20

ONE DAY . . .

We were invited to the wedding of one of our friends. Kawthar and I went to the hairdresser in the morning. They finished our hair at the same time. It was noon.

After we left the hairdresser, Kawthar suggested that we go to Groppi’s to have a glass of orange juice.

I didn’t want to.

Kawthar insisted.

“Please, Nadia,” she begged. “I feel like I just got out of the oven. The hairdryer melted my brain and I’m dizzy. Let’s sit in Groppi’s for five minutes. We’ll have a glass of juice and go.”

“We’ll be home in five minutes,” I said dryly. “You can have the whole fridge there.”

“Shame on you, Nadia!” she said with a pleading look in her eyes. “Do it for me.”

“It’s not appropriate for two women to sit in Groppi’s by themselves.”

“You’ve totally changed, Nadia! You’re like my grandmother. Come on, look, Grandma, all the men are at work. Groppi’s is empty at this time of day. There are only women there.”

She pulled me by the hand and let out a mischievous laugh.

I yielded to her, simply to avoid the scene Kawthar could cause in the middle of the street.

Groppi’s was only a stone’s throw from the hairdresser.

She was still gripping my hand as we went in, as if she was afraid I’d flee.

There weren’t actually a lot of men there—at a table or two, some old men read newspapers. At other tables sat some older foreign women. The entire place was dominated by a silence. The humid air hung heavy, with a gentle light spreading through its darkness.

My chest tightened. I had a feeling deep down that I was being pulled into something.

Kawthar picked an isolated table and we sat down. She asked the waiter for two glasses of orange juice.

I started looking around, annoyed, trying to collect my strength from the dim light.

Before the waiter brought the two glasses of juice, a young man suddenly stood before us as if the earth had split open and spat him out of its belly and then closed itself up after it was relieved of him. I didn’t know where he came from or what wind had tossed him to us, but I found him standing up very straight before us, like a plank of wood.

Every line on this young man seemed to have been drawn precisely with a compass and ruler, as if an engineer, not a tailor, had made his suit, as if it were made from stone, not cloth. His tie looked like it had been knotted by someone trying to choke him and his face shone like limestone, as if he had been shaved by a sculptor, not a barber.

His eyes bulged, his life seeming to have collected under his eyelids. His lips were thick and wide, greed and hunger drawn on them. His black hair was long and shiny, each strand clinging to the next with pomade, making it look fake. All his movements were theatrical, as if he was showing off his muscles, elegance, and coolness.

Kawthar reached out to him coquettishly, a drunken smile on her face. He leaned over and kissed her hand with an ugly attempt at gracefulness. He then turned to me and gave me an impudent look, as if he were undressing me with his eyes. I felt his smile like a sticky liquid running down my face.

“Of course, you’ve spoken on the phone,” Kawthar said, introducing me to him, her smile widening. “This, my dear, is Samir. Samir Husam Eddine.” Turning to him, she continued, “And, of course, you know who this is. Nadia.”

I let out a stifled cough.

He reached out and I extended my hand hesitantly. He leaned over, trying to kiss it, but I pulled it back quickly.

He pulled a chair over and sat down without asking permission, like he had an appointment with us.

I stared at Kawthar sharply, shooting daggers at her. But she ignored my looks and devoted herself to talking with Samir as if it was natural that she met him in a public place, as if it was natural that I was with them. Me, the daughter of the duped husband.

I inspected Samir out of the corner of my eye. His odiousness, his trivialness, the artificiality of his movements, his effeminacy, his empty words. What did Kawthar see in him? Was there anything in him better than my father?

I was furious. He could not be compared to my father. He didn’t measure up even to the sole of my father’s shoe. He was trifling, despicable, wretched.

I knew this kind of guy. I knew the type well. He was from an old, well-known, but dissolved family that had lost its moral standing and material wealth. He grew up with a well-known name and false sense of belonging to the aristocracy, but what he lived on was tricking women, duping them, snatching their honor and everything they had. He was the kind of guy who specialized in pursuing a woman and ruining her.

