Zuhdi laughed as he lay back in front of the television set, convinced he would never again laugh this honest, ardent, and cheerful laughter even if he were to live two hundred years. His wife asked in surprise why he was laughing, but he kept laughing without answering. She said reproachfully, “Come on now. Let me know what’s making you laugh like that so I can laugh like you and never part from you whether our days are sweet or bitter.”
“Didn’t you listen to the news a while ago?” asked Zuhdi.
“I listened from beginning to end,” his wife said, “and there was nothing but news of catastrophes: floods, earthquakes, erupting volcanoes, and crashing civilian aircraft.”
“But out of misfortune something good may come,” said her husband. “The more catastrophes, the fewer people on earth, and that will hasten the day when I’ll see what I’ve been hoping for: an earth without people, except for you and me. You’ll be Eve, and I’ll be Adam, and we’ll bring forth a whole new line of human beings whose actions won’t be deviant or corrupt – a line of descent that doesn’t spring from a forbidden apple or from Cain and Abel.”
She stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. He ignored her gaze and resumed his laughter, expecting her to follow suit. But she did not laugh because she suddenly remembered the days when she was a shy young student whose friends mocked her because of shyness, making her more shy. She remembered the times when Zuhdi touched her with eager fingers and she was too shy to stop him or hold him back. He believed that her reddening face, her rising and troubled breathing and her resentful shudder were signs of approval, intoxication, and a desire for more. He would then lead her from a dark and deserted street to a room with a locked door, paying no attention to her imploring, hurried, and resentful muttering, until she finally felt obliged to accept marriage to someone who was a mixture of bear, wolf, and hedgehog. She remembered sadly that she was going to reach old age without ever knowing what love was. She remembered her body at night, a wild and lonely animal deserted by sleep, stretching and calling to any man except her husband. She remembered how ashamed she felt when he called to her and how she ran away, guarding her dignity and her grave and silent demeanor. She remembered her mother, who had died three years earlier, and she cried as if her mother had died three minutes ago. Zuhdi stopped laughing and asked, “Why are you crying? If you’re not going to laugh with me, I’m ready to cry with you.”
“Haven’t you noticed,” asked the wife, “that the catastrophes are lazy, slow, and merciful, and we may die before your wish comes true?”
“What can I do?” said Zuhdi. “The eye can see, but the hand can’t reach.”
“Aren’t you ashamed of lying?” asked his wife with a scornful and a hostile look. “Is it only your hand that can’t reach, or is there something else that can reach even less than your hand?”
Zuhdi felt confused, and his face fell. His wife laughed, secure in the knowledge that this night he would not try to laugh again, but would remain scowling.