Season of Migration to the North (18 page)

I became bored with reading the bits of paper. No doubt there
were many more bits buried away in this room, like pieces in an arithmetical
puzzle, which Mustafa Sa’eed wanted me to discover and to place side by side
and so come out with a composite picture which would reflect favourably upon
him. He wants to be discovered, like some historical object of value. There was
no doubt of that, and I now know that it was me he had chosen for that role. It
was no coincidence that he had excited my curiosity and had then told me his
life story incompletely so that I myself might unearth the rest of it. It was
no coincidence that he had left me a letter sealed with red wax to further
sharpen my curiosity, and that he had made me guardian of his two sons so as to
commit me irrevocably, and that he had left me the key to this wax museum.
There was no limit to his egoism and his conceit; despite everything, he wanted
history to immortalize him. But I do not have the time to proceed further with
this farce. I must end it before the break of dawn and the time now was after
two in the morning. At the break of dawn tongues of fire will devour these
lies.

Jumping to my feet, I raised the candlelight to the oil
painting on the mantelpiece. Everything in the room was neatly in its place —
except for Jean Morris’s picture. It was as if he had not known what to do with
it. Though he had kept photographs of all the other women, Jean Morris was
there as he saw her, not as seen by the camera. I looked admiringly at the
picture. It was the long face of a woman with wide eyes and brows that joined
up above them; the nose was on the large size, the mouth slightly too wide. The
expression on the face is difficult to put into words: a disturbing, puzzling
expression. The thin lips were tightly closed as though she were grinding her
teeth, while her jaw was thrust forward haughtily. Was the expression in the
eyes anger or a smile?  There was something sensual that hovered round the
whole face. Was this, then, the phoenix that had ravished the ghoul? That night
his voice had been wounded, sad, tinged with regret. Was it because he had lost
her? Or was it because she had made him swallow such degradations?

‘I used to find her at every party I went to, as though she
made a point of being where I was in order to humiliate me. When I wanted to
dance with her, she would say “I wouldn’t dance with you if you were the only
man in the world.” When I slapped her cheek, she kicked me and bit into my arm
with teeth like those of a lioness. She did no work and I don’t know how she
managed to live. Her family were from Leeds; I never met them, not even after I
married her, and I know nothing about them except for the odd bits she used to
tell me. Her father was a merchant, though I don’t know of what. According to
her she was the only girl among five brothers. She used to lie about the most
ordinary things and would return home with amazing and incredible stories about
incidents that had happened to her and people she’d met. I wouldn’t be
surprised if she didn’t have a family at all and was like some mendicant
Scheherazade. However, she was exceedingly intelligent, and exceedingly
charming when she wanted to be, and wherever she went she was surrounded by a
band of admirers buzzing round her like flies. Deep within me I felt that,
despite her show of disliking me, I interested her; when she and I were brought
together at some gathering, she would watch me out of the corner of her eye,
taking note of everything I did and said, and if she saw me showing any
interest in another woman she was quick to be unpleasant to her. Brazen in word
and deed, she abstained from nothing — stealing, lying and cheating; yet,
against my will, I fell in love with her and I was no longer able to control
the course of events. When I avoided her she would entice me to her, and when I
ran after her she fled from me. Once, taking hold of myself, I kept away from
her for two weeks. I began to avoid the places she frequented and if I was
invited to a party I made sure before going that she wouldn’t be there.
Nevertheless, she found her way to my house and surprised me late one Saturday
night when Ann Hammond was with me. She heaped filthy curses upon Ann Hammond,
and when I tried to drive her away with blows she was not deterred. Ann Hammond
left in tears, while she stayed on, standing in front of me like some demon, a
challenging defiance in her eyes that stirred remote longings in my heart. Without
our exchanging a word, she stripped off her clothes and stood naked before me.
All the fires of hell blazed within my breast. Those fires had to be
extinguished in that mountain of ice that stood in my path. As I advanced
towards her, my limbs trembling, she pointed to an expensive Wedgwood vase on
the mantelpiece. "Give this to me and you can have me," she said. If she
had asked at that moment for my life as a price I would have paid it. I nodded
my head in agreement. Taking up the vase, she smashed it on the ground and
began trampling the pieces underfoot. She pointed to a rare Arabic manuscript
on the table. “Give me this too,” she said. My throat grew dry with a thirst
that almost killed me. I must quench it with a drink of icy water. I nodded my
head in agreement. Taking up the old, rare manuscript she tore it to bits, filling
her mouth with pieces of paper which she chewed and spat out. It was as though
she had chewed at my very liver. And yet I didn’t care. She pointed to a silken
Isphahan prayer-rug which I had been given by Mrs Robinson when I left Cairo.
It was the most valuable thing I owned, the thing I treasured most. “Give me
this too and then you can have me," she said. Hesitating for a moment, I
glanced at her as she stood before me, erect and lithe, her eyes agleam with a
dangerous brightness, her lips like a forbidden fruit that must be eaten. I
nodded my head in agreement. Taking up the prayer-rug, she threw it on to the
fire and stood watching gloatingly as it was consumed, the flames reflected on
her face. This woman is my quarry and I shall follow her to Hell. I walked up
to her and, placing my arm round her waist, leaned over to kiss her. Suddenly I
felt a violent jab from her knee between my thighs. When I regained
consciousness I found she had disappeared.