Yes, I knew this type.

I was enraged. I felt that I couldn’t bear any more or I’d explode. Everything in me was wounded—my dignity, my honor, my love for my father.

I hit the table with my hand.

“I think we’ll get going, Kawthar,” I said in a hoarse voice, choked by the fire bursting through my veins.

“We haven’t had our juice yet,” Kawthar replied indifferently.

“It seems that Miss Nadia is in a big rush,” Samir said.

I didn’t respond.

“Not at all,” Kawthar said, attaching no importance to what I’d said. “She’s just a bit agitated these days.”

I wanted to slap her.

My hand almost moved on its own.

Samir gave me a bold look from beneath his thick eyebrows.

“Kawthar is always telling me about you, saying that you’re beautiful. But I didn’t think you’d be this beautiful.”

“Samir,” Kawthar said. “Is your eye roving?”

“We’re very late,” I said again, getting ready to go.

As soon as I stood up, the waiter came with the glasses of juice.

“Can’t you just let us drink our juice?” Kawthar said, looking at me angry and irritated.

I sat back down in my chair, resigned to my fate.

I looked at the juice like it was poison. I didn’t reach for it. I turned my head to the door, searching for a way to save myself. Then I let out a muffled scream.

I saw my father.

I saw him come in through the door, heading over to buy sweets.

My eyes clung to him as if I were trying to push him away with my eyelashes.

In a fleeting moment, I imagined him standing in front of us and then pulling a revolver out of his pocket and shooting two bullets to kill Kawthar, two bullets to kill her boyfriend, two more to kill me, and the final bullet to kill himself.

I turned to Kawthar in terror.

“Daddy . . . Daddy!” I whispered.

Kawthar raised her head and saw him. Her face went pale, as if all her blood had drained out of her. Her lips trembled. Her eyes filled with confusion and terror. She turned her head to Samir as if to protect him from the shots of the gun. She then turned to me as if she was pleading, begging for help.

Samir turned to look at my father and started fiddling nervously with his tie. He tugged his neck from the shirt collar and bit his lip. Pushing down on his nose with his finger, he mumbled words that I couldn’t hear or understand and that sounded more like the hissing of a snake.

Before any of us could move, my father was right next to us.

The eyes of the three of us met in a fleeting glance, as if we were weaving a net to trap my poor father.

“What a surprise! What brought you all here?” I heard my father say in confusion, as if calculating something. “Didn’t you tell me you were going to the hairdresser?”

I don’t know how much time passed before I heard Kawthar speak. Maybe an hour or two, maybe a minute or a second.

“We came to have orange juice,” I heard her say. “Because . . . because . . . because you feel dizzy when you leave the hairdresser, and—”

Samir stood up next to my father, still fiddling with his tie and tugging his neck from his shirt collar.

My father turned to him. I saw an unreadable look in his eyes, as if he was waiting for one of us to introduce them before defining the meaning of his look.

I don’t know what happened to me at that moment.

I don’t know what happened to my mind.

At that moment, I thought Kawthar wouldn’t ever speak, that her tongue was paralyzed from the terror of the situation. I thought that if she spoke, she’d confess and say that this was her boyfriend, that she’d been betraying my father with him since they got married, that she was in love with him and she was his. I imagined my father hearing this confession, letting out the word divorce, then collapsing on the ground dead . . . dead from a heart attack. I pictured myself screaming, clutching him, drenching him with my tears.

All of this passed through my mind in that split second. I had to do something. I had to say something to save this situation, to save my father from death as Joan of Arc saved her nation, and then was burned alive.

“This is Mr. Samir,” I heard myself say to my father. “Mr. Samir Husam Eddine.”

My father extended his hand to him and they greeted each other.

My father looked at me wanting more details.

“I’ll tell you everything later, Daddy,” I said, lowering my eyes in faked shyness like I was a bride on her wedding night.

