Chapter Twelve

For a space of fifteen days Layla’s tearful eyes chased Husayn. Each day’s passing brought him nearer to his day of departure for Germany, now set, and intensified his feeling that he was abandoning Layla at a time when she was most in need of his aid. Her eyes summoned him, clung to him, until one day he found himself sitting in the train heading for Ras al-Barr.

He leaned his head back against the seat, feeling deeply peaceful, as if he had just emerged from a long struggle, finally released. He had offered his love to her; when she had rejected it, he had drawn back furiously, like a big baby, even though he knew that she was in a state that did not permit her to love him—or to love anyone. Perhaps if she were in a normal state she would have returned his love. Maybe she would love him after a time, if she could stand on her own feet and regain her confidence in herself and in life. Or perhaps she would never love him; perhaps she would fall in love with someone else. But none of this kept him from loving her. Nor, he admitted to himself, did it exempt him from his obligation to her. He must exploit all possible means to help her. He had fancied that he could help her only as a husband or beloved, but perhaps he could help her just as much if he were her friend. Just a friend, nothing more. He had to try all means possible, but . . . then her eyes would be there, remaining with him, summoning him, cleaving to him in despair, waking him from his sleep. He would not escape them, even if he put thousands of miles between them, yes, thousands of miles, thousands. Thousands. The train echoed the word. Thou-sands, thou-sands. Husayn got up to open the window. His eyes took in the fields, extending as far as he could see, as if he wanted to carve them into his mind with every detail intact. Here he had been raised, here he had grown into adolescence, in a village like that one over there. The fields amidst which he had grown up were a mirror image of the fields he saw beyond the window, with a saqiya turned by the water buffalo, its water irrigating the fields; a little irrigation canal; people like those he could see, working so hard, sweating, the sight of them so rough and hard concealing their overwhelming ability to love, to give, to sacrifice. Husayn felt a rush of compassion; he wished he could stop, could stroll, the breeze slapping his face amidst the green fields, could sniff the scent of the earth, could clap his hand against those rough, hard palms.

But the train raced across the land, its rhythmic chant driving into his ear the word thousands . . . thou-sands . . . Yes, he would go thousands of miles from these fields, far from the homeland. In foreign lands he would live by himself, would work alone, would eat alone, would sleep alone. His day would be filled with a lonely aching, and his night, an ache for the homeland. If she had been going with him . . . . If she were to be with him . . . . Husayn’s chest flared with a wave of anger. Why couldn’t she stand on her own two feet like everyone else? Why couldn’t she return the slap of whoever had slapped her, pick herself up, and go on her way? Why had it been so easy to shatter her, as if she were made of . . . of . . . .

Sitting on the train, Husayn tried to find something with which to compare Layla. Glass. Crystal. Yes, that was it, crystal—beautiful and so easy to shatter. And crystal was hard, too, like her. It reflected light but produced none. If you put it in the light it would glitter, but if you put it in a dark place it would give off no glow. The light sat not in her heart but rather on the outer surface. No confidence came from within her; she had always taken it from others. That was why Isam had been able to crush her, to make her hate herself, and therefore hate others.

She was good-looking, intelligent, outstanding in every way, yet she could not stand on her own feet. She always had to lean on someone or something. First it had been her brother, the hero of her childhood. Through his eyes she had seen the world; she had thought it vast, beautiful, boundless, replete with love and sacrifice, with loyalty, truth, sincerity, and beauty. Then Isam had shown her another side of life, one she had not known, an unsightly, exposed side, and the earth beneath her feet had turned to infinitely yielding sand. So she gazed yearningly, despairingly, at her brother, trying to see mirrored in his eyes the life he had sketched for her; but he had closed his eyes, afraid she would see in them what he had seen. It was as if Mahmud had seen only betrayal, had never seen . . . Husayn noticed the palm trees that heralded the approach of Damietta city’s train station: standing in line, thickly clustered, row after row, towering, victorious, heavy with fruit, clusters of red dates gleaming in the sun’s rays . . . as if Mahmud had never seen any beauty at all. It was as if Mahmud had seen none of it: heroes who stood up to their enemies—towering, victorious—before they died, standing tall and proud to the end; or the deep joy shining from the eyes of that youth as he raised his head for the last time to witness the fire as it broke out in one of the British camps; or Usta Madbuli crawling forward, already wounded, already inside a British camp, burning down the petrol stores with a hand grenade—and burning along with it. It was as if Mahmud had not heard Madbuli’s yell—Down with imperialism!—ringing out in the silence of the night, shooting tremors into the hearts of everybody there, making the earthquake, setting the fires of revolution.

