She picked up her dress at once and showed it to Saniya, saying, “Here, sister, in all its splendor, is my new dress. Look at the fabric—first quality crepe de chine. But it’s not like your fabric. What could I do? I asked at Palacci, al-Mawardi, and al-Jamal. Sister, I kept looking until my knees gave out. But I came back saying: It will do as well. Don’t imagine it was cheap. The same price, sister, by your life. My dear, ask . . .”
Then she turned to Muhsin, “Is my dress going to turn out like this?”
The boy’s face became as red and hot as fire. He replied enthusiastically in a quavery voice, “It is really outstanding!”
Zanuba turned to Saniya and lightly rapped her soft arm, saying, “See how your dress pleases him, Susu?”
The beautiful girl raised her head and looked at Muhsin demurely. He lowered his eyes and mumbled his confirmation: “Really.” Then his hand groped for his book while he avoided looking at Saniya.
The girl noticed his confusion and concealed a little smile. Then she turned her black eyes, which resembled a gazelle’s with long black lashes, to the book in Muhsin’s hand. She asked with modesty that was not innocent of coquetry and enchantment, “Is that a novel?”
Without looking at her, Muhsin answered as he pointed with a trembling finger at the title of the book, “No, it’s the diwan of Mihyar al-Daylami.”
Saniya asked in her delicate voice, “Do you love poetry?”
Muhsin hesitated a moment. Then he raised his head suddenly like someone determined to be a little more courageous and replied, blushing but smiling, “Yes . . . how about you?”
She answered, “I actually prefer stories. All the same I love some of the verses and lyrics I sing at the piano.”
As soon as Zanuba heard the word sing, she put her dress in her lap and turned excitedly to Saniya. She said enthusiastically, “Muhsin, too, sister . . . don’t you know he sings? This fellow has quite a voice, Miss Saniya. Haven’t I told you that when he was young—may the name of God protect him—he used to sing with the vocalist Maestra Shakhla‘, in her troupe?”
Saniya was astonished and asked, “Are you kidding or is that for real?” She looked inquisitively at Muhsin.
Muhsin, however, avoided her glance and started to leaf through his book. Then he mumbled, “That was a long time ago.”
Smiling, Saniya asked him pleasantly, “Is it true you were in the troupe?”
He attempted to look at her this time when he answered, “I was an amateur,” but soon lowered his gaze from her engaging black eyes.
Zanuba quickly asked entreatingly, “Muhsin, sing us, ‘Your Figure Is Prince of the Boughs.’”
Beautiful Saniya shouted in amazement, “The famous song of Abduh al-Hamuli? But who can sing that? It’s ancient and terribly difficult.”
Pointing at Muhsin proudly and confidently, Zanuba immediately replied, “He knows it, may the Prophet’s name protect him. Sing, Muhsin!”
The boy blushed. Flustered, he eventually stammered, “I don’t know it now. I’ve forgotten.”
Saniya smiled slyly and artfully. She said, “Perhaps Mr. Muhsin can’t sing it without instruments.”
Muhsin sighed deeply. He said, nodding his agreement vigorously, “Right . . . true exactly!”
But Zanuba looked at him out of the corner of her eye and said, “Liar! You were singing it to me just yesterday downstairs in the hall. Your problem is that you’re embarrassed now.”
Muhsin raised his head, trying to be courageous, and said, “No, not at all. Yesterday I sang because you accompanied me on the soup dish, like a tambourine.”
Saniya burst out laughing so hard her mouth opened wide, revealing regular teeth like inlaid precious stones. At first Muhsin didn’t understand why she was laughing; his last words had been straightforward and unadorned. He turned toward her cautiously, modestly, and politely. As soon as he realized that he had succeeded in making her laugh, he blushed. After that he felt proud—as though his heart was being caressed by the delicate, invisible fingers of a novel happiness. He had never experienced anything like this before. Saniya rose, smiling, and proposed seriously. “Fine, what if there’s a piano instead of the tambourine?”
Zanuba cried out: “The Prophet’s light upon you! But do you think your mother would object?”
Phrasing her words coquettishly Saniya replied, “To the contrary, Mama loves the songs of Abduh al-Hamuli, because when she was young she heard him a lot, when he was still living.”