‘I continued in pursuit of her for three years. My caravans
were thirsty and the mirage shimmered before me in the wilderness of longing.
“You’re a savage bull that does not weary of the chase,” she said to me one day.
“I am tired of your pursuing me and of my running before you. Marry me.” I
married her at the Registry Office in Fulham, no one else attending except for
a girlfriend of hers and a friend of mine. As she repeated after the Registrar
“I Jean Winifred Morris accept this man Mustafa Sa’eed Othman as my lawfully
wedded husband, for better and for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness
and in health ..." she suddenly burst into violent sobbing. I was amazed
at her expressing such emotion and the Registrar stopped the ceremony and said
to her kindly “Come, come. I can understand how you feel. Just a few more
moments and it’ll all be over.” After which she continued to whimper, and when
it was over she once again broke out sobbing. The Registrar went up and patted
her on the shoulder, then shook me by the hand, saying, "Your wife is
crying because she’s so happy. I have seen many women cry at their marriage,
but I’ve never seen such violent weeping. It seems she loves you very much.
Look after her. I’m sure you’ll both be happy.’ She went on crying till we had
left the Registry Office, when suddenly her tears turned to laughter.
"What a farce!" she said, guffawing with laughter.

‘We spent the remainder of the day drinking. No party, no
guests — just she and I and drink. When night brought us together in bed, I
wanted to possess her. “Not now” she said, turning her back on me. “I’m tired.”
For two months she wouldn’t let me near her; every night she would say “I’m
tired" or “I’m unwell.” No longer capable of taking any more, one night I
stood over her with a knife in my hand. “I’l1 kill you,” I told her. She
glanced at the knife with what seemed to me like longing. "Here’s my
breast bared to you,” she said. “Plunge the knife in.” I looked at her naked
body which, though within my grasp, I did not possess. Sitting on the side of
the bed, I bowed my head meekly. She placed her hand on my cheek and said in a
tone that was not devoid of gentleness: “My sweet, you’re not the kind of man
that kills.” I experienced a feeling of ignominy loneliness, and loss. Suddenly
I remembered my mother. I saw her face clearly in my mind’s eye and heard her
saying to me “It’s your life and you’re free to do with it as you will.” I
remembered that the news of my mother’s death had reached me nine months ago
and had found me drunk and in the arms of a woman. I don’t recollect now which
woman it was; I do, though, recollect that I felt no sadness — it was as though
the matter was of absolutely no concern to me. I remembered this and wept from
deep within my heart. I wept so much I thought I would never stop. I felt Jean
embracing me and saying things I couldn’t make out, though her voice was
repellent to me and sent a shudder through my body I pushed her violently from
me. “I hate you," I shouted at her. “I swear I’ll kill you one day.” In
the throes of my sorrow the expression in her eyes did not escape me. They
shone brightly and gave me a strange look. Was it surprise? Was it fear? Was it
desire? Then, in a voice of simulated tenderness, she said: “I too, my sweet,
hate you. I shall hate you until death.”

‘But there was nothing I could do. Having been a hunter, I
had become the quarry. I was in torment; and, in a way I could not understand,
I derived pleasure from my suffering. Exactly eleven days after that incident —
I remember it because I had swallowed its agonies as the man fasting swallows
the agonies of the month of Ramadan when it falls in the scorching heat of
summer — we were in Richmond Park just before sunset. The park was not wholly
empty of people; we heard voices and saw figures moving in the evening glow. We
talked only a little and exchanged no expressions of love or flirtation.
Without reason she put her arms round my neck and gave me a long kiss. I felt
her breast pressing against me. Putting my arms round her waist I pulled her to
me and she moaned in a way that tore at my heart—strings and made me oblivious
of everything. I no longer remembered anything; I no longer saw or was
conscious of anything but this catastrophe, in the shape of a woman, that fate
had decreed for me. She was my destiny and in her lay my destruction, yet for
me the whole world was not worth a mustard seed in comparison. I was the
invader who had come from the South, and this was the icy battlefield from
which I would not make a safe return. I was the pirate sailor and Jean Morris
the shore of destruction. And yet I did not care. I took her, there in the open
air, unconcerned whether we could be seen or heard by people. For me this
moment of ecstasy is worth the whole of life.

