Chapter Seventeen

From that day, Layla’s association with Dr. Ramzi acquired a newly personal tone. Meeting her by chance in the corridor, he would give her a special smile, one that he reserved for her, a smile that singled her out and made her feel superior to her classmates. At the end of the school year he loaned her some books from his personal library to read during the summer vacation. As she embarked on her third year at the university he began asking regularly to see her papers, initiating private discussions on their weaknesses and strengths. As firm as he was with her—in class and outside of the lecture hall, too—something glimmered beneath that stern surface to distinguish her from others, to make her feel that this must mean she was a cut above the rest.

But it all took its toll. Forlorn, apart, drained of energy, Layla had sought the shade of an immense wall whose shadow could easily encompass her. To remain in that shadowed space could not be called a conscious decision; she merely leaned back against the wall to rest. She felt all right as long as she supported herself against the wall while it spread its shadow over her; the shadow itself seemed to lend her the massive solidity of the wall, to offer her its strength, to infuse her with its hardness. She clung to that wall, seeking its protection, wanting its strength. She reined in her own behavior—indeed, her very thoughts—so that they remained within the radius of Dr. Ramzi’s approval. What was right was whatever he thought right; wrong was whatever he considered wrong. And it was never difficult to distinguish one from the other. For what constituted wrong was very clear and well defined, and so was what was right. Black was black and white was white, and there were no intermediate shades. He knew the boundaries, and so did she; moreover, so did her mother, Adila, everyone.

But Dr. Ramzi towered above them all, for his commitment to what was right did not parrot other people’s commitments but rather expressed his beliefs. And when he avoided what was wrong it was not because he feared the judgments of others but rather because of his superior strength, and because he was an extraordinary person, an intellectual. A true intellectual imposed stringent controls on his emotions, his likes and dislikes, his acts and his words. Such self-control prevented him from acting before thinking; hence he could not err. Such a system distinguished the civilized person from vulgar folk, whose impulsive embrace of the basest emotions led them inevitably into wrongdoing.

Layla adopted Dr. Ramzi’s views and stayed within their confines. He noticed this development and was careful to show his support. After she had presented a research project in class, he commented, “The research was good, and you have almost succeeded in ridding yourself of the personal flaws that were preventing you from being objective. That is, from following scientific method. You still have a long road in front of you, but you are making progress.”

One day after the lecture Adila took Sanaa aside. “So now do you believe me? Look—he’s always lending her books, he congratulates her right in the lecture, and everything’s just A-okay—see, didn’t I tell you he’s sweet on her?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” said Sanaa sarcastically. “God’s up above, and he’s just one step below as far as she’s concerned.

“You’re jealous,” teased Adila, trying to provoke her friend.

“Ya shaykha, don’t make me sick. Are you happy about the straitjacket she’s in? I can’t speak to that fellow, she says. I can’t do this, that posture is not proper. And the long-sleeved dresses, the principles, the tree with its roots, the beast and superman! Now really, tell me the truth—are you pleased with all this nonsense?”

“Tell you the truth? She’s overdone it a bit.”

“A bit? It’s sickening.”

Sanaa did think Layla’s transformation was lamentable. Her friend had become unbearable: self-absorbed, judgmental and self-righteous, rigid, dry, emotionless, as if she had lost her powers of sympathy. Her horizons had narrowed terribly; she only saw as far as the palm of her hand, as if she were literally near-sighted. And then what she noticed excited only disgust and disdain, for she seemed able only to see others’ lapses. Everything that came from her mouth was a stern reproach, issued confidently and insolently as if she personally balanced a set of infallible scales. Anyone who took her words seriously might just as well go off and commit suicide! Roots had shaken loose, dissolution was upon every household, corrupt moral behavior had engulfed the entire country, and the intellectuals—those demigods—must stand firm against them. And of course there were no intellectuals except Dr. Ramzi and, by extension, her.

Sanaa was very troubled by it. What had happened? What had changed this young woman from whose face—from whose whole being—affection had once shone? How had she become so filled with rancor, bitterness, rigidity, petrified ideas? Who could ever have believed that she was the sister of Mahmud, whose eyes radiated love for people and for life? Sanaa knew full well that soon she and Layla must come to blows. Mahmud had graduated and was about to complete his internship year. The two of them were waiting only on the announcement of his appointment to a hospital to make their own announcement to the two families. She and Mahmud were not going to let anyone stand in the way of their marriage. Only a month now, and she would surely face Layla head-on. Sanaa dreaded this even more than the inevitable clash with her father and mother. It would be very hard to confront Layla openly, to face a quarrel that would end a friendship that was once the most precious thing in her life. But what could she do? With her newfound rigidity, her cold inflexibility, there was not a chance that Layla would understand.

In fact, something happened to bring Layla and Sanaa together, almost returning to their bond the strength it had had in the past.

The blackboard at the college entrance announced that the door was now open for female students who might want to volunteer for the National Guard. The announcement remained posted for a week, to be replaced by an invitation to all female college members to meet in lecture hall 71 with the detachment commander of the National Guard.

