11

I COULDN’T SLEEP.

I was thinking about my father, picturing that strange, terrifying look he had after he read the letter. I was imagining how much he was suffering, thinking that his wife was cheating on him with his brother, the torture of a man stabbed in his honor, stabbed in his pride, stabbed in the heart.

I felt my insides creep up inside my body until they wrapped around my throat and choked me.

I was disgusted at myself.

I needed someone to hit me, to slap me, to make me feel pain, to punish me for my crime.

Why didn’t my father hit me?

But instead of imagining my father hitting me, I imagined Mustafa doing it. I imagined him raising his hand up and bringing it down on my cheek. I imagined him pulling me by the hair, throwing me to the ground, taking out a whip and bringing it down on my body until it shredded my clothes.

This thought calmed me. Something about it distracted me from my crime. I unconsciously lifted my hands and covered my face as if protecting myself from Mustafa’s blows. I writhed in bed like I really was being whipped.

But this anguish didn’t last long.

I knew I had to keep going. I knew the letter was just the beginning. Now I had to prove the affair to my father—prove to him that his wife really was betraying him with his brother. Otherwise he’d discover my lie and punish me for it. And I’d lose him forever. Anything would be easier than my father discovering that I was a liar or losing him.

Morning came.

I was still in bed when my father came into my room, still wearing his pajamas. I was surprised. Since he’d gotten married, my father never came into my room early. He’d get up from bed, leave his room for the bathroom, and then go back to get dressed. I wouldn’t see him until breakfast.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, my father leaned over to kiss me.

“Good morning, my dear,” he said with a broken smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“Good morning, Daddy,” I said, trying to hide the traces of my insomnia.

I knelt on the bed, threw myself into his arms, and hugged him. I pressed my cheek to his.

“I love you so much, Daddy,” I said with childlike naivete, as if apologizing for my crime.

My father wrapped his arms around me and pressed me to his chest. He then moved me away gently and looked at me with a sad smile hanging below his worn-out eyes.

“You know, Nadia,” he said, “I feel like we’ve grown apart. Remember when we used to live alone? We always understood each other, always talked to each other, and . . .” He lowered his head as if he’d never lift it up again. “Those were nice days, Nadia,” he continued in a sad voice. “I only had you and you only had me.”

I felt a wicked happiness.

I felt that my father had come back to me, to me alone. But he was sad and broken.

“I’ve never wanted anyone but you, Daddy,” I told him, hiding my evil delight.

“Me too, Nadia,” he said, raising his head to me. “I only have you. Whatever happens, we’ll always have each other. I’ll be there for you to make you happy. I’ll sacrifice everything to make you happy.”

“Your happiness is all I care about, Daddy,” I said, kissing him again.

“Good. Go wash your face and let’s have breakfast,” he said, patting my shoulder. “You need to eat well. You’re losing weight these days and I don’t like it.”

“You go wash your face first,” I said, laughing.

“Right. I haven’t been to the bathroom yet,” he said, smiling, touching his face with his hand. “I think I’ve become lazier than you!”

My father got up to go to the bathroom.

I went to wash my face and get dressed.

We all met at the breakfast table.

My father’s wife was unusually quiet and sad. It looked like she hadn’t paid as much attention as usual to her appearance.

My father, sitting next to her, was also silent, his face taut as if he were suppressing a volcano on the verge of erupting. Unlike most mornings, he was paying me more attention than his wife.

I sat silently between them, moving my eyes from one to the other, trying to figure out where the storm would blow in from.

We finished our silent breakfast as if bidding farewell to someone who had died.

My father got up to leave for the club.

Auntie Safiya stood up sluggishly after him, like she was carrying out a burdensome duty by going with him to the door to say goodbye.

I got up too, and sat in the parlor. I waited for her to come back.

“I don’t like how Daddy’s acting this morning,” I said innocently, trying to find out what had happened between them the night before. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I really don’t know, Nadia,” Auntie Safiya said, nervously straightening a cloth on one of the tables. “Yesterday, he changed all of a sudden. He was sitting with me calmly, and then got up and left. I don’t know what he was doing, but he came back sulking, really upset. He sat in the parlor by himself until midnight. Afterward, he came into the bedroom but he didn’t sleep. He was tossing and turning, sighing and moaning. I kept asking what was wrong, but he didn’t respond. I’m afraid he’s sick, but he doesn’t want to tell me.”

