Chapter Five

The doorbell rang. Nabawiya ran to the door. As the maid opened it, they heard footsteps in the hall and Layla’s mother raised her eyes uneasily. But her tense features loosened immediately, for Isam stood hesitantly on the threshold, an embarrassed smile on his face.

“Come on in, Isam,” said Layla’s mother.

“Um—Mahmud isn’t back yet?”

“He’ll be here any time. Come in.”

Isam sat down opposite Layla and her mother. Layla hid her face in the book and pretended to read.

“Congratulations. May you be as lucky as Gamila,” said her mother, and went back to work. They were all silent, interrupted only by the sound of the sewing machine. Isam fixed his eyes on Layla. She kept her eyes on her book.

“What are you reading?”

Layla pushed the book away from her face. “A book by Salama Musa,” she said, a bit sourly.

He gave her his familiar half-smile. “Why Salama Musa in particular?”

“I found it in Mahmud’s library.”

“If you want to read old books there are the books of . . . ” Isam mentioned a writer.

“I’ve read him. But Salama Musa’s better.”

He leaned forward in his chair, speaking to her from across the room.

“Better in what way?”

“Salama Musa says exactly what he wants to say, right away, but the other one beats around the bush, and says I don’t know what all before he gets around to making his point.” Layla stared straight at Isam and his face reddened as he rubbed his chin and then smiled.

“Layla, you’re still young, you don’t understand that sometimes there are circumstances that lead a writer to speak indirectly.”

The sewing machine stopped. “When’s the big day, God willing?”

Isam turned to Layla’s mother, a look of confusion in his eyes as if he’d been caught red-handed. “Ummm—the bridegroom wants it sooner rather than later, but my view is that the engagement is enough for now, and then the wedding can happen after she’s gotten her high school diploma.”

“Of course, that’s my girl, Gamila! After all that hard work, what a shame it would be to leave school without a diploma!” The sound of the machine rose again.

“You mean, Gamila won’t go to university?” asked Layla.

Isam smiled. “And you will?”

“Why wouldn’t I go?”

“What use would it be? Every girl’s future is marriage.”

Layla’s mother stopped the machine again, her sweet, short laugh replacing its hum. “Bless your soul. You’ve always been smart. Not like this crazy little girl and her brother.”

Layla began tracing parallel lines down her dress. She raised her head. “You know, Isam, I didn’t realize you were such a reactionary.” Her voice was grave. The thread escaped the needle and her mother concentrated on rethreading it.

“I’m not a reactionary, Layla. But I live at the university and I know the conditions of being a student there very well. I wouldn’t feel happy about my sister being there. Or you. And anyway, you—” His lower lip quivered, his eyes clouding with an anguish that reflected the imprisoned desire trembling deep inside, a yearning to melt into this young woman who sat before him. The thread poked through the eye of the needle and Umm Layla’s face lost its tightness. A wave of pleasurable agitation swept through Layla, for she had seen Isam’s emotions in his gaze. Tears in her eyes, she snatched up the book that lay open at her side with a semblance of eagerness and masked her face with it.

“I’ll call for tea, Isam,” said her mother. Once again her words caught him unawares and he spoke in confusion. “Don’t go to the trouble, Aunt.”

“It’s no trouble, I’m getting up anyway.”

Isam turned his head to watch until he could be certain that his aunt had disappeared. He hesitated a moment, fidgeting in his seat, and then got up and walked toward Layla, her face still hidden in the book. He stopped at a distance.

“Layla—”

The book tumbled from her hands and she bent to retrieve it, his choked, thick voice in her ears. Slowly she raised her head toward Isam. Now she called to him—her parted lips, her pink cheeks, her eyes throwing an arc of light. Isam came nearer as if pulled to her by some sort of terrific, irresistible force.

“You know, don’t you? You know without me saying anything.”

