8

I DON’T KNOW WHEN MUSTAFA and I started talking about my father’s wife.

She would come up all the time, but was never the subject of conversation. As soon as I mentioned her, I drove her off my tongue as if I was blocking her from sharing the pleasure of talking with Mustafa.

Every time I did mention her, I tried to incite Mustafa against her. I tried to make him hate her as much as I did, to envy her as much as I did. I only told him about what I thought were her shortcomings. Even the good things about her I made shortcomings. But Mustafa didn’t rise to it. He didn’t hate or envy her. Instead, I felt he tried to defend her for no reason other than that he sensed how much I hated her.

“You know that Auntie Safi is very hard on me,” I told him once.

“Why?” he asked indifferently.

“Because Daddy doesn’t love her,” I said as if pitying her.

“What makes you think that?” he asked, still indifferent.

“I know. I’m sure.”

“So why did he marry her?”

“For me,” I said, pretending to ignore his tone. “He wanted to bring someone into the house to live with me and take care of me.”

“He chose this woman just so she could live with you, not because he loves her?”

“Because she’s pathetic,” I said as if trying to convince him. “Because she’s just a housewife. You know housewives who do nothing but go from the bed to the kitchen and from the kitchen to the bed? She’s one of them.”

“So she must be ugly and fat, and not know how to read or write,” he said with a sarcastic smile.

“She’s so-so,” I said, angry at his smile. “Not very fat and not very ugly, and she doesn’t read or write much.”

He withdrew his smile and took my hand.

“Regardless, Nadia,” he said seriously and respectfully, as if giving me a lesson, “if your father doesn’t love her, you have to make him love her—”

“How do I make him love her? Is love by force?”

“If he married her for you, you can make him love her for you too,” he said calmly. “What matters is that she’s happy, so that your father’s happy and you’re happy too. You can’t be happy in a house with miserable people, a house with no happiness.”

He squeezed my hand, looked into my eyes, and smiled tenderly as if I were his daughter.

“I won’t believe that you love me until you love other people, including Auntie Safi,” he continued. “When you’re in love, your heart gets so big that you accommodate and forgive everyone.”

I knew this was Mustafa’s philosophy on life and love. I knew that whenever I talked with him, I couldn’t avoid his philosophy or make him hate anyone, so I changed the subject.

“Not at all,” I said quickly. “I love Auntie Safi very much.”

I raised my eyes to him. “You still don’t believe that I love you, Mustafa?” He pulled his hand away and put it on my cheek as if he were embracing my face with his palm. Raising his hand, he plunged his fingers into my hair. He pulled me to him and pressed his lips against mine.

“I don’t believe that you understand the meaning of love,” he said as I was still breathless from his kiss.

“Make me understand.”

He let out the smile of the strong self-confident man who knows what he wants. He then started pulling out the clasp holding my hair to let it down on my back, as he usually did when he wanted me.

From then on, I didn’t talk to him about my father’s wife. Evil and hatred were flowing in my depths and I couldn’t tear them out. I couldn’t hide them—even from myself.

Everything about my father’s wife was inviting me to love her and be friends with her, but I couldn’t. The best I could do was to ignore her.

I no longer scrutinized my father’s desire for her or his pampering her. I no longer kept tabs on Uncle Aziz’s interactions with her. I no longer resisted when I saw her stamp on everything in the house or when I saw her as the center of every party.

My love for Mustafa helped me with all of that. I always said to myself, “I now have a man who is a substitute for my father and my uncle. I now have a house taking the place of this one. Mustafa is that man and the apartment where I meet him is that house.”

My love for Mustafa was my remedy against my evil and my hatred. Whenever they tried to spark a fire or come to the surface of my mind, I would set myself on stamping his apartment with my own character so that I became more confident that his apartment was my house. I spent every penny I had on buying things and arranging them there.

