Chapter Two

At seventeen Layla had filled out into a bronze-skinned, moderately tall young woman. Her face was pleasantly round, her features fine and regular under a wide brow. Her eyes were a rich hazel, deep and tapered with an intense sparkle, narrowing to shimmering slits when her rosy cheeks lifted in a smile. She could break into confident laughter that absorbed her entire face, transforming her lips, eyes, and even her nose. When a conversation sparked her interest she would tilt her head, immersed as the words tumbled from her ears straight into her heart; and if someone said something that aroused her enthusiasm or compassion her eyes would glisten with sudden tears. Her face radiated movement, liveliness, and a luminous glow.

And that glowing face shone in utter contrast to her body. For she walked as if bound in heavy chains, dragging her body behind her, shoulders hunched and head pitched forward as if determined to get where she was going with the utmost haste before she could possibly attract the glances of others. If she sat down she found it almost impossible to settle in any position. She never knew where to put her hands; they seemed bodies apart, foreign to her. Her movements spoke of heaviness and fear, especially at home; at school she moved more freely. For school was part of the world she loved with its echoing chorus of varied sounds: the bell; ringing laughter, and sometimes suppressed chuckles; steps sounding through the corridor hurrying to class; eyes that spoke in smiles, and loud mirth in the classroom. Then there were the whispered conspiracies drummed up against the teacher; the loyalty that bound the girls together and neither threat nor punishment would fracture; the notes passed around when speech was out of the question; the midday break and the clusters of friends drawn to each other. That world included, too, murmured jokes that elicited blushing cheeks first, and only then peals of laughter; stories told in undertones in remote crannies of the school grounds, leaving listeners with their mouths stupidly agape; the rhythm of spoons against plates in the cafeteria; the endless banana sandwiches and insult sessions, and the times they had locked themselves into a classroom at break time to dance. Political discussions, disagreements over the merits of Umm Kulthum’s singing as opposed to the crooning of Abd al-Wahhab, friendships that flowered and faded just as suddenly, the break-ups and tears and peace-making. Layla was capable of drawing the entire class’s attention with her practiced naughtiness, angering the teacher, then making amends, making impromptu speeches on nationalist occasions and distinguishing herself in school literary clubs. The Arabic teacher acknowledged her superiority; she could be school champion at ping pong. She was an energetic Girl Scout, a team player at basketball and leader of a gang of girls wallowing in mutual adoration. But at the end of the school day, after the last pupil had departed, the school silent and empty, she would go into her classroom, gather her books, and leave for home with dragging steps.

 

No sooner was she home than her mother started nagging, her voice and manner rough. There was always some little thing. Either it was something that should have been done and had been neglected, or it was something that should never have happened but had. Then her father’s taciturn, expressionless demeanor would appear, to impose his deathly stillness on everyone in the apartment. Her mother’s walk would become a hushed tiptoe as she turned this way and that, peering everywhere with anxious eyes to reassure herself that all was properly prepared; then
the main, midday meal would begin. Sitting at table, her father would find something with which to rebuke her mother, quietly, of course, his voice hardly above a whisper. Naturally, her mother was vigilant not to commit any act that might draw censure. But there were her siblings; and of course she had to bear full responsibility for their conduct. Her brother had said such-and-such, and it shouldn’t have been said; he had done this or that when he should have known better. Her mother never responded, but her tightly pressed lips would
grow white.

