by Donia Kamal
“And have you gotten married?”
“Not yet.” I didn’t dare tell her that I lived on my own, like loose girls did.
I expected, as the soap forced me to close my eyes, to hear a lecture about the dangers of spinsterhood and the necessity of marriage for girls, but instead she said wisely, “Good. Don’t rush it. Where does marriage get you in the end? My girls got married early and their grandchildren are playing outside. But it was all hardship. Enjoy your life, my girl. There’s duck and roasted potatoes for lunch, so good you and your father will lick your plates clean.”
When I opened my eyes she was gone.
I returned to find my father sitting with a group of ordinary-looking men and women. The women were moderately beautiful, and all were in their sixties or a bit older. Rawya was the oldest one in the house. She might have been the last one remaining from her generation. I imagined that she was over ninety. Her health seemed good and her eyes were lively. She reminded me of my eldest aunt—her skin was wrinkled and her arms as thin as a skeleton’s but her eyes were full of a natural intelligence.
I greeted everyone in the group affectionately. The women hugged me and the men smiled and shook my hand. I sat next to my father, who was asking them about their news and that of other relatives. Every now and then someone would say, “But he died years ago.” And my father would reply, “That’s God’s will.” The names of so many dead made my heart sink.
The old woman called me to help her in the kitchen. All the women had gone in to help. But first she showed me around the house. There were so many rooms, big and airy. She opened one and said, “This is my husband’s room, God rest his soul. Everything here is as it was.” It was a big room, all wood, with a giant bed and wardrobe, a clean rug, the smell of incense, prayer beads on the bedside table—it felt like no one ever entered it. “When he died, God rest his soul, his brother wanted us to sell the house and give him his share of the inheritance. The house would have sold for a lot of money. But I stood up to him. I told him: ‘This is my grandfather’s house and there’s nothing for you here except hospitality when you visit. But your share? Your share in this house is the toilet, nothing more. You want to sell the toilet? Let me see you do that!’ He thought I was insolent, but I won. This room is cleaned every day. As you can see, it sparkles.”
I nodded in agreement.
She took me toward a wooden staircase in the middle of another hall inside the house and opened a wooden door that was invisible until you opened it. “This is the magic room. We called it that because your great-grandfather built it inside the staircase. When we were little, anyone who entered this room got a beating. It was his private room, and he could indulge in his vice of choice without being seen.” She laughed. “Those were the days! My father and my husband, God rest their souls, didn’t touch the stuff. It was your father who inherited the habit. He also enjoys a good drink.”
I laughed along with her while I looked around the magic room. It was tiny, under the stairs, and had a wooden bench with a worn-out foam cushion covered with a faded red flowery sheet and a very old wooden desk with several books in English on it. There was nothing else in the room, and it was obvious that the old woman did not care about cleaning it daily like her God-rest-his-soul’s room. Next to the magic room, adjacent to the staircase, was a small bathroom, which my great-grandfather must have installed in order to avoid walking all the way to the main bathroom.
I accompanied her to the kitchen. The women were busy at work: one washed the dishes, another stirred the contents of a big aluminum pot, which must have contained the soup made from the aforementioned duck, and another dried the dishes. Everyone was talking loudly and at the same time, though they quieted down a bit when the old woman entered the kitchen. Someone told her, “Go and rest, Grandma, we’re nearly done.” At this the old woman snapped, “I’m not dead yet! I still have my health.” That was met by simultaneously murmured prayers for her health and long life. I sat on a wooden bench and watched the matriarch direct the women of the family: “Add some pepper to the soup. The duck is not crispy enough. The rice is fine, but cover it so it doesn’t dry up. Which one of you stuffed these pigeons that are falling apart?”
A small kitten sneaked in, lured by the delicious smells. I don’t like cats. No one in our family does. I got a towel, and was about to shoo the kitten away when Rawya gripped my hand and said sharply, “Leave her, Nadia. She’ll leave of her own accord.”
I was embarrassed. “Sorry, Ammeto. I didn’t know you liked cats. It’s just that I don’t like them at all.”
The woman stirring the soup said, “No one in this family likes cats, Nadia. You just don’t know the full story, because you’re not from here.”
As another of the women was cautiously giving the cat some leftovers, I heard the full story that everyone else in the family knew. Once upon a time, a long time ago, a distant relative of ours, whose name was not mentioned for fear of bad luck, was in her kitchen when a fat black cat came in and snatched a chicken off the kitchen counter. Flustered, the woman lashed out at the cat with the big knife she was holding. The story goes that the cat was cut open without shedding a drop of blood. Then the kitchen filled with smoke and a hole opened in the floor, out of which a tall, dark woman appeared and, in a voice filled with pain, yelled, “Why did you kill me?”
I listened as the women took turns supplying the details of the story while they worked. One of them said that our relative then passed out, and when she awoke the cat was gone and all the kitchen utensils were scattered around on the floor. She remained unsettled for a long time, and rumor had it that whenever she entered a room things jumped around and fell to the floor, and that she spent the rest of her life in fear of the dark woman returning to punish her. Since that day, all the women in the family hated cats but treated them with utter respect and never shooed them away, by way of apology to the cat woman.