“So why don’t we call Doctor Mufti?” I asked innocently, pretending to be worried.

“I suggested that. But he doesn’t want to. You know your father. When he doesn’t want to talk, no one can make him.”

She sighed, as if resigned to the situation. Then she went to the kitchen to reprimand the cook.

I took the phone, went into my room, and called Mustafa.

We didn’t talk about much. I was trying to get him to distract me from my thoughts, but it didn’t work. I had one ear on the receiver while keeping tabs on my father’s wife with the other. I was talking with him while my mind was picturing what might happen in the next few days.

Mustafa was trying to get me to talk, but he couldn’t get through to me. He made jokes, but I wasn’t paying attention. He’d ask me a question, but I wouldn’t respond.

“What’s wrong?” he asked finally. “What’s distracting you?”

“Nothing,” I whispered. “Safiya’s standing at the door.”

“Say hi to her for me,” he said, laughing. “And remind her about the invitation. Am I still banned from your house?”

I didn’t respond.

“I’m hanging up now,” I whispered. “I’ll call you later.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you in the afternoon. Au revoir.”

I hung up. Taking the needlepoint I was working on, I went to the parlor.

Auntie Safiya was supervising the servants.

After about an hour, she walked past me in the parlor and went upstairs as she usually did every morning.

I sat by myself, thinking.

It wasn’t long before the door flew open and my father stormed in.

As soon as I saw him, I knew.

I knew he had started monitoring his wife. He never came home at this time of day.

In his anger, my father forgot to say hello to me. He went into the house with quick, nervous steps, and then came back to me.

“Where’s Safiya?” he asked, almost yelling.

My eyes widened with fear.

“I swear, I don’t know,” I stammered as if hiding a big secret. “She’s—she’s—she’s not in her room?”

“No, she’s not in her room! Tell me, where did she go?” He came up and grabbed my arm. “Where is she? Tell me!”

“She must have . . . must have left,” I said, still stammering.

“Left where?” he said, shaking me.

“I don’t know, Daddy! I was in my room. Ask Nanny Halima. Or maybe she went upstairs.”

My father let go of my arm. He didn’t ask the nanny anything. The storm blew directly upstairs.

I ran after him, as if worried about him.

Upstairs was dark and calm. My father went in as I ran after him. All of a sudden, we saw Auntie Safiya standing in the hallway, organizing the clothes that had come back from the ironer. Abdou the butler was sweeping the opposite room.

My father stood staring at her, trying to get hold of himself.

“Where’s Aziz?” he asked, less harshly than before.

Auntie Safiya gave him a cold look. “He’s still sleeping.”

“And what are you doing here?” my father asked, still fighting to control himself.

She looked at him, surprised.

“You can see what I am doing,” she said coldly.

“If you’re organizing the ironing, what are the servants doing?” he asked, his voice starting to rise.

“Since when do the servants organize the ironing?” she said, looking back and forth between us. “You know I never leave these things to the servants.” She was quiet for a moment. “What’s wrong, Ahmed? What’s happened? What’s bothering you?”

I saw my father press his palms together as if trying to quash his nerves.

“Nothing, nothing,” he said with forced calm.

He turned to go downstairs.

“Wait, I’m coming with you,” she said.

The three of us went down.

We sat in the parlor without anyone saying anything. Suddenly, my father jumped out of his chair.

“I’m going back to the club.” His voice was rattled.

“You’re not staying with us?” Auntie Safiya asked with an anxious look. “It’s noon and lunch will be ready soon.”

“I’ve got work,” my father said, heading to the door. “I came to talk with Aziz about something, but he’s still asleep. What kind of man is that?”

And he left.

Auntie Safiya didn’t get up to say goodbye. She sat in her spot and leaned her head on her palm as if she was thinking. Then she got up nervously to go to her room, and closed the door behind her. Maybe to cry.

I imagined her tears—the tears I’d never seen. I pitied her at that moment, but my scheme was too big for pity to destroy.

The criminal that lives in my chest was controlling my nerves and my mind. It made me vigilant and alert, watching everything happening around me silently and dryly, without pity.