Lunch was a far happier affair when Mahmud was not tied up at the College of Medicine; when, instead, he would come home at the end of a long morning and pull a chair up to the table, letting them enjoy his amiable, bright face, as his restless, green eyes roved around the room. With a pretence at seriousness in his voice, his delicate, pale lips would launch into the day’s events. “Well, today . . . ,” and he would go on to tell them everything—what transpired at the college, the exchange he had overheard in the tram, the latest book he had read, the newest joke going around. He imitated people, offered commentaries, exaggerated, and asserted as evidence opinions that were odd indeed, views that set him apart from others. The atmosphere at the midday meal would shift completely, as if his entrance had brought a fresh breeze from outside into the Sulayman home. His mother’s taut, worried features relaxed, her face now that of a sweet child as she laughed in that gentle, quick, understated way she had. But the sight really worth seeing was their father’s face. Eyes trained on Mahmud, never lifting off his face, as if the young medical student was a miracle moving across the face of the earth, the father would sit motionless, listening raptly, the mask falling gradually from his face; that dour mien, normally empty of expression, would take on a bearing of affectionate concern. And at the point when Mahmud’s dramatic narrative displayed his own superiority or courage or cleverness or humor, the father’s gaze would lightly layer with tears.

Then Mahmud would start on his mocking criticisms of the social conditions and niceties that reigned his society. He was merciless; of those many traditions ringed in haloes of sanctity, there was not a single practice that his devastating attacks skirted. Layla’s eyes glowed, her mother’s lips trembled, and the father’s face always darkened, suspecting a danger he could not define. But Mahmud would slip adroitly out of the dilemma he had created, mixing just enough humor into his sarcastic flings to keep his father busy with the hopeless attempt to suppress his laughter, uncertain of whether his son was serious or merely pulling his leg.

Conversation flew every which way, but mostly it settled back into politics, especially when Isam joined them for lunch. And more often than not he did, for he and Mahmud were inseparable, always together at the College of Medicine, always together when they studied. Whenever talk turned to politics Layla craned forward over the table, leveling her eyes at Mahmud, her ears trained on whatever Isam and her father said but her gaze never leaving her brother. Now and then the muscles in her face twitched as if she had a response at the ready, a stinging riposte; her mouth would move, silently forming letters, but then her face would ease into a smile as Mahmud answered, for invariably he said exactly what she had wanted to express.

“Gamila, do you know what Papa says?” she commented one day to her cousin. “He says that Mahmud and I think with our hearts, not with our minds.”

“He’s kidding you, silly.”

“Well, I know, but anyway, it’s the truth.”

 

When Mahmud straightened his spine, it signalled that serious discussion was about to begin. As he spoke, he looked hard at Isam, as if his friend and cousin were responsible for everything the government did.

“So can you tell me what this Wafdist government of yours has done now? ‘The Wafd,’ we insisted, over and over. ‘Only the Wafd can save the country.’ So then, what has the Wafd actually done?”

“It’s a question of time,” Isam protested. “The world wasn’t created in a single day, you know.”

“Don’t drive me up the wall, Isam. You know perfectly well that the negotiations won’t lead to anything. The whole country knows it, too. And it isn’t as if everyone has just woken up to the fact—we’ve all known it for years.”

Wiping his mouth, their father would join the conversation. “In any case, the Wafd is the best of the lot.”

Mahmud leaned forward, the words storming from his mouth as if he were picking a quarrel. “The Wafd is the lousiest of the lot, because the people trusted the Wafd, and then it went and betrayed their trust.”

Their father would hurry off to the bathroom without answering, for he must do his ablutions swiftly so that he would not be late for the afternoon prayer.

“It isn’t a question of zeal or energy, Master Mahmud,” Isam would say serenely to Mahmud. “You say, Can you tell me what the government is doing? Yes, sure I can—it’s resisting the King! It’s fighting the English!”

Mahmud leaned back in his chair. “Right, it’s fighting them both. It would be, if it were truly the popular government that it claims to be.”

“So, fight them with what?”

“With us, with the people. With the army. The army is itching to get involved! Our army is all peasants, Egyptians, like me and you!”

Then Layla would feel a prickling in her scalp, which would deepen and seem to run through her from head to toe. It was the same tremor that overwhelmed her whenever she listened to the radio and heard about one of Egypt’s past glories, and whenever she read a luminous chapter in her country’s history, and also whenever she learned of an injustice that had befallen Egypt’s people. It was the involuntary shiver of one whose dearest possession generates equal measures of pride and protective fear.