The train shuddered and came to a full stop in the Damietta station. Husayn crushed his cigarette butt under his shoe, picked up his suitcase, and climbed down onto the platform.

The car left the main agricultural road and plunged toward Ras al-Barr. A breeze saturated with water vapor slapped Husayn’s face gently, calming his anxiety. He felt an overpowering sympathy for Layla. Who was he to cast blame on others for their weakness? Who was he to issue judgment on their behavior and deeds? He had almost cried like a child as he saw Cairo burn; he had nearly broken down in sobs when he saw the end of the battle for the Canal, and only faith had saved him. His was a faith in the people; feeling their emotions, never sensing himself isolated from them, he had not himself weakened.

Mahmud, though, had withdrawn from all of that. So had Layla, isolating herself, a captive to her individual concerns, alone and scraping the scabs from her wounds. The whole world had become concentrated into one small “me,” and Layla’s only concern now was to protect herself from the aggression of the outside world. She had leaned on her mother, on the rules—the fundamentals—with which she had grown up, on the traditions of those around her. And so she had seen life through her mother’s eyes: it was a restricted existence with no reach beyond the four walls within which she lived. It was a frightening apparition against which you were supposed to fortify herself, making extreme efforts to avoid rather than embrace it. You armed yourself with the old rules: speak with care and forethought, act with caution, react only after deliberation so that you do not inflict fatigue or pain upon yourself. You might never know great happiness but at least you would never suffer intense pain. The walls were there to surround you, to protect you from the fierce beast that crouched in wait outside . . . from life!

The sand dunes rolled far under Husayn’s gaze. It was an arid, withered wasteland without vegetation or trees. From behind the dunes stared Layla’s eyes, the pools of tears stagnant within.

Lying full length on a beach recliner, shaded by an umbrella, reading a book, Layla felt a hand on her shoulder. “Layla—Husayn’s arrived.” It was Mahmud.

Layla’s face broke into a smile, but it froze as she became suddenly aware that her body lay extended, in full view of Husayn. She scrambled to her feet, greeting him embarrassedly. “Hello—welcome.”

Mahmud pulled the towel from his shoulder and put it on the back of an empty chair. “Husayn leaves for Germany in two weeks.”

Layla’s pupils darted around but she said nothing. She took the towel that was in Husayn’s hand, put it on the seat back and began to tug it straight.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate Layla, Husayn?”

Husayn’s face fell. Mahmud went on. “She got her secondary diploma and she’ll be starting at the university.” Now Husayn beamed and he embraced Layla with his gaze. “Congratulations!” Mahmud headed toward the water. With a quick, quizzical glance at Layla, Husayn followed him. She sat down again, but not on the recliner. This time she sat stiffly upright on a bamboo chair and tried to engross herself in her reading, but she could not. The voices of the vendors seemed to spoil her concentration, and the waves, pushing forward to lap over her feet, interrupted her.

“The sea’s nothing today,” said Mahmud as the two of them turned their back to a high crest.

“Nothing?—it’s atrocious.”

“Probably better out further.”

“Further?—further where? I don’t even know how to swim.”

Mahmud burst out laughing. It delighted him to discover an area in which he bested Husayn. “So tall and husky, and you don’t know how to swim?”

A high wave nearly sent Husayn into a somersault. He righted himself, laughing. “Hey, that’s enough. Come on, let’s get out.” But Mahmud plunged further in, plowing a path through the waves, gesturing to Husayn to follow. Husayn shook his head and turned toward the beach.

He approached Layla, drops of water flying from his hair and face. She handed him the towel without a word. He dropped to the sand beside her chair. “Are you still quarreling with me?” he asked, smiling at her as he dried his hair. Layla shut her eyes and smiled.

“Well, it’s one of two things,” he said, his voice teasing, “either you’re angry at me or you’re afraid of me.”

“Afraid of you? Why would I be afraid of you?”

