At that he turned to his wife and said fiercely, “Fine . . . and the captain’s letter. Have you forgotten it?”
Poised on the verge of victory, the mother was taken by surprise. She looked at her husband and asked apprehensively, “What letter from the captain?”
Then she remembered she had gone to Zanuba to complain to her about her relative Salim, after her husband had told her about the affair of the letter. So there was no way she could deny it.
She reflected a little. Suddenly her eyes sparkled, for she had found what she should say. “All the calamities have come from Zanuba and her relatives. The first letter as much as the second came from the ill-omened direction of Zanuba. Has any word or hint of information come from any other quarter but Zanuba?
“Since the matter is confined to Zanuba and since Zanuba’s words cannot be trusted, because she is an enemy and relations with her have been severed, what value is there to this anonymous letter, which doubtless is from her? No one but Zanuba would have dared do this.”
This is a summary of what the mother realized and she told her husband, after she briefed him in detail about the relationship with Zanuba and the secret of their quarrel and that she was the one who was looking at the coffeehouse from the balcony whenever she came to visit until Saniya scolded her for that one day. Then Zanuba had gotten angry, sworn and cursed, and departed. And here she was finally having recourse to blaming everything she had done on Saniya.
The mother closed her decisive statement and defense by raising her arms toward the sky. She prayed fervently, “May God show you, Zanuba! May God repay Zanuba for what she has done, for the sake of this awful morning.”
The father calmed down and his expression showed that he was receptive to this argument. He began to say of Zanuba, “My goodness . . . this must be an evil woman!”
The mother added immediately, “Very . . . very. That’s well known! Can our Lord get any angrier at her than he is? Our Lord never condemns anyone unfairly. This woman lacks beauty, wealth, and a sweet tongue. She’s over forty today, and the lady is still a spinster.”
The parents’ discussion of Zanuba lasted for some time. Then the father looked at his daughter. He saw that her eyes were closed. He gently took her hand to feel her pulse. He whispered to her mother to move her to her bed for a little rest. She was in excellent health but had suffered some psychological and physical stress. He punctuated these words by tearing the anonymous letter to shreds, while raining curses on Zanuba, that evil woman who had caused all this.
CHAPTER 18
How amazing! A whole week had passed and no trace had been seen of Saniya on the wooden balcony. What had happened to her? Was she sick? Had she definitely fled and left forever after that one accursed smile?
This was what the despairing Mustafa asked himself in the coffeehouse after persistently watching and waiting for a whole week to no avail. Saniya had actually avoided the balcony throughout this period, but not because she was ill. It was not because she had fled, never to return. It was rather because of what her father had said and the effect of the anonymous letter on her. She did not want to do anything to upset her father’s tranquil retirement or to make this soldier emeritus at the end of his days think that his daughter had not protected his honor.
All this because of a man’s smile?
She reflected on her situation a long time and remembered that this man was not bound to her by any tie. She knew nothing about his heart or character. Indeed, she didn’t know who he was or what he did. He was totally foreign to her. Why should she suffer all this for his sake? What had he done for her? Except that smile. . . . Should an honorable girl be interested in a man like this? She sensed something inside her that she hadn’t been aware of before. She was no longer that frivolous, playful girl who was tempted to flirt and toy with every man she encountered. Nor was she that girl whose nature made claims on her because of her passionate youth—whose developing heart wound her up so she ran every which way, looking at everything, inquisitive, anxious, and unsteady.
No, Saniya now had progressed beyond this stage. She had moved from anxiety to belief, the belief of a woman in life’s purpose. She had grasped intuitively what a woman lives for and how she lives.
Saniya’s education and culture did not exceed that of her classmates who had graduated with her from the same school for girls. Her reading of stories might have helped her further her mental development and her speculations, but belief cannot be acquired from reading alone without experimentation or direct observation. Saniya had read a great deal about honor and virtue, but it was only today that those terms meant anything to her. Her intuition was calling out to her this truth: Virtue in a woman does not mean she should never love. Virtue is for her to love with sublime emotion a man with a sublime heart and character.