“The people?” Isam would say. “The Egyptian people fight the British Empire? Brother, use that head of yours.” And Mahmud would lose the self-control he had been trying hard to maintain. He’d fling out whatever came into his mind first, with no trace of embarrassment, cursing the grandfathers of the British Empire, and the grandfathers of the grandfathers, and the King, and the government; he would hurl invective at the very idea of rationality and at those who use their heads, and he would end with a grand accusation directed at Isam for treachery and betrayal, for appeasing the colonialists. Things would get so bad that even his mother would speak up. “Mahmud, honey, don’t get so worked up! Why are you letting it get your goat? Who do you think you are—a prince or a minister?” At that, Mahmud would laugh, and so would Isam, and lunch would be over. Layla would go into her room, shut the door, and take a deep breath.

 

Here in her room she found her own world, too, the realm into which she could withdraw whenever she wanted; her world, in which she stood alone, at a distance from everyone else in the house, even Mahmud. In that world she could live, with her dreams and her joys, her bruises and her longings for things she could not even define, desires that now and again she could feel cavorting through every speck of her being, dancing until she began to sense her body as an airy lightness. Scurrying to the window, yanking it wide open, she’d be certain that in this state of exuberant joy she could fly. Surely she could soar with those birds circling far above! But at other moments those indistinct longings planted themselves stolidly in the territory above her heart, accumulating layer upon layer to press heavily on her chest. She fancied them layers of mourning for something gone and something to come; but what? Layer upon layer, so many that they threatened to smother her, and she would run to her wardrobe, bury her open mouth in a heap of clothes, and scream with all the strength she had inside her. It seemed to her that her whole being was screaming, and when she stepped back from the wardrobe she was shaking all over. She threw herself across her bed and started to sob. All she wanted was to be left alone in her room, as far away as she could be from others. That was why she was constantly conciliating everyone around her. She wanted no voice invading her hidden world. If she were to show the slightest rebelliousness or excitability, her mother would scold her by the hour. Her father would yank her from bed to deliver a lesson in morals. No, she wanted no silly business from outside to distract her from this marvelous private world.

Studying did not take up much of her time. She moved effortlessly from one grade to the next, and her family expected no more than that. So her time at home was mostly apportioned to her own reading and to daydreams, although now and again her mother pulled her roughly out into a reality that appeared barren and dull. It was so empty of poetry!

She had to receive her mother’s visitors, for instance, and to engage them appealingly in conversation. By now she had ample training. She had learned how to smile politely; when and how to let a laugh emerge; when to sit down and when to leave the room. She knew how to assume the manner of an interested listener no matter how trivial the subject, when to nod her head, when to let her admiration or her astonishment show.

She detested it. All of it, with all of her heart. She considered it a baneful curb on her freedom and a mortal danger to her human sympathies. So sometimes she did make mistakes, as happened the evening Samia Hanim visited.

 

Layla’s mother came into her room. “Hurry now, up you get! Put on your clothes so you can come in and say hello to Samia Hanim.”

This Samia Hanim was one of her mother’s relatives, from the well-off branch of the family. Layla hung her head.

“I don’t want to come in and see anyone.”

“Why not?”

“Just because.”

“Because why?”

Layla tossed her head. “I don’t want to see her. I don’t like her. I haven’t liked her since the day of the sherbet.”

She closed her eyes. She could envision Samia Hanim in her parlor, jumping up from the lacquered wood fauteil with its Aubusson upholstery as if disaster had just hit. She could see her mother’s hand out, suspended in the air, while the sufragi who served them, suddenly realizing his blunder, stepped swiftly back from her mother with his full tray of sherbets, swinging around to offer them to Zaynab Hanim first, the guest of importance. Layla shook her head hard, her eyes still shut. What an ordeal! But the worst of it was that her mother had not even been angry.

“Everyone has their own slot in this world of ours,” she had said. “If everyone knew their place, then no one would suffer.”