Samir turned to me in surprise.

Kawthar’s eyes clung to me as if she were searching for what was in my head.

“I’ll know what?” my father asked, forcing himself to remain calm.

“Later, Daddy,” I said, still acting shy and bashful. “Kawthar will tell you everything.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a wide smile spread across Kawthar’s lips. I thought I saw the blood starting to flow back to her cheeks.

She understood what I was hinting at.

Samir understood too. “Sir, I’ve been wanting to have the honor of meeting you for a long time,” he told my father boldly, as only a real crook could. “I’ll let Nadia pick the time that’s appropriate.”

“Appropriate?” he asked. Then, as if he finally understood, a small smile came to his lips. “Oh, okay, but—”

Kawthar cut him off, jumping up and calling up all her powers of persuasion and deception. “Now’s not the time,” she said, putting her arm on my father’s arm. “We’ll talk later. Let’s go, Ahmed.”

She reached her hand out formally to Samir. “It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Samir,” she said. “Rest assured that everything will go well, God willing!”

She then turned to me.

“Let’s go, Nadia, my dear!” Her tone was tender like a mother who was happy with her daughter.

If she’d reached out to me, I would have strangled her.

Samir took my hand. He gave me a theatrical look and then leaned over and kissed my hand, pressing his greedy, hungry lips to it.

We left after my father bought some sweets and pancakes.

We three sat in the front seat of the car, my father at the steering wheel next to Kawthar. I slammed the door behind me.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” my father said, looking in front of him. “What’s the story exactly?”

“Later, Ahmed,” Kawthar said, tugging her dress around her thighs. “Just be patient until we get home.”

“Yes, but,” my father persisted, “whatever it is, why were you sitting at Groppi’s with someone I’ve never seen before?”

“Trust me,” said Kawthar without missing a beat, “it has to do with Nadia.”

“Where do you know him from, Nadia?” my father asked, still looking in front of him. “Have you met him many times before this?”

“Not at all, Daddy,” I said, about to cry from anger and rage because of the position I’d put myself in. “I saw him in Alexandria last summer. Then he called me on the phone once a day. Of course I ignored him. Until he asked to meet you. I thought I’d introduce him to Kawthar first so she’d be the one to talk with you.”

“Is he related to Fathi Pasha Husam Eddine?” my father asked, clearing his throat.

“He’s his nephew,” Kawthar said quickly.

“It’s an important family,” my father said. “But penniless.”

“He’s not rich,” Kawthar said, as if defending him. “But he has a good job in an insurance company.”

We reached the house.

Kawthar and I got out at the door of the building while my father headed to the garage. My nerves had frayed and rage burned in my heart. I was ready to explode.

I leaned toward Kawthar.

“Get me out of this,” I whispered sharply. “I swear on Daddy, Mother, and God that this is the last time I have anything to do with you or this whole thing. After this, let what happens happen. I’ve had enough humiliation.”

Kawthar smiled wickedly. She was sure she had me by the throat and could do whatever she wanted.

“Don’t upset yourself, Nadia,” she said. “Everything will be fine. It’ll all work out.”

My father came back.

We both smiled at him as if we’d just been chitchatting about something.

My father put his arm on my shoulder as we went toward the elevator.

“I didn’t think that you were hiding something from me, Nadia,” he said tenderly and good-naturedly.

I didn’t say a word.

I thought that if I opened my mouth, my tears would come pouring out.

We had lunch quickly and quietly, each lost in our own thoughts.

I was distraught.

I was thinking about this dilemma I’d put myself in.

Why had I volunteered this great lie?

Why didn’t I wait? Maybe Kawthar would have found another way out for herself.

I was deluding myself if I believed I could find a solution to every dilemma, a way out of every crisis.

Or maybe it wasn’t delusion. My longing to protect my father’s happiness and my determination to cover for his cheating wife were what had pushed me to this charade.

I didn’t think for long about the results of this deception and the trouble it could bring me. I found myself thinking about Mahmoud instead.