My father came back after a few hours, later than usual. When I kissed him, I could smell beer on his breath, but he was calm. He seemed as if he’d made a decision and he was following some kind of set plan.

We sat at the table for lunch with Uncle Aziz. Maybe no one else noticed how distastefully my father greeted him.

“Everything okay, Ahmed?” my uncle asked, taking his seat at the table. “Safiya said you wanted to talk to me.”

My father looked at his wife sharply, as if accusing her of revealing a secret to his brother.

“She told you already?” he said scornfully.

His wife looked at him in surprise.

“What does she have to do besides pester me to wake up, order me around, and give me lunch?” Uncle Aziz said, laughing. “It’s enough. Safiya’s turned the house into a barracks: everything’s scheduled down to the minute and second!”

My father looked at his brother as if he was trying to discover his secret. He then moved his eyes to his wife and started eating.

“Regardless,” he said without responding to my uncle or his laughter, “I don’t need you. I was planning on talking with you about the farm, but I decided these things don’t interest you.”

“Thanks to you, Ahmed,” my uncle said.

“Of course, thanks to me,” my father said bitterly. “I’m like the donkey that pulls the cart. Everything’s on me. I’m the one who looks after the farm for you. I’m the one who takes care of your bills for you. And I’m the one who got married so you could have someone wake you up and—”

Safiya slammed her knife and fork onto her plate. “You married me, Ahmed, to wake up Aziz?”

My father inhaled deeply and angrily, doing his best to calm himself. “I didn’t mean—”

“I won’t let you call me ‘someone’ and talk about me like that,” she said, cutting him off.

“I’m sorry,” my father said, collecting himself. “Forget about it, Safiya. Bear with me for another few days and everything will be fine.”

“God willing,” he added in a whisper, as if talking to himself.

Auntie Safiya was silent.

“What happened, Ahmed?” my uncle asked calmly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” my father said, not looking at him.

“Maybe there’s something I can do.”

“You’ve never known how to do anything other than what you’re doing now,” my father said, raising his eyes to him.

“That’s right,” my uncle said, trying to remain calm. “You’re the one who wants it like that. You’re the one who always wants to do everything yourself. If you were me, you wouldn’t do anything, because all I want is to make you happy.”

“We’re done talking about it now,” my father said, going back to his food.

A long period of silence ensued.

It was the first time I’d seen this kind of exchange between my father and uncle. It was the first time these dark clouds had gathered over the dining table. I felt the entire house shake and myself shake with it. I felt that its foundation would collapse and it would collapse on me, but what could I do?

“My uncle invited us for dinner tonight,” my father’s wife said as we were finishing our food. “Do you want to go?”

I looked at her. She gave a weak smile as if she was trying to defend her happiness with it. There was confusion and hesitation in her eyes, as if she didn’t know what to say or do. Her strong, attractive personality was beginning to crumble . . . crumble before me and my wicked plan.

“Let’s go,” my father said. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“No reason,” she said weakly. “I’m only asking.”

“And you, Aziz?” my father asked after a moment, slicing into an apple like he was butchering it. “You’re not coming with us?”

“Are you inviting me or kicking me out?” my uncle asked, trying to regain his cheerfulness.

“Right,” my father said, continuing to cut up the apple. “It’s just that before, you didn’t like these kinds of invitations. But I see you like them these days.”

“Thanks to Safiya,” my uncle said, looking at my father’s wife appreciatively. “She’s the one who made me like everything, even these dull invitations.”

My father raised his eyes at him briefly as if he admired his courage. He then went back to butchering the apple. And silence reigned again.

That evening, they went to Auntie Safiya’s uncle’s house.

I excused myself from going, saying there wouldn’t be any girls there my age. The truth was that I needed to take a break from myself, from the criminal inside me.

But when I was alone, I couldn’t relax. My torture returned. I started wandering through the rooms of the house as if fleeing from terrifying images traced in front of me on the walls.

I had to do something—to embark on a reckless adventure to make me forget myself.

I had no option but Mustafa, the drug I’d gotten addicted to. But this evening, the usual dose wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough for me just to go to him, listen to his records and bizarre opinions, and give my body to him. Even spending the night at his place, as I did once, wasn’t enough. I wanted a bigger dose, a rougher and more exciting adventure.

