. I’d just received the second cruel blow of my life.
“You can’t help it, Halima. When are you going to become liberated?”
“You’re wicked and cruel.”
“Don’t bother using words like that. They don’t mean anything.”
He told me how his mother had been madly in love with the policeman, how she’d neglected him, and how he’d grown up “liberated,” thanks to her dissipations. “I owe everything to her,” he said finally, with a drunken leer.
He was like some frightful object hung around my neck. I was living with a force that had no principles. On what basis, then, was I to deal with him? The letdown came before the opium. The opium found no spirit left to crush.
When I catch sight of him coming back, my heart leaps in spite of its aversion. He looks even older in the street than he does in the shop. He sits down without looking at me and I can’t help asking, “What did he say to you?”
“He left the flat with a suitcase, and no one knows where he went,” he says without emotion.
Ah! What instant trepidation, instant torment! Is there no end to calamity?
“Why didn’t he let us know?”
“He doesn’t think about us.”
Pointing to the four corners of the shop, I say, “He treated us better than we deserve.”
“He wants to forget us now.”
“You should have gone to see al-Hilaly.”
He answers me with a look full of scorn and disgust, and I, to provoke him, tell him he doesn’t know how to act.
“I’d like to bash your head in!”
“Have you gone back on opium?”
“Only government ministers can afford it these days.” He lowers his voice. “Al-Hilaly doesn’t know where he is either.”
“You visited him?” I ask anxiously.
“He has no idea where he is.”
“My God! Did he move out of his flat?”
“No.”
“Maybe there’s a woman involved.”
“That’s what a woman like you would think.”
“What can I say to someone like you? You don’t care about him at all.”
My misery is too much for me. I weep bitter tears.
Wearing my new dress, an old shawl around my shoulders, and without any hope, I go to Abbas’s building, where my despair is confirmed when I question the doorman.
“You must know something about what happened?”
“Nothing at all.”
I don’t have the courage to go to the theater. My reluctant footsteps direct me homeward. I stop on the way and visit Sidi al-Sharany to seek his miraculous help, then come back to my prison cell to find the man joking and laughing with a customer, quite unconcerned. I sit down defeated, my spirits at lowest ebb, my endurance gone. “Do something,” I manage to say to him. “Don’t you have any plan in mind?”
“I’d like to kill you; someday I will kill you!”
“Go and see al-Hilaly again.”
“Go yourself,” he interrupts. “He gives special attention to his slave girls.”
“The truth is, I’m your mother’s victim! My torture comes from her grave. She’s the one who made you such a brute!”
“Compared with you, she was a decent woman.”
—
This theater—where I’d been raped and no one held out a helping hand—was the backdrop of my torment and my love. While its lofty dome echoed with admirable sentiments, phrased in the sweetest way, my blood spilled on its comfortable seats, the blood of my secret, strangling me. I was lost, lost. He wasn’t even aware of my adoration. Nothing mattered to him. He probably even forgot my name.
“You’re avoiding me! I can’t take any more. I have to see you.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“What? Have you forgotten? I’ve lost everything!”
“Don’t exaggerate. I don’t like it. What happened isn’t worth troubling your head over.” Tears welled up in my eyes. “No,” he said, “no. Nothing that goes on in this theater should ever be taken to heart.”
“But what about me? Don’t you see what it means to me? Don’t leave me!”
“The whole thing is much simpler than you imagine. No harm done. Cheer up—for the sake of your work and your future. Forget what happened. It’s no use asking me to keep remembering it.”
He was as hard as granite. My aversion for him was as strong as my love had been. Abandoned, alone, in torment. Someday my aunt would guess the secret of my suffering. What could I expect from a world that knows no God?
—
Late in the afternoon I go to the actors’ coffeehouse, where I catch sight of Fuad Shalaby smoking a narghile and make a beeline for him. I may be the last person he’s expecting to see, but he stands to welcome me and pulls up a seat for me.
“I should have come to visit you. Damn all the work!”
