18

IS LIFE BIG ENOUGH FOR more than one love?

I loved Mahmoud.

But hadn’t I been in love with Mustafa a year earlier?

Was my heart honest in loving Mahmoud? Was it honest in loving Mustafa or had it misled me in love, deceiving me and lying to me?

I didn’t know!

But now, I could swear that I loved Mahmoud as I could have sworn that I loved Mustafa a year earlier, despite the big difference between my love for each of them. They were different kinds of love, in how they emerged and the feelings they stirred up.

My love for Mahmoud was calm, pure, and transparent. It flowed in my heart like a sweet stream with no waves or storms appearing on it. This love didn’t inflame me, but slumbered in my heart like an innocent angel. It didn’t burst through my body like rockets, but filled my chest like the morning breeze. Even when I imagined him kissing me, almost feeling his lips on mine, it didn’t release in me a defiant desire or push me to anything like my adventures with Mustafa. Instead, I felt his lips as a touch of love which made my heart happy and which my body smiled at calmly and sedately.

I never imagined Mahmoud in a tempestuous adventure. I always saw him sitting by my side like a husband: he would be reading with me next to him needlepointing or working on a jacket. I imagined him coming back from the university, me greeting him at the door, taking his bag that had his study notes, kissing him on his cheeks, and leading him by the hand to the dining room. I imagined him walking next to me on Qasr al-Nil Street, and us going into shops together. I imagined him as a father for my children.

I thought about him as a husband.

My entire hope was that I’d marry him.

He was the first man I wanted as my husband.

Mahmoud didn’t broach the subject of marriage with me. Despite that, marriage was an idea that brought us together, an idea we both aimed for. It also seemed to me that us getting married became the hope of his mother and his sister. I could see in their eyes and their gestures that they had a plan for us.

Was this plan being realized?

Was God happy with me, and was he withholding the punishment I feared?

God is forgiving and merciful. While I was getting close to Mahmoud, I left Kawthar to my father, and was certain she was trying to marry him. Everything was going as I wanted, as I hoped—as if God had set fate in my hands to make what I wanted with it.

Until we got back from summer vacation.

Not even two days after we got back, my father came into my room early in the morning and woke me up with his kisses. He sat on the edge of the bed.

“You’ve become lazier than me!” he said, hesitation making his smile falter. “Why are you sleeping so much?”

“What time is it?” I asked, opening my eyes.

“Eight thirty!”

“Because I’m still not used to you waking up early.”

My father was quiet.

He spread his fingers on the duvet as if he was looking for what he wanted to say underneath it.

“Go wash your face, Nadia,” he said, as if he’d decided to delay. “I want to sit and talk a little.”

“Why don’t we talk now?” I asked, searching his face.

“No,” he said, standing up. “After you wash your face. It’s important.”

“I’m used to hearing important news while I’m in bed. Please, what do you want to tell me, Daddy?”

“Later. After you wash your face.”

“No, now,” I said, taking his hand so he didn’t get up. “Please stop making me worry!”

He became flustered and he blushed. Drops of sweat like the morning dew appeared on his forehead.

“No, it’s nothing,” he said. “But you know our life alone is missing something. All day and night, I’m afraid for you. I don’t know what to do for you. I don’t know what—”

“I know,” I cut him off jubilantly.

“You know what?” he asked, surprised.

“You’re getting married.”

“How did you know?” he asked, shocked.

“And should I tell you who you’re going to marry?” I asked, laughing. “Kawthar!”

His mouth dropped open.

“Someone must have told you!”

“Not at all,” I said, embracing him. “Don’t forget that I’ve grown up and I understand the world. I’ve been waiting for this day for three months—the day you’d come tell me you’re going to marry Kawthar.”

Apologetically, he said, “I didn’t plan to think about marriage until you got married, but—”

“And I wasn’t planning on getting married until you got married!” I said, cutting him off. “But that’s it. As long as you get married, I’ll start thinking about marriage right away.”

I got out of bed happily and went to the phone to call Kawthar.

“Shame on you, traitor!” I yelled at her. “You did the deed without telling me!”

Kawthar swore to me that my father hadn’t broached the subject of marriage until the day before, and he hadn’t come to propose formally yet.

The formalities were completed quickly after that. Kawthar and her family moved things forward hastily, as if they were afraid my father might change his mind.

I went with my father, and we bought the engagement ring and the engagement present after Kawthar told me what she wanted. I then started going with Kawthar every day to visit clothing and furniture stores.

I felt that half of my hopes had been achieved. I was happy, and my father was happy. He was generous with Kawthar about everything, to the point that I was afraid he might have resorted to selling land again or taken out a big loan to pay for everything.

