Days had passed, never to return, when he had listened to the sound of the piano with her beside him, teaching him how to play, holding his hand in her delicate one. He had taught her to sing. She had listened, watching him with admiration while he sang:
Your figure is amir of the boughs
Without any rival,
The rose of your cheeks is sultan
Over the flowers;
Love is all sorrows,
O Heart, beware,
Rejection and separation are
The reward of the daring.
The specter of those days appeared before the youth. He paused as a fit of weeping overcame him. Then he said to himself, erupting in his solitude:
Love is all sorrows,
O Heart, beware,
Rejection and separation are
The reward of the daring.
Yes . . . he used to smile when he taught her that, during those happy days that had ended. He had smiled because he thought the song was just a song and that the warning and admonition it contained were merely words. How could he have known that everything that had happened would be over so quickly and that all this was waiting for him?
O Heart, you loved and came to regret;
You began to complain of what you endured;
No one would have mercy on you.
The song said this too.
Yes, “You began to complain of what you endured!” He was deprived even of a chance to complain. Would she come close enough to hear a lament now? No. Impossible! And he would not allow himself to complain to his comrades. That might provide some relief, but what was the use?
Abduh and Salim frequently kept him company, sensing a bond between their hearts and his. He perceived intuitively Salim’s burning desire to start a conversation with him and to seize some opportunity to talk about that topic, but Muhsin preferred silence. All the same, whenever they noticed a woman in a green dress or heard the sound of a piano or any mention of electric wiring, they all felt a shiver go through them. This was the sole language they found mutually intelligible.
Extraordinarily, Salim changed into another person. Muhsin’s sensitive heart had enough of the sacred fire in it to fill Salim’s heart and also to make up for the deficiencies of Abduh’s heart. Salim was not naturally predisposed to sensitivities like these. His relationship with Saniya did not require all this. Without doubt, if he had been alone in a community like Port Said and the same thing had happened, he wouldn’t have carried on this way. Was it then contagious? Or a question of imagination and suggestion? Is the heart not a frighteningly powerful source? A single powerful heart may suffice to inspire a wide variety of other hearts.
Thus Abduh’s and Salim’s feelings began as admiration and sympathy and ended as a shared participation. The deeper Muhsin penetrated into his pain and the more they shared it with him, the more they both felt elevated above their original stature.
With the passing days, as they lived with Muhsin and his beautiful grief, every evil or hateful feeling in them toward Saniya or Mustafa evaporated. Even stranger than that, Saniya had been transformed in Salim’s eye. He had forgotten the material woman with her seductive body and upturned breasts like two oranges. All he remembered of her now was a spiritual name denoting none other than a Beloved for whose sake they suffered. They were witnesses and elegists for the torment of this young person who had given up so much for the sake of his Beloved.
Yes, when Muhsin remembered now the day he saw the farm laborers at the estate toiling and suffering while they sang for the sake of the harvest—their Beloved—raised high in pile on pile and how they had gathered like worshippers with their scythes, their bare feet and bodies scarred by cold and heat, work and oppression, when he too had thought of his Beloved, a question had shaken him: Would he be able to suffer as much for the sake of his Beloved? Or did he not share the same blood as these laborers?
Muhsin, despite what had happened, was just not able to expunge from his thoughts the letter he had received at the farm and had retained. Not even the truth could destroy the imaginings and fantasies he had constructed for such a long time about that letter. The imagination is at times stronger than reality.
For this reason Muhsin kept getting that letter out when he was alone to read and scrutinize it. He repeated those sentences, which he interpreted very freely as his imagination lent them meanings they had never had. He hadn’t forgotten that Zanuba had said that this letter had been drafted by a public scribe in front of Al-Sayyida courthouse, but all the same he couldn’t bring himself to tear it up. He clung to it and to its familiar phrases as though imagination, through its persistence, had lent it the force of truth, or fantasy had become belief. How can truth defeat belief unless the intellect defeats the heart?
One day Salim surprised Muhsin in his bed when he had carefully removed that letter from its envelope and begun to read it as usual, with slow deliberation, behind the curtain of a lowered mosquito net. Salim couldn’t control himself. He broke his silence and shouted with apprehensive joy, “A letter? A letter from her?”
Muhsin raised his head in surprise. He tried instinctively to hide the letter. The honorary president, Hanafi, was stretched out on his bed near them, seeking relief in sleep from the sorrows he shared voluntarily. When he heard the shout of joy that Salim emitted, after not hearing him say anything for a long time, he felt sure that the hour of mercy and redemption had dawned. He brushed the covers away briskly and sat up in bed. He shouted warmly and zealously, “Tell me the good news, boys.”
Salim at once left the room, searching the house and calling, “Abduh! . . . Oh, Abduh!”
Commotion reigned. If Zanuba had been present, she would have been astonished at this sudden turnabout in the silent residence to which a semblance of life had returned. But she had gone out accompanied by Mabruk for a visit, so she said. Perhaps she had in fact gone visiting, if only to share her latent hatred, which hadn’t cooled, and to publish what she falsely invented about her adversary. Or perhaps she had fibbed and gone with Mabruk to search for the community’s skilled sorcerers.
