Chapter Eight

For the next fifteen days Layla felt as though she was trying to live at the vortex of a whirlwind, or as if she could not emerge from an intensely disturbing dream. But everything that conspired to keep her in this state of extreme nervous tension ended. All of it—thank God.

For the whole period leading up to Gamila’s engagement party, Isam acted like a madman, and Layla felt nothing but fear and terror toward him. On the eve of the party his insanity reached new heights; and then he stayed away from her for five entire days.

At first she truly thought she could be understanding. He seemed so afraid of losing her, and whenever she gave him a simple reassurance of her love, his fear would vanish. So she tried to reassure him at every opportunity. But she soon realized that her words were no use. He would sit like a statue, only his eyes harboring determination and threat; she feared constantly that he was about to hit her. Her mother noticed his odd behavior, and her aunt began to perceive something as well. Gamila, too; but he didn’t sense any of that. It was as if he were completely unconscious of the world around him. The bizarre expression never left his eyes. In those moments when they were alone together, he would act like a man going under, exclaiming in despair, “We must find a solution.”

Then he thought he had found the solution, and at once he appeared more self-possessed. He suggested that they get married immediately. He said he had been thinking about it for a long time and had figured out that it was indeed possible. He could take on some extra work on the side, in addition to his studies; and the added income, on top of his present stipend, would be enough. From the practical point of view nothing would change, really. All that would happen would be that she would move in. The apartment was big enough for all of them, especially since Gamila would be getting married and moving to her husband’s home. It was all very natural, simple, and reasonable.

Layla agreed that the matter was natural, simple, and reasonable, but she questioned whether it would appear that way to her mother or to his. Her mother wanted her to marry as soon as possible, but with a dowry equivalent to what Gamila had gotten, and to a man no less well-off than Gamila’s intended. And his mother? She did not want him to marry now. His mother wanted him to graduate, to open his clinic, to prosper and then to marry the daughter of a pasha or at least a bey. His future was all sketched out in the clearest possible lines and with utter precision, and so was hers. Therefore, her mother would never agree to it, and neither would his. The sisters would work to separate them by all reasonable means and maneuvers, and by less reasonable ones, too. Why should they face this possibility if they did not have to? Why should they make themselves vulnerable to this danger? Yes, she knew that his mother loved her, very much in fact—but on one condition: that Layla not spoil any of her designs, that she not become attached to Isam as he was ascending the ladder, that she not stop him at the apartment of Muhammad Effendi Sulayman before he was able to reach as high as the home of a pasha or bey.

But it would not be easy to convince Isam of this. He could not get it into his head that from the very day on which every baby is born—boy or girl—the family has its plan already sketched out. And one has to follow through. If you do, you enjoy the love, affection, and accord of the family. But if you do not, thought Layla, if you contravene that design and violate the family’s principles, the family will strike you down, as her father had done when she joined that demonstration. The family would withhold its love, as her father had done to Mahmud when he went to the Canal Zone front. Indeed, the family might go so far as to kill its offspring, as had happened to Safaa.

Isam protested and accused her of simply parroting Mahmud. He told her that he would prove this to be nonsense. He was so sure of his mother’s love for him; he was entirely confident that she would only want for him what he wanted for himself.

Well, then, did his mother love Gamila, too, or was this love restricted to him? Of course she loved Gamila. Then why did she want for Gamila something that Gamila did not want for herself? Gamila had known whom she wanted to marry, but her mother had married her off to someone else. At that point Isam, thunderstruck, demanded to know whom this person was? It was their neighbor, Mamduh, who loved Gamila. And Gamila had had a liking for him. He had asked Gamila’s mother for her hand. No, he had not known, he’d had no idea! Why had his mother refused? Wasn’t Mamduh an excellent young fellow, and an accountant in a respected company to boot? Why, the future was wide open before him!

Yes indeed, Mamduh was a fine young man, and his future looked promising. But he would never own a villa on the Pyramids Road, nor a Ford sedan. He would never be able to buy his wife a solitaire, or to pay the kind of dowry that Gamila’s bridegroom had paid—a bridegroom who couldn’t even make out a single written sentence if it were shoved under his nose!

But how could it be? How could he have lacked the slightest inkling of this? Why had his mother concealed these things from him? Well, it was natural that he not know, and that his mother hide it all from him, for perhaps he would have interfered and spoiled the plan that was all drawn up for Gamila.

