Fouada stood motionless, listening to their raised voices as they fought with each other on the stairs. She went to the door to see what the man was doing to the woman, but their voices had stopped and the corridor was quiet. She went to the window to watch them leave the building, thinking that the woman would not leave on her own feet, but was astonished to see the man come out followed by the woman walking quietly and with head bowed, as quiet as she had been before the incident. Fouada kept staring at her until she disappeared from view, then left the window and sank into a chair engrossed in thought.
Saati had been watching her, and when she sat down he also sat on a chair near her.
‘You seem upset for the woman,’ he said smiling.
She sighed and said:
‘She’s wretched.’
The prominent eyes flickered as he said:
‘No more wretched than others you will see here in your laboratory, but you can’t do anything for them.’
He pointed upwards and said:
‘They have a god!’
‘Is there a god that takes people’s mistakes away from them?’ she replied irritably.
She didn’t know why she uttered the sentence for it was not her own. It was Farid’s sentence; she had often heard it from him. The sentence reminded her of Farid and her heart sank. She bowed her head, silent and dejected. She heard Saati say:
‘You seem to have been upset by the woman.’
She remained silent. He got up and took a few steps towards her, then said:
‘You are kind to everyone…’
He paused for a moment, then went on in an agitated voice:
‘… except me.’
She looked up at him in surprise. He gave an embarrassed smile and said:
‘Why did you miss our appointment? Were you busy? Or is this the way all women are?’
The words ‘all women’ rang in her ear.
‘I am not like all women!’ she retorted.
‘I know you’re not like all women,’ he said apologetically. ‘I know that very well, maybe only too well!’
She opened her mouth to ask him how he knew, but then closed her lips. A long period of silence passed, then she found herself saying:
‘What was the matter of importance?’
Sitting down, he said:
‘Yesterday, I ran into the undersecretary of the chemistry ministry at a supper party. He’s been a friend for many years and I remembered that you work at the chemistry ministry so I mentioned you to him.’
‘He doesn’t know me,’ she said. Smiling, he said:
‘He knows you very well. He described you to me in detail.’
‘That’s strange,’ she exclaimed.
‘It would be strange if he didn’t know you!’ he said.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Because he’s a man who appreciates beauty!’
She glowered at him angrily and said:
‘Is that the important matter?’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘only when I asked him about you, he told me that you were an excellent employee and have excellent reports.’
She smiled sceptically and he said:
‘When he talked about you so enthusiastically, I had an idea. I need a chemical researcher in the Board.’ ‘What do you mean?’ she said.
‘I mean that I can transfer you to my place, in the Board.’
‘To your place?’
‘There won’t be as much work as in the Ministry,’ he went on. ‘In fact, you won’t have to do anything at all. The Board doesn’t have a chemical laboratory.’
She looked at him in astonishment and said:
‘Then why should I go?’
He smiled. ‘To be in my office.’
She jumped to her feet, her head reeling. She glared steadily into his fish-flickering eyes and said:
‘I’m not like that, Mr Saati! I want to work! I want to carry out chemical research! I’d give my life in order to work as a researcher!’
She fell silent for a moment, swallowed hard and then said:
‘I hate the Ministry! Loathe it, because I do nothing there. I don’t know how my reports can be excellent since I haven’t done anything for six years! I won’t go to the Board. I won’t go to the Ministry. I’ll hand in my notice and devote myself exclusively to my laboratory.’
His eyes clouded and he looked down. There was a long silence. Fouada got up, went over to the window then came back and sat on the edge of the chair as if about to get up again. He gazed at her fixedly from behind his thick glasses, a small muscle twitching under his right eye.
‘I don’t understand you at these moments when you are angry,’ he said softly. ‘Your eyes are full of buried sadness. Deep inside you there’s a pain, I don’t know why. You’re too young to be so bitter, but it seems you’ve gone through harsh experiences in your life. But, Fouada, life shouldn’t be so serious. Why don’t you take life as it comes.’
He went over to where she was sitting and, feeling his soft, fat hand on her shoulder, she jumped to her feet and walked over to the window. He followed her, saying:
‘Why waste your youth with such cares. Look,’ he said, pointing to the streets, ‘look how young people like you enjoy life, while you, you are here in your laboratory submerged in analytical work and research. What is it you’re searching for? What is it you want that can’t be found in that world down there?’
She looked down at the street. The lights, the people, the cars glittered and rippled with an animated, living movement, but the movement was far away from her, separate from her, like a moving picture on a cinema screen, describing a life other than hers, a story other than hers, characters other than hers. She was alone, isolated, constricted within a circle that often threatened to crush her body.
As if from far away she heard Saati’s voice.
‘You seem tired,’ he was saying. ‘Take off that white overall and let’s go out for some air.’
‘I’ve got a meeting tonight at the policy council,’ he continued, looking at his watch, ‘but I won’t go. These policy meetings are very boring. So much talk and the same talk every time.’
She suddenly remembered the many newspaper articles and pictures of him.
‘Apparently you have extensive political activity.’
‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.
‘I seem to have read a lot about it.’
He laughed briefly, his thick glasses reflecting the light, and said:
‘Do you believe what you read in the newspapers? I thought that people no longer believe anything that’s written. They simply read the papers out of habit, that’s all. Do you read the papers every day?’
‘I read them and don’t read them,’ she replied.
He smiled, his teeth showing as yellow as ever.
‘What do you really read?’ he asked.
Sighing, she replied:
‘Chemistry.’
‘You talk about chemistry as though you were talking about a man you love. Have you ever been in love?’
As if cold water had been dashed in her face, she recollected that she was standing at the window with Saati beside her, the laboratory empty and silent. She looked at the clock. It was eleven. How had that happened? Hadn’t she tried to leave the laboratory before he came? Then she remembered the incident with the man and the woman. But couldn’t she have left the laboratory immediately after? She glanced at Saati. His portly body was leaning against the window supported by legs that were thin, like those of a large bird. His eyes – now like a frog’s, she thought – darted behind the thick glasses. It seemed to her that before her was a strange type of unknown terrestrial reptile – that might be dangerous. She looked around in consternation and, taking off her white overall, went towards the door, saying:
‘I’ve got to go home immediately.’
He looked surprised, then said:
‘We were talking quietly. What happened? Did my question upset you?’
‘No, no
,’ she said. ‘Nothing upset me, but my mother’s alone at home and I’ve got to get back immediately.’
Walking with her to the door, he said:
‘I can give you a lift in my car.’
She opened the door saying:
‘Thank you, but I’ll take the bus.’
‘The bus? At this time of night? Impossible!’
They went down to the ground floor. He walked ahead of her to the long, blue car and opened the door for her. She saw the caretaker leap to his feet respectfully. She hesitated for a moment, wanting to run away, but unable to. The car door was open and the two men were waiting for her to get in. She got in and Saati closed the door. Then he hurried to the other side of the car, opened the door, got in and started the engine.
The street was practically deserted except for a few people and cars. The air was cold and damp. She saw a man standing in front of a cigarette kiosk. Trembling suddenly, she was about to shout ‘Farid!’ when the man turned and she caught sight of his face. It was not Farid. She shrank into her coat, shivering with sudden cold. Saati glanced at her and said:
‘Someone you know?’
‘No,’ she said faintly.
‘Where do you live?’ he asked.
‘In Doqi…’ she replied and gave him the street and house number.
The car crossed Qasr al-Nil Bridge. She saw the Cairo Tower standing erect in the dark like some huge alien creature, its flickering red eyes spinning round and round in its head. Watching the flickering balls circling around she felt dizzy and saw a double tower, with two revolving heads. She rubbed her eyes and the second tower vanished, leaving only one with one spinning head. Then the second one reappeared. Again she rubbed her eyes to make it disappear, but it remained. From the corner of her eye, she glanced at Saati and saw him with two heads. She trembled and hid her face in her hands.
‘You’re tired,’ she heard his voice say.
Raising her head, she replied:
‘I have a headache.’
She looked out of the window. The darkness was intense and all she could see now was a mass of blackness. Suddenly, there came into her mind something she had read about a man who used to chase women, take them to a dark and remote place and murder them. She glanced furtively at Saati – his bulging eyes fixed ahead, his thick and fleshy neck resting on the back of the seat, his thin, pointed knees … When he turned towards her, she looked out of the window. The houses were dark and shuttered. No light appeared in the windows, nobody walked in the street.
Why had she got into the car with him? Who was he? She didn’t know him, knew nothing about him. Was she awake or having a bad dream? She dug her nails into her thighs to make sure she was there.
The car seemed to have stopped. She trembled and edged over to the door. She heard Saati’s voice say:
‘Is this the house?’
Looking out of the window, she saw her house and exclaimed in relief:
‘Yes, that’s it!’
She opened the car door and jumped out. He also got out and walked to the front door with her. The staircase was dark.
‘You’re tired,’ he said to her, ‘and the stairs are dark. Shall I see you to the door of your apartment?’
‘No, no, thank you,’ she replied quickly. ‘I’ll go up by myself.’
He held out a podgy hand, saying:
‘Shall I see you tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know, don’t know,’ she replied agitated. ‘I might not go out tomorrow.’
His eyes glinted in the dark and he said:
‘You’re tired. I’ll phone you tomorrow.’ Smiling, he went on:
‘Don’t wear yourself out with chemical research!’
She climbed the stairs, her legs quaking, imagining that he was coming up after her. Many crimes happened on darkened staircases. She reached the door of the apartment panting, took out her key, her fingers shaking as she searched for the keyhole. She opened the door, went in and quickly closed it behind her. She heard her mother’s regular breathing and felt calmer, but she still shivered with cold. She put on some thick woollen clothes and tucked herself into bed, her teeth chattering. Then she closed her eyes and lost consciousness.