Zanuba turned toward Muhsin as she too rose, saying, “Come with us then, Muhsin.”
Although the boy’s reaction to this invitation was indescribable, heartfelt happiness, he hesitated in embarrassment. “But . . . just . . .”
While heading for the wall, Saniya said sweetly, “Come, Muhsin Bey! You’ve no right to hold back. I’ve promised to accompany you on the piano . . . parole d’honneur!”
Muhsin’s heart pounded as though he was afraid, but at last he rose and headed for the wall with the two women.
It took only a moment for the three to cross the dividing wall to the neighbors’ roof; that is, the roof of Dr. Hilmi’s residence. From there they went to the door of the steps leading down into the house.
Then they found themselves in a spacious and beautifully furnished hall filled with carpets and sofas covered with brocade. Hung on the walls were stuffed heads of Sudanese gazelles and elephant tusks. A terrifying stuffed crocodile from the Sudan was similarly hanging above the entry.
Muhsin wondered why these Sudanese trophies were in the house but remembered all at once that Saniya’s father, Dr. Ahmad Hilmi, had been a doctor in the Egyptian army and must have spent time in the Sudan like most of the troops. Saniya left her guests in the parlor and hurried to look for her mother, whom she found in her bedroom, where she had spread a small prayer rug and was concluding the afternoon prayer. Saniya waited for her to finish and then approached her to say, “Mama! I’ve brought some guests—Abla Zanuba and . . .” She stopped and hesitated.
Her mother began to arrange the white silk prayer veil around her head after folding the small prayer carpet. She rose, saying cheerfully, “A blessing by God! Welcome to her!”
Saniya quickly added with apparent indifference, “And her nephew, Muhsin.”
Her mother looked at her and asked, “Her nephew?”
Saniya replied resolutely, “Yes, her nephew Muhsin.”
Her mother frowned slightly and said, “That’s really not quite right for her to bring a man here.”
Saniya laughed scornfully. “A man? Is he what you’d call a man? A small boy like this!” Then in a serious tone of voice she added, “Haven’t you heard, Mama? They say his voice is very beautiful. He’s going to sing for you now the songs of Abduh al-Hamuli.”
The mother found the situation too much to deal with. She asked in disbelief, “What are you saying? God’s will be done! He’s to sing for me? A man?”
Saniya replied a bit sternly, “Again you say ‘man’! I told you, ma’am, he’s not a man. He’s like your son or grandson.”
But the mother didn’t want to listen. Turning her back on her daughter, she asked, “Have we come this far? Is this the latest fad too? You’ll drive me out of my mind eventually.”
Saniya didn’t respond. For a moment she remained quiet and looked at her mother with rage. Her mother began talking again. “Fine, daughter. You’re one of today’s generation, marching through the soot of fashion. You won’t even let anyone tell you what a third of three is. And your mother as well—what do you want from her? No! Do me a favor. Leave me as I am. Excuse me as a favor to the Prophet. May our Lord guide you!”
Saniya was upset. She took her mother’s hand, wishing to lead her. She said a bit sharply, “Don’t be silly. I told you he’s a child, a boy. Come see for yourself. Come!”
Her mother hesitated, feelin
g afraid and weak. She protested, “But, daughter . . .”
Saniya at once said forcefully, “No ‘but.’ You make a big deal of it and exaggerate far too much. Come see him first and then talk.”
“Well, daughter, just don’t drag me this way. Do me a favor. You’re always dragging me behind you. You’ll make people laugh at me. This time, by your life, I won’t listen to your words at all.” She attempted to free herself from her daughter’s hand.
But Saniya would not release her. Although she retained her earnest and commanding mien, she said graciously and gently, “No, Mama, you must listen to me, because I know more than you. Come!”
The mother said in despair, “You go. You go by yourself. Why me too? Oh, what a fate is mine! Where has this been lying in wait for me?”
Saniya said in an angry voice while dragging her mother, “You must come with me, Mother! It’s not right at all. I promised. I can’t go back on my word. What will they say? Let’s go then. At once! They’ve been cooling their heels in the parlor forever.”