The agreement to sign the marriage contract was completed quickly. Four weeks after announcing the engagement, they agreed that Kawthar would move into our house, and we wouldn’t look for a new house until after the wedding, and they wouldn’t change the furniture except in the bedroom, and they’d limit the celebration, just inviting a small number of guests from the two families.

My father wanted to take Kawthar to Europe for their honeymoon, but Kawthar refused on the pretext of saving money. My father pressed her, but Kawthar insisted.

“My good sir, the honey in Europe isn’t like the honey here,” she informed him teasingly.

“But I want to open you up to the world, Kawthar,” my father responded. “We’d get away from Cairo and all its noise for a little while.”

“From now on, the only noise in Cairo that you’ll hear is mine! You’d be taking my noise with you to Europe. It’s better that we spend the money on the new house.”

“My dear, you don’t have to worry about money,” he pressed her. “We can travel and the new house will still be as you want it, more or less.”

“If all you want to do is spend money,” she said, still being coy, “instead of traveling, you can get me the brooch Nadia and I saw at Yakim’s. Instead of us spending money for a month, we’ll spend it on something that will stay with us forever.”

I didn’t know why I found myself standing next to Kawthar and defending her. At the time, I didn’t think about what could be pushing her to call off the honeymoon. I didn’t ask myself, “Why is a young bride refusing to travel to Europe with her husband whom she loves?”

I didn’t think anything of it.

“That’s right, Daddy!” I cut in enthusiastically. “And I couldn’t let you leave me for a whole month. I agree with Kawthar that she has half of you and I have the other half. And I don’t want my half to travel.”

The honeymoon was canceled.

My father bought the brooch for Kawthar.

I organized the small party. In her white dress and short veil, Kawthar looked like a beautiful bronzed angel, touched by the sun on her way down to earth.

I insisted on inviting Mahmoud and his family to the party, on the pretext that his sister was one of my dearest friends. Maybe Kawthar knew what there was between me and Mahmoud, and she didn’t object to inviting him. He came with his sister, but his mother sent her regrets because she was sick.

I was happy with him.

I was imagining myself in Kawthar’s dress—the bride’s dress.

I was imagining him in my father’s place—the place of the groom.

“I have to see you today,” Mahmoud whispered in my ear as we drank our tea, the faint sound of trilling by one of the servants coming from the distance. “I have to see you alone.”

I agreed without thinking. I agreed that he’d take his sister home after the party ended and he’d come back to find me waiting for him at the front door.

The party ended at eight o’clock in the evening.

My father and his bride went to the Mena House Hotel to spend three days there. I stayed home alone with Nanny Halima.

At nine o’clock, I was waiting for Mahmoud in front of the building. I didn’t feel that I was heading out on an adventure and the night to come didn’t stir up anything in me that I was afraid of or that made me excited. My trust in Mahmoud was stronger than the night. All I was expecting was that Mahmoud would propose to me. All I felt was a slight trembling in my heart, as if it were a small bird waking up to the morning light, shaking the dawn dew from its feathers.

Mahmoud came in his car and I jumped in next to him. He turned to me and smiled. Then, without saying a word, we drove off.

The trembling of my heart became more intense, as if the dawn dew was too heavy for the trembling bird to shake off. I felt the situation was more serious than I imagined.

Mahmoud’s silence went on.

I tried to break his silence, to talk with him about the party and what people were saying about it, but Mahmoud just listened, he did not talk. Maybe he wasn’t listening either.

We got to the end of Haram Street and turned onto al-Naziliya Street. He stopped under a big tree on a calm street—the same street and tree where Mustafa had stopped his car when we met for the first time.

I was suddenly afraid that Mahmoud was like Mustafa.

He turned to me, and then looked straight ahead once more. “I’m leaving, Nadia,” he said in a low voice.

“Leaving?” I asked anxiously, as if he’d slapped me.

“The day after tomorrow,” he said, still looking straight ahead. “I was thinking that the process would take more time. I was planning on talking with you about a lot of things, but I got word that I have to leave in two days.”

We were both quiet.

“Will you be gone long?” I asked, my voice cascading out like a flood of tears.

“For a year,” he said, still looking in front of him. “But I’ll be back in six months.” He turned to me with a look of pleading and apology in his eyes. “All I can say, Nadia, is that I hope you’ll wait for me.”

I didn’t say anything. My eyes clung to him in a sad silence.

He got close to me. I felt his calm, warm breath on my face as if it were the wings of butterflies dancing in the air.

“Will you wait for me, Nadia?” he asked in a trembling voice.

I didn’t answer. I found my head falling on his shoulder, my face hiding in his chest, my hands clinging to the edge of his shirt as if I didn’t want him to go.