But was Mustafa a man of sublime heart and character? This was the question. This was the subject of her present doubts. It caused her to separate herself from a man she was unsure of because all she knew of him was that he had smiled at her.
Thus she really did avoid the balcony. She was busy most of the time pondering and reflecting alone in her room. Crying made her feel better frequently and provided her one form of solace. She wept because she could not answer her doubt-inducing question. She did not want to show herself to him or to employ any stupid and flirtatious stratagems and silly signals. The part of her heart’s truth that she had grasped today raised her above all this and made her think that nothing but isolation and tears matched her noble sentiments.
* * *
• • •
For the third time Mustafa swore that he would forsake the coffeehouse for good, since he had not seen Saniya. And here he was, starting another week. Would he keep his oath or break it like the previous one and postpone the deadline by another week? Yes . . . now the renewal period for deadlines and their extension was changed from hours and days to weeks. But this time he was resolutely determined that today would be his last in the coffeehouse.
Yes, there was to be no hesitation, weakness, or forbearance from now on, because he too had pondered his situation for some time. He had reflected that he was attaching childish importance and phantasmagoric hopes to nothing. What had come over him? What change had occurred in his life? Was just seeing a girl at her window, which she had immediately shut in his face, enough to make him devote all this time and thought to her? Who was she? What link tied him to her? Nothing! He didn’t even know her name. Her feelings toward him were clear. She didn’t look at him at all. She would see in him nothing but an impudent man who was one of the patrons of this sordid coffeehouse. If she had only shown some small sign or a single hint that she was aware of his existence, he could have considered it a tie and link between them. Indeed his knowledge would have amounted to a pact and a covenant. But what could he tell himself now? What could he use to reassure his anxious heart when every link, even that of the air, which he could imagine they both breathed, had been cut off after the wooden balcony was closed? On what then could he pin his hopes? Who could tell him? Perhaps, despite her beauty, she was one of those dull or flighty girls who knew nothing about deep emotion. How was he to know she had a heart and would be able to understand him and what he felt?
These ruminations and doubts brought him to the decision to desert the coffeehouse. Yes . . . he had to flee the coffeehouse, flee it just like that man with the broad shoulders and erect mustache. The image of the man, Salim, came back to him, but this time he felt some affection and pity for him. He imagined he had disappeared in despair after attempting to attract the attention of the goddess of the balcony with all the tricks and stratagems he was able to muster and with everything that his unemancipated mentality thought witty and elegant. Yes, he had been extremely ridiculous, but wasn’t he a victim? Wasn’t he also worthy of compassion? He had loved, anticipated, and hoped . . . then he had failed, become dejected, and had disappeared.
This image helped to reinforce Mustafa’s determination. So he cast a last glance at the darkened balcony, which had not been opened for ten days. He called the waiter decisively, like a person preparing for serious action. He paid, rose, shaking himself off, and looked right and left, deciding which way to go, as though choosing a path of no return, but suddenly that idea occurred to him that always came to him when he rose this way. He went limp. Sweat flowed from his brow. His enthusiasm, drive, and determination seemed a mirage no less preposterous than the mirage he was fleeing. He would leave the coffeehouse. Fine! But to where? Where would he go? To the brothels and whores or the company of those friends who were no less fallen than the fallen women? But he had finally discovered nobility in his heart and uncovered inside himself unsuspected beauty and purity. Or should he go to another of the coffeehouses of Al-Sayyida district in an attempt to pluck this girl from his heart—to remove her from his heart, if that was possible. Fine . . . but what awaited him then, after that, since it was by the light of this woman that he had begun to understand the value of life? What was to be the destiny of his heart, which had been as dead as an antique clock that had stopped? Now it was pounding with life! Should he forget the pleasure of those new sensations this girl had inspired in him when she had shown herself to him? Certainly not! It was impossible for all that to go. How simpleminded he was to assume that by merely getting up or paying the waiter he could end everything. Indeed, why was he thinking of leaving? It was no doubt a revolt based on his disappointed hope—but why had he hoped and why should he be despondent? Why should doubts beset him? It should be enough for him that she had inspired him, even if unintentionally, with those beautiful and noble sentiments that nothing and no one had disclosed to him before. He would remain in the coffeehouse always, not to look at her or watch for her, but to nourish his heart by being near her. The mere thought that he was near her sufficed.