Layla had smeared her hand across her tears. “And this Zaynab Hanim,” she asked sarcastically. “What makes her better than you? Because she’s rich?”

“Yes, because she’s rich,” her mother had said simply.

Now, Layla opened her eyes to find her mother still standing over her. Without a word she got up to put on her clothes. And without a word she sat listening as the guest chattered to her mother. Conversation turned to a famous singer, a neighbor of Samia Hanim’s. Guess how much he owns? How much money, how many buildings? And then they moved to his voice. When that topic appeared to have been exhausted—for it was utterly clear that Layla’s mother understood nothing in the realm of love songs—Samia Hanim turned to Layla. “His voice just slays me, it’s unbelievable, don’t you think so, Layla?”

“But he sounds like he’s crying when he sings,” said Layla. “Like he’s some woman.”

It was not long before Samia Hanim rose to her feet, agitated. She was accustomed to listeners who hung wide-eyed on every word she uttered. She tossed her fur across her shoulders as she took her annoyed leave.

“Your daughter is terribly spirited, Saniya Hanim.” She spit out the consonants and drew the word “spirited” out. Her mother closed the apartment door behind the guest and turned to Layla, her face severe.

“How could you say those ridiculous things to Samia Hanim?”

“I just said what came to mind, and that’s that!”

“What came to mind? If everyone said whatever was on their mind the world would have gone up in flames long ago.”

“Or whatever they feel—that’s what they should say.”

“Whatever they feel! That’s for your own private self, not for saying in front of people.”

“So people should just lie, you mean.”

“That’s not lying—that’s being courteous. One has to make people feel good. Flatter them.”

“Even when you don’t like them?”

“Even when you don’t like them.”

Tears flooded Layla’s eyes and her voice came out choked. “So people should just lie? They should just tell lies?”

Her mother’s face grew gentler, and she put her hand softly on Layla’s shoulder. “I worry about you, Layla, and I feel sorry for you, too. You have no idea what the world is like. The world demands as much, and anyone who doesn’t go along with it—well, they’re the ones who suffer for it.”

Layla’s eyelids dropped. Her mother withdrew her hand gently from her daughter’s shoulder. She went into her room, closed the door behind her, and went immediately to her window. She pressed longingly against the window frame. If only she could get out of this house! The anger welled up inside her body and lay motionless, its vastness caught in her throat, drying out her mouth and tongue. It was an anger that began undefined but soon came to concentrate on the figure of her mother, the sort of ire she used to feel as a child when her mother would hurl her down on her back, pin her to the floor, and open her mouth forcibly to pour in the castor oil. This time it was not her mouth that her mother had opened by force, but rather her eyes. Yes. Her mother had opened her eyes—but onto what?

Onto the world, onto life. “You have no idea what the world is like,” her mother had said. She might as well have said, “You will have to learn how to lie and dissimulate, my dear.” Of course, those were not the words she had used, but she might as well have. And why not? It was all so simple. Very basic, very clear; and her mother had not batted an eyelid as she spoke. “Because the world demands it. Because life demands it.”

What sort of life was this? A life that didn’t deserve to be lived, she thought. It was a foolish, trivial sort of life controlled by ridiculous, silly men and women like Samia Hanim and her sister, Dawlat Hanim. Now, she was another one. Dawlat Hanim. Layla felt a chill ooze through her body. She closed the window, pressed her forehead to the pane, and decided not to dwell on the subject of Dawlat Hanim. To keep herself from thinking, she began to dream.