No. It was not easy at all to persuade Isam of the necessity of waiting until he had graduated, and had developed some independence from his mother, if the matter demanded as much. He resisted; for if he were convinced of her reasoning it would demolish the only solution he had found to resolve the crisis he was trying so hard to surmount.

But the signs that this solution would so likely fail were too many and too clear to ignore. He had to let himself be persuaded, and he did. And then that stubbornly menacing look returned to his eyes, where Layla constantly faced it. She saw it as well in her mother’s glances, those confused, embarrassed glances, and also in the mirror. In the mirror in her own room, as she was trying on her white dress, with her aunt making the final adjustments. And in the mirror at the beauty salon, as she had her hair done—that glass also reflected his determined and threatening gaze. And then, the same evening, in the mirror in Aunt Samira’s room, Layla saw that look again. It was the evening of Gamila’s engagement.

She felt good that evening, in her white dress, as bright a white as the full moon that peered through the slits in the tent erected on the roof in preparation to celebrate the engagement’s announcement. She toyed with the folds of her dress, the delicate, massed pleats, as the servants removed plates from the tables and a band took its place on the platform to play.

“Your dress is so pretty, Layla,” said Sanaa. “You know what you look like? An angel.”

Adila touched her mouth delicately with a napkin. Sketching circles in the air with her hand, she gestured at the curves in Layla’s body. “All that, an angel? That’s pretty curvaceous for an angel.”

Layla laughed as Sanaa protested. “But her face, really, isn’t her face just like an innocent baby!”

Layla caught sight of her father on his way out, now that dinner was over. He had informed her aunt that he would attend out of respect for her. But he could not under any circumstances stay through to the end of the party. He could not observe the forbidden things that God had prohibited.

Gamila moved among the tables, greeting the guests. Her black-suited fiancé followed close behind, the large gold watch bouncing over his belly, suspended on a gold chain with the thickness of manacles. Gamila was stunning in her lacy gown, thick with panels like the leaves on a fecund tree, the tips worked in tiny white pearls that shone in the lights that twinkled from the roof of the tent. She was a gorgeous sight—her long, pale neck and abundant black hair, swirled along her temples and swept upward to show her small ears; her shining eyes like crystalline pools, just like her brother’s eyes.

“That handsome fellow must be in love with you, Layla,” said Adila, leaning toward her friend across the table. Layla turned toward her. She had been observing her mother, who sat hunched and small, next to Dawlat Hanim; she seemed almost lifeless, which was her usual state now that Mahmud had gone.

“Who?”

“Isam, Gamila’s brother. His eyes never leave you.”

“You’re terrible!” said Layla, trying to suppress her smile. Adila’s long neck and large black eyes craned toward her.

“Then what do you think it is? I pick these things up pretty easily, you know.”

It was Sanaa, though, who was always fishing for the next love story. “Is it really true, Layla, is he in love with you? Now tell the truth, girl, on the Prophet’s honor!”

Layla was silent. Seeing Sidqi, Samia Hanim’s son, she waved.

“So you’re going to play it cool with us then? That guy isn’t just interested in you—he looks like he wants to eat you up!”

Layla stood up, laughing. “I’ll be back in a minute, I’m going to speak to Mama, she’s been trying to wave me over forever.” She made her way amongst the tables, heading toward where her mother sat. Several guests smiled at her and she returned their smiles, noticing the looks of admiration that came her way. A woman she did not know grabbed her hand and pulled her over to give her a hug. “My stars, what a sweetheart you are! Whose your mama, remind me, dear?”

She resumed her way with a light tread, hardly sensing the floor. The thin, white folds of her dress spread like the wings of a bird, parting, closing, and opening again.

“Come here, sweetie pie,” called out Dawlat Hanim. “Come over and show me! Now, anyone who’s got on such a pretty dress—shouldn’t she show it off to folks?”

Layla laughed, a series of little trills. She wished she could just go on laughing, for no particular reason.

“Are you going to sit over there, plastered to your chair, all evening?” exclaimed her mother softly. “Move about a little, greet people—they’re all from the family.”