I ignore his words. “Nobody’s visited us. Not that it makes any difference. I’m so upset over Abbas’s disappearance that I had to come.”
“There’s no need to get upset.” He smiles. “It’s quite obvious he left to get away from spongers. It’s a good thing he did. He’s probably working on his next play.”
“But he should have told me.”
“Try to overlook his negligence. Don’t worry. You’re still as pretty as ever, Halima. How is Karam?”
“He’s alive and active, pursuing his hobby of making mankind miserable.”
He laughs, in a way that gets on my nerves, so much so that I get up and leave the coffeehouse.
This time I have the courage and the determination to go to the theater. I ask to see the producer and enter the room, the selfsame room—same leather couch, same man.
No, he’s different: there’s nothing left of the old self but the depravity, which seems to have aged him more than prison has us. Which of us two is more to blame for my unhappiness? He rises to greet me. “Welcome, welcome! I’m delighted to see you looking so well,” he exclaims.
“Well?” I retort as I take a seat.
“As befits the mother of a successful playwright.”
“At the moment, he’s the cause of my suffering.”
“That’s suffering for no reason whatsoever. I have good news: He’s contacted me by phone.”
I interrupt, aflame with joy, “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. That’s his secret; let him keep it if he wants to. The important thing is that he’s busy on a new play.”
“Has he left his job?”
“Yes. It’s a risk—but he’s sure of himself, and I’m confident, too.”
“He didn’t bother to get in touch with me?”
“Well, he wants to avoid being interrogated about his play; that’s what I think.”
“Certain suspicions are being voiced, over and over. What do you think about it all?”
“A play is a work of art, and art is a fantasy, no matter how much it borrows from the truth.”
“But what about people’s assumptions?”
“The audience doesn’t see anything in it. To think otherwise is idiocy, and if it weren’t for Tariq’s stupidity…”
“He’s his enemy, damn him!” I interject.
“Now, I want you to cheer up!”
—
“I heard that Karam Younis is asking for your hand?”
“Yes, he is.”
“The damage can be repaired.”
“No, I refuse to go along with that kind of deception.”
“You mean you’re going to let him know the truth?”
“I think that’s the best way.”
“You’re a remarkable girl! So many people are without principles these days. Are you going to tell him who it was?”
“That’s not important.”
“It would be better not to.”
—
As I enter the cafeteria, Ahmad Burgal sees me and shouts, “Welcome!”
I sit in front of him, silent, while he begins to make a sandwich and tea for me. Just two people on this earth have brought about whatever happiness we have known: Ahmad Burgal and Umm Hany. Recollections come flooding in upon me: a cup of tea, a sandwich, a little flirtation, and the music of a flute heard in hell, like clear drops of rain falling on a pile of garbage.
Amm Ahmad says, “Abbas’s success is a good omen. It’ll make up for the past.”
“But he’s left without a word.”
“Don’t be upset. No one here is worried about it.”
“And Tariq Ramadan?”
“He’s half crazy.”
—
I went through a terrible new ordeal. I’d been determined to confess—I was respectable and modest and I hated deception—but at the last moment I’d been silenced by fear. Karam seemed such a commendable young man, serious and loving. Would I lose him? Fear kept me silent until the door had closed on us. My weakness appalled me, I wept. The truth now stood between us, naked, taut, ready to serve any purpose. “I am a criminal,” I whispered. “I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you beforehand.”
The grave look in his eyes baffled me. What I’d dreaded was taking place. “I was so afraid of losing you. You must believe me: I was raped.”
I lowered my eyes, frightened by his agitation. I said things and he said things, but our words were lost in the intense heat of our agony. His voice was engraved on my consciousness: “The past doesn’t matter to me.” I cried all the more, but some unexpected ray of hope had appeared to me. I told him that he was gallant, that I would dedicate my life to making him happy. I dried my eyes. “How easy it is for the innocent to be lost,” I whispered.