I was home alone.

I picked up the phone and called Mustafa, but he wasn’t there. I started calling all the places he usually went, until I found him at the Semiramis bar.

“I want to see you now,” I said as if giving him an order.

“I’m with people,” he said apologetically.

“I don’t care. Leave them and come,” I insisted.

“But I’m the one who invited them,” he said.

“Listen, Mustafa, if I don’t see you now, you’ll never see me again,” I snapped as if I meant it.

“But why?” he asked, confused. “What’s going on?”

“None of your business,” I said tensely. “I just need to see you.”

“But I can’t stay,” he said, giving in. “Half an hour, and then I need to come back.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll be at the apartment in five minutes.”

“No, come here.”

“Here where?”

“My house,” I said firmly.

“Are you crazy? How could I come to your house?”

“No one’s here,” I said. “I’m all alone.”

“What if someone comes back?”

“No one will. They’re all out for dinner and they won’t get back before midnight.”

“What if one of them gets a stomachache and comes home early? What’ll we do then?”

“I’m not worried about that.” I was completely calm. “They’re all in good health. Are you coming or not?”

“Why don’t you go to the apartment since you’re alone? Get dressed, take a taxi, and I’ll be there waiting for you.”

“No, I can’t,” I said stubbornly.

“Listen, my dear,” he said. “Nadia, sweetie, spirit of my heart. Be reasonable. It’s been twenty years since I was in high school. I don’t jump over walls and I’m not ready to start today. I’m too old for these things.”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to see my room so you could imagine me everywhere? This way I can show you.”

“Not today, please. You can just describe it to me bit by bit or take pictures of it and bring them with you.”

“Okay, forget it. Whatever you say. But next time, don’t ask to see me.”

Mustafa was quiet for a little. I’d hooked him with the seed of adventure. He began imagining it and savoring it.

“If I come, how do I get in?”

“You’ll find the garden gate open,” I said quickly, delighted at my victory. “You’ll find me on the veranda.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes exactly. But listen. Don’t park in front of the gate. Park on the next street over.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he sighed.

It was nine o’clock. All the servants had left except for Nanny Halima, who was asleep in her room, and Idris the doorman, an old man who’d worked for us for more than fifteen years.

I began to arrange everything.

I first wanted to be sure that Idris was asleep, so I went to the balcony and called out to him a few times. All of a sudden, he woke up and responded.

“Listen, Idris,” I said, thinking quickly. “Go to the ironer and tell him I have to have my white dress immediately.”

The ironer was in Galaa Square. With his slow pace, Idris couldn’t get there and back in less than an hour.

“But they’re closed now, miss,” Idris said in surprise, almost pleading.

“No, we went there once at eleven o’clock and they were open,” I said mercilessly, in a commanding tone. “Please, Idris. Abdou went home and I have to have that dress now!”

Idris muttered some words I couldn’t hear and then put on his scarf as if he were slapping me with it.

I stood watching him closely until he left the house and went on his way.

I went to my room, took off my clothes, and put on a white silk shirt with a light rose-colored nightgown on top of it. I undid my hair and let it fall down my neck like a cascade of gold. I put on some Femme perfume, which Mustafa loved. I then rushed to Nanny Halima’s room and locked the door to make sure she couldn’t get out unless I opened it for her.

I went out to the garden and opened the gate, which gave an annoying squeak.

I went back and stood at the top of the stairs leading into the house.

A few minutes later, I spotted Mustafa’s car pass by. Mustafa looked at me, and then drove his car to the side street.

After a few moments, he came back. He hesitated, looking around like a thief, and entered through the garden gate.

My heart thundered. I felt like an airplane in the sky plunging down into a bottomless abyss.

I signaled to him with a trembling hand and he started tiptoeing up the stairs. He took my hand with a scared smile. I put my finger to my lips, warning him not to say anything.

We went inside.

I locked the door behind us as a precaution.

Mustafa was raging. His fingers were cold, his face was flushed, and his eyes were darting around. I could almost hear his heartbeats. He was whispering as if he were choking. Despite that, he was trying to appear steady and courageous: he was like an old retired officer who suddenly found himself on the battlefield.