I bought a lot of little things and put them everywhere. I bought a set of crystal glasses and put them in the bar. I bought dozens of records and books—books that neither Mustafa nor I read; but I was happy when I saw them on the shelves. I learned how to do needlepoint, and I embroidered two small cloths that I put there. I sometimes moved a picture or a chair from one place to another. I did all that feeling that I was the mistress of the house. I wanted to convince myself that this was my house, which no one shared with me, especially not Auntie Safi.

I was missing one thing: for Mustafa to give me a key. I wanted to go to my house without ringing the bell and without anyone opening the door for me. I wanted to be the one waiting for Mustafa, to welcome him home instead of him waiting to welcome me.

But Mustafa didn’t give me a key. He didn’t even offer. Maybe because he didn’t think I wanted one. Or maybe . . .

The thought of the key tortured me. I always thought that he was avoiding giving me one so he could maintain his freedom to invite over any woman he wanted.

Sometimes my jealousy made me imagine the apartment door opening as some other woman walked in, Mustafa greeting her just as he greeted me, taking her by the hand and sitting with her on the big couch.

I’d go crazy from these fantasies, the craziness of a wife when she imagines her husband’s lover in her bed. In the middle of these fantasies, I saw myself lifting up my hands like they were holding an axe and smashing the door separating me from them. I’d then tell myself, “If only I had the key!”

Despite that, I didn’t dare ask Mustafa for one. Maybe I was ashamed, or maybe it was enough that when I was with him, I forgot all those fantasies and the torment that gripped me when I was alone.

A year passed like that.

A year in which I ignored my father’s wife and ignored the house I was living in. I gave everything to Mustafa. I was happy with him. I was tortured by him. I used his love to fight my evil inclinations and my hatred.

Then one day . . .

My father, his wife, and I were invited to a dance party that a friend of my father’s was putting on for his wedding anniversary.

I didn’t want to go with my father and his wife. That year, I’d gotten used to turning down invitations. I preferred to stay home alone thinking about Mustafa, talking with him on the phone, or sneaking out to meet him at his apartment, coming home before my father got back.

But my father insisted this time. I knew he was insisting because of his wife. She was always opposed to me keeping to myself and staying home alone. She wanted me to appear in social settings to increase the odds of my finding a husband.

I agreed to the invitation that evening, to please my father. I called Mustafa to tell him I was going out, but I didn’t reach him.

We left.

That night, my nerves were calm. There was tranquility in my heart. I stood for a long time in front of the mirror. I dressed up as beautifully as I could. I put on a gray evening dress with a wide rose-colored bow, a Dentelle Jibir design that revealed my back and shoulders. Over it, I put a blue fox fur. My father’s wife wore a black duchesse-satin evening dress with gold and silver buttons like stars hiding the shyness of the moon under the curtain of night. It was modest, not revealing her back or shoulders. She put a mink stole on top of it.

I was beautiful, with fair skin. She was beautiful, with dark skin. My father walked between us, the world not big enough for all his happiness, as if he were holding the sun in one hand and the moon in the other.

We arrived at the party.

Eyes did double takes around us.

The hostess walked with us, seating my father and his wife at a small table. I stood a few steps from them as a group of young men and women gathered around me. As usual, I was listening more than I talked. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the stares of the young men devouring me, but I ignored them. There were some attempts to flirt with me, but I blocked them coldly. I was, as usual and as is said about me, cold, silent, and beautiful, my face not revealing anything inside me.

There was nothing inside me except for Mustafa. I couldn’t forget him in the middle of that crowd and noise. I was looking at every young man and secretly mocking him because he wasn’t Mustafa. I was listening to every conversation, but I found it all to be trifling and pleasureless, unlike with Mustafa.

And then, suddenly, I saw him.

Mustafa!

My eyes widened. I caught my breath. My eyelashes trembled as if I were trying to drive away a beautiful specter that my imagination was picturing.

