Butterfly Wings: An Egyptian Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) (10 page)

Ayman had no objection in principle to supporting the students of the Faculty of Engineering. Plus, the University of Cairo was on the way to Hassan’s house in Dar al-Salaam.

On the way from the college via Galaa Street and the Metro, Hassan said to Ayman, “You haven’t come to a demonstration with us before. Don’t you know what’s going on in Gaza, Iraq, and Sudan? Don’t you know what’s going on in Egypt?”

“What do you mean by ‘what’s going on in Egypt’?” asked Ayman.

“I mean soaring prices, corruption, government neglect of the people’s problems.”

Ayman was quiet a moment, then said, “To be honest, Hassan, my own problem keeps me awake and I don’t have the strength to focus on anything else. I can’t even study. I want to know who I am. I want to know my roots. I want to find my mother. Don’t compare yourself to me. You’re—

“I’m also looking for my mother, Ayman,” interrupted Hassan. “The mother of us all. Just like you know your mother’s name, I also know her name. I follow her news in the papers and read about her in books. But I look for her around me, and I can’t find her. You’re searching to fulfill yourself just like I’m searching to fulfill myself. The whole country is searching for fulfillment.”

They reached the Faculty of Engineering, where they met up with their classmates from college. Hala Abdel Shahid, Hassan’s girlfriend, was there too. She told them that the sit-in had been called off and that the students were not being allowed onto the main steps of the faculty building. The entrance was heaving with students shouting slogans against the university guards who had forced them off the steps. They were demanding that the security keep out of student affairs.

Suddenly, a tall man with a black beard and thick moustache appeared. The students crowded around him. It was Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni, a professor in the department and a well-known political activist. He addressed the students: “What the university
administration has done is unacceptable, and also illegal. You are in the right, and the university administration, in complicity with the security forces, is in the wrong. If you want to express your views, you have the right to do so. You have been prevented from entering the university, so hold your protest here in the street and I will be the first to join in. The protest will be symbolic and last for one hour, so we do not block the road for too long. This protest will send a message to those responsible, in the hope that they understand before the situation worsens.”

The students voiced their support for Dr. Ashraf, who continued, “Our protest will be attacked in some way or another, but I ask you to show restraint and remain calm.”

The massed ranks of the students standing hand in hand was a sight to see. Ayman, Hassan, Hala, and their classmates from the community college stood with them.

Ayman felt good about what he was doing. It was a totally new experience for him. He forgot his problem and joined in with the other protestors.

Once the protest was over, Ayman headed off again with Hassan to the Metro. Ayman started thinking again about what was in store for him at Hagga Hikmet’s house. There seemed to be more stations on the line than usual, and the stops seemed interminable.

Ayman asked Hassan again, “Just tell me, did the Hagga find my mother’s name among the living or on a death certificate?”

“I don’t know,” his friend replied. “Whatever the case, in two more stops we’ll be home. Then you’ll know for sure. My mother just told me to tell you that she had found your mother’s name and that I should ask you over so she could tell you the details.”

The time it took to leave the Metro and walk the short distance to Hassan’s house seemed an eternity to Ayman.
Together they went up the stairs to the apartment. With every step, Ayman’s heart beat faster.

Hagga Hikmet opened the door and embraced Ayman in welcome, as though she had not seen him for some time. She immediately laid out the food for them and came in again a few minutes later with tea. While Hassan’s mother was putting sugar in his tea, Ayman was about to say, “I don’t want tea or sugar. I want the truth I’ve lost,” when she said, “Okay, my dear, what you lost I’ve found for you. I’ve found your mother’s name. She’s alive and living in Tanta. I’ve got you her address as recorded on her ID card.”

The glass of tea was shaking in Ayman’s hand. His eyes glistened with tears and he felt a lump in his throat that prevented him speaking. He put the tea down on the table to avoid spilling it, and she continued, “Her full name is Amna Abdel Rahim Ahmad al-Saadi and she lives at 9 Saqa Lane off Sayyid al-Bedawi Street. There is one thing you ought to know. She’s married and her husband’s name is—”

“Her husband’s name doesn’t matter,” interrupted Ayman, about to stand up. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Sit down a bit longer, my dear. You haven’t drunk your tea. Where are you going to go?”

