A stranger, with all the strangeness of some person she might encounter in the street, the strangeness of the caretaker, of Saati. She shuddered. Yes, an utter stranger who swallowed food, not knowing what happened to it. Sometimes she heard a noise in her stomach, like the mewing of a cat, as if she didn’t know what was happening there, where all that quantity of food went. Like a mill, it turned and turned and pulverized solid things. There was only that turning and the pulverizing and nothing else. Nothing else.
What else could there be? That illusion which beckoned through the mist? Test tubes from whose mouths a new gas danced? What could a new gas do? A new hydrogen bomb? A rocket with a new nuclear head? What did the world lack? A new means of killing?
Why the killing? Was there nothing else of use? Something to eliminate hunger? Disease? Suffering? Oppression? Exploitation? Yes, yes, here was the wall, echoing words it had heard from Farid. What do you know about hunger? About disease? What do you know about suffering or oppression? What about exploitation? What do you know about them and about that which you talk of to people whilst not even living with people? You look at them from a distance, study their movements and houses as if they were moving images on a blank screen. Have you ever been hungry? Have you ever seen a hungry person? That woman begging on the pavement of the Ministry, a young child in her lap, did you even see her? Did you look into her eyes? Wasn’t it only her sun-beaten back you saw and didn’t you envy her?
Do you know anything of this? Why then persist in this illusion? Don’t you eat and drink and urinate and sleep like others? Why aren’t you like others? Why?
Yes, why, why? Why aren’t you like others, calmly accepting life as it is? Why not take life as it comes? Even these words are not yours. Didn’t you hear this very same question from Saati yesterday in the laboratory? Do you store up all the words inside you? Even Saati’s words? How stupid you are! Can’t you say one word of your own?
Fouada awoke to the sound of her mother’s voice. She saw her standing beside her, holding a glass of tea in her thin, veined hand. She stared at her long, slender, wrinkled fingers. Her own were as long and slender as her mother’s and would become as wrinkled as hers with gnarled joints, like dry twigs. She looked up and saw her lined face, her dry lips parted, the same gap, the same teeth. Let the same lines cover her face too. Let her own legs become incapable of moving quickly, and her feet shuffle like hers.
She reached out weakly and took the glass of tea. Her mother sat on the edge of the bed looking at her. Why was she silent? Why didn’t she say anything? Why didn’t she raise her hand to the sky and repeat her old supplication? But the dream was gone, the illusion lost. She had not given birth to a natural wonder. Who had told her that she would? Why her in particular? Why her womb in particular? Millions of wombs gave birth every day so what had put this illusion in her head? Maybe she had inherited the illusion from her own mother, just as Fouada had inherited it from her. Some woman in the family must have imagined her womb to be different, must have begun it all. Someone had begun it, there always had to be someone.
She heard her mother say:
‘What’s wrong, Fouada? Why don’t you speak?’
Her voice was so sad she wanted to cry, but she held back the tears and opened her mouth to say:
‘I’ve got a bad headache.’
‘Shall I get you an aspirin?’ her mother asked.
‘Yes,’ she nodded.
As her mother went back into the living room the telephone rang. Fouada jumped out of bed, shaking. Was it Saati? She stood in the doorway looking at the phone. Her mother went over to answer it, but she shouted:
‘Don’t answer it, Mama! There’s someone I don’t want to talk to…’
But then, suddenly, she thought it might be Farid and rushed to the telephone. She lifted the receiver and gasped: ‘Hello.’ The oily voice of Saati came to her and she slumped into a chair, flaccid and lifeless.
PART THREE
Fouada left the Ministry and walked alongside the rusty iron railings. Her head was heavy and her heart convulsed, inside it that hard, perpetual lump. She saw the woman sitting on the pavement, holding her child to her chest, empty hand reaching out. The street was noisy and crowded but no one noticed the outstretched arm. One pushed her aside to clear his path, another trod on her in his hurry. She heard the child crying as she passed by and saw that small skeleton with sunken eyes, prominent cheeks and a small pouting mouth trying in vain to suck a piece of brown wrinkled skin that hung from the woman’s chest.