At the appointed time the glass door of the lecture hall swung without pause, filling the room with hundreds of young women. Some students had come to register their names on the rolls of the National Guard, others were propelled by curiosity, and one group seemed to have come simply to present a collection of the latest fashions. Sitting between Layla and Sanaa, waiting for the officer to arrive, Adila complained, “See, in the time we’ve been waiting I could have gone and washed my hair and—” She broke off as the officer entered the lecture hall and stood facing them—three hundred young women. The room was silent for a moment while all eyes examined the young officer as he began to speak, his voice barely audible and his face going scarlet with embarrassment. The whispering soon picked up, resuming interrupted stories. A girl who looked almost Chinese positioned one leg over the other and declared to all in the vicinity that she had accepted the hand of that young man who had been courting her just to stop his pestering. A plump young woman complained to her classmate that her hair had dried out all of a sudden so that it now felt like straw; the classmate advised her to take a steambath, adding oil to the water. The officer’s hand went up to his shirtcollar in confusion, and a little knot of young women at the back of the hall chanted to a regular beat, “We can’t hear! We can’t hear!” The officer slapped his hand down on the table and yelled sternly, “Quiet!”

This time nothing broke the silence but the sound of breathing. Realizing that he finally had the upper hand, the officer was able to raise his voice. He stepped forward into the aisle that divided the sections of seats, speaking in an everyday, conversational manner—no formal oratory, no flowery expressions. His speech flowed from feelings unfamiliar to these young women, sentiments about the value of women, the true equality being given to them for the first time, since they were now being given the right to defend the nation. Tears stood in many eyes; others widened in amazement, as if the door to a strange world had opened before them.

And some eyes moved upward, bored, to look at the clock in the lecture hall. But the silence triumphed, broken only by excited breathing. As Layla sat listening, scenes from her life passed before her: herself as a little girl, jumping in rhythm and raising and lowering her right hand, and chanting as the demonstrators were doing, “Weapons, weapons, we want weapons.” Her image as a young teenager, on the shoulders of other demonstrators, women this time, calling out in a voice that was not her own but was the voice of thousands. These memories seemed so distant to her, as if they had happened to someone else.

Sanaa took a pen from her bag and wrote on a bit of paper, “I’m going to volunteer.”

Layla’s lips formed a sardonic smile that faded as she watched Sanaa, leaning over the paper, lips pressed together and eyes shining. Sanaa drew line after line beneath her words, lines heavy enough to rip the paper. A tremor ran through Layla’s body and collected in her head.

Standing before the officer to have her name recorded as a volunteer in the National Guard, she was still unsure. As the officer waited for her to say something, all she could do was to sketch lines with her hand along the table edge. Finally she spoke. “Layla Sulayman. Philosophy, third year.” She ran, her cheeks flushed, to catch up with Sanaa.

At first it seemed an entertaining game: the long lines they formed, the military movements, the army’s phrases and slogans; the lieutenant with his commands and prohibitions; the early morning breeze slapping against their faces and ruffling their hair. And the collective spirit, again, as if the detachment was a clique of friends organizing a plot, exactly as it had been in secondary school. Layla enjoyed every minute of the training; she began to regain the feeling she had lost at the university, that feeling of being part of a whole. But when the lieutenant ordered her to raise her head, she began to feel remote, alienated. Every time she tried to lift her head, only her shoulders came up. It would require an enormous effort, she thought forlornly, to achieve what the others seemed to do so easily and naturally, as if they had been born with their heads straight and high. The lieutenant never failed to remark on it; she tried, but every time, she failed. She would be on the point of giving the whole thing up, but then she would come back.

“I can’t. I just can’t do it, Sanaa.”

“It’s only because you’ve gotten used to walking with your head bowed.”

“So what can I do?”

“Raise your head and relax your body. Tell yourself whenever you are walking, ‘I am pretty. I am intelligent.’”

Layla laughed.

“I’m not kidding, Layla. Anyone has to feel a certain amount of pride inside. Pride in yourself.”

Layla smiled wanly. She tried again, and this time she succeeded. Everyone around her noticed that her posture was straighter and her walk steadier. But then Layla faced a new difficulty. The lieutenant said she was holding the rifle as if it were a broom. This comment stirred up a great deal of clever joking. But Layla put an end to that when they started target practice. She astonished all of them, including the lieutenant.

After the first shot, her body, which had been completely rigid, relaxed. Her whole being had felt as if it were concentrated in her eyes, and with a steady hand she had pulled the trigger. She had hit the bull’s eye. She took aim, fired, and hit, time after time, day after day.

The feelings that had abandoned her flooded back. She was capable and strong after all. It was not the words of encouragement and approval; it was the realization that she had worked her will, and that she could always do it again. She could desire something and then she could succeed in achieving it. Moreover, there was no time-lag between the desire and the act, which made the achievement all the more powerful.

Almost finished now with her military training, Layla had a new sense of self that never left her. The pleasure of it pulsed through her body and shone in her eyes.

Layla raised a smiling, rosy face to Dr. Ramzi. Her military uniform swinging from her arm, she said, “Good morning, professor.” On her way back from the training field, she had come face to face with Dr. Ramzi at the main entrance into the college.