But he wasn’t a ghost. It was Mustafa himself. He was wearing a black tuxedo that made him look like a god of the night, charming, mysterious, exciting, attractive. He was moving among the guests with a beautiful smile, as if he were the prophet of love blessing his followers. Eyes wrapped around him as if they were whispering to each other, repeating his opinions about life and love.

I didn’t know what to do or how to get control of myself. I thought I was going to rush over to him and throw myself into his arms, yelling, “This is my love!” I’d let him kiss me and pull out the clip holding up my hair so it tumbled down my back.

The hostess walked with him until they stood next to us.

“Of course, you know everyone here,” I heard her say.

He raised his eyes and saw me.

I didn’t see a trembling in his eyes, or any other sign of surprise. Instead, his eyes fell on my face for a moment with a firm look, as if he didn’t know me.

“Not everyone,” he said to the hostess.

She turned to my father.

“You don’t know Mr. Lutfi?” she said to Mustafa. She began to introduce us to him. “Mr. Ahmed Lutfi and Madame Lutfi.” She turned to me and continued, “And this is our sweet bride to be, Mademoiselle Lutfi.”

“Of course, you all know Mr. Mustafa, or at least you’ve heard of him,” she said to us.

My father got up to greet Mustafa warmly. All my father had to know was that someone was rich and from an important family in order to greet him warmly.

Mustafa leaned over to kiss my father’s wife’s hand. I thought I saw him give her a long look as he was kissing her hand, as if he wanted to verify my descriptions of her.

I was standing far enough from him that he couldn’t reach out to greet me. He contented himself with nodding to me from afar with a fine smile on his lips that didn’t express anything other than a formal greeting.

I didn’t know how to return the greeting. Should I nod my head too? Or smile at him? Or stand frozen? I didn’t know. But it took all my strength not to keel over.

My father invited me to sit down and the hostess moved away from us.

The only place for Mustafa to sit was next to my father’s wife. He sat with his back to me. I couldn’t see him. I thought that if I looked at him, everyone would know about us. I stood up, turning my face to my friends around me but setting my ears toward Mustafa.

I wanted to hear every word he was saying.

But I couldn’t hear a thing.

The noise of the party blocked me from hearing anything.

I began to get nervous.

Anxiety started flowing under my skin until I felt all of myself shiver, as if a cold breeze had blown past me. I felt as if Mustafa’s hand was touching my bare arm, moving over my breasts, pressing down on my back, and creeping over my torso. Those touches that Mustafa had gotten me used to—I felt them as if they were warming me and protecting me from the cold air. I wanted to be next to him so I could touch him, press my shoulder against his, and put my face near his breath.

Anxiety began to overwhelm me and stir up black thoughts in my head.

What was Mustafa saying now?

What was he saying to her?

Suddenly I heard my father’s wife let out a happy, joyful laugh, a laugh higher and happier than I was used to hearing from her.

I turned to her as all my nervous energy tugged me toward her. I saw her face absorbed in laughter as if she were drunk. Her eyes were laughing, her cheeks were laughing, and the locks of her black hair swung back and forth in the air as she laughed boisterously.

I was flabbergasted. I turned to my father as if asking him why she was laughing like that. He gave his dignified smile that makes him look older than he is. I turned to Mustafa as if chastising him. He let out a calm laugh—a conceited, self-congratulatory laugh.

Fire blazed in my blood!

I wanted to attack my father’s wife, pull her by the hair, throw her to the ground, and then sit in her place and laugh like her.

I left the group around me and went over to them.

Mustafa half rose to greet me. My father made space for me next to him. I sat down and he put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me to him gently, as he usually did when I sat next to him.

“No!” I heard my father’s wife say. “You’re very bold in your opinions, Mustafa.”

“I’m not bold at all,” Mustafa replied. “But I’m not convinced by what people do. Everyone is doing it wrong, so when someone is right, they say he’s bold. And that’s ridiculous.”

I looked from one to the other in confusion mixed with a hint of accusation.