With a heavy heart, I return to the prison cell and sit down. I’ll tell him about meeting Fuad Shalaby and nothing more. I won’t offer him any relief. He doesn’t love Abbas. He pretends to be quite disinterested in what I found out. If he only suffered as I do. The snacks we sell help other people while away the time, but our only distraction is exchanging abuses.
—
My letdown had continued step by step. A new vice was threatening the foundations of our home.
“Opium is a terrible thing. It will destroy you.”
“I’m grateful for it, at any rate.”
“You’re running away from reality. And you’re doing it faster and faster.”
“Again, I say thanks to it.”
“I’m doing my utmost. And there’s Abbas to think about, your beloved son.” He takes another sip of black tea. “My salary by itself isn’t enough to keep the house going.”
“You have the rent from Ramadan’s room.”
“And even that’s not enough. Life is so expensive.”
I understand you now. And I’m afraid of you. You aren’t what I thought you were at the outset of our life together. You’ve lost everything, even the potency you used to boast about. We’ve moved into separate rooms. Between us there’s neither love nor desire! You’re the only thing left, Abbas. Pay no heed to what your father says. Don’t believe him. He’s sick. It’s a good thing you’re alone most of the time. God be with you—He is our sufficiency. Be an angel. Let your friends, your books, and the theater be your teachers. Be my son and the son of other good people. You’re the only light in this old house steeped in darkness. Be unique in every way.
—
He steals a furtive glance at me now and again, hoping I might divulge what I know. Never. I’ll challenge him to hate me more.
“Winter’s coming. How can we stay in this open shop?” he says.
“When Abbas succeeds, our luck will change,” I answer confidently.
“When Abbas succeeds!” he retorts, bitterness in every syllable.
“I’ll go live with him,” I say defiantly, “and he won’t begrudge you an overcoat or a woolen cloak!”
—
The red cafeteria was always the same; it laughed at the shifts and changes in its patronage, hearing most of what was said, but believing no one. “Here’s your sandwich. I’ll get your tea ready,” Amm Ahmad Burgal said.
A young man came and sat on the stool next to me. He ordered beans and a sandwich. He was one of the theater people, it appeared, but he wasn’t one of the actors. A young man, attractive except for his large head and nose. Amm Ahmad asked me, “Any news about a flat, Miss Halima?”
In front of the stranger, I answered somewhat diffidently, “Searching for gold is easier.”
“Are you looking for a flat?” the young man said abruptly.
I replied that I was, and Amm Ahmad introduced us.
“Getting married?” the young man went on to ask boldly.
Ah, the seduction’s begun: Here in this theater it gets off the ground quickly and does not stop short of violence. The quarry is brought down to the accompaniment of a native flute.
“I own an old house that has two floors.”
“Is each floor an apartment?”
“No. It isn’t divided into flats.”
Amm Ahmad asked him if I could have one floor to myself, and he said I could.
“Won’t that inconvenience the family?” I asked.
“I live there alone,” he declared.
When I turned away from him, indignant at his boldness, he went on cunningly: “You and your family would find yourselves quite safe there.”
I thanked him and said no more. He hadn’t made a bad impression on me. What did he want? He knew nothing about my tragedy, my love, or my distrust of mankind.
I say that I’m going to Umm Hany’s small flat in al-Imam, where Tariq Ramadan is staying. She receives me warmly, but I have to wait until Tariq gets up. He comes out of his room with his hair standing on end, looking like the devil.
“Welcome,” he remarks, with unseemly sarcasm.
I ask him right off the bat, “I believe you went to see Abbas before he left?”
“Right.”
“It’s not far-fetched to suggest that you said things that made him leave.”
“He felt trapped, so he skipped out.”
His insolence brings tears of fury to my eyes.
“Don’t you know the meaning of mercy?” screams Umm Hany. “What’s all this talk that’s been going around? I watched Tahiya dying; I saw Abbas crazy with grief!”
Her words astonish me, and I want to know if the talk that’s being spread around fits with what she saw.
“There’s nothing to it!”