She put her hand in her pocket to take out a piastre, but kept it inside her pocket. She raised her eyes to the street. Long cars followed one after the other, within each a shiny head that reflected the light and a fleshy neck that resembled Saati’s.
She took out the piastre and held it in her hand for a moment. What good was a piastre? Would it clothe the bones of that small skeleton in flesh? Would it cause the milk to flow from that shrivelled flap of skin? She chewed her lips. What could she do? A chemical discovery to eliminate hunger? A new gas for millions to breathe instead of food?
She let the piastre fall from her fingers into the empty open palm. A piastre would do nothing, but let it be a passing charity, to ease her conscience, a trifling price to pay and forget.
Here were Farid’s words again. His voice in her head had a sting. Her eyes searched for his brown, shining ones. There were many eyes around, so why his in particular? When she gazed, close, into his eyes she did not feel the astonishment she felt when looking closely into other eyes, even her mother’s or into her own. When she stared at her eyes in the mirror, their familiar shape disappeared, as if they were the eyes of an unknown animal. But Farid’s eyes had something strange in them, strange yet familiar, that grew more and more familiar and was not at all strange. When the distance between the two of them vanished and they touched, she felt utterly secure.
Was all that an illusion? Had her feelings so betrayed her? If her feelings lied, in what could she believe? Words of ink on paper? An official document with the Ministry seal on it? A certificate printed in duplicate? What could she believe if her feelings lied?
She stopped abruptly to ask: But what are feelings? Could she touch them? Could she see them? Could she smell them? Could she put them in a test tube and analyse them? Feelings, mere feelings, an invisible movement in her head, like illusions, like dreams, like some hidden force. Could her scientific mind believe in such nonsense?
She looked around, confused. Were feelings true or false? Why when she looked into Farid’s eyes did she feel that he was familiar, and when she looked into Saati’s eyes feel that he was a thief? Was that illusion or knowledge? Was it a random movement in the optic nerve or a conscious movement in the brain cells? How could she distinguish between the two? How could she distinguish the mistaken vibration of a pressed nerve from the healthy idea emanating from a brain cell? And how did a brain cell think? How could a small mass of protoplasm think? Where did an idea come from and how did it pass through her cellular tissue? Electrically? A chemical reaction?
She looked up to see what was around her and noticed the building with the white placard bearing her name in black letters. Her heart shrank. Test tubes with open mouths – empty – a tongue of flame burning the air, burning itself, that insistent whistle echoing in her ear when everything fell silent.
Yes, that was the laboratory. But it wasn’t a laboratory any longer. It had become a trap, ensnaring her impotence, ensnaring her ignorance, ensnaring the silence and the nothingness in her head.
She passed the entrance to the building without entering, walked on a few paces, then stopped. Where was she going? Everywhere had become like the laboratory, a trap for impotence, silence and the whistle in her ears. Home and the Ministry, the telephone and the street, everything interlocked, undeviating.
She retraced her steps to the building, to go to her laboratory. There was no way out. The trap opened its jaws and she entered between them. Saati w
ould come in a while. He would surely come, to the laboratory or wherever. He knew her every place: telephone number, house, Ministry and laboratory. He would come in his long blue car, with his bulging eyes and fleshy neck. He would surely come, for why didn’t the earth lose its equilibrium, the test-tube rack shake and the empty tubes fall and break? Why did the earth turn so perfectly? Why was its equilibrium not disturbed, just once?
She had entered the laboratory, put on the white overall and now stood at the window watching the street and observing the cars as if waiting for him, for Saati. And she really was waiting for him. She saw the long blue car pull up in front of the building and Saati get out, with his portly body on thin legs.