“That’s a respectable question,” he said lightly. “Why does someone feel afraid of someone else? I suppose, either the other person must be harmful, or—“

Layla looked at him uneasily. Husayn looked right at her and said in a deep voice, “—or else that someone is afraid of loving the other person.”

Layla whipped her head away to gaze distractedly at the ocean. Crowned with white, the waves towered, crashed, and—now subdued—slunk back from the shore, humbled, into the sea. “I’m never in my life going to love anyone,” she whispered.

Husayn flung himself onto a vacant chair, stretched out his legs, and leaned back into the shape of the chair. “Are you so sure?” he asked, a strain of disbelief lacing his voice.

“Of course I am.”

“Well, if you ask me, I’m not so sure of it.”

“What are you getting at?” Layla’s voice was edgy with irritation

Husayn shifted, smiling and jabbing his finger at his chest. “What I’m getting at is that you will love me. You will. One day you’ll wake up and discover that you love me.”

Layla gazed at him, bewildered, then burst out laughing.

“What are you laughing at?”

Layla shook her head in wonder, still laughing hard. “I wish I had the kind of confidence in myself that you have, Husayn.”

Husayn’s face was that of a petulant child. “I don’t understand any of this.”

Layla smiled. “What makes you so sure, as if I personally had told you . . . had told you that I . . . I . . . loved you.”

Husayn spoke as if he was simply repeating an established fact. “You did tell me, you really did.”

Layla opened her mouth dumbly, as Husayn smiled. “You did, really, you told me, more than once.”

She smiled and waved her hand in despair. “No—you’re insane. You’re completely insane.”

Husayn crept toward her. “Do you think these are things one says only with one’s voice? No, on the contrary, such things are said more fully with the eyes.”

“So what did my eyes say, sir?”

“Your eyes, they may have lost their shine, but they still shine for me, and only for me. And your face, its glow may be gone, but it lights up just for me.”

“You’re imagining things—that never happened at all.”

Husayn moved even nearer, until his head was almost touching her thigh. His voice was as soft and gentle as it could possibly be. “Layla, take me seriously, okay?”

Tears shone in Layla’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Husayn.”

“No—please, please, today I want to see you looking bright and happy, like the first time I saw you.” As he raised his face, his features seemed to melt in that bewitching smile of his. “Do you want to make me happy, so that I leave happy?” Layla nodded. “Good. Then let’s imagine, let’s imagine together.” Layla wiped her eyes and smiled. “Okay, just supposing that you were to wake up tomorrow morning and discover that you love me.”

“And then?” Layla caught the spirit of the game.

“And then you’ll go to the telegraph office, and write out a telegraph, and you’ll send it to my address in Germany.”

“What will I say in it?”

Husayn picked a stone and began to write letters in the sand, pronouncing the words slowly as if dictating. His eyes wandered and his voice grew faint. “Start making arrangements to get a marriage contract, and I will tell you in the next telegram the date I’m to arrive, and I’ll send details by post.” He lifted his head to her, his hand still tightly around the little rock, and he gazed steadily at her as if to test her strength. Would she accept this role that he wanted her to perform? Under his searching gaze Layla fidgeted. The conversation had shifted so rapidly out of the joking spirit in which it had seemed to begin; she could see that it was about to take a very serious turn indeed. But she held fast to the game, though her voice, still light, held a note of uneasiness. “And then?”

“And then you’ll take passage on the ship and you’ll come.”

Husayn’s voice suggested that it was no longer the words that interested him but rather his attempt to reach this young woman. To what extent could he count on her, when his future was so dependent on hers? She spoke in a low voice, beckoning toward an imagined distance. “All that way by myself?” Husayn straightened in his seat and spoke slowly. “That’s the road you have to travel by yourself, Layla.”

Once again she felt his searching gaze close in on her; she felt she had revealed how weak and unable she was. She shifted to stare at the sea. Her lips trembled. “Well, suppose the sea is stormy, the waves terribly high.”

“To reach shore,” Husayn said with deliberation, “we have to face the waves and the open ocean.”

Layla gave him a long look, and then narrowed her eyes and laughed, though it came out more like a wail. “And then on shore what would I find? Husayn, what would I find? Spilt coffee?”