I wondered which of Mustafa’s opinions he was telling my father’s wife about.

What was he trying to convince her of?

I knew all of Mustafa’s opinions. I knew they all flowed like a drug in your veins. Was he trying to drug her?

I woke up from my questions to find the conversation flowing between them. They were talking about memories of Europe, food, books, movies, and clothes—about everything. He only became quiet so she could talk and she only became quiet so he could talk. Only the two of them were talking, as if they were tossing flowers to each other.

Nothing could stop this flood of conversation, not even some of the guests coming by the table. My father was sitting and listening, laughing or smiling, making a passing comment here and there.

I tried to open some space for myself between them, to participate in the conversation, to say something.

But I couldn’t.

Words abandoned me and topics melted in my head. When I heard them talk about Europe, I’d say to myself, “I’ll tell them the story of my friend who went to have a meal at the restaurant at the Tour d’Argent in Paris.” I’d start getting the words ready, but as soon as I was about to say them, after hesitating and not managing to butt in, the opportunity passed. They’d already started talking about something else.

That was what happened every time I tried to talk.

Mustafa sometimes tried to include me. “And what do you think, mademoiselle?” he’d ask, turning to me.

I was confused, not finding anything to say, as if I were far from them in another world, or as if my mind had frozen so it could no longer help me. I’d say any passing comment that came to me. After that, Mustafa had no choice but to keep talking with my father’s wife.

“Mademoiselle, do you prefer Christian Dior or Carven?” he asked me, as if insisting that I talk. “Which is more stylish?”

I was thrown into confusion again.

“Carven!” God only granted me a single word. Then I went quiet again.

Mustafa looked at me as if he was waiting for me to finish or take the opportunity to open another topic, but I turned my eyes from him and kept quiet.

At that moment, I felt the weakness of my character like never before. I felt that I’d spent my entire life unable to face people except with this beautiful innocent face and this provocative slim body. I’d spent my entire life only talking with myself, only sharing my thoughts with myself. No one shared my conversation or thoughts except for Mustafa when we were alone. Maybe because Mustafa was my psyche, my soul . . . but we weren’t alone now. I couldn’t face anyone other than him. I couldn’t even face him among people except with this innocent, beautiful face, this coldness and silence.

At that moment I hated my beauty. I wished I were less beautiful, but that I had a stronger character so I could attract people to me and drive Mustafa away from my father’s wife.

My stepmother’s personality swept over me, driving me away from my love, her strong, delightful personality pulsating with life and controlling everything around it.

I felt as if I wanted to cry for myself. My feelings then turned mutinous as I imagined myself scratching my stepmother’s face, tearing it with my nails. I imagined myself taking off my clothes, standing naked in the middle of the crowd so they all gathered around me, turning their backs to my stepmother, while I told them my whole story as loudly as I could so they knew I wasn’t as innocent as my face suggested, that I was smart enough to hatch plans and carry them out, that I caused a lot of trouble, that I loved Mustafa, going so far with him that I knew all the secrets of men and women—I knew more than any girl my age!

Uncle Aziz’s voice woke me up from my insane fantasy.

He arrived late, as he usually did whenever he went to a party.

My uncle leaned over to kiss my head. He leaned over and kissed my stepmother’s hand. My father then introduced Mustafa and my uncle to each other.

The three men turned their attention to my father’s wife. I was forgotten. The only part that I had of my father was his arm wrapped around me. My uncle only threw me a kind word here and there, the same things he’d say to me when I was four years old. I only got a glance or two from Mustafa, together with a smile, as if he were apologizing for ignoring me.

I escaped sometimes into my imagination, and sometimes I followed their conversation. When I paid attention, I noticed friction between my uncle and Mustafa, a friction between their personalities. Each of them was trying to talk more than the other, each was trying to control the conversation, each putting down the opinions of the other. My stepmother was trying with her personality and social dexterity to bring them together and please both of them.