As she dragged her feet to the door, she noticed her reflection in the long mirror beside it. Her face was thinner and longer, her eyes dulled and sunken into their sockets, the gape of her mouth even wider, her teeth even more prominent, just like her mother’s.
She closed her lips to hide her teeth, clamping her jaws together to crush her teeth, or something else, between them. There must be something to crush. She ground her teeth making a metallic sound. When the doorbell rang, she made a sharp gesture with her fist and said: ‘I won’t open it…’ and held herself quite still, inanimate. Again the bell rang; her breath quickened into a rapid panting. Then, quivering, she opened the door.
* * *
He was carrying a small packet in his cushiony hand. His upper lip lifted, revealing the large, yellow teeth, and his prominent eyes quivered behind the thick glasses.
‘A small present,’ he said, putting the package on the table and sitting down.
She remained standing, staring at the thin green ribbon tied around the packet.
‘Open it,’ she heard him say hoarsely.
He was giving her an order, had taken upon himself the right to give her orders, had paid the price of this right and had the right to use it. She looked at his eyes. They were quieter, as if he had begun to gather confidence in himself. He was giving her something, having paid a price for her, and was now able to buy something from her, anything, even the right to order her to open the packet. She remained on her feet, unmoving.
He got up and opened the package himself. He came over to where she stood, held out a box to her and said:
‘What do you think of this?’
She saw something glittering against red velvet.
‘I don’t understand about these things,’ she said distractedly.
He stared at her in surprise and said:
‘That’s a genuine diamond.’
He brought his face close to her and she saw his fish-like eyes, covered by a dark membrane that hid the natural sparkle.
He had perhaps paid a great deal of money, perhaps a hundred pounds or more, but what was it worth to her?
She had no use for such things, didn’t wear rings or bracelets or necklaces. If even the skin that enclosed her body irritated her, how could she wrap other cords around her limbs? If she was aware of the weight of her own muscles and bones, how could she weigh down her limbs with metallic chains, of whatever kind?
He came closer still, repeating:
‘The stone’s a genuine diamond.’
She smiled in silence. He would never understand. To her a genuine diamond was useless. What was the difference between it and a piece of tin or glass? Does the earth make a distinction between things?
That familiar quivering had returned to his eyes.
‘What gift would please you?’ he muttered in a defeated voice.
She didn’t know how to respond. What presents did Farid give her? Did Farid even buy her presents? She didn’t remember him buying her anything. There was nothing that could be bought. What could he buy? His words? The tone of his voice? The light in his eyes? The warmth of his breath and the sweetness of his lips?
Saati put a soft, plump hand on her shoulder saying:
‘What can I give you to make you happy?’
The muscles of her shoulder contracted to shrug off the weight of his hand. She turned around. What could he give her? Could he give her the elusive contents of the test tube? Could he give her that lost idea? Could he stop that uninterrupted and meaningless high-pitched humming in her head? Would she lift the receiver one day, the ringing stop and the voice of one for whom she searched reach her?
She looked at him. He was putting the box into his pocket with unsteady fingers. There was nothing he could do; what could she tell him? She took a few steps, head lowered, then said in a constricted voice:
‘Let’s go out. I’m nearly choking.’
* * *
The long blue car took them through the streets of Cairo. They remained silent until the car emerged into the countryside near the Pyramids, then she heard him say, almost brusquely:
‘There’s a secret in your life I don’t understand. Why don’t you open your heart to me?’
She glanced at him briefly, then fixed her eyes on the expanse of desert and said:
‘I don’t know if my life has a secret or a meaning. I just eat and sleep like any animal and do nothing useful for anyone.’
He half-sighed, half-grunted.
‘Are you still at that stage?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I went through that stage twenty years ago,’ he said. He was silent for a moment, then went on:
‘But I found out that real life is something else.’
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
Grimacing, he replied:
‘Lofty principles always brought me into conflict with real life. They called me a non-conformist.’
‘Who are they?’ she asked.
‘My colleagues at university.’
‘Did you go to university?’