Layla couldn’t speak. She compressed her lips in an almost-smile, closed her eyes, and nodded again and again. Then she opened her eyes suddenly to their widest stare as a thought she could not repress checked the happiness that had overwhelmed her. She jumped to her feet. “But you didn’t come, Isam. All this time, so many days. You weren’t . . . here. Why? Isam?” Isam could not bear the obvious desolation on her face, and his arms reached for her. He so wanted to reassure her, to make her understand that he couldn’t—even if he had wanted to—he simply could not stay away from her. But his arms stopped in midair and flopped heavily to his sides. He turned his face away. “I was afraid, Layla.”

Layla’s hand fluttered uncertainly to her own chest. “Afraid—of me? Of me?”

He smiled, looking at her tenderly. “Afraid for you.”

“From what?”

He hesitated. “From myself, and people, and circumstances, and—well, to be honest, I don’t know how to explain it so you would understand, Layla.”

“People—what have they got to do with it, or with us? No, I don’t understand anything, Isam, nothing at all, and—” Layla stopped at her mother’s footfall outside the door. Isam turned to the sewing machine and pretended to inspect the fabric. Heading for the machine, her mother spoke. “What don’t you understand, Layla?”

“Oh! a passage in the book,” mumbled Layla. “I can’t understand what it means.”

Her mother sat down to the sewing machine. “Then why don’t you let Isam explain it to you?” Layla’s consternation vanished. She tilted her head with a sly grin. “Isam doesn’t want to help me understand.” Isam hid his own smile as he looked at his aunt.

“Did I say no, Aunt?”

“Of course not, dear! All your life, such a fine boy, you’ve always helped her understand things. Not Mahmud, who doesn’t have the patience.”

Layla stamped her foot, her eyes glittering with naughtiness. “It’s even worse than that, Mama! He doesn’t understand—he doesn’t know how to explain it to me.” She broke out laughing and Isam turned to her. How he wished he could give her a hug, could press that laughing face to his chest and stifle those chuckles with one kiss after another! He wanted so much to hold her, to envelop her, to make her disappear into himself, so that she wouldn’t laugh at his expense, wouldn’t laugh at all except with him. And wouldn’t—He heard the sound of a key in the outside door. Layla swallowed her laughter. Isam blushed and slunk to the chair he had occupied earlier.

*

Striding into the room, Mahmud pumped Isam’s hand as if they had been apart for years. He gave his mother little pecks on her mouth, across her forehead, over her cheeks, while she tried to fend him off. “Mahmud, you should be ashamed!” Her face was as bright as if she were still a girl of fourteen, and her hand went distractedly over her dark hair, shot through with little streaks of silver. Mahmud protested loudly. “What? You mean a guy can’t kiss his mama either? Then who can he kiss?! What do you think, Isam?”

Layla could tell, gazing at her brother’s face, that he had gotten over his anxiety. He must have made a decision. She sat down, her eyes still focused upon him.

“Well,” said Isam, “you’re certainly in good form today.”

“Decisions, professor. Serious decisions.”

A tremor ran through Layla and right into her head. Mahmud would go to the Canal. To the Canal! The words rang through her brain as if they were an anthem, and a swell of pride poured through her body, followed by waves of affection and then fear. She jumped up and rushed over to Mahmud, her eyes shining. She wanted to hug and kiss him, but suddenly she swerved away from him in embarrassment and spoke instead in a shaky voice, without even looking his way. “Shall I make you some tea, Mahmud?”

Layla knew, Mahmud realized. Trying to hide his reaction, he tugged at her hair, yanking her head to his shoulder. “In awhile, Layla, in awhile.”

Layla sat down again. “Was the reception good?” Isam asked his friend.

“What reception?—this is no time for parties! I don’t have time to think of such nonsense. But by the way, you left the college without even a ‘so long.’”

“I was tired.”

“Tired—or was it just so you could come and get dressed and make yourself dandy for the reception?”

“As you can see, I didn’t go.”

“Then what’s all this elegance for?”

“I was going to go, and then I changed my mind.”

Mahmud grinned slyly. “But our lovely friend will be angry—she’ll really be mad.”

Isam noticed that Layla was looking at him, and he could feel his face going red. “Mahmud, you’re going to make a mess of things.”

Mahmud lifted his shoulders and arms in a gesture of feigned innocence. “Did I say anything? I’ll change my clothes and join you. I have some serious news.” He left the room.