I felt I’d betrayed him with this lie.

His pride would be wounded when I claimed I belonged to another man.

I was pulling Mahmoud with me through the mud to a despicable world in which only cheats live.

I jumped to my feet and ran to my room without saying a word to my father. I took out Mahmoud’s letters and his picture, and started kissing them as if apologizing to him, as if begging him to forgive me, as if promising to rise up to the world of decency he lived in and not drag him down into the black realm I inhabited.

I only left my room in the evening when it was time for us to go to the wedding party, not knowing what my father and Kawthar had talked about.

That night I tried to appear beautiful and chic, but I failed. I was dejected. Something inside me whispered terrifying things. I felt weak and pathetic, as if my wings had been clipped. Mahmoud was the only means I had to fly into a happy world.

I sat with the guests at the wedding party, silent and depressed. I didn’t respond to people saying hello or partake in any pleasantries.

I was thinking about Mahmoud the whole time, feeling sad and miserable, as if I’d lost him, as if he’d never come back to me.

During the bridal procession, I stared at the bride and groom, trying to put Mahmoud in the groom’s place and myself in the bride’s place, to feel happy with this fantasy. But I couldn’t. This sweet image kept disappearing. Whenever I tried to bring it back, it moved farther away as if I couldn’t convince myself that one day I’d be Mahmoud’s wife.

I was on the verge of tears.

The sound of the tambourines rose up around me, violently like the screams of devils circling. The body of the dancer twisted before my eyes like a huge snake coming to swallow me up.

My eyes filled with tears. It took everything I had to keep them in, to keep from crying or screaming.

Why, oh Lord, couldn’t I have a wedding like this?

Why wasn’t Mahmoud next to me now?

Why was I surrounded by this depression and misery?

We left right after the procession. I was staggering, as if about to collapse.

“May it be the same for your wedding, Nadia,” my father told me as we were at the door, giving me a smile full of insinuation.

“Merci,” I mumbled.

As soon as I found myself alone in my room, I cried.

I cried so much I thought I’d drown in my tears.

I didn’t leave my room until late the next morning.

My father had left.

Kawthar was in the sitting room. Before we’d even said good morning, the phone rang. Kawthar rushed over to answer.

“Good morning,” I heard her say. “How are you, Samir?”

She started talking with the phone in her hand, heading to her room and closing the door behind her.

I didn’t care.

I was exhausted, so tired that I didn’t have the strength to care about anything. I called Nanny Halima and asked her to make me a cup of hot milk. Maybe it would calm my nerves. After I drank the milk, I went back to my room and started writing Mahmoud. As usual, I wrote him two letters. The first in which I told him everything, everything happening to me, as if recording my memories and confessions, and another in which I told him about my love and longing for him, repeating my promise that I’d wait for him.

I’d tear up the first letter.

And send the second.

I found solace in confessing to Mahmoud. I was happier writing the first letter than the second. But could I send it to him? Those confessions? Would he be happy with me as a wife after he read them?

I didn’t think so.

While I was writing, Kawthar came in.

“Samir says hello,” she said teasingly.

I didn’t respond and kept writing.

“You know, he likes you very much,” she said, coming to me.

I didn’t respond.

“He talks about you all the time,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder.

“Please!” I cried, turning to her. “Don’t talk to me about him. I don’t want to hear his name, ever. You have no shame. Isn’t what you’re doing enough?”

Kawthar moved away from me with a look of disgust and hatred. But she quickly regained her composure and wiped the harsh look from her face.

“Please,” she said with a mocking laugh, “don’t get so mad. I know what’s making you so anxious. It’s these letters that you’re writing. Be reasonable, my girl. Far from the eye, far from the heart!”

“You have nothing to do with him!” I shouted, wanting to protect my love, my only hope. “Don’t say anything. Don’t come in my room. Please leave. Leave me alone!”

She shrugged disdainfully.

She left the room and I got up and slammed the door behind her.