‘The moments of ecstasy were in fact rare; the rest of the time
we spent in a murderous war in which no quarter was given. The war invariably
ended in my defeat. When I slapped her, she would slap me back and dig her
nails into my face; a volcano of violence would explode within her and she
would break any crockery that came to hand and tear up books and papers. This
was the most dangerous weapon she had and every battle would end with her
ripping up an important book or burning some piece of research on which I had
worked for weeks on end. Sometimes I would be so overcome with rage that I
would reach the brink of madness and murder and would tighten my grip on her
throat, when she would suddenly grow quiet and give me that enigmatic look, a
mixture of astonishment, fear, and desire. Had I exerted just that little bit
more pressure I would have put an end to the war: Sometimes the war would take
us out. Once in a pub she suddenly shouted, “That son of a bitch is making
passes at me." I sprang at the man and we seized each other by the throat.
People collected round us and suddenly behind me I heard her guffawing with
laughter. One of the men who had come to separate us said to me, “I’m sorry to
have to tell you, if this woman’s your wife, you’ve married a whore.” He didn’t
say a word to her. “It seems this woman enjoys making violent scenes." My
anger transferred itself to her and while she was still guffawing with laughter
I went up to her. I slapped her and in her usual way she plunged her nails into
my face. Only after a lot of trouble was I able to drag her off home.

‘She used to like flirting with every Tom, Dick and Harry
whenever we went out together. She would flirt with waiters in restaurants, bus
conductors and passers-by. Some would take courage and respond while others
would answer with obscene remarks, and so I’d get myself into fights with
people, and exchange blows with her in the middle of the street. How often have
I asked myself what it was that bound me to her! Why didn’t I leave her and
escape? But I knew there was nothing I could do about it and that the tragedy
had to happen. I knew she was being unfaithful to me; the whole house was
impregnated with the smell of infidelity. Once I found a man’s handkerchief
which wasn’t mine. “It’s yours,” she said when I asked her. “This handkerchief
isn’t mine,” I told her. “Assuming it’s not your handkerchief” she said, “what
are you going to do about it?” On another occasion I found a cigarette case,
then a pen. “You’re being unfaithful to me," I said to her. “Suppose I am
being unfaithful to you,” she said. “I swear I’ll kill you," I shouted at
her. “You only say that,” she said with a jeering smile. “What’s stopping you
from killing me? What are you waiting for? Perhaps you’re waiting till you find
a man lying on top of me, and even then I don’t think you’d do anything. You’d
sit on the edge of the bed and cry.”

‘It was a dark evening in February, the temperature ten
degrees below zero. Evening was like morning, morning like night — dark and
gloomy. The sun had not shone for twenty-two days. The whole city was a field
of ice — ice in the streets and in the front gardens of the houses. The water
froze in the pipes and people’s breath came out from their mouths like steam.
The trees were bare, their branches collapsing under the weight of snow And all
the while my blood was boiling and my head in a fever. On a night such as this
momentous deeds occur. This was the night of reckoning. I walked from the
station to the house carrying my overcoat over my arm, for my body was burning
hot and the sweat poured from my forehead. Though ice crackled under my shoes,
yet I sought the cold. Where was the cold? I found her stretched out naked on
the bed, her white thighs open. Though her lips were formed into a full smile,
there was something like sadness on her face; it was as though she was in a
state of great readiness both to give and to take. On first seeing her my heart
was filled with tenderness and I felt that Satanic warmth under the diaphragm
which tells me that I am in control of the situation. Where had this warmth been
all these years? "Was anyone with you?" I said to her in a confident
voice I thought I had lost for ever. “There was no one with me,” she answered
me in a voice affected by the impact of mine. “This night is for you alone.
I’ve been waiting for you a long time.” I felt that for the first time she was
telling me the truth. This night was to be the night of truth and of tragedy. I
removed the knife from its sheath and sat on the edge of the bed for a time
looking at her. I saw the impact of my glances live and palpable on her face.
We looked into each other’s eyes, and as our glances met and joined it was
though we were two celestial bodies that had merged in an ill-omened moment of
time. My glances overwhelmed her and she turned her face from me, but the effect
was apparent in the area below her waist which she shifted from right to left,
raising herself slightly off the bed; then she settled down, her arms thrown
out languorously, and resumed looking at me. I looked at her breast and she too
looked at where my glance had fallen, as though she had been robbed of her own
volition and was moving in accordance with my will. I looked at her stomach and
as she followed my gaze a faint expression of pain came over her face. As my
gaze lingered, so did hers; when I hurried she hurried with me. I looked long
at her white, wide-open thighs, as though massaging them with my eyes, and my
gaze slipped from the soft, smooth surface till it came to rest there, in the
repository of secrets, where good and evil are born. I saw a blush spread up
her face and her eyelids droop as though she had been unable to control them.
Slowly I raised the dagger and she followed the blade with her eyes; the pupils
widened suddenly and her face shone with a fleeting light like a flash of lightning.
She continued to look at the blade-edge with a mixture of astonishment, fear,
and lust. Then she took hold of the dagger and kissed it fervently. Suddenly
she closed her eyes and stretched out in the bed, raising her middle slightly;
opening her thighs wider. “Please, my sweet,” she said, moaning: “Come — I’m
ready now" When I did not answer her appeal she gave a more agonizing
moan. She waited. She wept. Her voice was so faint it could hardly be heard.
“Please darling.”