Astonishment appeared on his face. This was the first time that Layla had ever raised her face to look him squarely in the eye or had taken the initiative in speaking to him. He noticed the training uniform on her arm.

“Where are you coming from?”

“From training.”

“What training?”

“The National Guard.”

He took a drag on his cigarette, giving her a searching look all the while.

“Forget that nonsense. Just concentrate on your studies—much better.”

Layla looked at him, a light smile playing around her mouth as if she were humoring a child. Her expression angered him.

“I guess you think you are quite important? You are going to fight, is that right?”

Layla’s smile broadened.

“When will we grow up? Outgrow these childish ideas? When will we understand that everyone has his own sphere?”

Layla looked at him inquiringly. He went on. “Intellectuals are a select group. It is not a group that goes into combat. Every country is composed of two population groups—one group that thinks and the other that wars. Defending the country is a duty that must be limited to those who are not intellectuals.”

The smile on Layla’s face faded, and she spoke with trembling lips. “Defending the country is everyone’s duty, whether an intellectual or not.” She muttered something to excuse herself, turned, and hurried in the other direction, feeling that some sort of danger slunk after her.

A week had passed since this encounter. Dr. Ramzi sent a message summoning Layla to his office. As she extended her hand to open the door, the courage and determination with which she had begun to face others deserted her. Whenever she stood in front of Dr. Ramzi, the feelings that had tormented her the first time she had entered his office came over her again, a blend of fear and awe, of dread and attraction.

He was standing, his back to the desk, searching for a book in his bookcases. He turned his head when she opened the door, simultaneously noticing her and snatching a book from the shelf. Without another glance he said, “Please make yourself comfortable.”

She perched on the edge of the chair by the desk and yanked the hem of her dress down over her knees. He let her wait for a few minutes while he flipped through the book. Then he turned and sat on the edge of the desk. “I want to meet your father. Would you be able to set up an appointment?”

Layla’s face reflected her astonishment. “When would you like to meet him, sir?” Slowly, Dr. Ramzi took his diary out of a desk drawer, opened it, and, again slowly, leafed through it, concentrating on each page. Layla’s mind began to whirl. Why did he want to meet her father? He did not know her father; there was no connection to link them. This was what a man said to a woman when . . . Layla peered at Dr. Ramzi out of the corner of her eye. He seemed very distant, isolated as usual in his glass case.

No. It was not possible. No, it could not be. He must have some interest to pursue in the Ministry of Finance and he had heard that her father was employed there.

He raised his head to look at her. “Would Monday be good, Layla?”

“Fine, Doctor.” She stood up.

“When will you give me an answer?” he asked, smiling.

“Tomorrow, God willing.” She stood a moment, hesitating, but she did not dare to ask him why he wanted to meet her father. Contrary to his usual practice, Dr. Ramzi stood up and shook her hand before she left the room.

Sitting at lunch, her mother said, “I swear by the Prophet, my heart senses it, he wants to marry you, Layla.”

“Don’t you have anything in your head other than marriage, Mama?” shrieked Layla. “Do people get married just like that, with a snap of the fingers?”

Her father gave her a stern look. “What do you mean, ‘just like that’?” He turned to her mother. “In any case, there is no reason to put such nonsense into the girl’s head. A man with his position, his status, his name—when the time comes for him to think about marriage, he’ll be looking high.”

“And is Layla so bad?” said her mother protestingly. “Si Mahmud al-Atrabi says—” She went on to relate a story she had told perhaps a hundred times before, the upshot of which was that if the Faculty of Letters could boast three students like Layla, it would be the top college in the whole university.

Layla waited until her father had left the table. She leaned over to her mother and spoke in a low voice. “I wish you wouldn’t start with these guessing games. If it were a question of marriage he would have at least given me a hint. It just is not!” She got up from the table, exasperated.

It was a question of marriage. After Dr. Ramzi left the apartment, her father put his arms around her, in such a transported state he could hardly stand still. “Congratulations, Layla! We read the sacred Fatiha together—the word of God in the sight of God.”

No one consulted her; that was the first thing that came into Layla’s head. No one—neither her father nor Dr. Ramzi, as if the marriage concerned someone other than her. But she forgot this observation in the flood of self-pride that submerged her. Once the news got around the college, her pride increased, too; she enjoyed the looks of envy and curiosity that came her way. She felt constantly as if she were the target of pointing fingers, and that whoever had not known her before knew her now, because she had become Dr. Ramzi’s fiancée.

Adila gave her a hug when she saw her. “You scoundrel! What a marriage! The whole college is rocking with the news.”

Sanaa kissed her. “Congratulations.”

“I told you so,” Adila said to Sanaa once Layla left them. “I pick these things up, you know.”

“Who would have believed it?” Sanaa’s voice was melancholy, her face grave. But Adila’s response made it clear that she had missed the import of Sanaa’s words. “Really! Who would have believed that Layla would hook that grim man, before he even had a chance to realize what was going on! But remember that proverb—Still waters run deep.”

“Don’t be so dumb! Wallahi, he’s the one who hooked her and pulled the wool over her eyes. Not the other way around.” Sanaa sounded disgusted.