 

Layla sat in silence, her face frozen, while her mother went back to her sewing. The machine whirred, echoing in Layla’s ears, its sound rising gradually to become a hammer pounding hard inside her head. She bolted up from her chair, her eyes on Isam, who turned his head away. The machine shrilled, the hammer blows knocked insistently, violently, and the blood rose in Layla’s body, collecting in her head as she stepped toward Isam, her back to her mother. Her lips formed words and her hands supported those voiceless words with flourishes.

“Who is she? Who is she?”

Isam shut his eyes. She’s crazy—her mother might turn around at any moment, or Mahmud might walk in. What can I do? What can I do with this crazy girl?

The machine stopped. Layla shook her head as if waking up.

“Now run along, my dear, go see how the tea is doing,” said her mother. “It must be ready—it doesn’t need stewing!” But at that moment the maid came in, and set the tea tray down on a little table in front of Isam. Layla went back to her chair, her face immobile again. Isam gave her a surreptitious peek. The expression in her eyes confirmed that he was not yet out of danger. He poured a cup of tea and carried it over to the machine, where he carefully put it down. “Have some tea, Aunt.”

“No, you have it, Isam. I’m not having anything right now.”

Isam dragged over a rattan chair and sat drinking his tea in his aunt’s protective shadow. The wheel of the sewing machine began once again to turn; the hammer took up its pounding inside Layla’s head and all of her blood seemed to clot there. With a shaking hand she yanked a page from the notebook beside her, found a pencil, wrote something, folded the page. As she stood up, the cup in Isam’s hand stopped moving. Layla passed close in front of him, her face on her mother, and bent over the sewing machine as if searching for something.

“What are you looking for?” From beneath the machine the bit of paper fell right into Isam’s left hand while Layla straightened up and returned to her place, clutching the scissors. The paper burned like a tiny ice cube in Isam’s hand. For a moment he remained hunched over, not daring to open it. Then he put his hand under the machine and read: Who is she? What kind of relationship do you have? Answer right now or I will ask you in front of everybody in this house.

Isam looked at Layla, trimming her fingernails in seeming obliviousness to all around her, the same dangerous expression in her eyes. She might do it. He knew her well, and so he knew how impetuous she could be. She thought with her heart, not her mind, as her father always said. Isam began to sense the sound of the machine in his ears, through his body and mind, as the wheel turned monotonously, turning, striking, striking. Just like a clock. He must leave before Mahmud’s return, he must. And the machine’s wail rose gradually, with its intermittent knocks; and time passed; and his face got hot and his eyes shifted between the door and Layla, back and forth with lunatic motions. How? How should he handle this? The machine was knocking, pounding. What should he say to this crazy girl? And how could he say it? When the machine was making more and more clamor? He stood up, signs of anger on his face, and walked slowly, heavily, toward Layla. He drew a pen from his pocket and pulled off the top.

“Have you seen one of these, Layla, a ballpoint?” He went up to the table next to her chair and took out a little notebook from his pocket. Putting it down on the table, he bent over it with the pen. “Look—see what a lovely line it makes?”

And he wrote on an empty page a word in English then crossed it out in confusion and wrote in Arabic: You are crazy and I love you. That was exactly what he had intended to write. But when he saw the look that sailed from her eyes he wanted to spend the rest of his life writing while she gazed at him. So he put pen to paper again. I love you, I love you, I love you. With rapid, almost violent strokes he worked heavy lines beneath those words, so heavy and deep that they tore the paper. The blood rushed to his head and the machine pounded against it; he felt a lump in his throat and twisted his neck so that his face was completely averted and she was unable to see the misery of a caged animal in his eyes, the bewildered anguish of a beast just wounded. He straightened up without looking at her, folded up the little agenda and put it back in his pocket. He managed to reach his chair and collapsed onto it. With a shaking hand he lit a cigarette, sucking in the smoke to hold it in his chest, clamping his mouth shut, then finally relaxing it for the smoke to emerge in circles that twined around each other or bumped against one another as he stared. Gradually his face relaxed; he closed his eyes and went on smoking.

