“Not a coincidence. I was following you.”
“Following me? Why?”
“There is a good film at the Rivoli. East of Eden by Elia Kazan.”
“Oh lovely. Did you call Monette?”
“She isn‟t coming.”
“Oh Farid …I don‟t know…Here‟s my bus.”
“I shall explain. Saturday, 6:30. I shall be waiting for you.” She pushed into the crowd boarding the bus. On the steps she turned round and smiled. Raised my hopes. One smile begets another.
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For the rest of the week, one image kept recurring, another would not fade. One set me on imaginary scenarios, the other brought memories and smiles and sexual longing. It is the pastime of the idle to daydream and I was an idler par excellence tied to my daily routine of research center and club, of golf, tennis and swimming in the heated pool. In between the daydreams, the inconsequential activity and the ample time to be wasted, the countdown of days till Saturday also preoccupied me. On Thursday I bought the tickets.
The Rivoli was near my house, on the main road called Shara Fouad. A long avenue, it passed through the better and the lesser districts of Cairo but not the worst. It started at the Opera Square, a square with the Cairo opera, with the shopping centres, with the big department stores, crossed into a poorer section of workshops and souks and a few remaining, authentic, inhabited though decrepit buildings of Arab-Islamic architecture from Cairo‟s Middle Ages. It crossed the Nile into high-class Zamalek and another bridge to the Mohandseen suburb, which was new and developing though not tiptop or classy despite its planned, wide thoroughfares. My house, a two minute walk away from the Rivoli was on a parallel street to Shara Fouad. It was small and narrow and a souk or market as its name, Souk el Tewfikieh, implied. A food market with groceries, butchers, greengrocers, fruit and cereal shops as well as merchants for kitchenware. A few years back, cars were able to pass through but now wooden hand carts with diverse merchandise appropriated street and pavement and together with the dense humanity and strewn rubbish obstructed even the circulation of pedestrians. My father‟s grocery was at one corner of this, once tolerable, street and another central avenue. So despite the appalling deterioration of the neighborhood my parents would not consider moving elsewhere because of the convenience of being two steps from their work. My mother went to the grocery every afternoon partly to help but mainly to while her time away as my father‟s working hours were long and the only person at home was her dull and taciturn son.
Djamila was on time that Saturday. She smiled when she pinpointed me in the noisy horde. I waved and smiled. She could not have missed the happiness in my eyes. I was elated that she came to our appointment but did not attempt to kiss her as I did when Monette was around. Kissing was for the sophisticated. I was not sure she was that and I did not want to play the debonair and make her feel uncomfortable and defensive. I wanted to play it gently and just told her she looked very attractive, which she was with her light makeup, her well-combed, jet black hair and neat clothes.
She smiled.
“Not more, not less than the other times,” she said.
“True, not more, not less but still very attractive.”
“Thank you.”
“How‟s Monette?” I asked.
She turned and looked at me to see if I were teasing.
“She‟s very well,” she said. “Why isn‟t she here with us?”
“I shall explain Djamila. Shall we go in?”
We entered the hall and found our seats as the lights were dimming. This time we saw the newsreels and the cartoons and previews of the coming features, the prochainements, which we usually missed with Monette and had an ice in the intermission. We made small talk and little jokes and I was happy that Djamila was in 145
good humor and our easy exchange and familiarity held good even without Monette‟s presence that previously was the common denominator. I asked her if she could tell the couples dating from the married couples. She laughed and said, “Of course, the couples on a date talk and smile. The married couples are silent and glum.”
“Is there a lesson to be learnt?”
“It is a fact to be ignored,” she said with a smile.
“Why? Because no one would get married?”
“Oh, it‟s more complicated than that.”
The main feature started. It had been shown a few years before but I had missed it and so had Djamila. It made film history and created a film legend, James Dean. During the film I placed my hand on hers but she pulled it away. I leaned towards her and whispered, “Why?”
She turned and smiled and said, “I shall explain.”
The film was good, the acting superb and when we left the cinema I invited her to a tiny pizza restaurant around the corner. It was all I could afford. She demurred at first but I insisted and told her there were explanations to be aired and she smiled and accepted. We sat, ordered two pizzas and beer and I asked her if she enjoyed the film.
“Very much. It is one of the few times when the film is as good as the novel.”
“Oh? You have read the novel?”
“Yes.”
“In translation?”
“No. In the original.”
“You know English?”
“Yes. I have a B.A. in English literature from Cairo University.”
“Djamila! I am impressed.”
“Why?”
“A seamstress with a B.A. in literature is not exactly commonplace.”