Like a woman possessed, I tore up the letters I’d written and threw the pillows on the ground. I smashed a vase and pulled my hair.

When I had calmed myself down I went to have lunch with my father, quiet, sad, depressed, not looking at Kawthar, not wanting to lay my eyes on her face.

“Mr. Samir hasn’t called today?” I heard my father ask.

I raised my head in surprise.

I was thinking that Kawthar had put an end to the subject of Samir with my father, that she’d told him any old thing, given him any old lie. I never expected that my father would ask me about him.

I collected my nerves. “No,” I said.

“Really?” my father said with a big smile. “So that’s why you’re grumpy.”

I looked at Kawthar in confusion.

Kawthar turned away from me with a wicked smile.

I looked at my father again. He still had a broad smile on his face.

I tossed my napkin onto the table, got up nervously, and headed for my room. My father laughed loudly and the sound followed me until I threw myself on my bed.

What did my father mean?

Was he making fun of me?

Why didn’t Kawthar say anything?

What was the meaning of that wicked smile?

How long could I keep quiet about this situation?

Oh, Lord!

I couldn’t stand staying in the house. I left at four in the afternoon and went to visit one of my friends. I couldn’t bear staying with her either, so I left and went to visit my mother.

As I sat with her, I asked myself again whether I could share my problems with her. Could I tell her what Kawthar was doing to me, the story of her cheating on my father? Could I tell her about my love for Mahmoud, my waiting for him and longing for him? Could I open my whole heart to her so that all of my emotions and thoughts could rush out, and then ask her for advice?

I came to the same sad conclusion: Of course not. She wouldn’t understand me. She’s distant from me, very distant, in a world other than mine, an innocent, naive world in which neither my problems nor my complicated life could enter.

I drifted off as she talked about clothes and movies. The whole time, I felt there was a catastrophe awaiting me, a hole into which I’d fall, a wind that would blow over me, but I didn’t know when and where it would come from. I was afraid—afraid to go back home, afraid to think, afraid of a huge black specter closing in on me.

I had to go home, so I got up to extract myself. I hugged my mother as if seeking protection from her, as if I was leaving her forever.

I got back at seven o’clock. As soon as I went in the house, I found the parlor lit. I heard my father’s voice, Kawthar’s voice, and the voice of a man I didn’t recognize.

I went to the parlor and stood at the door, flabbergasted. I felt nailed to the floor.

I looked from Kawthar to my father and back again, in surprise and confusion. Then I felt something repressed inside me would erupt.

It was Samir.

Samir Husam Eddine.

Kawthar’s lover.

What had brought him here? What was he doing in my house?

I didn’t wait for the answer. I turned around without greeting anyone, even my father, and went to my room.

That shameless woman. That criminal! All that was left was for her to bring her lover to the house, to get him and my father together in the same room.

But why?

What was her pretext for inviting him to the house?

I heard the sound of the front door open and voices saying goodbye, and then the door closed.

My father came into my room with a big smile on his face.

“Why did you run off like that—like a little girl?” he asked happily and tenderly. “Come, come, let’s talk together in the office.”

I got up and went with him, stunned.

He called Kawthar to join us.

Then he closed the door on us as if he was preparing an important meeting. He turned to me and put his hands on my shoulders, looking at me as if he was seeing me for the first time. Pulling me to his chest, he squeezed me gently and tenderly, and kissed me on the forehead.

“Congratulations, Nadia,” he said as if his heart was trembling. “Congratulations, my dear!”

“Congratulations, Nadia!” I heard Kawthar say at the same time with false happiness.

She got up to kiss me as I was still in my father’s arms.

I moved away from both of them.

“For what?” I said, not understanding anything.

“That’s it,” my father said. “I’ve agreed.”

“To what?” I said, beginning to feel the wind blowing and the catastrophe looming.

“To Samir,” my father said patiently.

“What about him?” I said, frustrated.

“Come on,” Kawthar said coldly. “You’re taking this too far, Nadia.”