He kissed her and his friend Hassan as he said, “I’m going to see my mother.”

15 The Decision

T
he big day had finally come. The day Doha had long anticipated. The day she would show her designs at the famous Milan Fashion Week. The day that would open the door to international recognition by the major fashion houses.

The first two days in Milan she was busy preparing her show. From the organizers, she had to find out when her turn would be and what was required. She also had to supervise the fitting of her clothes to the Italian models who would be wearing them. She did not sleep. Such fashion shows demanded superhuman effort. Then the audience would finally come and either love it or not. She operated without conscious thought, like a sleepwalker. She had a major task to complete in a short time or else she would be excluded from the show.

She reached the hall on the morning of the opening almost shaking with a mixture of anxiety, fear, and anticipation. She learned from the organizers that her show was the following day, not on the opening night. She breathed a sigh of relief, but her anxiety did not subside. All her clothes had arrived from Cairo and she had to start preparing them.

Her cell phone rang. It was her friend Effat calling to say, “It’s your big night. Good luck and God bless.” Then Medhat called to say that the prime minister was arriving in Rome that day and that the ambassador would no doubt be holding a reception for him at the embassy. She had to stay in touch with the ambassador, “to keep in the picture,” as he put it. Doha answered quite sharply, “What picture? I’m not even in Rome. I’ve arrived in Milan. It’s the opening tonight.”

“When are you going back to Rome?” asked Medhat.

“I’m not going back to Rome. I’ll take the plane from here direct to Cairo.”

When the call was over, Doha turned off her phone once again to prevent any other calls interrupting her work or playing with her nerves.

She took the clothes that had arrived from Egypt out of the cardboard box they had been shipped in and inspected them piece by piece. One of the Fashion Week assistants was with her to count the number of outfits so they could fix the number of models needed. This young woman said, “You’ve chosen really beautiful colors. Is it Egyptian cotton?”

“Not all of it. There’s some artificial silk imported from elsewhere.”

“But in Egypt you have the best cotton in the world.”

Doha wanted to tell the girl that next time her clothes would all be inspired by Egypt and made out of Egyptian cottons and silks. But she said nothing.

She finished the tasks required and was due to return in the afternoon to the main hall to see the models wearing her clothes. Then she would add final touches like jewelry and, in consultation with the stylist, choose a hairstyle to go with each outfit.

Leaving the hall, she was troubled by a strange feeling that she had not done what she wanted. The clothes did not express who she was, and she wished she could design something else before the opening of the show. Something with a different signification.

She went back to the hotel where all the guests of the Fashion Week were staying. It was lunchtime and most of them were gathered in the restaurant. She did not feel like eating anything or meeting anyone. She found Dr. Ashraf sitting in a side room drinking coffee with his friend the Italian university professor and his wife. A young man was with them, and she realized he must be their son who was working at Fashion Week.

Dr. Ashraf greeted her warmly as soon as he saw her. He introduced his friend’s son to her, who said, “We’re all excited to see your creations at the Salon.”

She thanked him, and had gotten up to leave when Dr. Ashraf said to her, “I was asking my friends’ opinion about the new design I’ve produced for the main meeting hall at the student residences in Cairo. I’m interested in your opinion as an artist.”

Doha looked at the drawings on the table as she listened to Dr. Ashraf saying, “It’s a marriage between ancient Egyptian and Islamic architecture, but in a new form that fits the purpose of the building.”

She studied the drawings and was blown away by their beauty. The Italian professor said, “I suggested to Dr. Ashraf that he enter these innovative designs for the Aga Khan Award for Architecture. They’re a perfect example of modern architecture derived from tradition.”

“You Egyptians are geniuses,” added his wife.

Dr. Ashraf noticed the sadness in Doha’s eyes and the pallor of her face. He asked her, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just a bit tired,” she replied and then changed the subject, saying, “Your designs are really wonderful.”