“Life, sometimes, leads you in paths you would never envisage.” It was the time when Steinbeck was awarded the Nobel Prize. I asked her what she thought of him.
“When they asked him if he thought he deserved the Nobel, Steinbeck said he didn‟t think so. It was not false modesty on his part. I think, much to his credit, he evaluated his work correctly. Nevertheless, he is a great author and a major part of his work describes the hardships and the life of the poor and the quaint nonentities that worked in the fish packing plants in Salinas, California. You must have heard of The Grapes of Wrath. It‟s his most famous novel. Much more so than East of Eden.”
“Yes, though I have not read it.”
She smiled.
“I suppose, between your golf and club activities and your playboy pursuits you have not much time for reading.”
I laughed.
“Is that why you did not let me hold your hand?”
“It is one third of the reasons.”
“And the other two thirds?”
“The second third is Monette. The third third is personal.”
“Is the third third, another man?”
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“Aren‟t you being a bit indiscreet?”
“Of course I am. And believe me, it is not my nature. But I do like you. I want to be your friend. I think you are someone very special.”
“Is that your opening line?”
“Yes it is. To you, Djamila. Will you give me five minutes to introduce myself?”
“Mr. Farid Naguib, if I am not mistaken. Pleased to meet you.”
“So you know my full name Mrs. Djamila Aswad. The pleasure, the happiness, the interest, the trepidation is all mine.”
She smiled and I extended my hand over the table and she shook it.
“May I proceed with the introduction?”
“Please do.”
“To start with I am not wealthy. That is why I brought you to this pizza place instead of one of the classy restaurants where Monette invited us.”
“Yes? Then we will share the bill.”
“Will you stop being aggressive?” I said.
She was smiling. It was a game she started playing. Was she flirting with me?
“I am not a playboy,” I continued, “because a playboy with empty pockets is a contradiction in terms. I realize this might disappoint you but it is the truth. I want to start on the right foot with you.”
“Which brings us to the question, start what?”
“Is friendship too daring, too avant garde, too immoral?”
“Is that all you want?”
“Do I discern a note of disappointment? If it is not enough we can up the stakes.” She laughed.
“Go on,” she said.
“Secondly, I go to the club every day because I am employed in a research centre that has no research and the little I do does not interest them and the club is the only thing that helps me to retain my sanity. And thirdly, with Monette it‟s all over. She is getting married to Fawsi something or other and she has dropped me as quickly and as easily as she picked me up.”
She smiled again.
“And you are disconsolate.”
“She was nice to me. I was nice to her. We had good sex together. It is over. It was a shock. I am not devastated because she kept the relationship nicely balanced avoiding sentimentality and mawkishness. In any case it could not last. The age difference was forbidding.”
“Our age difference is quite big as well.”
“I am glad you are considering the pros and cons of our friendship, my sweet Djamila.”
“Don‟t make assumptions that are not there,” she said and laughed.
“So can you tell me what the third reason for not wanting me to hold your hand is? I believe I dispelled your other two reservations.”
“Because I believe you have been frank with me I shall tell you a few things. First of all, there is no man in my life. Well, there is. My son. He is sixteen and I have not seen him in over five years. He lives with my sister in New York and my one objective in life is to join him there. To see my son again. And then, without going into details or 147
discussing it, I have to tell you that I have had some quite horrible experiences in my life and I have no desire, at least for the moment, to get involved with a man.”
“Monette told me a few things about you and I understand and sympathise with your wish. I respect it and I promise never to be overbearing or to become a pest.”
“It would be easier if you realized I am not available.”
“Next week there‟s Lawrence of Arabia at the Metro. Saturday, 6:30. I‟ll be at the door with two tickets waiting for you.”
She smiled.
“We‟ll see,” she said.
“You like to keep me dangling. Don‟t you know it only increases my interest?”
“I have to think about it.”
“As you like. I shall be there waiting for you.”
We changed the subject and talked of different things and the conversation flowed easily during the meal. Since there were only two of us, Djamila talked much more than when Monette was there. I was getting used to her beauty that was strange and incorporated features that were uneven but created an overall blend that was arresting and, with time, seemed increasingly attractive. The eyes that were strong, the smile pleasant, and in conversation, often teasing with an inoffensive irony, the laugh silent and private and the voice tinged with the slight foreignness of the Lebanese accent. An hour later I walked her to the bus station which was close by and we waited for the bus to Daher where she lived alone.
“Thank you, Farid, for a very pleasant evening,” she told me as the bus arrived.
“Give Monette my love. I think she will be happy we went to the cinema together.