“He wouldn’t kill her before your very eyes, you idiot,” says Tariq.
“To suggest Abbas is a murderer is lunacy.”
“His confession is being played out on the stage night after night.”
“Thanks to him you’ve become an actor that audiences applaud even more than Ismail,” says Umm Hany.
“Thanks to his crime—the crime that made him run away.”
“He’s staying in a quiet place,” I say stubbornly, “to finish his new play.”
“His new play! Don’t fool yourself, Umm Abbas!”
Ah—in those days he was reasonable and obliging in spite of everything.
“What do you think, Halima? Tariq Ramadan wants to rent a room from us.”
I objected. “No. No. Let him stay where he is.”
“He’s had a row with Umm Hany and has to leave her place. He’s wandering around with no place to go, and things get more expensive every day.”
“It won’t be very pleasant having a stranger in the house.”
“He needs us. And we need the money.”
“He’s no better than a tramp.”
“He’d hoped we’d be kindhearted, especially you. We’ve got enough empty rooms to house an army.”
Grudgingly I gave my consent. I had no use for him at all—a no-good actor living off the sweat of women. But I never imagined he’d do what he did to us.
Umm Hany pays us a surprise visit in the shop the day after I visited her. She evidently wants to apologize for the rude way her man had treated me. Like Tariq, she’s in her fifties, but she’s still buxom, not bad-looking, and has money.
“They’re all talking about the success of the play,” she remarks. “It’s the biggest hit the theater’s ever had.”
“But the playwright doesn’t want to show himself,” I say sadly.
“He’ll show up when he finishes his new play.” The woman is silent for a while, then says, “What’s being said is really absurd. But then Tariq is crazy!”
“Wouldn’t it have been better for him to kill his mother?” Karam says sarcastically.
I have always had a liking for Umm Hany, and the fact that she is related to my husband hasn’t lessened my affection for her.
The house in al-Tambakshiyya, crowded with people, smelling of rubber, as though it were a bus. My aunt cleared a corner to receive Amm Ahmad Burgal.
“Don’t forget the provisions, because next to God it’s them we depend on.”
“I came for something more important than that!” he said, more serious than usual.
“Open the bag, you snake charmer.”
“It’s about Halima.”
My aunt looked at him and then at me, while the blood mounted in my cheeks.
“What! A husband?”
“That just about sums it up.”
She looked at him inquiringly, and he said, “Karam Younis.”
“And who’s Karam Younis?” asked my aunt.
“He’s the company prompter.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s a respectable employee of the theater.”
“Do you think he’s suitable, Amm Ahmad?”
“Yes, I do. But the important thing is what the bride thinks.”
“The bride is a real beauty, as you know. But we are poor, Amm Ahmad.”
It was my turn to speak. I’d been absolutely shattered by the bloody secret I was harboring; I didn’t love the bridegroom, but I had no aversion toward him—a presentable young man. Perhaps he’d give me peace of mind, even happiness. Beleaguered by my aunt’s stare, I mumbled, “I don’t know anything about him worth mentioning.”
“He has a job, he owns a house, and has a good reputation.”
“By the goodness of God!” cried my aunt. Although she loved me, she’d be glad to be rid of me. As for me, I wanted to escape from that overcrowded house; and since Sirhan al-Hilaly was so rotten, there was no hope for me in that direction.
—
Life was unbearable, and hunger was knocking at the door.
“I’ve found the way to shut you up,” he said, eyeing me disdainfully.
“Have you finally been cured of that hell of a drug?”
“Al-Hilaly has agreed to hold their soirees in our old house!” I didn’t grasp his meaning, so he added, “We’ll prepare a room for them to play cards in, and then we’ll be on easy street.”
“A gambling den?” I said, dismayed.
“You always describe things in the worst way. What would it be except a gathering of friends?” I protested, but he interrupted: “Don’t you want a good life?”
“Yes, and a clean one, too!”
“If it’s good, it will be clean. The only unclean thing is hypocrisy.”