Mustafa returned and sat back down. His soul was relieved by this outcome, although he wondered how it was his habits had taken this poetic turn.
* * *
• • •
Mustafa kept coming to the coffeehouse as usual, not hoping for anything except the grace of God and a happy chance encounter. He saw that the window remained closed and he wasn’t upset or disgruntled. One day when he was having a siesta as usual after lunch he wasn’t able to sleep. So he got up, dressed, and went down to the coffeehouse early to kill some time and drink a cup of coffee. It was three o’clock. The waiter had scarcely brought him the drink and left when Mustafa saw two women coming out of Dr. Hilmi’s house. One of them looked young and svelte in the latest fashion, while the other who followed her was a maid in a black wrap. Mustafa didn’t doubt that she and her servant were coming out. His heart pounded rapidly. Different thoughts about what he ought to do jostled together in his head. He was confused and flustered. How should he act? He saw them walking along the street toward Al-Sayyida Zaynab Square. He began to ask himself apprehensively and anxiously what he should do. He was afraid they would go too far and disappear from sight before he decided. He was afraid too that an opportunity as auspicious as this would rarely return. He had been waiting for weeks for nothing more than a glimpse of her on the balcony. At last, although he had not reached a decision, his emotion alone propelled him. So he found himself leaping from his chair, leaving the drink he had ordered. He shot off after them without realizing what he was doing. The two women reached Al-Sayyida Square and got on the streetcar heading to Al-Ataba al-Khadra by way of Abd al-Aziz Street. Mustafa arrived after them, saw them climb into the section reserved for women, and stood there indecisively, until the conductor blew the whistle and the streetcar began to move. Again it was Mustafa’s heart that decided suddenly. He jumped on the same tram. He didn’t know where he was going, why he had done that, or what the consequences of this act would be. He purchased a ticket for Al-Ataba al-Khadra, although he asked himself: How do I know she’s getting off at Al-Ataba?
Then he dropped this point to brood about her going out at such an hour. Where to? Where was she heading? Was she in the habit of going out at this time every day, while he was sleeping off his lunch in bed? Was it necessary for him to suffer insomnia today in order to learn that? What a blessing insomnia was!
But the important thing was for him to pay very close attention to where they got off so if they did get off before Al-Ataba he wouldn’t miss it like a fool. For this reason Mustafa glued his eyes to the women’s compartment. He looked at nothing but that. When the streetcar reached Abd al-Aziz Street, she and her maid got off. Mustafa hadn’t been expecting that. He had assumed they were heading for Al-Ataba al-Khadra. He didn’t notice they had gotten out until the streetcar had started to move. So he rose as though crazed and took a mighty leap out. He turned around to look for them fretfully and found himself face-to-face with Saniya. He blushed in embarrassment. His heart was throbbing. He stepped back out of their path, which he had blocked with his leap. Saniya was equally self-conscious and blushed as deeply on seeing him confront them suddenly. Her gauzy black veil, however, concealed the tint of her face. She noticed his blush and proceeded on her way, followed by her maid. Mustafa stopped in his tracks, stunned by the shock. He let them go off without being aware of it until they had almost disappeared among the passersby. Then he remembered them and remembered that he wanted to learn where they were going. So he rushed off quickly to search for them. When he caught up, he slowed his pace and trailed them at a distance until he saw them enter a building halfway down the block.