“What do you mean?” I said, beginning to lose my patience.

“Quiet, Kawthar,” my father said.

“My dear,” he said, turning to me, “Samir came to propose to you today and I’ve agreed. The young man was very shy, but between you and me, I was even more so. I thought he was coming to propose to me. I agreed that he’ll come tomorrow to have dinner with us and we’ll all sit together.”

My eyes widened in terror. I saw the dark, bottomless abyss open wide under my feet.

“Who said I want to marry him?” I said, my nerves like snapping violin strings. “Who?”

“Who said?” my father said, surprised. “Kawthar told me everything!”

The threads of the plot became clear.

“But I don’t want to get married,” I said calmly, collecting myself and shooting daggers at Kawthar.

“You don’t want to get married?” my father said, raising his voice as if he could no longer bear me. “What? You want to get to know him without getting married? You were going to meet him, taking Kawthar with you, without intending to marry him? So why were you meeting him? Help me understand!”

I looked at my father silently. I felt my blood boiling and rising up inside me.

At that moment, I thought about confessing—telling him that this man was his wife’s lover and that he and I were becoming victims of a despicable, vile plot being spun around us.

But could I confess to him? Could I put an end to his happiness with a single blow? No. I loved my father too much. I’d already seen what happened when he divorced his wife for adultery.

I’d experienced it and I’d learned my lesson.

“Kawthar was with me so she could go and have you ask around about his morals and his situation and—” I said, trying to stay calm.

“I asked, my dear.” He cut me off as if hurrying to put an end to the conversation. “You think I’d meet him without asking around about him? Today, all my friends at the club spoke highly about him and his family. I asked the director of the insurance company about him and he praised him highly, said he’s a smart young man with a future and—”

“Let’s still wait a little until we’re sure,” I said, cutting him off, trying to keep calm. “Right, Kawthar?”

“I don’t see any reason at all why we should wait,” she said with astonishing coldness. “Your whole life you’ve been hesitant, especially about marriage.”

“Listen, Nadia,” my father said, as if completing what she was saying. “You’ve been proposed to since you were sixteen, but you’ve rejected everyone who’s come along. You’re now twenty and you have to get married. I can’t leave you like this until you wind up losing your future.”

“Are you tired of me living with you, Daddy?” I asked, trying to make him feel bad.

“I don’t know how I’ll be able to live without you, my dear,” my father said in a low voice, coming close to me and wrapping his arm around me. “Your whole life you’ve been a part of me—a part of my morning and my night. I was thinking when Samir proposed that I’d stipulate that you stay with us.”

“I’d love that, Ahmed!” Kawthar cut in.

My father paid no attention to her.

“It’s clear he’s a good guy, Nadia,” he continued, running his hand through my hair. “From a good family, educated, not a bad financial situation, and you love him . . . so what’s missing? He’s not rich, but you don’t need him to be, thank God. You have enough for the two of you and then some.”

I put my head on my father’s chest but I couldn’t get hold of myself and I cried.

It was the first time I’d cried in front of Kawthar.

I thought my tears falling at her feet would cause her to have mercy on me.

But it didn’t.

“No,” I heard her say, as if her heart were made of stone. “Honestly, enough crying. You’re acting like a twelve-year-old girl whose groom just showed up.”

My father embraced me and patted my back.

“Why, Nadia?” he asked. “Why are you crying?”

“I don’t love him, Daddy!” I said through my tears. “I don’t love him!”

“How’s that?” my father said. “Am I the one who chose him or you? You’re the one who took Kawthar to meet him.” He laughed as if he’d told a joke.

His laugh reverberated in my chest as sobbing.

“Please, Daddy,” I said, my weeping cutting through my words. “Don’t rush. Don’t force me. Let me think a little.”

“I’ve never forced you to do anything, Nadia,” my father said, still patting my back. “It’s always your choice. We’ll do whatever you want. But don’t forget that you’re almost twenty and you have to get married. If not today, then soon. I want to tell you too that this Samir seems like a good guy.”

