God Dies by the Nile and Other Novels (23 page)

She crossed the open courtyard and went to the back of the black building, which was like the back of anything, dirtier, coarser, rougher. She paused before the small wooden door that was covered by a mess of sooty shapes including human finger and hand prints and the letters of fragmented words. She saw the word ‘vot…' but dirt had erased the rest.

She walked down the dingy, narrow corridor and climbed the stairs like an automaton; her practised feet jumped over the missing step, her body avoided the iron bar that protruded from the banisters, she reached the fourth floor and turned right to cross the long passageway. She caught the stale smell of urine and turned her head away from the lavatory door; beside it was the door into her office.

She walked over to her desk and sat down. Opening the drawer she took a small cloth and wiped off the dust so that its black skin showed. The skin was torn in places, revealing the desk's white body beneath. She replaced the cloth, looked up and saw three other desks crowded side by side; three mummified heads jutted out above them…

The urine smell lingered in her nose but now, added to it, was another: that of a stale, unaired bedroom. She got up to open the window, but a coarse voice – more like the grunt of a sick animal – said: ‘It's cold. Don't open it!'

She returned to her desk, took out a large file and examined the thick outer cover. On it in her own handwriting on a small, white label were the words ‘Biochemical Research'. The letters were written with care and elegance, each etched in ink; she recalled how she had pressed the pen on each letter. The pen had been new, the inkpot too, and she could still remember the smell of the ink. Yes, though it was six years ago, she still remembered that smell and the curve of her fingers as she pressed out the letters. She had signed the acceptance for the new job in the biochemical research department and her fingers had trembled as she wrote her name on the official document, the first time she had put her name to an official document, the first time her signature had had an official value.

She opened the file's cover, revealing its yellow interior. Attached to its centre was a thin metal strip from which hung a white sheet of paper with not a single line on it. She closed the
file and returned it to the drawer, then raised her head to the sky, but her eyes were stopped by the ceiling. She got up and went to the window to look at the sky through the dirty glass.

Something about the sky relaxed her, perhaps its unfathomable spaciousness, perhaps its deep, steady blue; or perhaps because the sky reminded her of Farid.

She didn't know what connected the sky and Farid but she knew there was a connection; maybe because the sky was always there when Farid was or because it was also there when he was absent? Farid had not come last night. It was the first time he had broken a date. He had not telephoned or apologized. What had happened?

The sky, silent and still, seemed as if in collusion with him. The white clouds continued to drift, unconcerned, and the tree tops were lifted above the distant dark buildings.

Farid was absent for a reason. Everything in life happens for a reason. Things may seem to happen without reason, but sooner or later a reason becomes apparent. But what was the reason? Had there been an accident or an illness or the death of someone close? Or maybe something else? She drummed her fingers on the window-pane. Yes, maybe there was something else – something that Farid wanted to hide. He used to hide things, he hid papers in the drawer of his desk, and sometimes he would close the door when speaking on the telephone.

Such things were normal and unremarkable. Everyone has secrets. Old love letters, unpaid bills, rental contracts on plots
of land in the country, a picture of one's mother in a
galabeya
^*
and wooden clogs, or of oneself as a child wearing a
tarbush
^†
with the tassel missing. Yes, there were always things to hide in a drawer, things one did not always need. Putting them into a locked drawer at the bottom of the desk was blameless. But the long telephone conversations behind closed doors … how to explain them?

She ground the heel of her shoe into the floor and it stuck in a jagged hole in the wood. She tugged to get it out and her shoe came off. She bent down to release the heel, looking around, but the three bowed heads had moved only slightly. She looked at the clock. It was half past ten – three and a half hours before she could leave this graveyard. Sitting down at her desk for a moment, she looked again at the clock; the thin hands had stuck. Tucking her bag under her arm, she got up and strode out.

At the end of the corridor she paused momentarily before going down the stairs. She thought of going up to the fifth floor to apologize to the head of department for leaving early, and put a foot on the stairs. But, instead she descended quickly, shrugging her shoulders and burying her head in the wide collar of her coat.

She soon left the iron railing behind and reached the wide, crowded street, lifting her head from the concealing coat collar. The sun's rays on her back were pleasurable; the pleasure would have been greater except for the weight on her heart. She saw a woman sitting on the pavement, her empty hand outstretched, a young child in her lap. The sun bathed her whole body as she sat silent and still. She was not running away from the Ministry, neither was her heart heavy with such worries.

In the midst of the hurrying crowd, she glimpsed a tall, slender woman who resembled herself. She was walking quickly, pushing forward as if she were about to break into a run but was too embarrassed to do so. A bag swung from her hand, a black leather bag like those carried by doctors or lawyers or civil servants; no doubt it was full of important papers. Its owner waved down a taxi, leaped into it and vanished. She knew where she was going and her movements were light and energetic. Clearly, she was very busy, very engrossed, very absorbed. She had an important job and was happy with it, pleased with herself, felt herself to be important. Yes, that tall, slender young woman was important.