Layla sat perfectly still, her body tense. She had no idea what to do with this cacophony swirling across her body, this turmoil so extreme she couldn’t stand it, an eruption of joy, tenderness, and pain all at once. If only she could jump up right now, and dance and yell and sing! If only she could tell everyone that Isam loved her and she loved Isam! The mad dance of her elation buffeted her body and mind dizzily. And her mother? There was her mother, sitting right over there, sewing up the hem of the nightgown, just sewing, so calmly, so quietly, such a deathly peacefulness. Layla jumped up and ran from the room.

*

“Mama,” said Mahmud, coming into the room in his pajamas, “What’s the story, ya sitti? No supper tonight?”

His mother jammed her needle into the cloth and stood up, but as she hurried to the door she turned back abruptly as if something had just occurred to her. “Aren’t you going to congratulate Isam? Gamila’s getting married.”

“Married?! Who’s she marrying?”

His mother left the room as Isam spoke reluctantly. “The groom. Um, that groom . . . .” Mahmud eyeballed him. “How could you possibly have agreed to something like that, Isam?”

“It’s what she wanted, and her mother, too. What was I supposed to do?”

Mahmud sat down in silence. “Shame on you! Marriage without love isn’t marriage. That’s just—” He stopped. Isam’s face reddened, for he knew exactly what word Mahmud had meant to use. It was a word often on their lips, in fact whenever they discussed the subject of marriage in the abstract, without naming any names. Now Mahmud cast about for words to end this strain of conversation before it could go any further. “Of course, I was just speaking in general.”

“I’m sure you were,” said Isam curtly. “If you please, sir, can we come back down to earth now?”

“Down to earth! What do you mean?”

“I mean: let’s talk about the real world. I mean: we don’t need to soar across theories and toss around ideas bigger than we are. That’s what I mean. If you were in my position what would you decide to do?”

“In your position?”

“I mean, about Gamila. What would you do? What can I do as the one who’s responsible for her? Release her into the streets so she can find someone to love?”

“No one is saying you should do that! But the girl is still young, and she has lots of opportunities in front of her. There’s no good reason to be in a hurry about it.”

“Oh, that’s all just foot-dragging, it’s just a way to try to escape the problem. A good, sound marriage—fine, its foundation has to be love. And for a man to marry he has to love, and also the girl, right?”

“Precisely.”

Isam stood up. He was so angry he could barely control himself. As he faced Mahmud his voice was heavy. “Fine. Now suppose, for instance, that Layla was in love. What would you do?”

Mahmud looked astonished. “Layla! My sister Layla?”

“Yes indeed, Layla. Your sister Layla.”

The color drained out of Mahmud’s face.

“Just suppose.”

Mahmud let out his breath and shrugged. “Suppose why! Layla’s young, she doesn’t pay attention to these things.”

“See—just as I said.” Isam’s voice was triumphant. “Its all just high-flown talk. Such fine, lofty words! Talk that is completely isolated from reality. It’s the one on shore who’s the best swimmer.” He laughed drily. “The girl must fall in love, and must get married out of love. Every girl. Any girl. But not my sister, and not yours. Other people’s sisters. Right?”

Mahmud said nothing. But Isam, tightening the noose, pressed him even more heavily and harshly. “Mahmud—I asked you a question. You didn’t answer it. Why not?”

Mahmud looked away toward the window and hunched his shoulders. “What was the question?”

Layla’s head poked through the doorway, unseen.

“If you were to discover that Layla loved someone,” said Isam quietly, “what would you do?”

What an entertaining game! Layla laughed. “Hmm, yes, Mahmud,” she said, “if you found out I was in love, what would you do?”

Her words came as a complete surprise to both of them. They spun around to face her, Mahmud looking utterly bewildered and Isam, apprehensive. Seeing the smile in her eyes and on her lips, Mahmud was reassured. She did not mean what she was saying, after all.

“So what would you do?” She was still smiling. “Really Mahmud, what would you do?”

Mahmud took a step toward her, grabbed her hair and yanked. “I’d kill you, that’s what I’d do. I’d just kill you.”