Layla recognized immediately that Dawlat Hanim and her mother wanted to present her to the guests; perhaps sitting among all these people was a suitable husband-to-be. She did not feel at all irritated. She laughed again, a stream of bubbling little sounds, and began her rounds at Samia Hanim’s table. She had every intention of going on to all of the other tables, but a sudden desire propelled her in a different direction. She was like a kitten searching for warmth. She wanted someone to cuddle and tease her, to pat her on the shoulder, to rub her hair, to repeat that she was pretty. She headed toward Isam, standing near the tent opening that led to the stairs from the roof, speaking to one of the servers. Layla put out her hand. When she laid it on his shoulder he turned to face her. Her eyes were a gay, flippant gleam, and her lips were parted in a half-suppressed smile. She seemed to shimmer—where did it come from? The glimmer ran from her lips, from her face and body to Isam; it settled in the space between them, a gaze that remained incomplete, a touch that was not quite there, sentences that had no periods. The light cocooned them, a single image, apart from all around them.

“Come, let’s go outside for a few minutes,” he murmured, his voice thick. He turned, Layla made as if to follow, and the perfect harmony of their image was broken. Isam collided with his mother as she entered the tent, having filled her obligation to serve food to the waiters and drivers.

“Isam! The dancer, she is absolutely insisting on sixteen pounds. Even though she and Ali Bey already agreed on ten. Go down and see what the problem is.”

“Ali Bey can go down, sitti.” Isam could not keep the irritation out of his voice.

“Please, just this once, love, for my sake. Tell her twelve. Because I said not a millieme more, and I don’t like to go back on what I’ve said.” She patted Layla on the shoulder and disappeared into the tent. Isam looked at Layla. “Come with me.”

He knew that now she would not. The beam of light had gone from her face and body. She shrugged playfully, the teasing look still in her eyes. Isam stopped, his shoulder to hers, and whispered without looking at her. “Do you know what I’ll do if you don’t come with me?”

“What?” She was looking into the distance.

“I’ll kiss you right in front of all these people.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “If you’re clever enough.”

Isam turned to face her, his eyes fixed on the deep shadow between her breasts, visible at the neckline of her dress. Layla blushed.

“Isam, don’t look at me like that. Everybody can see us.”

He gave his head a shake. “You look beautiful today, very beautiful, my love.” He turned and almost ran out of the tent.

As Layla strode toward Adila and Sana, Sidqi stopped her.

“What? Not even a bonsoir? Fine, so we don’t even know each other, is that it?”

Layla shook Sidqi’s hand, smiling in embarrassment. She noticed the playful admiration in his eyes.

“Will you allow me to say something to you?” he asked.

“Go ahead.”

“You are overpowering today.”

Layla laughed and her face went rosy. She angled her head. “Overpowering? Meaning what?”

“Meaning, fatale. And that’s haram, too.”

Layla gave him a sidelong glance, letting a restrained smile show, and walked away.

“Now who’s that one?” asked Adila.

“That’s Sidqi—Sidqi al-Maghrabi, Samia Hanim’s son.”

“Wow, he sure is a dish,” said Sanaa. “He looks just like Gregory Peck. Why don’t you marry him, Layla?”

“He wouldn’t marry her,” declared Adila.

Layla bristled. “As if I want to marry him?”

“What, is Layla such a bad choice?” asked Sanaa. “It’s obvious he thinks she’s pretty wonderful.”

Layla laughed. “That’s right, Sanaa, and mules get pregnant, too.”

“Even if he has fallen for her,” said Adila. “Fine, he goes with her for awhile, no problem, but marry her? No. There is something called a class system, remember?”

Layla looked at her in amazed admiration. “You really know what you’re talking about, Adila. Listen, one time he said to me—”

“Shh!” said Sanaa. Layla sensed a man’s hands coming to rest on her bare shoulders. She stopped talking, her body rigid. She turned her head. Sidqi’s eyes were staring brazenly and confidently into hers.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends? Or is this table a monopoly for all the beauty at the party?”

Layla introduced him to Adila and Sanaa. Sanaa extended her hand with a mechanical movement that compensated for what she was feeling, while Adila’s hand rested firmly on the table as she nodded curtly. Layla felt discomfited with Sidqi’s hands still pressing her shoulders; she felt that all eyes must be on her, and she saw Isam standing at the tent opening, a dangerous look in his eyes.

“Do sit down, Sidqi Bey,” she said awkwardly. Sidqi was pulling out an empty chair when Isam stopped in front of Layla and said in an angry voice, without looking at either of her friends, “My aunt wants you.”

Adila winked at Sanaa. Layla got up and Isam followed her. Sidqi said something that caused Adila and Sanaa to laugh. Layla walked toward her mother’s table as the strains of music were muted in noisy zagharid, the ululations of the women. The dancer burst running from the tent opening, a red chiffon wrap floating on her body. The guests stood up as she entered, and Isam seized the chance to take Layla’s hand and drag her outside the tent.