Husayn stared at her, bewildered. It took him a moment to realize that she must be alluding to a detail from the story of her relationship with Isam. His face tightened and he said nothing. Layla covered her face in her hands and shook her head despairingly as she spoke. “I can’t, Husayn, I just can’t.” She took her hands from her face and stood up. So did he, facing her.

“Don’t waste your time, Husayn.” Her voice was calm. “There’s no point, the way I’m feeling.” She walked slowly toward the cabin. Husayn caught up. She heard him behind her, calling, “Layla.” There was no anger in his voice; nor was there despair or even pleading. But his voice, commanding her with masculine duty and compassion to stop, was compelling.

“Layla, do you know what you’ll find on shore?” Layla just looked at him mutely. “You’ll find something more important than me, more important than anyone else, too. Do you know what that is, Layla?”

She raised questioning eyes to him. He spoke slowly. “You’ll find what it is that you’ve lost, you’ll find yourself, you’ll find the true Layla.”

She did not understand at first what he was getting at. Then she blushed as she realized for the first time how much she had changed, and how deeply Husayn understood it. She fled to the cabin.

At lunch, Layla sat across from Husayn, her mother to her right, Mahmud to her left. Her father was in Cairo. She bent her head low over the plate to avoid Husayn’s eyes. She feared his searching gaze, for it seemed to pierce her, to reveal everything that was there. She did not want to see the despair in his eyes, knowing that he was in despair of her.

But when her eyes did meet his by chance, her fear vanished, for she found neither despair nor fear. He was not searching her, testing her, but merely offering her the affectionate touch of his eyes; he was summoning her gently in desire and regard, and she brightened up.

Husayn, for his part, was taking in the smallest details of Layla’s face as if to sculpt it whole in his memory. It was a delightful pursuit; he loved this slope of Layla’s face, from one fine ear to her cheek. He loved her upper lip, its deepening redness at the center revealing a tiny triangle, pulling her whole mouth upward as if she were smiling even when she was not. He loved those light, honey-hued eyes, so intelligent, so expressive, just like a sensitive camera lens; and the wide forehead that hinted a lofty pride; the soft, short, very black hair; her ivory skin with its pinkish tint at the cheeks—soft skin, like a child’s; and . . . . He loved all of her features, each in itself. But he truly loved the manner in which they came together, for in her face’s composition he found a startling beauty. It did not simply flow from the features, nor just from the harmony they formed, but from . . . well, from what? Perhaps it was the contradiction between a soft, child-like innocence and that broad, adult forehead over eyes that sparkled with the intelligence of a mature and highly aware woman. Or perhaps it was the inconsistency between that childlike face and a mature woman’s body. Or was it simply the result of his feelings, his love for her? Never had he caught sight of her face without feeling a lovely peacefulness cradling his whole being, submerging him in a lovely sense of reassurance and well-being, pushing him gently and affectionately forward. These were moments in which he felt that suddenly he could comprehend the most elusive secrets, find solutions to all of his problems, accept that his dreams might take the concrete form of events. He had only to extend a hand and these chimeras would be in his grasp. After all, what could possibly remain beyond him if he were to wake up every morning to that face?

But he would not be waking up every morning to that face. Tomorrow he would depart without having accomplished anything, unable to change anything. All he had in his grasp was her image, to be saved in his mind and preserved in his psyche; and then he must live on the memory throughout the years of exile. If that were to happen, her face must be the last thing he would see when the ship put distance between him and the homeland, the last thing he would see of the homeland—a symbol for all he loved in his nation. An idea flashed into his mind. Tomorrow, as he left, he must bid Layla farewell as he crossed the Nile on his way to Damietta. He would stand in the boat and she would stand before him on shore, filling his mind and his eyes with her face. He could imagine . . . could imagine that he was actually leaving the homeland, and would return—to step onto that beloved land again. But how would he convince her that she must be there to say goodbye? And when? And would she be able to go by herself? Would she be able to overcome her fear of herself, of him, of others? The idea took possession of Husayn; its importance grew to enormous proportions with every minute that passed. If she did go to the riverbank to say goodbye to him, the import of it all was that she was taking the first step toward him—and that he would not have taken leave of her before she took that first step. All that Husayn could think about was how to draw Layla aside so that he could tell her of his plan. The sun was setting before he found his chance.