One of the men sitting with my father talked about his daughter and his wife, who was helping in the kitchen, stressing proudly that his daughter was getting the best education available and that he never denied her anything. “How old is your daughter, Mustafa?” asked my father, and Mustafa, still full of pride, replied, “She’s ten, Uncle.” He then called loudly to his wife. When she came out of the kitchen holding a towel, he reproached her with affected tenderness: “Haven’t you done enough? Come sit with us and have a rest. Or will you spend the entire time on your feet every time we come here?”
I thought his attitude was pretentious and in bad taste—all the women were in the kitchen to help the old woman. Later my father would say that it was how some of the men in his family acted when they tried to appear cultured and progressive. He said that man probably considered his wife and kid to be part of his possessions, like a good shirt. He wanted them to look good in front of others, but couldn’t care less when they were at home. He told me that when he was younger, relatives like this one—but from his generation—caused him a lot of anxiety: it seemed to be an inherited pattern and he used to fear he would find himself repeating it.
We finally all sat around the long dining room, the women having prepared the food and set the table; I had timidly helped with the final preparations. Conversation flowed, with the old woman at the head of the table, my father next to her, and me next to him. The food was delicious. I still remember the taste. I have traveled a lot and eaten in many places, but have never, before or since, experienced that taste. The pretentious man kept putting food into his wife’s mouth with the same fake tenderness. His child was spoiled and annoying, talking in a loud voice and only stopping when the old woman gave her a look that would have shut me up! The old woman was both gentle and intimidating. She was a dominant presence and appeared to have control over everyone. But when she was out of earshot, the women would joke among themselves, “The old dear seems to have lost it.”
By early evening, we were in the car and driving back to Cairo. My father glued his face to the window
and watched the road again. I could feel that he was drained by the visit. He didn’t say much, except to ask me if I’d had a nice day. I said yes, and agreed that we must visit the countryside every now and then and not stay away too long; that it was important to be present and keep our connection with the rest of the family so they wouldn’t forget us. He replied that, yes, we definitely should visit again soon. But his tone told me that he knew this was going to be the last time.
19
Zayn was exactly fifty when we met. I was twenty. He wrote poetry, and was sensitive and gentle and very attentive. He didn’t look particularly old, he wasn’t wrinkled or flabby, but he was fifty. Thirty years lay between us. The literature student who wore her hair in a bun and did nothing but glare at everyone—a temperamental, insolent bookworm was what everyone saw—fell in love with a poet thirty years her senior. It seemed a willful clinging to a cliché that would follow a predictable route and could only end one way. But Zayn was charming. He was sensitive and innocent, and I’ve always found the innocence of men hard to resist. I fell in love with Zayn, and he fell in love with me.
I don’t remember the first time we met. Was it at a gathering at a downtown café? Or did we meet on a colorful sidewalk in Argentina while khaki tanks roamed the streets around us? Or was it in an American pub, where he spotted me among the late-night dancers? Or maybe we met by a waterfall in Zimbabwe as we watched the creatures of the wild make their way along the riverbank. Or on a beach in Essaouira, the sea endless before us. We could have met anywhere. All I know is that we had finally found each other and I didn’t want us to ever part.
Zayn was an amazing human being, full of beautiful stories and sad poetry. We would sit together on the small sofa at his place, I resting my head on his thigh as he read me his poetry.
Standing on my balcony
On the calm weekend morning
I used to see her
Hanging her children’s clothes
Her husband’s yellow formality
His freshly washed white shirts
On lines of light and song
She radiated the purity of her content heart
As she came or went
Now after a bad summer
I see her
All withered eyes and limbs
Hanging black clothes on lines of silence and tears
I closed my eyes and whispered, “Zayn, could you talk about something other than death?” He kissed my head and recited softly:
When it is erected to block the sunrise
We might spend an entire lifetime
Drilling a hole so that light would
Just once
Reach a future generation
Without that wall
We would not have learned the value of escaped light
I turned to him and smiled. “By the way, Zayn, I love you.” He hugged me and kissed my forehead. For a few moments, the universe stood still.
My relationship with Zayn was a happy one. I was in love and the complete happiness of it showed on my face all the time. I would meet him outside his house and we would stroll around the streets of Downtown. He would hold my hand and kiss it in the middle of the street. I was filled with pride and intoxicated by his touch. Sometimes I felt that I only loved Zayn because he was a poet and a dreamer. Our relationship was impossible, but I wanted nothing except to love him and be loved by him, and to hear him recite poetry and have him stroke my hand when I was tense or unhappy.
I couldn’t keep our relationship from my father for too long. He sensed that there was someone in my life, so I decided to give him the details.