“What’s happened, Isam?” asked Layla, leaning against the wall that encircled the roof, out of breath.

“What is there between you and that boy over there?”

“What boy?”

Isam shook his head violently. “The guy who was pinching you on the shoulder! I didn’t think you could be so cheap.”

Layla shut her eyes tightly and her face convulsed, as if she had just been slapped.

“Say something,” Isam said ferociously. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

Layla opened her eyes. “You’re incredibly impertinent and bad-mannered.” She turned to head inside the tent, but Isam yanked her back.

“Am I the bad-mannered one, or are you? You must have encouraged him. You must have!”

Layla turned to face him, her hand still in his grasp. She spoke quietly.

“Yes, that’s right, I encouraged him. And I love him, too. What more do you want to hear?”

Isam could say nothing, and his grip suddenly loosened. She seized her chance, snatched her hand away, and ran inside.

Sashaying directly in front of Ali Bey, Gamila’s fiancé, the swaying dancer had thrown herself onto his lap. He tried haplessly to shift his body back so that no part of him would touch her. Gamila was smiling and tugging at her mother’s hand, and laughter rose from all sides of the tent.

Adila waved, but Layla ignored her and went to where her mother sat, hunched and alone. She sat down opposite, tapping her fingers on the table nervously.

“What’s the matter?” asked her mother.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing—what do you mean? Your color is completely gone—looks like a bird snatched those pink cheeks away.”

Layla went on striking at the table without feeling anything.

“I have a headache.”

Isam entered the tent. Layla shoved her hand down to her side, stood up, and walked straight over to where Sidqi, Adila, and Sanaa were sitting. Isam hurried forward and intercepted her halfway. He whispered into her ear. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go back to where you were.”

Layla’s face darkened. She tossed her head and kept walking.

“What happened, Layla?” asked Adila. “We’ve been trying to get your atttention for ages. We’re ready to go.”

“Now leave Layla alone,” said Sidqi slyly. “Seems she is a very busy lady.”

Layla wished she could slap his face. She sat down between Adila and Sanaa. “It’s early.”

“No, ya sitti, it isn’t early at all. We’ll just barely get home in time. Let’s just go and say goodbye to Tante Samira and Gamila, and then leave.”

“Really, we have stayed awfully late,” chimed in Sanaa.

“Please allow me to accompany you,” said Sidqi. “Wallahi, that would be a great honor, indeed.”

Sanaa smiled. “You are so kind, Sidqi Bey,” said Adila. “But there is really no need. We live just around the corner.”

She stood up and Sanaa immediately followed suit. They shook Sidqi’s hand and Layla led them over to where her aunt stood next to Gamila. Sanaa and Adila both kissed Gamila and shook her fiancé’s hand in turn.

“What do you think of the bride, girls?” asked Samira Hanim.

“Marvelous, Tante! Just incredible! What a dress!” This was Sanaa.

“And what’s inside the dress,” added Adila. “And the whole party, everything, so beautiful. May you see the wedding soon, in sha’ Allah.”

“And may you see one soon, too, my dear.”

Sanaa gazed at Gamila’s fiancé for a moment, her small, aristocratic nose high. She addressed him coolly, almost reproachfully. “Gamila is a bride who deserves the most loving care.”

Gamila laughed very loudly. Samira Hanim embraced Sanaa.

“Did we suggest anything but, madame?” exclaimed Ali Bey. “By my head and eye, whatever you say, madame, your wish is my command.”

Adila leaned close to Layla so that she could whisper. “What a creep.”

Handing Layla the ring of keys to the apartment, Samira Hanim said, “While you are here, my dear, bring your aunt the fur jacket from the wardrobe. I am so-o-o cold! Obviously your aunt has gotten old—she just can’t take the cold any longer.”

Ali Bey twisted his moustache and gave her a big smile. “Well, I do hope you recover, sitt hanim, I do hope so!”

“He’s repulsive!” said Adila, putting on her coat.

“A real lout,” agreed Sanaa. Layla twisted an imaginary moustache and danced about.

“May you see the same, both of you, madame, madame, ya sitt hanim, may you have the same fine luck.”

