God Dies by the Nile and Other Novels

by Nawal El Saadawi

  At the end of the corridor she paused momentarily before going down the stairs. She thought of going up to the fifth floor to apologize to the head of department for leaving early, and put a foot on the stairs. But, instead she descended quickly, shrugging her shoulders and burying her head in the wide collar of her coat.

  She soon left the iron railing behind and reached the wide, crowded street, lifting her head from the concealing coat collar. The sun’s rays on her back were pleasurable; the pleasure would have been greater except for the weight on her heart. She saw a woman sitting on the pavement, her empty hand outstretched, a young child in her lap. The sun bathed her whole body as she sat silent and still. She was not running away from the Ministry, neither was her heart heavy with such worries.

  In the midst of the hurrying crowd, she glimpsed a tall, slender woman who resembled herself. She was walking quickly, pushing forward as if she were about to break into a run but was too embarrassed to do so. A bag swung from her hand, a black leather bag like those carried by doctors or lawyers or civil servants; no doubt it was full of important papers. Its owner waved down a taxi, leaped into it and vanished. She knew where she was going and her movements were light and energetic. Clearly, she was very busy, very engrossed, very absorbed. She had an important job and was happy with it, pleased with herself, felt herself to be important. Yes, that tall, slender young woman was important.

  She closed her lips sternly, swallowing hard. Someone important like her would not be idly and aimlessly wandering the streets. She was envious; yes, envy was the word to describe her feelings at that moment. She was unsure of the meaning of the word ‘envy’ but had inherited it as she’d inherited her nose and arms and eyes. She knew that envy was an extrinsic act, that she couldn’t envy herself, that there had to be another person to envy, a person who had to possess enviable characteristics, something important, not important in itself but important to her.

  She put her hand into her coat pocket and played with the holes in the silky lining as if searching for something important within herself. Suddenly she discovered that there was nothing important about herself. But it was not exactly a discovery, neither was it sudden, but rather a slow, insidious, obscure feeling, which had started some time ago, perhaps after she’d graduated, perhaps after she’d begun working at the Ministry, perhaps only yesterday when she’d gone to the restaurant and found the table empty, or perhaps this morning when that pointed thing had pushed between her legs as she jumped off the bus.

  She swallowed bitter saliva and moved her dry tongue, saying to herself in an almost audible voice: ‘Yes, I am nothing.’ She would have repeated ‘Yes, I am nothing’ but her lips tightened and instead the words died inside her mouth where they burned like acid.

  She raised her head; her eyes roamed the sky as if in search of something. Yes, she was looking for something. She recalled her mother’s voice saying: ‘May the Lord make you successful, Fouada my daughter, and may you make a great discovery in chemistry.’ She saw the blueness was pockmarked and white clouds drifted indifferently over it. She bowed her head and whispered: ‘Your hopes are disappointed, mother, and your pleas are dashed against a silent sky.’

  She bit her lip. A great discovery in chemistry! What did her mother know about chemistry? What did she know about any discoveries? Fouada was her only daughter, she laid all her failed ambitions on to her and, unlike other mothers these days, did not think about marriage. Her ambitions were not of the ordinary female type. Before getting married, she had gone to school and perhaps read some stories or a novel about an educated girl who had become great, perhaps the story of Madame Curie or some other memorable woman. But one morning she had opened her eyes and had not found her school pinafore hanging up where she had left it the previous night, and heard her father’s gruff voice saying: ‘You’re not going to school.’ She had run crying to her mother and asked her why. The reason was marriage. That was enough for her to hate him from the first glance and she continued to hate him until he died. After his death, while Fouada was still in secondary school, her mother had said, combing her soft black hair in front of the mirror and looking at her slender figure:

  ‘Your future lies in studying, my daughter. There’s no use in men.’

  Her mother hoped that Fouada would enter medical school, but her grade at the end of the secondary stage was too low.

  Perhaps she hadn’t studied enough or because in the history class she sat near the window and her eyes wandered to that tall tree laden with large red flowers, like a turban dusted with red copper powder. Sitting in the history lesson, she discovered she loved the colour of powdered red copper, that she loved chemistry and hated history. She could never remember the names of all the kings and rulers who had once governed Egypt; neither did she understand why the living should waste time on the deeds of the dead. Her father was dead and she had perhaps been a little happy when he died, although not for any particular reason; her father had been nothing particular in her life. He was simply a father, but she was happy, because she felt that her mother was happy. Some days later, she heard her say that he hadn’t been much use. She was totally convinced of her words. Of what use had her father been.

  She saw her father only on Fridays. Usually, he came home after she’d gone to sleep and left before she awoke and the house was quiet and clean, every day except Friday. Her father flooded the bathroom when he took a bath, soaked the living room when he left the bathroom, threw his dirty clothes everywhere, raised his gruff voice from time to time, coughed and spat a lot, and blew his nose loudly. His handkerchief was very large and always filthy. Her mother put it in boiling water and said to her: ‘That’s to get rid of the germs.’ At the time, Fouada did not know what ‘germs’ meant, but she heard the biology teacher say in one of the classes that germs were small, harmful things. That day, the teacher had asked the class: ‘Where are these things to be found, girls?’ The class was silent and none of the girls raised her hand, but Fouada raised hers confidently and proudly. The teacher smiled at her courage and said gently: ‘Do you know where germs are found, Fouada?’ Fouada got to her feet, head above the other girls, and said in a loud, confident voice, ‘Yes, miss. Germs are found in my father’s handkerchief.’