Mustafa stood apprehensively for a moment in front of the door, asking himself what they could want in this building and whether he ought to follow them in. His eyes fell on the assorted brass plaques by the door of the building. They announced a doctor, an attorney, and a merchant. Without further hesitation he plunged through the door and bounded up the steps after them. He found them in front of a suite on the third floor. The maid was ringing an electric buzzer. The door opened right away, and the two women entered. Mustafa saw the door about to close behind them. He hastened to it and shoved it with his hand to keep it from shutting. He went in with his heart pounding . . . perhaps because of his rapid climb and leap. He cast his eyes around the place. He was in a doctor’s office. He deduced this from the male nurse who opened the door and led the ladies to a women’s waiting room. Overcome by vexation and sorrow, Mustafa watched them enter that room set aside for them. The nurse returned to lead him to the men’s waiting room. He followed without thinking.
Mustafa shortly found himself among several waiting men, some in modern dress, others in traditional attire. He took his seat politely after greeting everyone. He too began to wait quietly.
But what was he waiting for? It was only at this moment that Mustafa became aware of his situation. Why was he here in this room? He wasn’t ill. What was he to do when his turn came now and he was shown in to the doctor? Moreover, what kind of doctor was this in whose clinic he was waiting? He didn’t even know if he was in internal medicine, a surgeon, an ophthalmologist, or a specialist in ears and throat. He turned with anxious confusion right and left. Should he ask those around him about the specialty of this doctor? But his question would shock them. They would be amazed at this sick man who came not knowing what kind of doctor it was. He preferred to keep still. Perhaps between now and his appearance before the doctor God would grant him relief. Or when he entered the doctor’s office and saw the type of tools and instruments there, his specialty might become clear. For that reason there was no harm in waiting.
But he remembered something else: He hadn’t come here to see the doctor! Who cared about his office with its instruments and equipment? Where were she and her maid? Where were the two women? He suddenly rose to his feet in a way that attracted the stares of the sick men waiting there, but he paid no heed and went to the door and out into the hall. He looked around and saw where the women’s waiting room was. Its door was open.
He went that way and passed by the door quickly. Then he came back and stood by the door for a moment, looking over the faces as though he had a relative or in-law he was seeking among those present. Suddenly his eyes fell on those of Saniya. She was looking at him, but she lowered her black eyes to the floor at once with becoming modesty. Mustafa quickly fell back and returned to his place in the room for men. The blood had risen to his face. He bowed his head, staggered by the impact of that look.
There was no doubt that she recognized him, that she was aware of his existence. Otherwise, what was the meaning of this unusual look? Yes, she had begun to pay attention to him; he was sure of that. He felt now that there was indeed a tie between them. Her eyes’ captivating rays, which had plunged into his heart just now, formed a stronger bond than iron chains. He had done the right thing by following her today. He would always follow her wherever she went. But was it possible this was her first visit here, or had she frequented it for some time unbeknownst to him? Was she ill, then? The poor dear . . . and with what malady, do you suppose? Was she in pain? Could he bear to find out about her pain and not be in pain himself? Impossible! He would feel pain as she did, be sick as she was. It would be sufficient happiness and comfort to him to be sick like her, with her very own illness. Yes, with her own disease! Nothing else . . . If only he knew what her illness was! That was the problem. But the matter was simple. All he had to learn was what kind of doctor’s clinic this was.
While he was in the midst of these thoughts and emotions, a patient entered who had a handkerchief over his jaw and the lower part of his swollen cheek. When Mustafa saw him, he grasped the doctor’s line of work. God had spared him the trouble of asking. He was in a dentist’s office. Praise God, he had turned out to be a dentist. Mustafa’s mind was at ease about her now, and about himself. Teeth? Everyone requires dental care. Some people who can afford it and have a delicate constitution keep a dentist on retainer to look after their teeth. What a happy opportunity it would be if he could always see her at the clinic. Why shouldn’t he get his teeth treated too? He put a finger in his mouth at once to search and explore. Perhaps he would come upon a tooth or molar needing a filling. All he could find was a wisdom tooth that hurt him a little—according to his claim now—whenever he ate or drank something cold.
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