Looking at her fearfully, her mother said, “All right. Wait. Since you insist, let me put on a veil then.”
The girl lost patience and shouted, “Veil! What a calamity! A veil because of a small boy? You are definitely going to make people laugh at us. Listen, Mama, I beg you. It’s not necessary. Believe me, if it were improper Abla Zanuba would be the first to notice. Won’t you trust Zanuba either? Someone like you, of your generation? She’s the one who brought her nephew to see you. If she thought that scandalous, she wouldn’t do it.”
This final argument seemed to have convinced the mother. All the same she looked quickly at her daughter’s eyes one last time, searching for some sign to convince and reassure her. Then she carefully covered her hair, which was streaked with gray, with the white scarf, attempting to conceal most of her face, and asked, “Where are they?”
Saniya sighed like someone God has finally aided, and led her mother silently to the large parlor. Saniya left her mother and went quickly to Muhsin and Zanuba, who were sitting on a sofa. She said by way of apology to them for the delay and slowness, “Please excuse us. Mama was praying.”
Saniya’s mother came forward at that moment, leaned over to kiss Zanuba’s cheeks, and said, “Welcome, Miss Zanuba! Welcome a hundred thousand times!”
Then she turned to Muhsin and extended her right hand to him in greeting, while with the left hand she tugged at her scarf to hide her face. “An honor, Muhsin Effendi.”
Then in a tone that an inattentive observer would have thought welcoming or complimentary, she added, “This, by God, is a man!”
Muhsin uttered two or three words that could hardly be understood. He kept his head bowed and his eyes on the ground.
Saniya’s mother seemed to show that she welcomed Muhsin by addressing him in an earnest and sedate tone. “Muhsin Effendi, your mother is a fine, princely lady.”
Muhsin raised his head in shame and embarrassment to ask, “Tiza, do you know my mother?”
Zanuba quickly intervened. “Oh, what a shame! So! Didn’t you know, Muhsin? But this goes back quite a time!”
Saniya’s mother agreed. “A very long time ago, God save us. By now she will have forgotten me. It goes back to the days when we were little girls. We were neighbors and grew up in the same area. All of us girls used to play together in front of their house. Your mother was Turkish, from a Turkish family. She was the youngest but was our leader. We feared and minded her. She was the daughter of a Turkish soldier with a blond mustache! Whatever game we played, she was the boss. We called her the queen and the sultan’s daughter. She loved to set herself apart from us. If we wore red for the holiday, she wore green. And if we wore green, she wore red! Woe to us when she got angry! She used to say, ‘Tomorrow, I am going to be extremely rich, and I’ll buy you for my maids and slaves.’ Oh, those days have passed. How sweet they were.”
She stopped talking and looked heavenward, as though yearning for her happy childhood. There was a moment of stillness and quiet that Saniya finally broke. In a merry, cheerful voice she said, “Let’s all go to the piano . . . to the salon . . . away from here.”
She proceeded to lead them to the salon, which had a wooden balcony overlooking Salama Street and Shahhata’s coffeehouse. It was a medium-size room furnished in European style with stuffed armchairs, cushions, electric lamps, and a black piano in a corner opposite the balcony door, which was wide open.
Saniya sprang to the piano with the lightness of a gazelle and, without waiting for them to take a seat, passed her expert fingers over the ivory piano keys, producing a swift sound like the warbling of sparrows. She stopped suddenly and turned toward her guests. Addressing the youth who had taken a seat at the edge of the room, she said, “Why are you sitting so far away, Muhsin Bey?” Pointing to a chair next to her she said, “Please come here.”
Muhsin rose quickly as though pricked by a pin and sped to the chair indicated, like a hypnotized person responding to a command from his hypnotist.
Then Saniya commented with a smile, “Yes, that’s the way. Now you can sing along with me. So show me how this old-time song begins.”
She played a melody with one hand and began to hum it softly. But then she turned vigorously toward her mother and Zanuba, who had not stopped chatting from the moment they entered. She cried at them, “So will you please listen? We’re about to begin.”