“And there’s Abbas to think about,” I murmured uneasily.
“I own this house, not Abbas. Your son is crazy. But surely you care whether he has enough to eat and clothes to wear!” he shouted.
—
The sun is hidden so often this autumn that I am grounded in melancholy. This narrow street sees at least one funeral going to Sidi al-Sharany every day. Whenever the man is not occupied with customers he starts talking to himself. I daydream of the things Abbas will do for me, but he has nothing to dream about.
—
Why don’t we keep track of the happy moments, so that afterward we will believe them? Is he the same man? Was he really sincere? Is he the one who said, “I am indebted to Amm Ahmad Burgal for a joy that is almost more than a man can bear”?
I moved my head coquettishly. “Don’t exaggerate!”
“Halima, who can be happier than a man whose heart has not beaten in vain?” He said it in a tone of voice that has vanished forever. Although I didn’t love him, I loved his words, and their fervor warmed me.
—
On the appointed day waves of joy and fear roll over me. I go to the Indian bath, Umm Hany supplies me with a dress, a coat, and a pair of shoes, and I return from the hairdresser with a glorious halo, newly created from hair that had been neglected for a long time. The man looks at me disdainfully. “So you still have that weakness for playing the whore. Why don’t you exploit it—in these illustriously dissolute days?”
I am determined at any cost not to ruffle the serenity of the evening. We go to the theater, where we are received with the respect we deserve. Sirhan al-Hilaly fixes me with an admiring stare.
“How is it that I don’t see the playwright?” I say.
“He hasn’t come, but I’ve told you enough about it.”
My first hopes are shattered; and the internal radiance I’d been building up all day through a sense of renewed youth is extinguished. We go to see Amm Ahmad, who gives us tea and a sandwich as he always did. “It’s like the old days,” he remarks, laughing.
What are you talking about, Amm Ahmad? I wish it had never been. Even the one comforting result of it is absent. This place sets my nerves on edge and intensifies my sadness. At the proper time, though, we enter the theater and I am suddenly delighted to find it packed. “It’s a success!”
I don’t listen to his replies. The curtain is being raised on the old house. Events unfold one after another, and my agonies come to life before my eyes; now nothing is left of them except the memory of heaving sighs. Once more I find myself in hell. I condemn myself more than I ever have before. That’s when I should have left him, I say to myself, that’s when I should have refused. I am no longer the victim I thought I was.
But what is all this new damnation, this flood of crimes that nobody was aware of, this strange way I am being portrayed. Is it what he really thinks of me? What is this, son? You misunderstand your mother more than your father does and are even more unjust. Did I object to your marrying Tahiya out of jealousy and selfishness? What jealousy, what selfishness? No, no. This is hell itself. You almost make your father my victim. He was never the victim of anything except his mother. Do you see me as a prostitute, a madam? Do you think I’m the pimp who drove your wife to the tourist, greedy for his money? Is this a fantasy or is it hell? You are killing me, Abbas. You have made me the villain of your play. And the people are clapping—they’re clapping!
The life has been knocked out of me. We’re invited to the party in the cafeteria. “Shall we join them or leave?” the man asks. Feeling that he is trying to provoke and ridicule me, I challenge back: “Why shouldn’t we join the party?”
But in spirit I cannot. I’m in a burning stupor; my head resounds with brawling voices as strange faces undulate before my eyes, shouting and laughing for no apparent reason. My head is going to burst. The end of the world is approaching. Let the day of judgment come. I’ll never obtain a fair judgment except before God. You murdered and betrayed and committed suicide! When will I see you? Will I ever see you again?
We reach the old house at dawn. Throwing myself on the couch in the hall while he lights the heater, I hear him ask, “Did you like the play?”
“The audience liked it,” I say lukewarmly.
“And the subject?”
“It’s a powerful plot.”
“Weren’t we depicted as we really are?”
“Don’t start thinking like that spiteful Tariq Ramadan.”