He was strolling along the beach with Mahmud when they caught sight of Layla and Sanaa watching the sunset. Layla appeared melancholy, as if she were thinking that the sun would not come up tomorrow. Sanaa’s face, to the contrary, sparkled with life, as if she had taken into herself all the rays of the sun that she could catch as it lay on the horizon, about to sink.

Mahmud and Husayn joined them. The four walked slowly, a purplish tinge enveloping them, a moist breeze invigorating their skin. Layla’s feet almost touched the water; Sanaa was to her left, then Mahmud, and then Husayn. Mahmud and Sanaa fell into conversation; Layla and Husayn were silent. Layla’s eyes were fixed straight ahead, and Husayn was dawdling. He turned suddenly and switched his place; now he was walking practically in the water to Layla’s right. She blushed, but her pace did not change. Husayn’s arm bumped her shoulder now and then, sending an electric quiver through her body. Hardly would she recover before she would find herself anticipating—her throat dry, her heart jumpy—the next one. From the corner of her eye she saw Husayn’s face, tense, tight, as if something pressed down on it.

Husayn noticed her glancing sidelong at him, and he pressed his arm to her shoulder, deliberately this time. His eyes seemed to melt, they were so tender; he stuck his lower lip out slightly as if he were kissing her. Her ears reddened and she stared straight ahead. Husayn smiled to himself, and his tense features relaxed. The buzz of conversation between Mahmud and Sanaa dropped to a whisper, and their pace quickened as if, without being aware of it, they were trying to be by themselves. Husayn noticed and slowed down. Here was his chance, and he was not about to let it escape. Layla, though, was determinedly lengthening her stride to catch up with Sanaa and Mahmud. Husayn put out his arm and drew her back, his face laughing as he whispered, “Come here. Where are you going?”

Layla stopped cold, so surprised was she by his unrestrained boldness. She tried to disengage her hand, but when Husayn raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it, with Mahmud and Sanaa just a few steps away, she was too appalled to even pull away.

Husayn let go of her hand when he could be sure that Sanaa and Mahmud had increased the distance between the two couples. Layla’s lips were trembling. “You’re mad. Suppose Mahmud—” She could not even find the words to finish her sentence. Husayn laughed. “Yes, suppose. I love you, and I am proud of it, and I want Mahmud to see. I’d like the whole world to notice that I love you.” Then his face clouded, and he practically pressed against her as he spoke in a shaky, deep whisper. “I’m just waiting for you, waiting for you, darling.” He ran his finger along her arm lightly, and his voice grew softer, almost like a child’s. “And I know that you will love me. I know your future is me, just like my future is you.”

Layla felt a lump in her throat, and her eyes swam under a cloud of tears. Husayn told her what he had in mind. He tried very hard to dispel her fears. They could meet somewhere away from the family’s cabin—for instance, at the government building that overlooked the Nile. She could go on ahead of him, and he would join her there after he had given Mahmud the slip. But her eyes were still wide and fearful as she stared at him—more as if he were asking her to murder someone!

“You aren’t going to come.” A note of despair had crept into Husayn’s voice. She did not answer. Husayn plunged forward, staring straight ahead. Layla’s stride lengthened to keep up with him, and she put out a hand blindly, knocking against Husayn’s hand. “What time?” Her voice was shaking. Husayn seized her hand, his face brightening immediately, his eyes embracing her. Layla pulled her hand away as she saw Sanaa and Mahmud, still at a distance, turning back to walk toward where they stood.

Layla stretched out in bed. A young man like him, who was excellent no matter what perspective you examined him from, wanted to marry her—and despite his knowing the details of her relationship with Isam. A wave of relief and serenity ran through her body; it was exactly the way she felt when the dentist had finished removing a bad tooth, or when she covered an infected sore with a layer of soothing balm. She felt as if he had returned her self-regard to her by asking her to marry him.