Mmm. But where would she meet him? At a dance party, that was it. She would be wearing a white dress just like the one Audrey Hepburn had worn in Sabrina, and when he saw her . . . , What a bunch of nonsense. She didn’t even know how to dance. Even if she did, it was absolutely clear that she would live and die without going to a single dance party. Fine. Let’s change the scenario. At the university? Never. Her father had raised objections even to the thought of Layla starting secondary school, and if it hadn’t been for Mahmud she would not have been able to go on with her studies. Let alone the university! During a visit, perhaps? Ugh, not so great, not very romantic at all, she thought. But there was no alternative, no other opportunity she would have. So it must happen during a visit. But where would her mother be at the time? She would be in the parlor with the lady of the house while she, Layla, would wander out into the garden. But she didn’t know anyone who had a garden except Samia Hanim and her sisters. No! She could not imagine such a scene unfolding with Sidqi, son of Samia Hanim. But why not? He was elegant. Dark. Tall. He looked a lot like Gregory Peck, in fact. But she did not like his voice, not at all. Or the way he looked at people. There was an artificially arrogant timbre to his voice. And his gaze practically shouted: “Look at me! I’m humble, I’m sweet, I’m democratic by nature.” When he had driven them home after their last visit to Samia Hanim, she had sat beside him stiffly, her eyes staring straight ahead, not daring to look his way. When her mother had thanked him, he had said in his pretentious voice while eyeing Layla with a look of amusement on his face, “Any trouble you cause me is a pleasure, tante.”

She had wanted so much to slap him! No, indeed, the man she imagined, the man who would fall in love with her, the man she would love in turn, would be nothing at all like Sidqi. Nor would he be like her father; in fact, he would not be like any man she had ever met. He would be . . . she didn’t know what he would be like, but she knew very well that he would be unlike all the others. And what would he look like? Dark, tall, attractive, strong features, with big, black eyes, like . . . well, for example, like Sidqi, but only in looks. Only that.

Sidqi . . . Sidqi. Hmm. Now, just suppose Sidqi were to fall in love with her. Yes, they would walk into the garden. The light of the moon would shimmer through the tree branches, throwing golden patches onto the garden path; the fragrance of narcissus would encase them. In an unsteady voice from which the usual arrogance had vanished he would say, “Layla . . . ,” as he gazed into her eyes. He would sound flustered; his voice would wobble. “Layla, there’s something I want to tell you but I don’t know where to start.” She would simply laugh and run ahead of him, and when he had almost caught up she would whirl her head round and flash him a look out of the corner of her eye.

“What is it you want to say, Sidqi Bey?”

“Please, Layla,” he would beg. “Please, stop this Bey business.”

She would shrug lightly and bend over the basin of carnations. She would pick one—a red one—and bring it to her nose. Then she would scatter its petals, one by one, tossing them into the air.

“Please, be serious. I love you, I love you, Layla.” Then he would take her into his arms and try to kiss her. It would be at this moment that she would shove him away and slap him, hard. The echo of her hand would sound through the whole garden as he put his hand to his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he would murmur. “Layla, I’m sorry, but I just can’t control myself.”

Her laugh would be full of scorn. “So you think because I’m poor I’m an easy pick-up. You think people with no money have no honor, don’t you, Mister Sidqi.”

No, no. She couldn’t say that. First, none of this happened in real life, it was just Yusuf Wahbi in the movies. Second, maybe she was capable of sounding that eloquent in her room, but she’d never be like that when other people were around. She was a coward, after all, with people. So let’s cut that part and go back to the slap and the apology.

“I’m sorry,” he would murmur. “Layla, I’m sorry, but I just can’t control myself.”

He would take her hand, pleading for forgiveness, but his hand would go on, to her arm, up her arm, to her shoulder, and then to her chest, her waist . . . his hand would appraise her, just exactly as Dawlat Hanim’s hand had done.

Dawlat Hanim. There she was again.

 

Layla moved away from the window and paced the room, face hidden behind her hands. It had measured her, that palm, from top to bottom, exactly as if she were a water buffalo up for sale. That woman! Though she had endured tribulations that would shatter a stone, nothing seemed to have made a difference. She was the same as ever—not only her elongated frame and formidable personality, but also her stunning ability to take over everyone within her reach, and then to mold their lives according to her own designs. Not a thing had changed—except her clothes, of course, for now she wore black.