“It’s even more true than the real facts.”
“There’s no connection between the way I appear in that play and the real facts,” I retort angrily. He lets off a repulsive laugh, while I suppress my anguish. “It’s just a fantasy!” I say.
“All of them just as we know them in real life.”
“It’s largely imagination and very little actual fact.”
“Then why did he portray you as he did?”
“That’s his business.”
“I thought that he loved and respected you.”
“There’s no doubt about that.”
“You give yourself away with that bitchy look of yours.”
“I know I’m right.”
“Even Tariq! I never imagined you’d sink to such depths.”
“Spare me your filthy thoughts!” I shout.
“That’s the boy who threw us into prison.”
“He wasn’t describing himself, he was describing you!”
“How virtuous he made himself out to be!”
Fighting down my despair, I burst out, “When he comes back I’m going to leave this damn house and live with him!” and rush to my room. Behind the closed door my own tears strike me dumb. How is it you don’t understand your mother, Abbas?
—
He came reeling, tumbling down the stairs, almost collapsing from fatigue and drunkenness. Then he spotted me. “Some eau de cologne!” he shouted. “I’ve had it!”
I went into my room to get the eau de cologne for him, and he followed me.
“Here you are.”
“Thanks. I drank more than I should have.”
“And you’ve had bad luck from the beginning of the evening.”
After a while, he pulled himself together, looked up at me, then went to the door and bolted it. I prepared to resist.
“Halima, you’re magnificent!” he said.
“Let’s go back upstairs.” He came close to me and I drew back scowling.
“Are you going to be faithful to that lout?”
“I’m a respectable woman and a mother.”
I made a rush for the door and got it open. For a moment he hung back, then he stepped outside and left the house.
All of them tried to seduce me, but I refused them. A whore?! It’s true that I was raped once, and that I slept with your father, though not for long, before I turned celibate. I am a nun, my son, not a whore. Was it your father who painted this false picture for you? Desolate woman that I am, with wretched luck—I have no other hope but you. How could you picture me like that? I’ll tell you everything! But when are you going to come back?
At night those carousers would slink into our old house, their shamelessness polluting the street that led to Sidi al-Sharany. My heart sank as I read their debauched looks and I worried about Abbas in his room. But you are a jewel, son. You must not be stifled in the mire of poverty. I’d put on a cheerful front as a welcome mat and take them to the room on the upper floor that we’d furnished with borrowed money. I was supposed to be the barmaid and serve them food and drinks; little did I understand that we were at the beginning of a slippery path downward.
“Don’t be alarmed, dear. They’re your father’s friends. All men do that.”
“But, Mother, what have you got to do with it?”
“They’re my colleagues from the theater and it wouldn’t be right for me to neglect them.”
“A good, safe place,” Sirhan al-Hilaly said, beaming as he took his seat at the table, where Ismail was shuffling the cards.
“Tahiya isn’t allowed to sit next to Tariq,” Fuad Shalaby said with a chuckle.
Karam stood behind the cash box at the edge of the table and there was a laughing remark from Tariq: “A votive offering box, Mr. Karam Younis?”
“No voice should be raised above the sound of battle!”*3
Karam was dissolving some opium in black tea. What a beginning that knew no end!
I have returned myself to my prison cell, just as I have returned the clothes I wore to the theater to their owner. He sits here, his face morose and blank; sells peanuts and melon seeds and joins the customers in complaining about the times. Almost to myself, I murmur, “The play’s a success, that’s one consolation.”
“One can’t judge before a week has passed.”
“What counts is the audience, their excitement, the effect it has on them.”
“I wonder how much al-Hilaly paid him for it.”
“The first work always brings in the lowest price. Abbas doesn’t care about money.” He bursts into that boisterous laugh of his, for which I curse him with all my heart.
In the vastness of his throne room, the evil deity gazed upon us smiling, “Welcome, Halima. I suppose your son is offering us a new play?”
“That’s right.”
“The last one was worthless,” he said, addressing Abbas.