Thank you Djamila for coming. I was impatient all last week to see you and shall be in agony waiting for Saturday.”
She laughed and waved and the bus took her away.
“My, my, what a secretive friend I have,” said Tony at our next tennis game. “But you did not fool me. Mother told me, of course, but I was certain it was Djamila all along.”
“For Heaven‟s sake Tony, we only went to the cinema.”
“It‟s a good start, my boy. She gave me the cold shoulder.”
“Well, the shoulder she is giving me is not much warmer. I promised I would tell you if I succeeded and I am a long way off. Things don‟t look too promising.”
“Nonsense. Only a gentleman like you can capture her heart. A little patience, a little perseverance should do the job. What is she like?”
“Intelligent and pleasant enough but something‟s eating her. And your Rosie?” He let out a chuckle.
“Not very intelligent but pretty and sexy and she wants it all the time. Just what I need.”
“I was hoping she would change you but it seems you have found your pair.”
“Yes. Isn‟t that wonderful? You must meet her sometime.”
“Bring her for a game of tennis.”
“She doesn‟t like sports. Well, except one, that is.”
“You really are incorrigible.”
I did not see her in the madding crowd that was milling at the Metro entrance and spilling on the street creating a strident cacophony of car horns. She pulled my arm and I 148
turned round and saw her familiar face and lovely smile. Impulsively, I uttered her name,
“Djamila,” and kissed her and she kissed me back. “I am so happy you came,” I said and I could see my pleasure reciprocated in her smile and her eyes. I took her by the arm and we pushed our way to the entrance of the cinema. Inside we were in a sane world once again. We looked at each other to replenish the void of a week and we smiled and slowly climbed the stairway to the upper tier where our seats were. The film was long and the cinema dispensed with the newsreels and cartoons and the main feature started as soon as the lights went out. People kept coming in, noisy and vexing, but the screen was huge and the sound loud and overcame the commotion to some extent until the seats were packed and the only sound was the intermittent coughing of the audience. The music, the beautiful scenery of the desert took us to an exotic world of the past, of legend and adventure, of bravery and ideals. There was an intermission half way. I got up and bought two ices.
“How was your week, Djamila?”
“Much the same. Long and lonely. I write to Adel. Read a little and I go to bed early.”
“Do you watch television?”
“Not much though I switch it on as soon as I get home. It keeps me company. As if another person is with me in the house. How was your week?”
“Long and lonely, too. I could not wait to see you.” She smiled and squeezed my hand.
I leaned towards her and whispered,
“Sometimes the squeezing of hands is more thrilling than an orgasm.” She was startled and turned round abruptly to look at me and then she smiled.
“I never thought of it this way,” she said.
“And the perfume you are wearing is very nice.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I thought you might like it.” The second part of the film started and it was exhilarating and absorbing but not enough to make me stop thinking about Djamila and her sudden change. I held her hand and she held mine and we turned and smiled at each other now and then. A change like an extension of that second glance and smile she gave me at the atelier that first day I saw her and fell in love with her. I had this strange conviction that came and stuck in my mind. That I fell in love with her that day at first sight. It seemed so true and credible; so definite, however much I ridiculed it with my logic.
Directly opposite the Metro was a restaurant run by a Greek lady. It was reasonably priced with tasty home cooking. Tony had taken me there several times and I suggested it to Djamila when we left the cinema.
“Only if I share the bill,” she said.
“I can manage, Djamila.”
“I insist, if we are to go out together.”
We sat at a corner table. I looked at her. Something happened. I did not care what.
I was happy. I needed no explanations. The lonely week, the little companionship we shared, my sincerity, must have changed her mind. We ordered our food and talked of the wonderful film and the accomplished acting, of the British versus the crumbling Ottoman Empire. She talked to me about T.E.Lawrence and The Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Did I read it? No, I didn‟t have the time, what with my flirting all the pretty girls at the club. A 149
smile. Her smile, again and again. I couldn‟t get enough of it. And conversation that did not falter.
We shared the bill and I walked her to the bus station.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I told her. “I‟ll meet you here at ten. We can take the bus and spend the day at the pyramids.”
“Oh, I don‟t know Farid…”
“It‟s better than an empty house with a blabbering TV.”
“I don‟t want to raise your expectations.”
“Of a pleasant day together?”
She smiled.
“You know what I mean. Of a romantic attachment I am not ready for.”
“What about a comfortable friendship?”
“One thing leads to another.”