As a child, whenever Layla moved into Dawlat Hanim’s circle of vision, the woman would drag her into the strongest available patch of light and study her features closely. With a slap to Layla’s thigh, she’d exclaim, “Still a pretty one, you little wretch!” The rest of her words were always meant for the adults clustered around her. “See, Layla’s got something attractive about her face, and whenever I see her I have to make sure that it’s still there.”

She had never gotten angry with the woman, not in those days. Nor had she gotten upset when Dawlat Hanim had said to her, on a day long ago, “Goodness, Layla! Your hair is a scandal, my dear. A little girl like you with such long hair?” The tears had pooled in Layla’s eyes when she saw the locks of soft black hair on the floor. But laughter overcame her tears when, the haircut done, Dawlat Hanim said to her, “That’s better, now your face shows, you’re very pretty now, you little wretch.”

No, she had not even gotten angry then. After all, she had loved Dawlat Hanim. When she had come into their sitting room on that day, she had flung herself onto the woman’s chest. She had not seen Dawlat Hanim since it had happened.

Sitting on the bed now, Layla found her legs jittering uncontrollably. If only she had not gone into the sitting room that day! But she had wanted to; that time, her mother had not forced her. She had rushed forward of her own accord, wholeheartedly. Layla let the events unfold in her mind’s eye, one scene after another, examining each stage as if she took pleasure in self-inflicted pain. Although a whole week had passed since the encounter, it was alive in her imagination down to the tiniest detail.

“Well, my goodness, now, Layla! You’ve become a real bride—how lovely you are!” Dawlat Hanim had exclaimed. Layla had felt genuinely happy, and had asked for news of Dawlat Hanim’s daughter. “How’s Sanaa, and—“ On the point of uttering Safaa’s name—she was so used to coupling it with Sanaa’s—she suddenly realized what she had been about to say.

“Wallahi, actually Sanaa is in Alexandria with her husband. Just this morning she called me! She was saying—” Dawlat Hanim turned to Layla’s mother suddenly. “And by the way, Saniya, what on earth did you do to that groom I fetched for your sister’s girl, Gamila? The fellow asked for me yesterday, called me on the telephone . . . .”

Her mother bowed her head. “What can we do? Seems luck isn’t on our side, Dawlat Hanim.”

“Luck isn’t on your side—what do you mean? The fellow’s right there, he’s ready and willing—so the rejection must have come from your side.”

Her mother’s tone was contrite. “Truthfully, I don’t know what to say, Dawlat Hanim. Samira, my sister, really tried with the girl, tried and tried, but it was no use. A hundred times we must have said to her, ‘Honey, the only thing that can shame a man is his pocket.’”

“Enough nonsense. Tomorrow he’ll find one far better!” Dawlat Hanim shifted her glance, and her eyes fell on Layla. “Tell you what, Saniya—take him for Layla.”

She saw a look of astonishment on her mother’s face, replaced quickly by an apologetic smile. “The girl’s still little—too young to start thinking about marriage, Dawlat Hanim. She’s only seventeen.”

“Too young! No one’s ever too young. Stand up, Layla.”

Sitting on her bed, remembering, Layla swiped her hand in an arc across her face. “Enough,” she moaned, her voice audible though she was speaking only to herself. But the scene had imprinted itself on her gaze and refused to vanish; that voice rang in her ears.

She had been standing in the middle of the room, Dawlat Hanim facing her, probing her with a shrewd eye. Pulling her closer, Dawlat Hanim ran her right hand slowly from top to toe, and then from bottom to top, stopping as it crept up to her waist and then again on her chest.

Layla covered her eyes, still sitting on the bed, and whispered, “Ya Rabb, Oh God.” Although she tried to block it out, Dawlat Hanim’s voice echoed in her ears. “The girl has to have a proper dress, one that reveals her shape, and she needs a corset to lift her breasts and keep her middle in. As she is now, she’s a disaster.” She had faced Layla’s mother sternly, and Layla recalled the exact words she had said. “Shame on you! This girl’s on the brink of marriage now. And like any girl—if she doesn’t dress right, she won’t bring any sort of price in the market.”