He raised his arm and it came down gently on my shoulder. He pulled me to him as if he wanted me to hear the beats of his heart.

With his other hand, he raised my head to him. He looked around again, his eyes on my face as if he was seeing me for the first time. I closed my eyes so I didn’t see his lips, to resist my desire and ensure that I didn’t kiss him before he kissed me.

His lips arrived, delicate and tender, as if they were bearing the message of God and depositing it on my lips.

I couldn’t open my eyes. I wanted to sleep in his kiss, in his breath. I’d finally sleep after the long life I’d spent sleepless.

How long did we spend kissing?

I don’t know. Maybe he spoke. Maybe he said something. But I didn’t respond. My entire mind was on the home that would bring us together, on the bridal dress, on a calm, stable life. I didn’t know what was happening around me. I didn’t feel that I was in a car parked under a tree on one of the calm streets of al-Naziliya. I felt like I was at home. My home. That Mahmoud was my husband and this car was our bed. He could have taken everything. I would have given him everything. He was my husband.

His love and tenderness carried me to a beautiful, distant, calm world. I only returned from it as he was lifting his arms from my shoulders, as if he were abandoning me and letting me fall in space, the damp air filling my clothes.

He reached out and turned the car key.

“It’s already eleven,” he said.

I loved him more at that moment.

I loved him because he was protecting me from myself and himself. I loved him because he was compensating me for my weakness with his strength, completing my will with his, limiting my freed imagination with his incredibly strong truth.

“I’ll wait for you, Mahmoud,” I told him as I got out of the car at the door of my building, as if taking an oath to him.

He reached out, took my hand, and kissed it.

I went home and felt I was floating. I lay in bed embracing my happiness. I thought I’d sleep but I didn’t. Small black clouds began creeping into my mind and spreading across the sky of my happiness. I started asking myself, “Why doesn’t Mahmoud come to propose now, before he leaves? Why isn’t he marrying me and taking me with him? He’ll be gone for six months. Who knows what might happen during these months! Maybe he’ll meet another woman there. Maybe he’ll change his mind and forget his love for me. Maybe . . .”

My clever mind began to stir—my evil intelligence. It seemed to me that I needed a plan to stop Mahmoud from traveling—Mahmoud, my husband. I felt forces bursting with malice and hatred in my chest. I hated London, where Mahmoud was going. I hated it so much that I hoped the war would return and German bombs would flatten it. I hated the British. I hated the government that sent Mahmoud on this program. Why Mahmoud? Why weren’t they choosing someone else? Why were they taking my love from me? My fiancé. My husband.

I felt like getting out of bed, going to Mahmoud, and screaming at him so he wouldn’t leave me. I felt like going to the president and begging him to leave my love for me. I thought I could pack my clothes, join Mahmoud in London, and give myself to him there as his wife.

During the turbulent storms of these thoughts, I asked myself, “Why did I promise I’d wait? Why didn’t I overwhelm him with my femininity and overcome his resistance, make him lose his mind so he’d marry me before leaving? Why didn’t I claim, as all girls do, that there was another man who came to propose and I was afraid my father would accept? Why didn’t I use my intelligence?” I know I’d decided I’d be good and was resisting my evil impulses, which were pushing me to crimes that would torture me. But goodness seemed not to be part of my intelligence. Does every good girl have to be stupid? Why couldn’t I use my intelligence in order to achieve happiness? To reach my honorable goal of marrying my love? Why did my clever mind abandon me whenever I needed it for good, and help me only when I wished misfortune on people?

I pulled myself back from these thoughts and said to myself, “No, a marriage based on deception will never last. I have to trust Mahmoud. He’s stronger than this doubt. He’s not just any man, not just any husband. He’s my love!”

I was never as afraid of my mind as much as I was that night.

I shook my head on the pillow roughly, trying to dispel every plan my mind concocted. I clutched the duvet, gripped it tightly, as if resisting a great force trying to push me violently on a path I didn’t want to go on. I bit my lips until they bled, trying to muffle the scream that almost burst forth from them.

I resisted taking matters into my own hands.

I wanted to leave everything to God to do what He wanted.

I didn’t sleep.

I spent the night scared to close my eyes or open them. I was afraid that if I closed them, black thoughts would invade my dreams, and I was afraid that if I opened them, I’d see those same black thoughts.

I wasn’t afraid only for Mahmoud.

The phone woke me up the next morning. It was Mahmoud asking to meet me at six o’clock that evening.

“Okay,” I said weakly. I was afraid that I’d let myself inflict some kind of harm on him.