“Hopefully,” I said and smiled. “But if it does, I promise it will only be with your consent. It will be something you shall want as well. Meanwhile, the weather is fine. Let us enjoy the winter sunshine with the Pharaohs, with Isis and Osiris, with talk of Faulkner and Mahfouz, with each other. I shall be here at ten, waiting for you.”
“You are twisting my arm.”
“Gently, I hope, so you can wrest it away if you want.”
“That‟s why it is so difficult.”
A bus screeched to a stop.
“It‟s mine,” she said. “Good night, Farid.”
“Good night Djamila. See you tomorrow.”
She was on time. She looked lovely. The wide forehead, the prominent cheekbones, the strong eyes drew me like a magnet. As did the smile, the air of happiness. The black coat was there, of course, and black trousers but beneath, a dark red pullover, a touch of makeup. She was inching out of mourning. One could tell. Why did it take so long? We took the bus to Midan el Tahrir and from there the bus for the pyramids. An empty seat for two in the first class section and a noisy, stop-and-go journey along the familiar landmarks. The Nile, two bridges, one long and flat, one short and humped, the Botanical Gardens, the Cairo University, the Zoo. Passengers getting on and off at every stop. Then the flat, green fields encroached by the monster, the land-gobbling, expanding city, dissected by the arrow-straight highway to the pyramid plateau.
Sitting, arms and legs touching, comfortably and comforting, a dawning of intimacy, chatting, looking at the hamlets, the date palm trees, the little overworked donkeys and placid, munching buffaloes, commenting and pointing at a thousand things we had seen before but hardly noticed, until the great pyramid of Cheops loomed into view and sent a shiver down our spine because it was stupendous, because we were together and our thrill was multiplied by two.
We left the bus, walked the uphill gradient to the plateau leaving behind the horses and donkeys and camels for hire, the smell of their excrement and their badgering owners. We walked to the great pyramid of Cheops and again for the hundredth but certainly not the last time were aghast at its size. Caressed the stones chiselled by armies of human beings five thousand years ago to entomb and give eternal life to one man. We sat for a while a few tiers up, on the granite blocks, to contemplate man‟s terror of death, 150
the vast ignorance of his existence and of his universe: the first unavoidable, the second unknowable.
“What do the pyramids tell you, Djamila?”
She smiled and thought for a few seconds.
“They remind me of the futility of life because even a stupendous structure such as this did not serve a purpose. It is a vast undertaking based on false premises, on ignorance, on a warped and obsessed imagination. They are the most gigantic tombs ever built yet they change nothing. Our corpses would not know the difference. They remind me of the cruelty of man, the Pharaoh‟s towards his subjects but also of the cruelty we find in our midst. Of a person you might meet in your path, a chance encounter with a human beast. Of the instinct to survive but not unconditionally. If you are hurt, humiliated, strike back even at the risk of your life. Life without self respect is a hell not worth living. It will haunt you forever. I know. I have experienced it. And you?” For a moment I wondered what or whom she was referring to. I knew very little about her life.
“For me,” I said, “like any cemetery, they tell me that there are no answers to the big questions of life, that time is short and not to be wasted. Unfortunately, I am not heeding their message. I am ignoring their warning. But this is the fate and flaw of the human being, the narrowness of his vision. His sole preoccupation with the trivial.”
“Like spending your time at the club, flirting with pretty girls?” she said with a smile.
“Yes. If it means nothing. If it is just killing time. But being happy is not trivial; it is not wasting your life. It is man‟s only redemption.”
“You remind me of Albert, my husband. He was a sort of home-spun philosopher.
Always talking of human happiness through equality and I was constantly reminding him of its impossibility because of our human nature, because of the way we are made. And you, Farid, when are you happy?”
“I am happy now.”
She smiled.
“And were you happy with Monette?”
“Yes. But I am happier now. Do you know why?”
“Please, don‟t go on. We are entering fields I do not want to tread.”
“Then get up let‟s go for a walk. Let us tread in the sand.” We walked a lot that day. Talked and walked around the pyramids and the Sphinx and in the desert with galloping horses in the distance and flat-footed, swaying camels.
With the sunshine, the pure, desert breeze and the blue skies of the Pharaohs. With the tourists wearing the Bedouin headdress, taking snapshots, pretending they were El Aurence. I held her hand sometimes when we were alone and she did not pull away but did not draw closer. A wall most decidedly between us; friendly and pleasant as far as walls go but still defining our boundaries. On our way down we visited the Mena House Hotel, a landmark in Egypt‟s recent history with the nice clean toilets we needed. Coming out, I pinched my face with mock disapproval and told Djamila that the restaurant here was not quite tip-top. That I knew of a better place and we walked further down the road to a grocer and had two large, delicious, fresh bread sandwiches with white feta cheese and olives and a coke for dessert. She could not imagine Djamila said with a smile, that the meal at the Mena House could have been half as good. It was about four by then and 151
the afternoon sunshine was giving way to the evening chill. We took the bus to town and at Midan el Tahrir she switched to the one for Daher refusing my offer to accompany her.