Layla jumped up from the bed. A slave, nothing but a jariya! A jariya in the slave market! Dressing and adorning herself to raise her price. But why was she so angry? Why so worked up? Wasn’t this the truth, after all? But how could it be? Yet, it was the truth. This was the way life was; such were the conditions of a girl’s life in the society in which she, herself, lived. She would have to accept this situation or die . . . . Die?

Layla sank into the cushions of the Asyuti armchair, hugging her legs to her chest. This was life. Whenever a girl was born, they smiled in resignation. When she began to grow up, they imprisoned her, and trained her in the art—yes, the art of—life! They taught her to smile, to yield to others, to wear perfume, to exude sympathy. And to lie—to wear a corset that would pull in her middle and lift her chest so her price would go up in the market and she could marry. Marry whom? Any old person; after all, “the only thing that can shame a man is his pocket.” So she’d put on that white veil, and she would move to the husband’s residence, “because that’s the way the world works.” And everything was just so easy and straightforward and understood by all. But . . . but she would have to be very careful indeed. She must not have feelings or emotions; she must not use her mind, or fall in love. Or else—or else they would kill her, as they had killed Safaa.

Layla shivered and shrunk further into the chair, remembering that when she had voiced this thought, in this very room, her mother had looked at her oddly, as if she were a complete stranger to this home, her mouth dropping open in surprise, before she hurried out of the room without saying a word in response. Layla was nothing less than delighted, though, by what had happened after Dawlat Hanim had left; she was utterly satisfied with every word she had said, and every gesture she had made.

 

It had been one of those very rare occasions when she had dared say precisely what needed to be said. She’d been sprawled across her bed, too drained to cry, without even a thought in her head. Coming in, her mother had said a few words that had seemed to ring in her ears so echoingly that she could not even understand them. Then her mother had grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and given her a violent shake. “What’s the matter? Have you gone to sleep?”

She raised her face to meet her mother’s. “What’s the matter with you? Why is your face so yellowish?” Layla dropped her face back into the pillow. Her mother spoke more gently.

“Don’t pay any attention to what Dawlat said. You know it is far too early for this talk of marriage.”

A layer of tears veiled Layla’s eyes. She kept her face in the pillow; her voice was barely audible. “What does she want from me?”

“Who?”

“That woman.”

“Why would she want anything from you?”

She sprang up on the bed and faced her mother. “Does she want to kill me like she killed her own daughter?”

“Hold that tongue of yours if you want to keep it!”

She spoke quietly, deliberately, as if merely repeating a widely known fact. “Didn’t she kill her daughter?”

“You really don’t have any feelings—a poor wretched woman like that, to say such things about her!”

But her mother’s words had no visible effect. “Well, isn’t it true that she committed suicide?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I just know. I know why she killed herself, too, Mama—d’you want me to tell you why? Did Dawlat Hanim make her swallow the poison?” Layla lay back on her bed slowly with a sad smile. “She was the one who poisoned her life, and closed the doors of mercy in her face. Safaa had nothing else—no alternative but poison.”

Her mouth wide open, Layla’s mother stared at her soundlessly, strangely, as if this were the first time she’d ever seen her daughter’s face, and hurried from the room.

 

Layla stretched her legs out and leant back into the chair. For three days, her mother had not said a word to her. Three whole days! She knew perfectly well why her mother had been so angry. In the first place it was because she had known about Safaa’s suicide, for at the time her mother had simply told her that Safaa “had died.” And then she had made it worse by adding, “D’you want me to tell you why she killed herself?”