Zanuba replied, “Right, begin, may our Lord give you strength. Here we are, ready to listen.” Then she turned to Saniya’s mother, who was beside her, and told her with pride and admiration, “Now you’re going to hear Abduh al-Hamuli!”
The mother was astonished and asked in amazement, “By the Prophet, is that true? Does he, by the name of God, know how to sing Abduh’s songs—young as he is—by heart?”
Saniya motioned to her for silence and then looked at Muhsin. She said, “Let’s go, Muhsin Bey!”
The lad trembled but saw no alternative to obeying. So he rose and moved closer to the piano without knowing what he was doing. Saniya looked at him, her fingers on the keys. She said with an intoxicating smile and look, “I’ve got to tell you the truth, Muhsin Bey. Don’t count on me to get it right.”
Her voice was like music. The boy felt the blood rise to his head and sensed a warm intoxication. He found in himself a drunken courage and said in a tone of mild censure, “Is that what you promised, Miss Saniya? Do you mean, at the last minute, to make fun of me?”
Saniya laughed, revealing a mouth like a magic goblet capable of dizzying heads at a distance even before they take a sip. She answered, “I assure you, I’m not making fun of you. It’s just that the song is hard, and I haven’t studied it yet. You begin first, Muhsin Bey; I beg you.” She straightened herself as a sign to begin. Muhsin hesitated a moment, feeling flustered. Then he opened his mouth and closed it without uttering a word or emitting a sound. Saniya looked at him, inviting him to sing with a look that could not be defied. Then in order to encourage him, she began to play on the piano what she thought was the song’s opening melody.
At that, those present heard a voice emerge and slowly increase, quivering a little at first but becoming more assured and balanced. It spread a warm sweetness through the air of the room with a variegated and tender tune.
Zanuba didn’t pay attention or listen so much as watch the face of Saniya’s mother to gauge from it how the song affected her. When she was assured of her astonishment, amazement, and admiration, she began to nod her head with self-satisfied pride. She gestured toward Muhsin, showing her confidence in his ability and genius.
Saniya’s mother was genuinely amazed by Muhsin’s expertise and mastery and began to listen with unusual attention.
Saniya too was listening to Muhsin with contentment and pleasure. She gazed at the ceiling, smiling tenderly and repeating some of the tune to herself along with him. But she did not
at all grasp that the singer was referring to her and thinking of her when he sang Abduh’s song:
Your figure is prince of the boughs
Without any rival,
The rose of your cheek is sultan
Over the flowers;
Love is all sorrows;
O Heart, beware,
Rejection and separation are
The reward of the daring.
CHAPTER 5
It was evening when Muhsin and Zanuba returned home. No one in the whole world was, or could have been, happier than Muhsin that night.
Like the impact of a shock that is felt only after it occurs, Saniya’s existence dazzled and overwhelmed young Muhsin. He didn’t realize how much happiness had conquered him until he left her. What a beautiful dream! Was what happened this afternoon possible? Although he had been expecting no more than a peek at her, he had seen her and been able to converse with her, after never having spoken with her at all. The only time he had ever seen her before was with his uncles when he had peeked through cracks in the door when she came once to visit Zanuba.
That had been about two months earlier, on a Friday when the folks were a happy, congenial community. Mabruk had come running to them with a twinkle in his eyes and pointed toward Zanuba’s room, saying, “She has guests and one is a lady.”
Then he kissed the tips of his fingers. The folks rose, led by Captain Salim, and hastened to the closed door of Zanuba’s room. There they all bent down by the cracks in the door, pushing each other aside with their shoulders. They were laughing together under their breath, innocently, like happy youngsters. When they looked into the room, they were astonished by a beauty such as they had never seen before. After that, they raced each other to the holes of the door whenever they learned she was visiting Zanuba. That had been Muhsin’s first vision of her when he scampered to that door with the others. He gazed with them in adoration at that image. But now, how did they compare with him? He had just been with her a moment ago. He had spoken with her. He had sat beside her and had possibly gained her admiration. He would be seeing her frequently, very frequently, because she had asked him to teach her to sing according to the principles of the art. Her mother had agreed and consented to that. Was it possible for all this to happen between the afternoon and evening prayers? What happiness and what a miracle!
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