Abduh was in the living room at the drafting board, working and groaning to keep himself busy. He threw down the pen in distress with another groan of vexed and despairing anger at this state. When he heard Salim call, his expression changed at once and he hurried to see what the news was.
It wasn’t long before Muhsin found himself surrounded by his comrades. They were looking at him expectantly. The smile of hope on their faces touched him.
He couldn’t remain silent this time. The sight of their hope and joy moved him. He put his hand under the pillow and brought out the letter. Yet he hesitated a little and felt embarrassed, for he remembered that the letter dated back some time. They no doubt thought it was new. He would disappoint their hopes. But all the same he wasn’t able to maintain his planned silence and isolation from them after this. He had to share with them this little bit he had left from Saniya. He stretched his hand out to them with the letter. Salim took it and spread it open for Abduh to see. They read it while Muhsin watched the expressions on their faces. At last they returned the letter to him silently. Their hopes were disappointed in a way that disturbed Muhsin. He heard Abduh grumble, “It’s from Zanuba?”
Salim raised his head to look at Muhsin as though he were asking him in amazement what could bring him to read a letter like this.
The youth responded with a muffled voice, his head bowed, “She’s the one who wrote it!”
Salim asked gently in a soft, polite voice, “She who? Saniya?” Muhsin nodded in the affirmative. At that Salim took the letter a second time to reread it, and Abduh began to read it again too, over Salim’s shoulder. Then Muhsin began to point out for them the letter’s important phrases and to explain them. He glossed their hidden meanings in the way he understood them. Salim repeated
these phases and compared them to what Muhsin claimed they meant.
He shook his head and said in a low, despairing voice, “No . . . not at all. That’s not the meaning.”
Poor Muhsin became pale. Abduh nudged Salim with his elbow and quickly said, “That’s the meaning exactly. Read it again and you’ll understand.” Then he turned to Muhsin and said gently, “Haven’t you seen her since you got back from your trip?”
Muhsin replied immediately, “No way!” Then Muhsin remembered that he actually hadn’t gone to her after he returned. He hadn’t seen her at all, even though she had urged him to come quickly. She was awaiting his return with impatience. Here was her letter and her expressions telling how great her anticipation was.
This thought brought him some hope and energy. Yes, he was the one at fault, because he hadn’t gone to her right away. Indeed he had betrayed her trust. It was he who had mistreated her.
His joy increased with this thought. He burst out telling his comrades about it and about his experience with her before the trip, about the handkerchief that he had snatched but that she had awarded him, after drying his tears with it. Here was her handkerchief—still in his possession. He hastily brought out the silk handkerchief for them. Salim took it quickly and waved it at Hanafi, shouting with joy, “If you love the Prophet, pray for him.”
President Hanafi, who was searching for his glasses to see what Salim was displaying, asked, “What’s that?”
Salim held the handkerchief before Hanafi’s eyes and replied, “Her handkerchief! Her handkerchief! We have her handkerchief!”
President Hanafi rose respectfully and said in a grave voice, “Her handkerchief! God is most great!” Then he raised his eyes to the heavens and kissed his hands front and back. He said, “Praise God! A blessing from God! This is enough for us! What better trophy could we want?”
After handing the handkerchief to Abduh to let him have a turn admiring it, Salim added with delight, “She told us to come but we didn’t go.”
Hanafi shouted immediately, “We’re the ones at fault!” Then he pulled his skullcap down to his ears and put his hands on his hips. This honorary president began to dance as he sang, “We’ve got her handkerchief, her handkerchief. Mister, her handkerchief. Beautiful handkerchief, beautiful . . . beautiful!”
Abduh scolded him because he was afraid Hanafi would turn the situation into a comedy with this commotion. But the president in truth did not intend any mockery. It was simply joy that had been suppressed. It seemed that the lengthy silence and melancholy in this house and being obliged to keep pace with his comrades for a time and repress his merry temperament had affected him. When he understood that life in the house had returned to normal, he let himself go. For that reason he wouldn’t stop the hubbub and commotion. Abduh shouted at him again, “Please, that’s enough!”
He stopped singing, approached Abduh, and told him joyfully, “She asked us to come, but we didn’t go.”
At that Salim suddenly advanced on the group. A thought had occurred to him. “Hush . . . listen, all of you! Here’s a suggestion.”
They all looked at him, asking at the same time, “What?”
Salim said slowly, “I suggest that Muhsin should go. What do you think?” They signaled their approval.
Muhsin was watching what was transpiring before him with a smile. He was secretly pleased by the expressions: “We have her handkerchief” and “She told us to come” and so forth. He was touched that the word we had taken the place of I. He was comforted to have his personal property become communal. He had been able to give all of them hope and delight. From that moment, he felt he was responsible for the well-being of these folks and that he was now willing to do anything for their sake. He would never again deny them what was his. He agreed to go to meet Saniya. Perhaps he would achieve some result that would cheer up the folks.