‘I was a teacher with principles.’
‘And then what happened?’ she asked.
He laughed briefly, then said:
‘Then I conformed.’
He turned to her, his eyes steady for a moment, and said:
‘There was no other way.’
‘Did you write any papers when you were at university?’ she asked.
‘I did seventy-three.’
‘Seventy-three?’ she exclaimed. ‘How? That’s impossible!’
Biting his lip, he replied:
‘It was very simple. I only put my name to them.’
‘And the real researcher?’ she asked in dismay.
‘He was a young man still trying to make it,’ he said.
‘But,’ she shouted, ‘didn’t you do even one in-depth study of your own?’
‘Impossible,’ he said simply. ‘Undertaking any real research takes a lifetime and ruins the chances for real life.’
She fell silent for a moment, grave-faced, saying to herself: ‘Just as I thought the first time I saw him! The eyes of a thief! He stole seventy-three studies!’
‘And then what?’ she said.
‘Then I became a great professor,’ he laughed.
‘And then?’
‘A person’s ambitions are limitless,’ he said smiling. ‘Then I went into politics.’
‘And what do you know about politics?’ she said.
‘Everything. It’s enough to befriend this or that one and to repeat slogans in an educated accent.’
She looked at the fleshy neck in disgust and said:
‘And do you respect yourself now?’
‘How does one respect oneself, Fouada?’ he said in the same tone. ‘Self-respect doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It comes from the respect of others. And I, I am the head of the Supreme Board for Building and Construction, head of the political council. The newspapers write about me. I talk on the radio and television and give advice to people. The whole world respects me so how can I not respect myself!’
He pulled the car up by the side of the road and looking at her, said:
‘Believe me, Fouada, I respect myself, but even more than that, I believe the lies I repeat in front of people. I hav
e grown to believe them from repeating them out loud so often and so convincingly. What is a person, Fouada? What is a person if not a collection of feelings? And what are feelings if not the accumulation of life’s experiences? Should I ignore all these experiences and inhabit a realm of principles and theories which cannot be applied to the real world? Should I, for example, do as Hassanain Effendi did?’
He fell silent for a moment as if reviving old memories, then continued:
‘Hassanain Effendi was a colleague of mine at university. He believed that he had a new idea in his head and began a scientific study. He would buy test tubes out of his meagre wages, went all over to gather equipment, and then what happened?’
‘What did happen?’ she asked in concern.
He sucked his lips and said:
‘His colleagues got in before him and registered superficial studies in order to get promotion while the senior professors were enraged with him for refusing to sell his name to anyone. Then they dismissed him on a trumped-up charge.’
‘Impossible!’ she exclaimed, shaking her head.
‘I ran into him in the street a few months ago,’ he said quietly. ‘He stared ahead, looking dazed, and didn’t recognize me. He was smiling, showing his yellow teeth, and his toes stuck out of his shoes. It was all very painful. Does anyone respect Hassanain Effendi?’
‘I respect him,’ she shouted.
‘And who are you?’ he said very softly.
‘Me? Me?’ she said angrily.
She felt her voice fading and that she was choking. She opened the car door and walked out into the desert. Saati got out after her and she heard him say:
‘The truth is bitter, Fouada, but you must know it. I could lie to you, nothing would be easier. I’m used to it and practised at it, but I love you, Fouada, and want to spare you confusion and distress.’
He took her delicate, slender hand in his soft, fleshy one and whispered:
‘I love you!’
She pulled her hand away and shouted angrily:
‘Leave me alone! I don’t want to hear a word!’
He left her and went back to the car. She walked alone in the desert and the humming began in her ear. Yes, let the humming go on. Silence was better than that sound. Let the meaningless, uninterrupted clamour fill her head, for it was better than those words. And you, Farid, you continue to be absent. What would you do if you were here? What would you do? What does a drop in the ocean do? What can a drop in the ocean do?
God Dies by the Nile and Other Novels Page 26