“I always profit from your comments,” replied Abbas.
“I’d like to encourage you, at least for your mother’s sake.”
As the weeks roll by, it becomes apparent how successful the play is. Never has there been such a sellout at the theater. And the weeks turn into months. When will the playwright appear? He can think what he likes and let me suffer—but where is he? “I should think the people at the theater might have heard by this time from our absent one,” I remark, loudly enough so that he has to hear.
“The last time I went there was ten days ago.”
Tired of defending myself against his tongue, I make no demands of him. He has trotted off to the theater from time to time, whereas I haven’t ventured to go since the opening night. On the next morning he goes again. A warm day, with the sun shining, and my heart flutters with consuming hope.
I could imagine miracles and strange happenings, but never that Abbas would marry Tahiya. Now Abbas was going to leave and Tariq Ramadan would be staying. Where was heavenly justice?
“Abbas, she’s at least ten years older than you! She has a certain reputation and a history. Don’t you understand what that means?”
He smiled. “Unfortunately you don’t understand what love is,” he said smugly. Bitterness welled in my soul, bringing back my buried sadness. “We’re going to start a new life,” he added.
“No one can escape his past.”
“In spite of everything Tahiya is virtuous.”
I wasn’t being fair, I had forgotten about myself, but I wanted him to have a better lot in life. That’s all there was to it.
Tahiya visited me, looking subdued, but determined. “Don’t stand in the way of my happiness,” she entreated me.
“You are stealing innocence.”
“I’ll be a devoted wife to him.”
“You!”
The sharpness of my voice made her turn pale with anger. “Every woman in the theater began with Sirhan al-Hilaly!” she retorted.
My heart shrank. So they all knew or inferred what they didn’t know. It was as if she were threatening me! I detested her. But he would remain my son, in spite of everything.
—
Surely, the man is later than usual? The last beams of sunlight are just leaving the walls along this narrow street. What’s keeping him? Has he at last discovered the hiding place and gone there straightway? Will they come home together? I can see his fine-featured face smiling as he apologizes. I will not believe that this torture can go on forever. The play may well have pointed out the sources of my weakness, but I’ve always kept my heart clean. Haven’t I atoned, then, sufficiently for that weakness? Who could have imagined that this kind of life would become the lot of the beautiful, chaste Halima? My heart holds nothing now but tolerance and love. Oh God, I accept your judgment. I have such compassion in my heart that it even pities Karam in his misery. I’ll even forgive his brutality to me. When he returns with my beloved absent one’s arm tucked under his, I’ll forgive him everything.
Elation floods my being, but the feeling diminishes with the passing of time. A customer remarks as he leaves with his package, “You’re in another world, Umm Abbas.”
From the mosque the call to evening prayer reaches my ears as darkness creeps over the short winter day. There must be a reason for his delay. He isn’t worth all this anxious waiting. What’s keeping him? The candle splutters in the winter wind; I stand up, not intending to sit down again. My mood has altered; he has deceived me unmercifully. My patience is worn out, and I’ll have to go and look for him.
The first person I meet at the theater door is Fuad Shalaby, who approaches me with unaccustomed tenderness, holding out his hands to me.
“I hope it’s false news,” he says.
“What news?” I say as my last glimmer of hope disappears. The man doesn’t seem to know what to say, so he remains silent. “Is it about Abbas?”
He nods his head, saying nothing more, and I lose consciousness.
When I come to, I find myself on the couch in the cafeteria and Amm Ahmad is taking care of me. Fuad Shalaby and Tariq Ramadan are also there. Amm Ahmad breaks the news to me in a funereal voice and ends by saying, “No one believes it.”
Fuad Shalaby takes me home is his car. On the way he wonders aloud, “If he’s committed suicide, where is his body?”
“Then why did he write the note?”
“That’s his secret,” he answers. “We’ll find out in good time.”
—
But I know his secret as I know my own heart and I know my luck; he has killed himself. Evil is playing flute music for Abbas.