“Baba, he’s not like anyone else. He’s not like you, so don’t even start on the clichés of looking for a father figure. That would be beneath me and beneath you, so don’t go there. He’s a nice man. He reads me poetry. He loves me all the time, not just some of the time. He is not like other men. I have found him and I will keep him, until I have had enough of him or he has had enough of me or something happens that breaks us apart. You should not find that difficult or ridiculous. This has nothing to do with daddy issues. I don’t have any. I wasn’t looking for an older man so I would find you in his shadow. Accept Zayn, or don’t. He will stay until I decide that he goes, or he decides that I go.”
My father was upset by my assertive speech, by my prejudging his reaction without giving him a chance to speak. He looked at me without saying anything, and after a few minutes he said, “Whenever he decides to leave or you decide to make him leave, let me know. If you want, that is.” I decided that I wasn’t going to argue or sulk or slam my bedroom door like I used to as a teenager. I just said, “OK, I will,” and gathered my things and walked away.
I went over to Zayn’s. I put down my backpack, and took out my tobacco pouch and the small colorful lighter that Zayn gave me to get me to stop using matches. He didn’t like the smell of matches and, although I did like it, I went along with his wish. I took off my jacket and folded it carefully and put it in my backpack. I walked over to Zayn, who was watching me from his place on the sofa, gave him a kiss on each cheek, and assumed my position with my head on his thigh and my legs dangling from the other side of the sofa.
“Zayn, I told my father.”
“Have you heard a Fairuz song called ‘He Brings Me Greetings’?”
“Zayn, I said that I told my father about us.”
“OK. Why is that a problem?”
“It isn’t. I’m just telling you.”
“So have you heard the song I’m telling you about?”
“No.”
“You know what it says?”
Love has come early to our quarters
Carrying stories and tears and joy
All the girls were gathered here
Mama, why did he choose me?
I smiled and put my hand in his. “Why did he choose me, Zayn?”
“Because you are you. You sparkle. No one will ever be able to cover you in dust.”
Zayn’s love grew in my heart. I planted my kisses on his face and engulfed him in my love. I would only spend a few hours at a time with him. I couldn’t stay away from my father for too long. I would go to university, then to Zayn, then back home to my father. Even if we had been arguing, nothing was like settling next to my father at the end of each day, and resting my head next to his beating heart. It was the only place where I could put aside all my worries and tiredness, the stress of the streets, the lecture halls, the traffic—even Zayn’s words would be temporarily forgotten while I enjoyed absolute and utter peace in my father’s arms.
20
I took a heavy coat with me. I didn’t have enough cash, so I decided to go to the airport, where I’d heard some cash machines still worked. I took the thick scarf that usually accompanied me on trips to colder places. I didn’t take the small pocketknife that I had purchased from a fifteen-year-old boy and that I boasted about my ability to use. There were citizen-committee checkpoints everywhere and I wouldn’t want it to get confiscated. I told my father that I was going out. “I woke up early and made some food: the vegetables you like and a chicken boiled without any salt or pepper, so it’s fine for your blood pressure and allergies. There’s also steamed rice, which you’ll really like. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to come back tonight, but I probably will. I don’t want you to spend the night alone.”
“OK. I won’t be going out. But if you manage to come back in the middle of the day to update me on what’s going on, do that. I’ll be glued to the TV. Have the newspapers been delivered?”
“No, but forget the newspapers, there’s nothing in them. Check Al Jazeera or anything that’s not state TV, because that won’t be showing much. I’ll try to come back at some point in the afternoon.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t.” I hugged him tightly.
I got a taxi to the airport, found a working cash machine
, withdrew some money, and headed to Tahrir. The streets were empty. I felt a sudden twinge of fear. There was fear on the faces of the few people I saw. The long main road leading from the airport to Tahrir was almost empty except for the tanks and armored vehicles. They moved heavily through the city’s streets and looked kind of ridiculous. It was an unfamiliar sight, and made me think of Chile during military rule. Not that I’d ever been to Chile, but I had seen pictures in history books. The taxi driver was nervous and kept murmuring to himself. “What are you going to Tahrir for?” he asked me. The question made me suspicious. He might be resentful of what was happening and take it out on me. So I replied, “I’m not going to Tahrir. I’m visiting a friend who lives near there.”
“This is no time for visits,” he said. “Haven’t you seen what’s happening? There are thugs all over the place. And you’re a girl. You have no idea what we see on the road. You must be careful.”
“God protect us,” I whispered.
I got off at Qasr al-Nil Bridge. There was a big checkpoint at the entrance to the square—about fifteen young men and women checking IDs and searching people, with friendly but firm smiles. I let one of the women pat over my clothes, look inside my handbag, and peer into my face. I smiled, and she gave me the victory sign and said, “May God be with us.” I nodded to her in approval and walked into the square.
I searched impatiently for Rima. On the first day I had seen her run to escape the tear gas, her long curly hair flying behind her as she leaped along the sidewalk, moving swiftly to avoid the tear gas canisters and rocks. I finally found her; her hair was a mess and her eyes were shining with enthusiasm. She hugged me. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.”
I replied calmly, “I only just got here. Baba is at my apartment, so I cooked for him, went to withdraw some cash, and came straight here.”