“Okay, let me think, Daddy. Let me think!”

I pulled free of his arms and stumbled out of the room.

My father started to come after me.

“Leave her, Ahmed,” I heard Kawthar tell him without moving from her seat. “She’ll calm down. We’re all like that the first time we get married.”

I slammed the door behind me.

Throwing myself on my bed, I let out all the tears I had left in me.

Then I felt strangely calm. I lay on my bed with my eyes open. Staring at the ceiling I saw the threads of the plot that was being spun around me.

The threads were now clear.

Samir and Kawthar wanted to exploit me, covering up their adultery and deception once I’d convinced my father that Samir was my friend, not Kawthar’s, to save her when he surprised us at Groppi’s.

They wanted to exploit the situation. Samir agreed with Kawthar to marry me. I’d be a filthy rich bride. My father had six hundred acres, in addition to houses and a share in a big endowment that hadn’t been liquidated yet. My uncle was rich too and didn’t have an heir. My mother was rich. And, more important than that, my father had set up a huge trust fund that was mine the day I got married.

All of that would go to Kawthar and Samir!

Samir would swindle my trust fund while guaranteeing himself both an easy life beside me, and that he’d always be near Kawthar. He could move their betrayal inside the house instead of having to trek out to his bachelor pad. The husband leaves, and the lover comes in without anyone suspecting or saying a word about it.

How happy Samir must be about my poor father. He was going to take his daughter, his wife, and his money!

But how could Kawthar be happy about surrendering her lover to me?

Who said she’d give him up? He’d stay hers after the marriage, as she stayed his after her marriage. Didn’t she marry a rich man and stay in her relationship with him? So why wouldn’t he marry a rich girl too and stay in his relationship with her?

I smiled bitterly as I saw the black threads of this scheme drawn before my eyes on the ceiling.

But were they going to succeed in executing this plot? Would their despicable hopes be fulfilled?

I had believed once that I was evil.

Then God delivered me someone even more evil than me.

That night I tried to talk to Kawthar alone. I went out of my room, my eyes puffy from crying.

“I want to talk to you,” I whispered in her ear.

“Not now, Nadia,” she replied. “I can’t leave your father alone. If I did, what would the man say?”

I understood that she was avoiding me.

I understood that she was preparing something—another thread of the plot she was trying to hide from me.

I went back to my room, broken and abject, as if she’d slapped my face with one of her shoes.

And I didn’t sleep.

I was thinking. I channeled all my mental power to try to come up with a plan, to protect myself from this marriage, to take revenge, to subdue Kawthar as she’d subdued me, to torture her as she’d tortured me, but my mind let me down. I didn’t come up with a plan. I didn’t think of a way to take revenge. I was like a cat trapped in a cage, pacing back and forth, its tail on fire.

I will not marry this monster Samir.

I will resist to the end.

I couldn’t sacrifice myself to that degree—sacrifice all my hopes, sacrifice Mahmoud, my love, and give in to those crooks. No. Never. Impossible.

I began to confide in Mahmoud.

If he was beside me, none of this would have happened. I would have sought protection in him and his love, and he would have come forward to marry me and save me.

My fear turned into violent revolt building up inside me. I dreamed I had a knife in my hand and I was ready to stab Kawthar. I stabbed her until she fell to the ground and I washed my feet with her blood. Then I cut her body into pieces and tossed them to the dogs.

In the morning, my father came to my room and sat next to me on the edge of the bed. He looked at my sallow face.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” he said, kissing me.

“I slept,” I said with a weak smile. “I’m just a little anxious.”

“Listen, Nadia,” he said, looking at me tenderly. “I didn’t know what to say to you yesterday. You were so upset. I wanted to tell you that, as happy as I am, my happiness can’t be complete without your happiness. My happiness only increases whenever I think about yours. I love Kawthar. You can’t imagine how much I love her. I never thought I could love someone this much. But as much as I love her, I think about you more. I think about you loving your husband as much as I love Kawthar. You’ll be happy, like I am with her. That’s why I want you to marry Samir—not just because I want you to get married, but because I want you to be happy. I trust that you’ll be happy with him.”