She waved as their laughter rose from the descending elevator and headed to the apartment to retrieve her aunt’s jacket. She tore it from the hanger, draped it over her shoulders, and shut the wardrobe. She stood looking at herself in the mirror, stepping back as she gathered the fur to her chest with her fingers. But her hands froze over her breasts as, in the mirror, she saw Isam at the door, a monstrous look in his eyes. Realizing that Layla had seen him, Isam came into the room and shut the door behind him. He folded his arms across his chest. Layla turned to face him slowly. Feigning calm, she said, “My aunt is cold and wants her jacket.” He didn’t answer, or move. There was a frightful stillness in his face, a murderous one, she could not help thinking.

“What do you want, Isam?” A strain of alarm had crept into Layla’s voice.

“I’ll kill you.”

“You’re mad!”

“I know I’m mad,” said Isam, without losing the note of deadly calm from his voice. “But I told you—I said, don’t go over to where he is.” He walked slowly toward her, his head jutting forward, like a cat stalking its prey, step by careful step. She moved back until she was hard against the bed. Her voice held tears in it. “I was just seeing if I could make you angry. Isam, I was just trying to annoy you.”

He got so close that he could almost touch her. She slipped from his hands and stood facing him, the bed between them.

“Don’t wear yourself out trying to get away, Layla,” he said in the same voice. “You won’t escape from me.”

“Please, Isam. Please, leave me alone.”

Isam wiped his hand across his face violently. “So why didn’t you leave me alone, since you love someone else?”

“I was playing a trick on you, trying to tease you. That’s all.”

She tried to steer for the door but he caught up to her, grabbed her by both shoulders, and turned her roughly to face him. He leaned her forcibly back against the door.

“I know you were playing a trick on me. But you won’t do it again.” He put his hands on her bare shoulders, where they stayed, fingers splayed out near her neck bone.

“No, I won’t. Ever.” Layla rolled her head back and closed her eyes as Isam spoke viciously. “So how long have you been playing tricks on me? How long have you been with that beast?”

Her head straight and still, Layla said calmly, “Go ahead and kill. Go on, now, show me.”

His hands still on her neck, the middle finger of his right hand moved toward her chest.

“As long as that is what you think of me, it’s better if you just go ahead and kill me.”

“Why? Am I mistaken?”

She didn’t answer, but tears rolled from her closed eyes. The finger of his right hand moved back to her neck and he bent his face to her, repeating it. “Am I mistaken?”

She spoke without opening her eyes. “You know—you know you are wrong!”

His lips fell onto hers and stayed there, but without movement, in a sort of exhaustion. Then they went rigid as his hand clenched her neck. He moved his face back and said in a choked voice, “I told you not to go back, and you did. You did.” His body shuddered and so did his voice, and his eyes rolled as he shouted like a madman. “You belong to me! You’re mine! My property! Understand?”

His grip tightened on her neck and she yelled, her voice hoarse. “Get away!”

She put her hands out and, with a strength she didn’t realize she had, she tore Isam’s hands from her neck and ran to the sofa, where she stood facing him like a bristling cat. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from me! Totally! Understand?”

Isam hung his head while her voice got sharper. “I am not your property, I’m not anyone’s property! I am a free person! Understand?”

Isam attacked her, his face glowering; a violent, wordless struggle began. Isam got the upper hand and threw her down onto the sofa. His body was like a rock on top of hers, his hands clenching her arms like iron shackles, his mouth pressed over her eyes, her mouth, her neck, her chest. The tap-tap of footsteps on the roof; the women’s zagharid; music; a heat breaking out on her face and body; Isam’s uneven breaths, his feet, crushing hers; the trilling louder and louder; the music. The sound of footsteps stopping in the corridor, and a knock on the door, and a voice calling, “Mister Isam—Mis-ter Isa-a-a-m!”

The knocking got harder, the call came again; Isam heard nothing. Then, the sound of her teeth on his cheek and his scream. He suddenly awoke to the rapping on the door and the voice, and his fists abruptly relaxed around her arms. Blow after blow came down on her shoulders, and his stifled wailing, his steps as he moved away, and the screech of the door as he opened it, shut it, and his mad shriek in the corridor.

“Enough! Get away from me, get away, before I kill you!”

The sound of the maid’s drawn-out voice, as she said, “Oh, sir!” and her steps receding, Isam’s footfalls, loud in the corridor, coming, going, slowly growing distant. The outside door slamming, shaking the whole apartment; the sound of her breathing, deep, as it dawned on her that she had barely saved her neck. The coldness of the dark room, biting her feet as she tiptoed out of the apartment and ran down the stairs, still in darkness, feet bare, as if she were dreaming.