  * * *

  Fouada found herself at home, in her bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the telephone. She had no idea how she had got there or how her legs had carried her on and off the bus at the right stops, how they had carried her from the bus stop to the house or how they had done all this of their own accord without her knowledge. But she gave this matter little thought as she did not suppose this to be a characteristic or distinction peculiar to her own legs. A donkey’s legs did the same thing, quietly and silently.

  She reached for the telephone, put a finger in the hole and dialled the familiar five numbers. She heard it ring, and leaned against the bedrest, preparing for a long reprimand. But the ringing went on. She looked at the clock. Midday. Farid did not leave the house before one or two. Was he reading in bed? There was a long passageway between the bedroom and the study where the telephone was. Was he in the bathroom and could not hear the phone from behind the closed door? She looked up to the window and saw a branch of the eucalyptus tree playing against the pane. Trees, too, could play. The receiver was still pressed to her ear, the bell was still ringing loudly. Something occurred to her and she put the receiver down for a moment, then, lifting it, redialled the number, carefully ensuring that her finger followed the correct sequence. Immediately the dial stopped after the five turns the ringing pierced her ear like a missile. She pressed the receiver to her ear for a long time; long enough for someone to come out of the bathroom or awaken from sleep. Another idea occurred to her and she replaced the receiver for a moment, then lifted it and called the operator. She asked, was there a fault on the line? A moment later, a gentle voice replied:

  ‘The telephone is in order. It’s ringing for you.’

  The bell’s
brazen sound again filled her ear, sharp, loud and continuous. She hung up, leaned her head against the pillow and stared at the window.

  Never before had she thought about her relationship with Farid; she had simply lived it. There was no room for both – either live it or think about it. Farid was always busy, spending hours with his books and papers, either writing or reading things, which he put away carefully in the drawer of his desk and locked with a key. He went out every evening and stayed out late. Some nights he stayed away from home. She never asked him where he went, not wanting to take on the role of inquisitive wife, not wanting to take on the role of wife at all. She valued her freedom, her own room, her own bed, her own secrets, her own mistakes – they weren’t really mistakes. Sometimes she loved to disappear and Farid did not know where she was. She delighted to hear words of admiration from a man’s mouth, a delicious but never surprised delight, for she was sure something in her was worthy of admiration. But Farid was the centre of her life. Other days she swallowed like a dose of bitter medicine, then Tuesday would arrive in all its wondrous splendour. For on Tuesday she met Farid. Every Tuesday, at eight in the evening in that small restaurant when the weather was warm, or at his house on cold winter nights. How many winters had their relationship seen? She didn’t know exactly, only that she had known Farid for a long, perhaps very long, time.

  How many winters had passed, how many Tuesdays! And every Tuesday, Farid had been waiting, had not lied once. If he concealed some things from her, he never lied, even when the question of marriage had somehow arisen. Looking at her with shining brown eyes, he had told her: ‘I can never marry.’ If any other man had said that to her, she might have doubted him or have felt it as an insult. But Farid was different, with him everything became different. Even words lost their familiar, traditional meaning and the names of things might suddenly become inapplicable, meaningless. The word ‘dignity’ for example. What does it mean? To preserve one’s self-respect? Against whom? Against others? Yes. There must be others before whom one’s self-respect must be protected.

  But between her and Farid, there were no ‘others’, or any such thing as her self against his self. They shared everything in love, even their selves – she became him and he became her. He protected her rights and she his. Something strange, something extraordinary happened between them, but it happened effortlessly, spontaneously – as naturally as breathing.

  Hearing her mother in the living room shuffling towards her door, she quickly got up from the bed and began moving around the room. She did not want her to come in and see her looking solemn and staring into space, like a sick person. Her mother stood at the door in her white headscarf and long galabeya, saying in a hoarse, faint voice:

  ‘I see you’re wearing outdoor clothes. Are you going out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And lunch?’ her mother said.

  Fouada picked up her handbag, ready to leave, saying:

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Fouada didn’t know why she was going out. Only that she didn’t want to stay in, but to move, to see movement around her, to hear a loud clamour, louder than that bell that rang, persistently, endlessly in her ear. She left her street and turned right to walk alongside the stone wall to the flower garden. White jasmine glinted like silver in the bright sunlight. As usual, she reached out to pluck a spray, crushing it between her fingers and breathing in its scent. The heavy weight in her heart moved. The scent of jasmine was for her meeting Farid, his kiss on her neck. But now its poignant scent seemed to epitomize his absence, and confused feelings of nostalgia and reality stirred deep inside her. It was all like an illusion, like a dream, that ends when you awaken.