Her mother was always vigilant about keeping such matters from Layla. But she would hear a word here, a phrase there; she’d gather the stray ends of conversation and weave them together thoughtfully in her mind, which was precisely how she got to know Safaa’s story. First, she heard that Safaa had killed herself by swallowing an entire bottle of sleeping pills, which she had been taking to help her sleep in the shadow of a husband whose pocket was the only thing that did not shame him. What Layla did not know then was that Safaa had died on the very night that she had gone in desperation to her mother. Dawlat Hanim had gone by the rules—by those same “fundamentals” that Layla’s mother was so fond of invoking—and had refused to shelter her daughter. She had slammed the door in Safaa’s face. So Safaa had returned to her husband’s home and killed herself. Layla had learned that later, and still later she learned of the love story, and of Dawlat Hanim’s angry reaction; of the request for divorce and the husband’s refusal. She learned all of that after a time—a time long enough to have turned that lovely young woman to dust.

And it had not changed Dawlat Hanim in the slightest, even if she was the mother of that lovely young woman. She had gone through the sort of experience that would shred your insides, yet here she was, same as ever. She had grieved over her daughter’s death, of course, as any mother would; but had Dawlat Hanim doubted for even a moment the wisdom of her own actions? No, pondered Layla, she had not felt the slightest uncertainty, and neither had anyone else. She walked with head held high, with a firm gait, and she imposed this respectability of hers on others. Lord, what kind of strength was this? What sort of invulnerability did it impose? What sort of self-confidence did it require? And where did people find such abilities—where? Furthermore, why didn’t anyone else see this woman’s ways through Layla’s eyes? Why had their respect for Dawlat Hanim grown after her daughter’s death? What was the secret? What could the secret of such respect be?

At her wit’s end, Layla struck her palms together soundlessly and got up to pace the room. Was it possible that she was wrong? Had she misjudged this woman? Had she been wrong this time, too? Whoever knows the fundamentals cannot go wrong. That’s what her mother always said. Cannot go wrong, and cannot—Layla stopped dead in the middle of the room, her eyes widening, her voice coming out in a whisper. “Cannot go wrong, and cannot weaken, and will not lose any confidence in her self.” She pressed her lips tightly together, her eyes flashing as if she had suddenly stumbled upon a truth for which she had searched long and hard. And it was such a simple business, the matter that had required all this thinking. So simple! Her mother had known it without having to search far and wide. Whoever knows the fundamentals cannot go wrong. Exactly like . . . like in the game of rummy. If one knew the basic rules of the game, and then stuck to them, and played assuredly, confident through it all that she was doing what was right and proper, she’d never make a mistake. Ever. It wasn’t important whether one won or lost, but it was very important to play according to those fundamental rules.

So Dawlat Hanim, playing the game, had killed her daughter. But she had been right to do so for she had followed the basic rules of the game. And that was why people respected her. Layla toppled heavily onto the bed. Their consciences! What about their consciences? Didn’t they have any? No, it seemed not. What was important was the appearance of things. What people saw was what counted.

And Mama . . . One day she’d asked her mother, “Mama, couldn’t you have just gotten me two dresses instead of three, and then bought me two undershirts? All of my underwear is falling apart.” But what was it her mother had said in response? “People don’t see your underwear. What’s important is a good appearance.”

And then Mahmud had said—

 

Layla’s door flew open and in rushed Mahmud, still in his outdoor clothes. “You’re just sitting here, when the whole city’s boiling over?!” Layla, well aware of her brother’s tendency to exaggerate, just smiled and gave her legs a little shake. “Boiling over with what?”

“The government’s gone and cancelled the treaty, the ’36 Treaty.”

As she jumped to her feet she could feel the blood rushing hotly into her face. “You’re joking!”

“Turn on the radio and you’ll hear it for yourself!”

She shot into the front room, intent on switching on the radio, but as she passed her brother she stopped with a sudden impulse to fling her arms around him and give him a kiss. But she turned aside as an abrupt shyness came over her, and merely gave him an embarrassed smile.

She could not get to sleep that night. Her whole body pulsed with excitement as she lay on her back, wide awake, as if awaiting something that she was sure would happen.