CHAPTER 21
Saniya heard the afternoon call to prayers from the mosque of al-Sayyida while in her room. Since noon she hadn’t slept a wink and hadn’t stopped thinking about the letter she had received from her servant the day before at the dentist’s office. From the moment she saw it in Bakhita’s hand she had sensed who it was from. Her heart had started pounding at once. But she braced herself, took it, and tucked it in her dress. When night came she entered her room and locked the door before opening the letter with bated breath. Her breast rose and fell as she read it to the end. Then she raised the letter to her mouth, unconsciously, to kiss it. Tears flowed down her face to her mouth. She could not say whether she fell asleep or did not sleep at all that night. All she knew was that she was in a state she had never known before. The first thing she did in the morning was to read the letter again. After lunch, here she was once more, alone with her door locked and the letter open before her. She was gazing at its few lines, which had been able to provide her, both day and night, with the most beautiful happiness she had known throughout her life.
The letter was in this simple style:
My Lady:
Excuse my daring. I have been forced to act this way. For about a month the keys of my life have left my hand for that of another person. I no longer remain the only person holding the reins of my affairs. If I dare to write you, it is because I naturally want to know the opinion of that person who is now in charge of my happiness and sorrow, and perhaps my future. I attach importance to your opinion because I do not want to be selfish and because I love you to such a degree I would prefer my own suffering to a marriage that your feelings reject.
Sincerely and respectfully yours,
Mustafa Raji
35 Salama Street
Second Floor
This man must be sincere in what he said, because she too had experienced the same feeling—that her life no longer remained something that belonged to her alone. For her also, another person had gained control over the hours of happiness and the hours of sorrow in life. The amazing thing was that the expressions of this letter were a perfect match for her own feelings, as though it had come to express the feelings preoccupying her. What further indication of the truth of his emotion was needed after that? Couldn’t heart speak to heart, as they say?
She began to murmur with delight, “Yes! Heart speaks to heart.” One thing still troubled her: What was she to do? How was she to act? Should she take a pen and reply? Or, despite her confidence, certainty, conviction, despite her happiness and joy with him, was it correct or appropriate for her as a sheltered and honorable young woman to write to a man, who was in any case not related to her?
She looked at the letter in her hand once more and proceeded to brood about this question, which had preoccupied her since morning. Her glance fell on the expression “I attach importance” to your opinion. Then she raised her eyes to the line before it: “I want to know the opinion of that person who is now in charge of my happiness . . .” and so forth and so on. She bowed her head for a moment. Then, leaving the letter on the chair, she went to the mirror and looked at the reflection of her face, which was rosy to the point of being flushed from her continuous psychological agitation and uninterrupted thoughts. She smiled at herself with happy satisfaction. Then she said in a low voice, as though addressing her reflection with conviction, “Mustafa is waiting for my opinion. Mustafa has a right to know. That is one of his rights.” The logic of the heart won another round. Then something else occurred to her: What if she were able to address him directly? Or at least to waste no time and send him a smile or a look that would constitute a complete answer? He was very close to her. Didn’t he say he lived on the second story of the house next door? She was on the second story too! Yes! What good luck! His small, open balcony was opposite her window. She hadn’t thought of that. What a fool she was!
She left the mirror and hastened to her window, which she opened to gauge how close his balcony was. Yes, it was very close. Only two meters separated them, because her room
was at the end of the house on the side next to the neighbors’. What bliss! She didn’t need the enclosed wooden balcony. There was no need to frequent the piano room and attract her parents’ attention. How blind she was! Why hadn’t she realized before how beautifully located her window was? It was true the wooden balcony looked directly out at the coffeehouse, but what was the coffeehouse to her now? She would gesture to him from her window to go out on his small balcony, where he had not appeared a single time since he came. Then she would be able to converse with him from the privacy of her room during a tranquil night. The two meters between them wasn’t much!
While she was lost in these beautiful thoughts someone knocked. She closed the window quickly and went to open the door. Her maid, Bakhita, informed her that young Muhsin was in the piano room. He had asked first for the senior mistress, but she was in her room performing the afternoon prayer along with other devotions. So he had asked to see the junior mistress.
Saniya, who was a little surprised, muttered, “Muhsin?”
She stood and hesitated for a moment. Then she looked up at Bakhita as though asking her why he had come. Finally she walked with heavy steps to the piano room.
Muhsin was there, sitting on an isolated chair. He had thought about Saniya’s entry a thousand times. He would become pale and blush with her every movement as she drew closer. His heart rose and fell every time he thought of seeing her and uttering the momentous lines he had rehearsed in his head for days before he came today.
Suddenly he sensed the fluttering of her gown at the door. He sprang up, turned white, and stood in confusion, unable to speak. Saniya looked at him from the threshold with a severe, inquisitive glance. But she immediately approached him, as though touched by pity at the way he looked. She put her hand out to him and said in a kindly way, “How are you, Muhsin?”
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