Cairo Modern (18 page)

He was not the same lad who had rushed to work that morning. He had welcomed beys and pashas, mastered the art of the telephone, and had been called “Mahgub Bey” tens of times. He felt immensely confident and proud. Indeed, his gait and his way of looking at things had changed. He remembered—in the intoxication of this surprising glory—his relative Ahmad Bey Hamdis and hoped
he would arrive one day to see Qasim Bey. On entering Mahgub’s office deferentially—what a surprise would await him! They would shake hands as equals, and then Hamdis Bey would tell his family what he had seen. So Tahiya would hear and realize that she had slammed the door of her car on a boy who had achieved renown and glory. How he would like Tahiya to see him with his gorgeous wife, who excelled her in charm and beauty. He would like to watch her face as she looked askance at his wife after realizing how fascinatingly beautiful she was.

P
atience, everything in due time. Life had begun to smile.

That same day, Mahgub Abd al-Da’im—as previously agreed—went to al-Ikhshidi, who accompanied him to the apartment to hand it over to him. Mahgub carried with him the valise containing his clothes and a few books. Al-Ikhshidi gave him the key to the apartment, saying, “The apartment and all its contents belong to the two of you, except for a small wardrobe in the bedroom.”

Realizing that this wardrobe was reserved for Qasim Bey Fahmi, Mahgub blushed and felt a strong desire to kick him as hard as possible.

Al-Ikhshidi observed, “It would be good if you would change the lease to your name.”

“Is it currently in Qasim Bey’s name?”

Al-Ikhshidi responded coldly, “It’s in my name.”

Mahgub felt relieved and asked, “How much is the rent?”

“Ten pounds.”

Smiling, Mahgub commented, “That’s about as much as my salary.”

“The bey will pay it. Likewise, he’ll pay the cook for you, and other expenses.”

They inspected the apartment together. Although it was small, it was beautifully built and elegantly furnished. Mahgub was astonished. He realized that he was seeing many pieces of furniture for the first time. He did not even
know what they were called. The apartment consisted of three rooms and a sitting room. To the right of the entrance was a parlor that opened onto a hall leading into a sitting room with a radio. There were two doors on its right-hand wall, one to a bedroom and the other to a dining room. Both of these rooms opened onto a long balcony that overlooked Nagi Street. As he stood there, he quickly recalled his home in al-Qanatir, the student hostel, and his room on the roof of the apartment building on Jarkas Street. Standing there he realized that current realities surpassed in their magic and beauty his prior dreams. Actually the content of dreams is ordinarily drawn from the dreamer’s previous sensations and perceptions. He was seeing here luxury articles he had never encountered before. The difference between this house and that in al-Qanatir was as great as between Ihsan and the cigarette butt collector. Both were women, true, but how different. He forgot at that moment what he had always told himself about all women being alike so that Tahiya, Ihsan, and the butt collector were equivalent.

On saying goodbye, al-Ikhshidi told him, “Tomorrow evening you’ll find your bride waiting for you.”

He departed, followed by the youth’s sidelong look.

The next day, late in the afternoon, Mahgub set off for Giza and immediately remembered Ali Taha. Where might he be staying? He knew he was in Giza but did not know where. Had the young man remained true to his promise and retained his interest in the girl? Would his passion tempt him back to her neighborhood and had news of her marriage reached him? Would they run into him while Mahgub was holding her on his arm? He felt anxious, although nothing really fazed him. In fact, he would have liked for Ali to encounter him at that moment and learn everything. He went to Uncle Shihata Turki’s home and found the entire
family—except for Ihsan—waiting for him. Then he knew for certain that al-Ikhshidi’s instructions had preceded him to his noble family. Everyone—Uncle Shihata, his wife, and the six young sons—was sporting new clothes thanks to Qasim Bey’s generosity and solicitude. They greeted each other warmly. Uncle Shihata kissed him on the forehead, and he kissed his mother-in-law’s hand. He teased the boys and kissed the youngest on both cheeks. As he sat there he glanced at all the faces looking at him and immediately admitted that his bride’s house was overflowing with good looks. Her father had handsome features, her mother was beautiful, and her brothers were a matched set of pearls. He told himself that beauty truly is an effective weapon in a poor person’s hands. Their conversation flowed nonstop, and the young man shared in it as was appropriate, although he would have liked to leave as soon as possible. Uncle Shihata talked about the hostel and the well-mannered and industrious student Mahgub Abd al-Da’im, who had not been a customer, because he did not smoke and how he—Uncle Shihata—respected students who did not smoke even though (and he laughed at this) he gained nothing from their rectitude. He explained that he was not hosting a party for his daughter’s wedding because a good bride is the real festivity and that he had not invited any relatives or family members, who were country folk, in order to spare them the difficulties of the journey. Mahgub assumed that the man was probably lying the way vainglorious people do but, remembering his own parents resentfully, said he had dispatched news of his marriage to his parents and that had his father—a prominent agriculturalist in al-Qanatir—not been ill, he would have come to give his blessing in person. Umm Ihsan spoke about her children, especially Ihsan. Mahgub recognized from his mother-in-law’s conversation and tone
and from the gestures of her neck, eyebrows, and eyes, that she was a merry, feminine, cunning tease. (He knew nothing of her past on Muhammad Ali Street.) She asked about his position and offered to read his palm. She predicted worthy children and an excellent post in the government.