 

When they sat down to supper Mahmud and Isam were side by side, facing Layla. Between them on the table were the mulukhiya soup with meat, a plate of rice, some cheese, halwah, and black olives.

“So I’m unrealistic, a man of high-flown theories, is that it, Isam?” said Mahmud.

Isam stretched out his arm, knife in hand, to cut and spear a piece of cheese. “Is there any doubt about it?” he asked, smiling. Layla helped herself to a ladleful of rice, but Mahmud had not yet reached for food. He was so upset that he couldn’t. Layla watched him.

“Come on, eat, Mahmud.”

“Okay, okay—I am eating.” Mahmud reached for a spoon, shoved his plate forward to touch the bowl of mulukhiya, and dipped the spoon into it. He must tell them his news, but how should he go about it? He must announce it in a manner appropriate to its significance, a manner that would have the proper impact.

“So, any news with you, Mahmud?” asked Isam.

Mahmud’s face brightened, his pupils widened, and he rubbed his hands together in pleased anticipation as he allowed a few seconds to pass, heightening the moment’s expectant tension. Clutching a spoon, Layla’s hand hung motionless above the plate of rice.

“Important news.”

Now Isam gazed at him fixedly. Mahmud put a trembling hand in his pocket and carefully withdrew a folded piece of white paper, opened it slowly, and lovingly passed his hand over the creases. He shifted it so that it lay in Isam’s line of sight. Isam stared at it as the spoon slipped from Layla’s grasp, clattering onto the edge of the plate. Isam shook his head as if unable to believe his eyes, grasped the page with both hands and brought it up to his eyes, and after a pause turned to Mahmud, stupefied. “What on earth is this?”

Mahmud smiled confidently. “What do you think it is?”

“It’s a schedule. A training schedule.”

“Exactly.”

“Whose is it?”

Mahmud raised his head, eyes gleaming, and jabbed a trembling finger at his own chest. “Mine. My schedule.”

“You signed up as a volunteer?”

Mahmud nodded. “And I’ve already started training, too.”

“Where?”

“In the university training camp in al-Haram.”

“When will you leave?”

“Two weeks.”

A knifelike panic sliced through Layla’s chest. He had already fixed everything—he had even set the date of departure. Mahmud would go; and he might . . . he might not return. Layla eased back her outstretched arm from the tabletop, gingerly, as if reluctant to let anyone see it move. Mahmud began to eat.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“Weren’t you a little hasty? Wouldn’t it have been better to wait a bit until we see what develops there?”

Mahmud stopped eating and clutched the table edge with both fists. He spoke without any hesitation, as if the answer to just such a question lay already prepared in his mind. “We’re the ones who will define what develops there, Isam—me, and you, and every Egyptian. Not anyone else.”

Layla could not stop the shudder that passed through her like an electric shock; the sensation concentrated in her head so arrestingly that she thought her hair must be bristling. Her hand reached fumblingly across the table to touch Mahmud’s.

“Congratulations, Mahmud. Congratulations.” Her voice was low, and she sounded as if she might choke.

Isam looked grave as he slapped a slice of cheese onto a morsel of bread, arranging it to fit, then rearranging it. Mahmud was waiting, expecting more of a response, he knew. In earlier conversations, he had asserted that he, too, would go to the Canal. But he hadn’t known, had he, that Mahmud would be so precipitate! He had had no idea that Mahmud would even start his training and set a departure date! Surely one must wait and see, wait for events to unfold a bit first. At the moment, the whole business was akin to a suicide operation and it might bring ruin on the entire country.

“But,” said Mahmud, “I’ll really miss Sitt Mama’s mulukhiya.”

Layla seemed to be laughing and crying all at once. “We’ll send you the mulukhiya, Mahmud, mulukhiya on top of tirmis-beans, too!”

The knife in Isam’s hand lay stock-still. The two of them were chattering as if no one else was in the room, as if he was not even there with them, sitting at the table beside his friend. And Layla—her eyes were on Mahmud. Not for a moment did they shift to look at him. Did she even know he was there? Perhaps she had expelled him from her range of vision. Dismissed him from her life. We are the ones who will define what develops there. You and me. Me . . . me.