“It was a lovely day for me, Djamila. Thank you for coming.” Unexpectedly, she kissed me.
“Thank you, Farid. I enjoyed it too. This is my phone number.” She gave me a scrap of paper which she fished out of her bag. She must have written it earlier, at home.
“So I have passed the test?” I said.
“So far,” she said and smiled as she climbed onto the bus.
The next day at four I waited for her at the coffee shop opposite the Khedive building. I needed to see her. I missed her all through that day. I missed her as soon as I left her the day before, in fact. I thought about her and questions kept circling my mind. I wondered if her behaviour was a normal reaction to the horrific ending of her marriage, to the temporary loss of her son. Did she feel that a new life, a renewed quest for happiness would be a betrayal towards her executed husband? That this pursuit would mean the neglect of her son and that she would be unable to overcome the guilt this happiness would engender? Would some minor detail I did not know provide an explanation? And why did I care so much? Tony gave her up as a bad job. But he was faced with a blunt refusal whereas the reluctance I faced in her response had small increments of diminution and an ensuing acceptance of my person, with each consecutive meeting. I felt tied to her because of her story, even because of my relationship with Monette and the strange link of their lives through the same man. And that I, another man, another link to their chain was repeating a similar move again, from the one to the other. All this, apart from the fact that I found in her a beauty that perhaps was not there, a mixture of vulnerability, hopelessness and strength that intrigued me. That made me eager to protect her even as she was trying to protect herself from me. From another possible happiness. I wanted to hold her and kiss her, to tell her that she was still young and the little pleasure she could yet wring from this world should not be thrown away.
That I longed to touch her and give and take from her body the love I already felt.
She came out a little before five. Most of the girls had gone by and she came out alone. I rushed out and called her.
“Farid!” She exclaimed with surprise, a smile of pleasure followed by a frown.
“Oh, Farid, this won‟t do. You are complicating my life. I can only take emotions and companionship in small doses. Too much and I shall lose my balance.”
“Just for a coffee, Djamila. Ten minutes. I had to see you.”
“Why? Did something happen?”
“Yes. Not now. There‟s a question I want to ask you.” We walked to A l’Americaine a little further down on Emad el Dine Street, sat at a table and ordered two coffees.
“Well?”
“Remember that time I came to the atelier with Tony?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“Monette and Tony left the room for a moment and I was standing alone, uneasily, and you glanced at me, turned to your work and almost immediately looked up again and smiled at me. Why?”
She laughed.
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“Searching for hidden meanings where there are none?”
“Yes. Because I am convinced I fell in love with you at just that moment. There!
Now you know.”
She laughed again.
“You have a lively imagination, my little dreamer. I looked at you, looked away, I was curious and looked again and found a face I could smile at. Or rather that drew my smile. Was that why you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, that‟s why. Do you understand?”
“How was your day today?”
I smiled and held her hand.
“So you do understand! I had no doubt, Djamila, that you would change the subject. My day was okay. Ordinary. Research centre for an hour, the club, golf, flirting with pretty girls. Waiting for time to pass so I could see you.”
“There‟s another terrific film on at the Diana. The War and Peace. We can see it on Saturday.”
“How about tomorrow? And then you can talk to me about Leo Tolstoy on Sunday.”
“Give me a break.”
“Give me a break!”
“Okay. After tomorrow.”
“I‟ll think about it.”
She laughed.
“Giving me back some of my own medicine?”
I bought two tickets for that coming Wednesday and I did not see her the following day. I called her on the phone to let her know and her first question was, “Why didn‟t you come today?”
“To give you a break, Djamila. To give you breathing space.”
“I missed you, though.”
“So did I. Terribly.”
It started in fits and starts but we fell into a routine of seeing each other daily for coffee and going to the cinema on Saturdays and any other weekday that was convenient.
Sunday was our day out of the city. The Botanical gardens, the Zoo, the Barrages which were the first large dams of the Nile built by Mohammed Ali, the tombs and step pyramids at Saqquara, the Japanese gardens at Helwan, the Citadel, old Cairo with its superb mosques, and the Coptic museum and antiquities. After a couple months we were running out of places and I was running out of patience. I was