He looked around at the parlor and the furniture, trying to act like he was used to these kinds of adventures. Then he turned to me.

“You know, I had to have two neat whiskeys to be able to come here,” he whispered.

“Me too,” I said. “My heart’s in my stomach!”

“Where’s the bedroom you wanted to show me?” he asked as if hoping to end the ordeal.

“No, I won’t show it to you,” I said, trying to make him mad.

“Why?” he whispered.

“Because.”

“What’s this ‘because’? Why don’t you want to show it to me?”

Mustafa was agitated. It was the first time I’d seen him like that, and my room wasn’t the reason. It was this whole set up.

I wanted to see how angry he was.

“No,” I said, coquettishly. “I won’t tell you.”

He grabbed my arm so hard it hurt.

“I have to know why you don’t want me to go in your room,” he whispered loudly. “What are you hiding?”

I was afraid he’d raise his voice and press so hard on my arm that I’d scream.

“Because it’s a mess, that’s why. I don’t want you to see it like that.”

Mustafa smiled and loosened his grip. “So, why’d you bring me here?” he asked, whispering again.

“Because I missed you,” I said, clinging to him. “And I couldn’t go out.”

Mustafa looked at me as if he were in heaven. He pulled me to him violently and fell on my lips.

His kiss was different from what I was used to. His lips trembled on mine feverishly. His cheeks were on fire and he was panting. His fingers pressed down on my side so frantically they almost dug into my flesh.

I floated in this roughness.

I then woke up all of a sudden at the sound of bangs on the door.

Mustafa woke up too. “What’s that?” he whispered, terrified.

“It’s Nanny Halima,” I said, trying to calm him.

“What’s wrong with her? What does she want? Where is she?” he asked, looking around quickly.

“Don’t worry,” I said calmly. “She’s in her room. She must want to go to the bathroom. I locked her in.”

“What should I do?” he asked, trying to get a grip on himself.

“Come, sit here.”

I brought him into the dining room and waited for more knocks on the door. I then went and opened it for Nanny Halima.

“Who locked you in?” I asked with a big laugh.

“Bismillah, bismillah!” she exclaimed. “I don’t know, Miss Nadia. I thought the jinn locked me in or I’d died and got stuck in my grave.”

“There aren’t any jinn. Someone must have locked you in by accident.”

I let her go to the bathroom, and went to calm Mustafa as he stood in the darkness of the dining room. From a distance, I indicated that he should keep quiet.

Then I left him and stood in the parlor so that Nanny Halima could see me after she left the bathroom.

“You’re not asleep yet, Miss Nadia?” she asked as she reached the end of the hallway.

“Not yet, Nanny,” I said, standing in the parlor. “After I finish reading my magazine.”

She went back into her room and shut the door.

I didn’t try to lock it again. Instead, I locked the door separating the bedrooms from the parlor, salon, and dining room. I went back to Mustafa.

As soon as I reached him, he whispered, “What if she’d seen us?”

“Don’t worry,” I said, unconcerned. “She couldn’t say anything.”

“And what if someone comes now?”

“I’ll sneak you out the kitchen door,” I said, pleased with myself for my quick thinking.

Mustafa didn’t wait for another word. He pulled me to him roughly and impatiently, as if he wanted to put an end to this, to get himself out of this situation and flee to safety.

His trembling lips returned to mine. He reached out to open the buttons of my nightgown, but I resisted. I wanted to see him angry and aroused again.

He couldn’t bear my resistance. He lifted his lips from mine and a terrifying look sparkled in his eyes. With both hands, he ripped off my robe as if he was crazy.

He then grabbed me by my hair and pulled me violently to the ground.

Mustafa left.

He disappeared quickly from the house as if he were running from the devil.

I went after him to lock the garden gate, which let out a squeak.

I then went back to my room, took off my ripped clothes, and hid them in the dresser.

I sat on my bed, thinking about everything that had happened. I was pleased with myself—with this person I’d become.

I heard the front-door bell.

I got up to open it.

“The ironer isn’t open, Miss Nadia,” Idris said, panting. “I told you before, but you didn’t believe me.”

“Don’t worry, Idris,” I said, almost in tears. “You’re right. Thanks.”

And I locked the door.