I spent the day with Nanny Halima. For the first time, I found I couldn’t resist mentioning him to her.

But she didn’t understand what I was hinting at. She hadn’t noticed Mahmoud at the party, so she couldn’t share my interest in him. Mahmoud was the kind of man people didn’t notice or pay attention to unless they knew him.

All of Nanny Halima’s talk was about the party. She purposely talked around Kawthar, with a tepidness that showed she wasn’t comfortable with her and didn’t like her.

“The truth is that the master won’t find anyone like Madame Safiya,” she said, sighing and resting her head on her palm. “No one will ever be able to fill her shoes.”

“We’re finished with that story,” I found myself almost yelling. “Are we going to lament that our whole lives? Your mistress Kawthar is my friend and I know her well. She isn’t like Safiya. She’s better than her!”

Nanny Halima fell silent reluctantly.

I collected myself.

“Go see what the cook is doing today,” I instructed her with artificial calm.

Nanny Halima got up, dragging her feet as if she was walking in a funeral procession.

It took me a while to calm down.

At four o’clock, I started getting ready to meet Mahmoud.

When it was five minutes to six, I took one last look in the mirror. I thought I’d never looked as beautiful as on that day.

I left.

I saw the love in Mahmoud’s eyes as he opened the car door for me.

He took me to the Mena House, but we didn’t stay there. He took me to Heliopolis again. And we talked. We talked about everything, but he didn’t try to talk about marriage.

Until I turned my head and looked out the car window.

“I feel like you’re going to war and I’m saying goodbye to you,” I said.

“Shame on you,” he said calmly. “What war? The only war is the one I’m fighting with myself. I’m fighting myself so I can leave you.”

“I’ve read a lot of stories about war,” I said, still looking at the road. “The soldier takes a leave of twenty-four hours to marry the girl he loves and then goes back to fight again.”

“These are stories that don’t end well,” he said, authoritatively. “This kind of marriage is illogical. It’s entirely egotistical. Before I die, I come and take something for myself. The soldier goes back to fight and die, leaving behind a woman he could have spared from being a widow and a child who’ll grow up an orphan. A poor child born after his father has died. What was his crime? What was his crime other than that his father couldn’t wait until his life became stable? His father was selfish, and didn’t think about the son who’d be born from the short night he spent with his love.”

“But they don’t all die. Some of them come back and live happily ever after.”

“Whoever doesn’t die will change,” he continued. “Whoever doesn’t change comes back to discover things in his wife that he didn’t know about, sides of her that he couldn’t see in his rush to marriage where he submitted to his emotions and forgot his mind.”

“Sometimes it’s the circumstances that change,” I said. “The circumstances of the girl whose love didn’t marry her before leaving. I think it was in the novel Waterloo Bridge where the man went to fight and left his love alone. She was worn down and fell victim to those circumstances. When he came back from the war, it was over. He couldn’t marry her. But if he’d married her before leaving, it would have protected her from the terrible conditions she suffered. He would have come back to find her waiting for him.”

“I believe this time period,” he said, “the time when the man is traveling and leaves his girl, is a test to see how much the two can endure, how much they can wait, if they can hold on to their feelings. That creates the strongest marriage.”

“But there are things you can’t count on,” I said. “For example—”

“Marriage isn’t a story, Nadia,” he said, cutting me off. “It’s not a novel. Marriage is something very big. Marriage is all of life. It means stability. It’s not possible for someone to get married until they are settled.”

“Why?” I asked. “Is it not possible for a homeless person to marry someone? Is it not better than being homeless alone?”

“What about the children?”

I was quiet for a moment. “You’re right,” I said finally, trying to be convinced of what he was saying. “Thank God you’re not going to war, or I’d be afraid you’d change.”

With a big smile, he reached out and pulled me to him. I rested my head on his chest as he drove the car with the other hand.

Mahmoud left at dawn the following day, after he’d signed his name on my heart, my imagination, and my lips. He left me in the checkroom of fate.

We only promised that he’d write me and I’d write him.

“Wait for me, Nadia,” was the last thing he said as he pulled his lips from mine.

“I’ll wait for you, Mahmoud,” was the last thing I said.

After that, I considered myself engaged to him.

I was afraid of this hope. I clung to it with each step I took, with every thought I had, with every word I said.

I was like someone walking on eggshells, afraid I’d break something under my feet.

I was afraid I’d ruin something around me, afraid my hope wouldn’t be achieved.

My father had married Kawthar.

And in a matter of months, I’d marry Mahmoud.

My happiness would be complete.

I rejoiced. I felt calm. I slept.

But . . .

Had God forgiven me?

Had He shown me His mercy?

Had He forgotten my crime?