“I wish so much it were me,” Layla was saying. “I wish I could go with you, Mahmud.”

Mahmud laughed. “Wait a bit, wait until all the men are finished off, then you ladies come.”

The blood boiled in Isam’s veins. He was no less a man, no less inflamed by events, no less a nationalist or a patriot than Mahmud. It was Mahmud who had been so afraid in the 1946 demonstrations, while he had feared nothing at all. But anyway, he thought, this isn’t a question of who is a man, who is a patriot. It’s a question of who is being reasonable and who is acting rashly.

Layla leaned forward over the table and whispered, with a glance round. “But the important thing is not to let Mama or Papa know. If they knew—”

“I know,” broke in Mahmud. “I know they’ll give me a hard time.”

Layla shook her head dubiously. “They won’t understand. They won’t be able to understand.” A strain of sarcasm crept into her voice. “They’ll say, ‘Be reasonable. Use your mind. Wait until you see what happens . . . .’”

Isam looked fixedly at the door, wishing he could escape. No. There was no place for him here; the two of them were far, far away, and he was alone. He might as well be standing in a forlorn desert waste, he thought glumly.

“You think that’s all they’ll say!” Mahmud was chuckling. “Tomorrow they’ll be spouting their proverbs and all those cherished words of wisdom they’ve got.”

Layla nodded, suppressing her laughter. “Close the door from whence the wind comes . . . .”

“And rest.”

She and Mahmud began batting proverbs back and forth with histrionic enjoyment. “In caution there’s safety,” intoned Layla, her voice deep.

“And in speed, regret.”

“A little snooze and siesta—”

“Are better than carousing.”

“If a cur has one on you—”

“Call him ‘Master.’”

“The bird whose feathers you clip—”

“Won’t be able to fly.” They collapsed into giggles like two six-year-olds. Layla dug out her handkerchief and swiped at a tear on her cheek. When her eyes met Isam’s she looked stunned, as if she had completely forgotten his presence at the table, and quickly turned her face away. No—she would not look at him, she would not beg. Love does not beg, she thought sternly. Love for Egypt does not demand that. If it does not come from the heart there is no point in it. No point at all. She wiped her eyes and addressed Mahmud.

“Fine, then—but Papa?”

“Papa will scowl, and frown, and wave his hands around, and he’ll say—” Layla finished Mahmud’s sentence for him, deepening her voice, her theatrical movements exuberant, her pronunciation hilariously clipped. “I know—‘This to-do will gen-er-ate only de-e-struction. De-e-estruction, that’s all. De-e-estruction and ru-u-in.’”

Isam started laughing in spite of himself and then could not stop. He laughed so hard that he collapsed onto the tabletop. When he was able to straighten his wobbly head and his heaving chest, he discovered that a pleasurable stillness seemed to have engulfed him, giving him more confidence, too. He fixed his gaze on Mahmud and spoke calmly. “I wonder if it’s too late to travel with the same group you’re in?” This time he was careful to avoid Layla’s glances, though he could sense that she was looking at him. This was his decision, his alone. She had no part in it, and she must be made to understand that perfectly.

 

As Isam left, Layla ran after him.

“Where are you going?” asked Mahmud. She stammered, “Isam, uh, forgot his pen.” She ran after him out onto the stairs and called his name. Already halfway up the staircase, he turned to face her. “The pen! Your pen—you forgot it,” she said too loudly, her hand seesawing in a gesture he could not fathom. He felt for his pen; there it was, of course. Layla whispered.

“The piece of paper.”

Isam flipped his palm up inquiringly. Layla whispered again, fiercely. “The piece of paper in your agenda!” With a sudden smile of recognition, he nodded. How amazing that she had rushed out after him! He came down the stairs slowly, looking her in the eye all the while, and handed her his agenda. He started back up the stairs, step after step; she stayed where she was, waiting. He whirled around. He hurried down the stairs, reached out a hand, fumbling, and ran his palm along her cheek and through her hair, ruffling it. He went leaping up the stairs, out of breath, home.