  She let the crushed jasmine flowers fall from her fingers, and walked along the narrow street, turning into Nile Street. Suddenly she knew she hadn’t left the house without reason or simply to move; she had a particular goal. A few more steps and she found herself in front of the small restaurant.

  She hesitated, then entered, crossing the long passageway between the trees. Her heart began to pound, imagining that emerging from the passageway she would see Farid sitting at the white-cloth-decked table, his back towards her, his face to the Nile, his shoulders tilted forward slightly, black hair failing thickly behind his small flushed cars, long slender fingers on the table playing with a scrap of paper or turning the pages of the notebook he always kept with him, or doing something but never staying still.

  Yes, she would see him sitting like that. She would tiptoe up behind him, put her arms round his head and cover his eyes with her hands. He would laugh and grab her hands and kiss each finger one by one.

  Her heart was thumping violently when she reached the end of the passageway. She turned to the left and looked towards the table. She felt a stab in her heart. The table was empty and naked, with no white cloth. She approached and touched it, as if looking for something Farid had forgotten, a piece of paper he had left for her, but her fingers met only the smooth wooden surface, the wind battering it from all sides, like the trunk of an old tree.

  The waiter came over, smiling, but looked down when he saw the look on her face. She walked towards the passage but before turning into it, spun around to look again at the table. It was still empty. She ran towards the passageway and hurriedly left the restaurant.

  She found herself in Doqi Street. Seeing a bus about to move off, she jumped onto it without knowing where it was going. She got one foot on the platform, the other hung in the air. Hands reached out to help her on and she managed to push her foot between the others on the step. Long, strong arms surrounded her to prevent her falling, then she found herself huddled with the other bodies inside the bus.

  One of millions, one of those human bodies crowding the streets, the buses, the cars and the houses. Who was she? Fouada Khalil Salim, born in Upper Egypt, identity card number 3125098. What would happen to the world if she fell under the wheels of a bus? Nothing. Life would go on, indifferent and unconcerned. Maybe her mother would write her obituary in the paper, but what would a line in a newspaper do? What would it change in the world?

  She looked around in surprise. But why surprise? She really was one of millions, really was one of the bodies crammed into the bus, and if she fell under the wheels and died, her death would change nothing in the world. What was so astonishing about that? But it still surprised her, amazed her, something that she could neither believe nor accept.

  For she was not one of millions. Deep inside something assured her that she was not one of millions, was not simply a moving lump of flesh. She could not live and die without the world changing at all. Yes, in her heart of hearts something assured her, and not hers alone but in her mother’s heart, and her chemistry teacher’s – and in Farid’s heart.

  She heard her mother’s voice saying: ‘You will be someone great like Madame Curie’, then the voice of her chemistry teacher saying: ‘Fouada is different from the other girls in the class’, and Farid’s voice whispered in her ear: ‘You have something in you that other women don’t have.’

  But what was the use of these voices, these words? They had resounded once or twice, vibrations disturbing the air, then they were over. Her mother had said it to her when she was young, a long time ago. The chemistry teacher had said it when she was in secondary school many years ago. And Farid, yes Farid too had told her, but Farid’s voice had vanished into the air and he himself had disappeared as if he had never existed.

  A fat woman stepped on her foot. The conductor tapped her shoulder to pay for the ticket. A large hand reached out from behind and pressed her thigh. Yes, one body amongst others crowding the world, filling the air with the smell of sweat, one of millions, millions, millions. Unaware, she said aloud: ‘Millions, millions!’ The fat woman stared at her with large, cow-like eyes and breathed a smell of onions into her face so that she turned away. Through the window she saw Tahrir Square and with all her strength pushed her way out of the bus.

  * * *

 
She stood in the huge square, looking around and up at the tall buildings, their facades plastered with names written in broad lettering: doctors, lawyers, accountants, tailors and masseuses. She particularly noticed a sign on which was written: ‘Abd al-Sami’s Analysis Laboratory’. Suddenly, something dawned on her, as if a small searchlight had focused in her head. The idea flashed through her mind as clear as a new light. It had always been there, hidden in the recesses, unmoving, but it was there and she knew it.

  Now it had begun to move, to emerge from its hidden corner into the field of light. Fouada could read it, yes, written in clear broad letters on the facade of the building: ‘Fouada’s Chemical Analysis Laboratory’.

  That was the deep-seated idea in her head. She didn’t know when it had begun, for she merely remembered dates and was not good at calculating time. Time could pass quickly, very quickly, as quickly as the rotation of the earth. Sometimes it seemed to her that it did not move at all, and at others that it moved slowly, very slowly, and the earth trembled as though a volcano was erupting from its depths.

  The idea had started long ago. It had occurred to her once when she was sitting in the chemistry class at school. It was not quite so clear but had appeared through a mist. She had been transfixed by a curious movement inside a test tube, colours that suddenly appeared and disappeared, vapours with strange smells, a different sediment at the bottom, a new substance – the result of the chemical interaction of two other substances – with new characteristics, new form, new wavelength. The chemistry lesson ended and she stayed in the laboratory, mixing substances together, observing the reactions with delight, sniffing the gas that rose from the mouth of the test tube, then shouting with joy: ‘A new gas! Eureka!’