While Mahgub talked and listened, he kept glancing stealthily at the bedroom door, which was ajar. His eyes asked: How much longer do I have to wait? Finally Ihsan appeared—wearing a diaphanous white wedding gown. Her hair had been braided and then shaped into a turban that highlighted the braids’ gleaming blackness, making her complexion look even more luminous. She was accompanied by four women who were said to be her mother’s relatives, but he paid no attention to anyone else. Her beauty demanded his attention. He shed his customary scorn as electric sparks shot through his breast and he clenched his teeth. Their eyes met as they greeted each other, and he was filled by the magic that passed via that look. He felt inebriated. Memories of his former suffering and of the tragedies caused by his lust flowed through his mind. Despite all his scorn and daring, he could not believe she had become his—even if through shared tenancy, as you might say. This made him think of his co-tenant, who had been the first. So he felt bad and looked back at her supple body, which the white wedding dress revealed, and felt even worse. Uncle Shihata had prepared for the guests a magnificent dinner, which had cost him dearly. So he invited them to the table. They all rose, preceded by the children’s commotion. Umm Ihsan, despite her happiness, was secretly put out, because she would have wished wholeheartedly to celebrate Ihsan’s happy day by making it a day of delight for the entire neighborhood. Al-Ikhshidi, however, had told her bluntly that Mahgub did not have the funds to realize her dream, and
she knew her husband had even fewer resources. So she had had to swallow this desire resentfully. Once they had eaten their fill and returned, stuffed, to their seats, there was no longer anything to detain the newlyweds. So they rose to say goodbye to all present. A taxi was summoned and the bride’s clothing was carried to it in a large valise.

Mahgub took Ihsan’s hand, escorted her through a half-circle of well-wishers and slowly descended the steps. Umm Ihsan must have run out of patience, because she released a trill that resounded throughout the area and that caused the young man’s heart to pound and his eyelids to quiver. The other women received this first ululation like a command for an army to attack and released their own trills that echoed each other, intensifying their staggered explosion, shaking the breasts of all the ladies. The taxi swallowed the bride and groom, who in the musical trills forgot themselves and smiled happily and shyly. They kept looking back at the women standing by the door till the vehicle turned past the hostel onto Rashad Pasha Street.

H
e wanted to speak but did not know what to say. The longer the silence lasted, the more reserved he felt. So he renounced this wish and remained mum. Scrutinizing her carefully, he found that she was looking out the window at the street, turning the back of her head toward him. He was certain that many eyes along the way would envy him this extraordinary beauty who affected him so deeply, and this idea delighted him beyond measure. If only the Hamdis family could see him sitting like this—especially Tahiya Hamdis. Then it occurred to him—after he felt reassured that Tahiya had kept his offense secret—that he should visit his mighty relative one day to introduce his bride, as was customary. This notion tempted his heart so much that it intoxicated him. She still had her head turned toward the street, and so he cast a hungry look at her supple body, passing from neck to shoulder and swelling breasts to slender waist and ending finally with her full thigh. He sighed from the bottom of his chest and observed privately how intense his hunger was and how his blood was boiling. When the taxi stopped in front of the Schleicher Building, he stepped out and then she descended, supported by his hand. They took the elevator and went into the apartment, trailed by the doorman who was carrying her valise. He showed her the way to the bedroom, which she entered, closing the door behind her. He stood there hesitantly and then retreated to a chair in the sitting room and collapsed.

At first he took offense at the closed door, which reminded him of the car door at the Pyramids. He quickly excused it in view of the awkwardness of the situation, although he could not escape his sarcastic nature’s bitterness. He told himself: Modesty like this would be more seemly for someone who actually was a virgin. Then, frowning, he wondered what his new life held in store for him: happiness or suffering? He did not hope she would consider him her spouse in the ordinary sense of the word, because he himself could not see her that way. He decided she would privately think of him as a pimp—just as he would secretly consider her a whore. Could a pimp and a whore find happiness together? This was what concerned him—no more and no less. He did not want his conjugal life to acquire any social significance, to produce healthy offspring, or to assume mutual respect. All he wanted was a mutuality of desire, a longing compatible with his, and a lust that mirrored his own. That way he would find satisfaction in a marriage that was a means rather than an end. He wanted love without jealousy as he visited her spring from time to time, without anxiety, thought, or concern, relying first and last on his daring soul, which had smashed all fetters and torn asunder all shackles. As he brooded, his eyes were on the closed door. Should he wait till it opened? If it remained closed, should he stay where he was till morning? He rose, approached the door, and rapped gently. When there was no sound or movement in response, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. He found the room virtually engulfed by darkness, except for a faint light coming from the direction of the balcony. So he realized that she was out there, collecting her thoughts. He went to her, walking softly. He saw her seated to one side, leaning her arm on the railing, looking down at the street. She made no motion in response
to his arrival. So he paused, training his eyes on her by the porch lamp’s light, and then said, “You were right to come to the balcony. This is one of those hot July nights.”

She turned her head toward him and replied, after hesitating, “Yes, it’s a hot night.”

He was delighted that she had responded and took a chair, sitting near her. When he looked at her, the sight ravished him. Her extraordinarily desirable body set him aflame, and he reflected that he would enjoy this charming body that very night, indeed during the next hour, and felt crazy. This imminent reality intoxicated him as if he were discovering it the first time. No longer able to withstand the ardor of his gaze, she bowed her head. So he stretched out his hand to her chin, lifted her head toward him, and told her in a trembling voice, “Let me gaze at your beautiful face.”