Yes, a dream, a leaden one—and over, now, praise be to God. It had not ended that evening, though, but rather five days later. Five days—after which Isam came to see her. It was the Isam she knew, the one she loved, not that stranger who had sent fear and chills into her heart and body. He came to her, his face shining, peaceful, in control of himself, tender—as if somehow he had been reborn.

“Okay, Layla, okay. No more problems. I’ve found a solution. I will never again touch you, or bother you. I will only look at your pretty face and listen to you talk. I will love you and I’ll wait until we are married.” His features relaxed, his eyes softened, and a steady light came into them that burned Layla’s body and settled inside her. It did not occur to her, in the joy that flooded over her, to ask Isam what solution he had found to the crisis that had made her suffer so.

*

“The solution?”

Mahmud wrote to Layla: “There is only one solution. The solution is for something amazing to happen, something that will shake those people to the core—all of those respectable, complacently settled folks. It has to be a miracle—only that will compel them to tear their shrouds to bits. Otherwise the situation will not change. The shrouds will not be torn apart because those folks will be holding so fast to the cloth and hiding themselves behind it. They will reckon that those shrouds are protecting them, strengthening them, when in fact the shrouds just fetter their ability to think and act. Behind these shrouds they go on living, each one saying, ‘No, I will not risk it, I will not put myself in danger, I will not move outside of the circle that has been sketched out for me. For then I might bring harm on myself, and I might damage my own interests. I might hurt my future; I might harm my children. No, I will think only within the confines of what my society finds acceptable. I will have no desires except for what those around me desire, and I’ll act only as they do. I will feel only the same emotions. And I will not react, for that is the other half of pain, and I want to spare myself all pain. I will do only what is in my own interest.’ So they go on living under their shrouds. They never experience a grand love, nor do they ever make great sacrifices. They do not linger in the world of the intellect, the imagination, the senses. They marry; they have their children, who are all in the same molds. They think alike, the same things impress them, and they have identical preferences and make identical choices. Repeatable patterns and identical molds—that is what it all is, Layla. Masses of people, without any extraordinary spark, people without any distinction, without any special skills or abilities, without any powers of invention, and without any readiness to really love.”

In the three months that Mahmud had spent in the Canal Zone, his writing had never stopped or been interrupted. But his letters, long at first and so wonderfully packed with his feelings and reactions, became shorter and more matter-of-fact week by week, until finally they consisted of only a few lines asking after the family’s health. Layla sensed that he was hiding something from her. More than once, she prodded him in her letters. And despite her blunt persistence his responses always skirted around her question. When she insisted, he wrote saying he was terribly busy; the small number of guerilla fighters meant added work, he said. Their number meant that a fellow had to focus his thinking—indeed, his entire existence—on this work. Therefore, his aim in writing was simply to reassure the family.

Layla had a hunch from the allusions in these notes that Mahmud and his mates were feeling lonely and isolated. She sent asking whether this was the truth he was hiding from her. In his last letter to her before leaving the Canal Zone, he wrote:

“Yes. We certainly are isolated. I’m not the only one who feels that way, everyone here does, but it does not affect us so badly that we are incapable of fulfilling the mission for whose sake we came here. But no—and even the betrayals and the spying are not particularly important, they do not make a big difference. In fact, those who are betraying us, and those who are spying on us, are really the exception; and they can be rooted out. The ones who have truly isolated us are not the traitors and the spies, but rather the millions of good people who love Egypt, but only as long as this love does not clash with their own selfish interests. The true betrayal is the betrayal of those folks who love Egypt with their hearts and mouths but not with their limbs and blood.”

That letter contained painful news of conditions at the Canal. In addition to feelings of isolation, arms and ammunition were running short, organization was deficient, uniforms were lacking, and food was wanting. The great majority of freedom fighters were laborers, poor folks from city and village who had left behind their work, children, and whole families that they had been supporting. The government was procrastinating unforgivably about giving the fighters weapons and money for essential expenses.

In the same letter Mahmud informed Layla that he was coming to Cairo with his buddy Husayn on an official mission. They would not stay in Cairo more than twenty-four hours, he told her, and they would return directly to the Canal Zone.

Mahmud’s language seemed emotional, angry. It was as if—as if he were implicating her as he cast blame for the situation! But what could she have done? Yet, wasn’t it the truth? Wasn’t she one of the good people who loved Egypt but not enough to tear apart their shrouds and jump to its rescue? Layla felt mortified, as if she had committed a crime; the sense of humiliation had still not left her as she extended her hand to greet her brother.