I looked at him in pity.

He seemed like an overgrown child who didn’t know anything about what was going on around him. He was a child I loved: my child.

Should I open his eyes to see the world as it was, to see his wife betraying him, to see that the lover of his wife was coming forward to marry his daughter?

Should I put a stop to the beautiful dream he was living?

No.

I pitied him at that moment as I’d never pitied him before. He’ll stay happy.

He’ll live in his beautiful dream. He won’t ever wake up from it as he had before to find his happiness was a fantasy.

At any price, no matter what happens.

“I know, Daddy,” I said. “I know we belong to each other. I’ll be happy, God willing, to complete your happiness. Tonight you’ll know everything.”

He left.

I got up after a while, and found Kawthar in the sitting room, flipping through a magazine. I stood up straight and took a deep breath, preparing for battle.

“Listen, Kawthar,” I said firmly, without saying good morning. “A word. This wedding won’t happen. Understand what that means? It won’t happen.”

She raised her head from the magazine and gave me a cold stare.

“Why?” she asked listlessly. “That Samir is a good guy!”

“Strange. What do you mean? Make me understand.”

“I don’t mean anything,” she said, enjoying torturing me. “He’s a man who likes you and is coming to propose to you. Is there something wrong with that?”

“He doesn’t like you?”

“That’s just an innocent interest. Believe me.”

“Innocent or not,” I said, starting to lose control, “I won’t marry him. Please tell him I won’t marry him even if they slaughter me. He should do the right thing and not come for dinner tonight.”

She gave me a harsh look, and shrugged. “Then I’ll marry him,” she said calmly.

“What?” I cried. “What are you saying?”

“Because I feel sorry for him. Poor guy, living alone, not meeting anyone to marry. I’ll marry him.”

“You’re a criminal!” I screamed. “A scoundrel! I’ve never come across a woman like you!”

“Save the insults for yourself,” she said without flinching. “It’s better for you to marry him.”

“If I don’t marry him,” I said, exploding with rage, “what will happen?”

“Your father will know that I love him,” she said, still flipping through the magazine. “That I’m going out with him and that I’m betraying him with Samir . . . and after that, he’ll know everything else.”

I collapsed into a chair as if I’d been shot.

“What did my father do to deserve this?”

“Nothing,” she said without looking at me. “But that’s what will happen.”

“You know I’m in love with someone else,” I said, pleading with her. “He’s coming back from Europe to marry me. Shame on you. Shame on you, Kawthar!”

“You’re in love?” she said, tossing the magazine aside. “So what? I was in love with Medhat when I was a student, but I didn’t marry him. I married someone else I didn’t love or even know. I was in love with Samir, but I didn’t marry him. I married your father instead of the person I love. Love is one thing and marriage is something else.”

“You’ve never been in love,” I said weakly. “If you loved Samir, you wouldn’t let him marry me.”

“I already told you,” she said with a nasty smile. “Love is one thing and marriage is something else.”

“Very good,” I said, clutching my chair so I didn’t jump up to slap her. “He’ll marry me, but he loves you. I’ll marry him, but I love Mahmoud.”

“My dear, that’s just the way things go.”

“No!” I screamed. “That’s disgusting! Despicable! Criminal! You’re both crooks, greedy for my money and my father’s money. I won’t marry him. Let what happens happen!”

She jumped up.

“That’s it!” she said sharply. “You’ve gone too far. I’m going out so I don’t lose my temper with your stupid words. When Ahmed comes, tell him I’m having lunch with Samir—with my love, Samir. He’ll like that. He’ll be happy with that. Won’t divorcing me make him happy?”

She went out and slammed the door behind her.

She left me in a black hole.

I was looking for a thread to grasp at, to pull my way out.