“We’re all really looking forward to seeing your designs at the Salon this evening,” he said.

She explained that her show was on the second day, not the opening. The professor’s son Mario said, “Yes, but I will see them at the rehearsals this afternoon.”

Doha felt that everyone was expecting something other than what she had worked on. But her real anxiety lay in the fact that what she would show no longer corresponded to what she wanted. She had worked very hard on these designs, but they no longer satisfied her. They were a freak without character or identity. In Cairo she had been happy with her fashions, but as soon as she arrived in Italy everything changed.

She apologized to her friends, saying that she felt tired and wanted to rest a while before returning to the Salon. She really did have a splitting headache. She went up to her room and took her usual pills for those damned headaches.

She kept asking herself what was happening to her. Actors were always supposed to suffer from first-night nerves. Some of them actually became incapable of facing the audience that night, or would suffer an upset stomach or a headache like the one she had right then. That must be what was happening to her. It was a state of nervous alert and would vanish as soon as she saw her clothes being worn by the models. Her fear and timidity would evaporate and her confidence in herself and her fashions would return. After all, they were designs she had spent the past year thinking about, marking out, and choosing material for.

She opened the small medicine bag that she always took on her trips and swallowed a sedative to prevent the strange state
she was in from leading to a nervous breakdown. After a few minutes, she felt a mild numbness in her joints, even though the headache was still there. The fact that she was facing the situation all alone made her pain worse. There was no one with whom she could talk things over. No one to soothe her fears, or at least share the torment whose cause was unknown to her.

Doha called Gabriella in Rome from the phone in her room. But she had nothing to say to her. She just thanked her once again for having had dinner with her the night she arrived from Cairo, and said she hoped to see her in Egypt soon. Gabriella asked about the fashion show and Doha explained that it would be the next day. Gabriella wished her lots of luck and a good reception from the Italian audience.

She turned on her cell phone. There were three voice-mails. The first was from Effat, telling her that she had read in an Egyptian magazine that day that Doha’s fashions had gone global and were being shown at the world’s major fashion shows. The second message was Mushira making sure she was okay. The third was from Mervat, her brother Talaat’s wife, wishing her good luck for the show.

Doha felt an urge to speak to her brother. She had not opened up to him before about her worries, but at that moment she felt he was the person closest to her. She did not understand her feelings. She told herself that perhaps she was trying to grab hold of anything to rescue her.

Unable to rest, Doha flicked though
The Butterflies of Egypt
. She came to a photograph of the mural in the tomb where the ancient Egyptian artist had painted a picture of the butterfly. The tomb belonged to a noble called Nob Amun. According to the book, there were fifty-eight indigenous butterfly species in Egypt, which was a relatively small number in comparison
with other countries. This was due to Egypt’s desert environment. Nevertheless, Egypt’s butterflies had adapted to the harsh conditions and were able to survive and maintain their beauty despite the hardships. Some species were able to survive inside their chrysalises in the hottest and driest desert conditions for years at a time. But as soon as it rained and vegetation sprouted and bloomed, the butterflies would emerge from their chrysalises with colored wings. This miracle was particular to Egyptian butterflies and unknown to those from greener lands.

It was time for Doha to head down, so she put the book aside. With heavy steps she made her way to the exhibition hall, which was not far from the hotel. The book’s words were still on her mind. She felt she was a caterpillar without wings trapped inside its chrysalis. Was that why she had made her designs in the shape of butterflies? Did she want to make a set of wings, beautiful like the butterfly’s, for every woman? But the butterflies she had designed seemed to have no identity. They were not Egyptian butterflies; not the tiger, not the leopard, not the zebra blue, not even the tiny cabbage white.

She reached the main hall, where she found the models dressed in her loose-fitting, vividly colored clothes, waiting for her. The assistant told her that the hairstylist had settled on the styles and was waiting for her opinion. Doha said, “Just a minute,” and silently watched the models walking up and down in her clothes.