She turned restlessly in bed. No. It wasn’t marriage for which he was asking. He wanted her love first, as a fundamental condition for a marriage that would depend on that love. He could have proposed marriage right away, but he had not done so. He did not want a cold corpse, and that is what she was. He wanted her love. But she was incapable of love. She was afraid of it; and there was only loathing in her heart, loathing for the world, and for Isam, who had deceived her, who had broken her. Isam, who had . . . Layla tried to launch her usual train of thought. Normally she could summon it without much effort. It would come to her compliantly, one image after the next, bringing tears to her eyes and a hot lament to her heart as she lost herself in pity. But at the moment the way seemed blocked. Normally, the merest echo of the name “Isam” made her boil and long to break something. But now, he seemed far away—so far away that she wondered for a moment if he really existed. Had she really known him? Had there really been a relationship between them? Layla discovered suddenly that her anger had vanished, that she no longer hated Isam. Her body was not aching, either, as it usually did; her muscles were relaxed, as if she had just emerged from a steam bath that had sucked out a poison running through her body. She fell into a deep sleep uninterrupted by dreary thoughts or bad dreams. But she was careful to wake up early so that she could say goodbye to Husayn.

When she came out of the bathroom everyone was still asleep. But even if someone in the cabin had been awake, there was nothing out of the ordinary in this. Usually the first to awake, she would go for an early walk.

She slipped off her nightgown and stood in her underclothes before the mirror, combing her short hair. She noticed that her skin had dried from the rigors of the sun, and found her bottle of lotion, which she had not bothered to use even once this summer. She leaned toward the mirror, rubbing the lotion into her face. Suddenly her hand stopped on her cheek. She went nearer to the glass and contemplated the face that gazed back at her: the gleaming night eyes of an untamed cat, the lips full and red, a face alight with a healthy glow, chest rising with a suddenly more vigorous heartbeat. She stepped back. Where was she going? What future were those gleaming eyes, that throbbing chest, rushing toward? Ruin? Her father always said so: she was heading to no good, he would frown.

Layla put up her hand to wipe away the sweat that was breaking out on her forehead and tiptoed back to collapse onto the mattress. She might as well have had no experience, learned nothing, never suffered before from her impulsiveness! For here she was, slipping out behind her father’s back, behind Mahmud’s back, behind her mother’s, stepping outside of those rules to meet Husayn; stepping outside with her feet, with her will, to encounter more pain, more loss. Today she would be walking alongside Husayn. Before Husayn it had been Isam; tomorrow what man would it be? Any man who whispered honeyed words into her ears, as if she was a puppy that trotted after anyone who beckoned?

But Husayn! Husayn was different, Husayn loved her. Yet—hadn’t Isam loved her, too?

Love! Hadn’t she already suffered enough from the fantasy of it? And hadn’t she been happier in those days when she felt content to be by herself, when no one was able to cause her pain or hurt? Yet here she was heading into the flames of her own accord, as if she had not already tried it, as if she had learned nothing, suffered nothing.

She leaned her head to one side, listening to footsteps in the cabin. Mahmud was awake, and Husayn was getting ready to leave. Layla hung her head and chewed on her lip. Let him go back to where he came from, and leave her be. She was not going to sacrifice herself for anyone, lose herself in anyone, abase herself for anyone. She would not put her neck between anyone’s hands. She would remain as she was, her own mistress, happy in herself, no one able to hurt her.

As voices reached Layla, she began listening again. Mahmud was determined to accompany Husayn, and Husayn was trying to extract himself. She heard Husayn’s voice ring out triumphant, as he asserted a final ruling in the argument. “That’s what I want, Mahmud. I want to leave on this gorgeous morning by myself.” Layla’s eyes narrowed. He had won. He was sure that she was there, waiting for him. He had beckoned, and he was confident that she would follow. But she wouldn’t be there. She wouldn’t follow. She wouldn’t—a shiver ran through her. Husayn’s voice came, deep and low, warm, as he said, “I’ll miss you, Mahmud.”

“You’ll write to me, of course, regularly.”

“Of course.”

She heard Mahmud’s spoon in his tea as silence descended on the two friends. “Husayn, you are more than a friend.” Mahmud’s voice was trembling. “It is you who gave me reassurance, who helped me to understand that everything is more or less okay.” Layla felt blood rushing into her head, and she jumped to her feet. She must . . . she must thank Husayn, she must say goodbye to him.

Husayn got to his feet. “I’ll see you, Mahmud. Keep well.”

Layla ran to the door of her room, and put her hand on the doorknob. But then she realized that she could not go out there. She could not put out her hand to Husayn. She was not ready. She was still in her underclothes.

She heard Mahmud shouting from the veranda, putting all of himself into those few last words. “‘Bye, Husayn. Goodbye.” And behind her closed door, Layla’s hand tightened on the doorknob.