* * *
In the morning, she awoke to hear her mother’s voice saying something but what it was she didn’t know. She saw her mother’s eyes looking down at her anxiously and tried to lift her head from the pillow … it was too heavy … inside it something solid pressed and crushed against the bones of her skull, reverberating, like the sound of a machine, of clanging metal. She looked around the room, saw the wardrobe, the window, the clothes-stand, and the telephone on the shelf. She opened her mouth to speak but was silenced by a sharp pain in her throat. Her mother’s lined face drew closer and she heard her say:
‘Do you want the telephone?’
She shook her head.
‘No, no,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Take it away, into the living room. I don’t want it here.’
Her mother picked up the phone and held it to her chest as if it were a dead, black cat. Fouada heard her go into the living room, then return.
She buried her head under the covers, hearing her mother say:
‘I heard you coughing in the night. Have you caught a cold?’
From under the covers, she replied:
‘It seems like it, Mama.’
She moved her parched tongue in her mouth and felt a bitter taste slip down into her stomach. She wanted to spit it out and pulled a handkerchief from under the pillow, coughed and tried to clear her blocked nose. Something hard, like a pebble, scratched her throat; she sneezed and coughed but the pebble would not be dislodged. With each breath, it settled further down inside her chest.
Her mother said something and she replied ‘yes’ without knowing what it was and heard the feet shuffle out of the room. She made a small gap between the bed and the covers to let in air, but that let in a narrow shaft of light as well and she saw her hand under her head, a watch around the wrist. She glimpsed the figure the small hand pointed to and remembered the Ministry. She closed up the gap and night returned.
Yes, let the night return and stay. Let the light around her dim and let there never be day. What use was day, that endless cycle from home to the Ministry, from the Ministry to the laboratory and from the laboratory to home? What was the point of it all? What was the point of going around in circles? Of moving the muscles of the arms and legs? Of activating the digestion and blood circulation? She remembered Saati saying: ‘What are you searching for? What is it you want that can’t be found in this world?’ She didn’t want anything from this world, wanted nothing from it, not even money. What would she do with it anyway? What did a woman do with money in this world? Buy expensive dresses? But of what use were expensive dresses? She didn’t remember one of her dresses, didn’t remember Farid looking even once at them. She had never felt that her clothes had a value except to cover parts of her body.
And what beside dresses? What did a woman do with money in this world other than buy dresses? Buy jewellery and face powder? That white powder with which women cover their faces, to hide those blood vessels that run through living skin? What is left of living skin after its blood colour is blotted out? Only dull, dead skin, chalky white, etiolated.
What else besides powder and dresses and jewels? What did a woman want from the world? Going to the cinema? Visiting women friends? Gossip and jealousy and the pursuit of marriage?
But she didn’t want any of these. She didn’t buy make-up, didn’t go to the cinema, had no women friends and did not pursue marriage. So what was she seeking?
She pressed her head into the pillow and clenched her teeth in frustration. What do I want? What do I want? Why don’t I want those things that other women want? Aren’t I a woman like them?
Lifting the cover from her face a little she saw her slender fingers and nails, just like her mother’s. She touched her skin and body, the skin and body of her mother. She really was a woman, so why
didn’t she want what other women wanted. Why?
Yes, why, why? She didn’t know. Was chemistry the reason? But was she the only woman to have studied chemistry? Was Madame Curie the reason? But was she the only woman to have heard of Madame Curie? Was it the chemistry teacher? But where was the chemistry teacher? She knew nothing about her, had heard nothing of her since leaving school. Did her life depend on a word spoken by some obscure woman? Was it her mother? But did her mother know anything about the wide world outside the four walls of the house? Was it Farid? But where was Farid? Who was he? She didn’t know anyone who knew him, didn’t know where he was, didn’t know even if he had ever really existed. Maybe he was an illusion, a dream? He was absent and as long as he was absent, how could she distinguish dream from reality? If he had only left a note in his handwriting she could have been sure. Yes, with a piece of paper, she would have known, whilst with her head, arms and legs she could know nothing. Neither her body nor her head could know anything. Everything inside her head had been reduced to a meaningless, muffled clangour. Everything inside her had been catalysed into a dull, continuous hum, like that perceived when everything is silent.
Yes, there was complete silence deep within that body outstretched and incapacitated beneath the covers, silence and only silence. It was incapable of saying anything. The words that came out of its lips were not its own words but simply the random echoes of words heard before; the words of others, words that Farid, her mother, the chemistry teacher had spoken, or words she had read in a book. Yes, it repeated only what it had heard and read and, like a wall, could only voice echoes.
Her body under the covers was heavy and inert – like a stone – she was hot and sweated profusely. A warm, viscous substance poured from her nose. She pulled a handkerchief from under the pillow and blew her nose hard. It dripped like a worn-out tap. She was not a clean, dry wall, but an oozing, dripping wall – with a noxious, involuntary wetness.
She kicked the cover from her body, wanting to kick off her arms, legs and whole body, but it adhered, clung to her, remained attached to her, lying on top of her – an oppressive weight and obscene wetness, like the body of another person, a stranger.
God Dies by the Nile and Other Novels Page 25