I ascribed this conflict to the similarity of the two personalities. Each was a bachelor, each had many experiences, each had romantic adventures. Each even had a special philosophy about life.

But was that enough of a reason for this tension?

At that moment, I wanted my uncle to be victorious over Mustafa. I wanted him to be defeated and mine alone rather than see him victorious with another woman.

“Would you care to dance, Madame Safiya?” I heard Mustafa ask my father’s wife.

The words “Madame Safiya” rang in my ears. Where had he learned her first name? If he learned it through their conversation, how was he so bold as to break the formality between them so that he called her by her first name? “Madame Safiya” reached her hand out to him and stood up with his help. They headed over to the dance floor.

I watched them, fire shooting from my eyes.

He wrapped his arm around her waist. They danced in slow steps as he pressed her body against his. After a few steps, he pressed his cheek against hers. Their steps became so heavy it was as if they weren’t moving. She moved her cheek away from his and laughed as if he’d whispered something in her ear. Then they went back to pressing their cheeks against each other.

It was exactly like the first time I saw him dance with my friend Nagla a year ago.

I became so upset and my chest became so tight I thought that my ribs would break through my skin.

I turned around as if calling to my father for help but my father was calm, sipping from his glass, and looking around at the other guests.

I looked at my uncle. Like me, he was following them with his eyes, pursing his lips in annoyance. He began tapping on the table with his fingers rhythmically as if they were the beats of war drums.

“You’re not going to dance with me, Uncle?” I asked him, almost pleading for help. “You’ve never danced with me!”

As if I’d opened the way for him, he got up immediately and accompanied me or, rather, pulled me to the dance floor. He danced with me until we were next to them.

The four of us exchanged fake smiles.

When my face was opposite Mustafa’s, behind the back of my father’s wife, he pursed his lips at me like he was blowing me a kiss.

I hated that.

I wanted to slap him in return.

Then, after a number of steps, I saw them walk off the dance floor. They didn’t head to our table, where my father was waiting for us. They went out to the balcony.

My uncle saw them too. He yanked me by the hand and we followed them out.

The balcony wasn’t empty. There were a number of guests there. Nonetheless, standing there, I wanted to shoot them both—Mustafa and my father’s wife.

“Isn’t it cold here?” my uncle asked them with repressed anger.

“The smoke inside is suffocating,” Auntie Safi responded in a natural tone. “Regardless, it’s two in the morning and I think it’s time to go.”

No one objected.

Mustafa came with us to our table. He shook my father’s hand warmly and shook my uncle’s hand coldly. He leaned over to kiss my father’s wife’s hand and then shook my hand, squeezing it as he looked at me, trying to encircle me with his eyes.

I blocked his look with angry eyes, yanked my hand from his, and turned my back to him.

“I hope we’ll see each other again,” he said as he moved away.

Only my father responded.

“Hopefully very soon.”

My uncle put the mink stole on Auntie Safiya’s shoulders and my father put the blue fox fur on mine.

We said goodbye to the host and left. “That guy was very conceited,” my uncle said in the car.

“All bachelors are conceited like that,” my father’s wife said.

“So I’m conceited too?” my uncle asked angrily.

“If you don’t want people to say you’re conceited, get married!” she said, laughing.

“Oh please, Safiya,” he continued, still angry. “We know never to take your advice!”

“They say he’s a very smart farmer,” my father said. “In this past year, the cotton on his land has exploded while the land next to his, which belongs to Mr. Abdel-Latif’s family, has only grown a third as much.”

I kept quiet, but I was boiling inside.

We got home.

My uncle went upstairs and the three of us went in.

I don’t remember if I said goodnight to my father and his wife. I ran to my room and locked the door behind me. I ripped off my clothes without washing my face as I usually do each night.

But I didn’t sleep.

Evil began to rise up from my heart, creeping toward my head to spin its threads into a new crime.