She closed her lips sternly, swallowing hard. Someone important like her would not be idly and aimlessly wandering the streets. She was envious; yes, envy was the word to describe her feelings at that moment. She was unsure of the meaning of the word ‘envy' but had inherited it as she'd
inherited her nose and arms and eyes. She knew that envy was an extrinsic act, that she couldn't envy herself, that there had to be another person to envy, a person who had to possess enviable characteristics, something important, not important in itself but important to her.

She put her hand into her coat pocket and played with the holes in the silky lining as if searching for something important within herself. Suddenly she discovered that there was nothing important about herself. But it was not exactly a discovery, neither was it sudden, but rather a slow, insidious, obscure feeling, which had started some time ago, perhaps after she'd graduated, perhaps after she'd begun working at the Ministry, perhaps only yesterday when she'd gone to the restaurant and found the table empty, or perhaps this morning when that pointed thing had pushed between her legs as she jumped off the bus.

She swallowed bitter saliva and moved her dry tongue, saying to herself in an almost audible voice: ‘Yes, I am nothing.' She would have repeated ‘Yes, I am nothing' but her lips tightened and instead the words died inside her mouth where they burned like acid.

She raised her head; her eyes roamed the sky as if in search of something. Yes, she was looking for something. She recalled her mother's voice saying: ‘May the Lord make you successful, Fouada my daughter, and may you make a great discovery in chemistry.' She saw the blueness was pockmarked and white
clouds drifted indifferently over it. She bowed her head and whispered: ‘Your hopes are disappointed, mother, and your pleas are dashed against a silent sky.'

She bit her lip. A great discovery in chemistry! What did her mother know about chemistry? What did she know about any discoveries? Fouada was her only daughter, she laid all her failed ambitions on to her and, unlike other mothers these days, did not think about marriage. Her ambitions were not of the ordinary female type. Before getting married, she had gone to school and perhaps read some stories or a novel about an educated girl who had become great, perhaps the story of Madame Curie or some other memorable woman. But one morning she had opened her eyes and had not found her school pinafore hanging up where she had left it the previous night, and heard her father's gruff voice saying: ‘You're not going to school.' She had run crying to her mother and asked her why. The reason was marriage. That was enough for her to hate him from the first glance and she continued to hate him until he died. After his death, while Fouada was still in secondary school, her mother had said, combing her soft black hair in front of the mirror and looking at her slender figure:

‘Your future lies in studying, my daughter. There's no use in men.'

Her mother hoped that Fouada would enter medical school, but her grade at the end of the secondary stage was too low.

Perhaps she hadn't studied enough or because in the history class she sat near the window and her eyes wandered to that tall tree laden with large red flowers, like a turban dusted with red copper powder. Sitting in the history lesson, she discovered she loved the colour of powdered red copper, that she loved chemistry and hated history. She could never remember the names of all the kings and rulers who had once governed Egypt; neither did she understand why the living should waste time on the deeds of the dead. Her father was dead and she had perhaps been a little happy when he died, although not for any particular reason; her father had been nothing particular in her life. He was simply a father, but she was happy, because she felt that her mother was happy. Some days later, she heard her say that he hadn't been much use. She was totally convinced of her words. Of what use had her father been.

She saw her father only on Fridays. Usually, he came home after she'd gone to sleep and left before she awoke and the house was quiet and clean, every day except Friday. Her father flooded the bathroom when he took a bath, soaked the living room when he left the bathroom, threw his dirty clothes everywhere, raised his gruff voice from time to time, coughed and spat a lot, and blew his nose loudly. His handkerchief was very large and always filthy. Her mother put it in boiling water and said to her: ‘That's to get rid of the germs.' At the time, Fouada did not know what ‘germs' meant, but she heard
the biology teacher say in one of the classes that germs were small, harmful things. That day, the teacher had asked the class: ‘Where are these things to be found, girls?' The class was silent and none of the girls raised her hand, but Fouada raised hers confidently and proudly. The teacher smiled at her courage and said gently: ‘Do you know where germs are found, Fouada?' Fouada got to her feet, head above the other girls, and said in a loud, confident voice, ‘Yes, miss. Germs are found in my father's handkerchief.'

* * *

Fouada found herself at home, in her bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the telephone. She had no idea how she had got there or how her legs had carried her on and off the bus at the right stops, how they had carried her from the bus stop to the house or how they had done all this of their own accord without her knowledge. But she gave this matter little thought as she did not suppose this to be a characteristic or distinction peculiar to her own legs. A donkey's legs did the same thing, quietly and silently.

She reached for the telephone, put a finger in the hole and dialled the familiar five numbers. She heard it ring, and leaned against the bedrest, preparing for a long reprimand. But the ringing went on. She looked at the clock. Midday. Farid did not leave the house before one or two. Was he reading in bed? There was a long passageway between the
bedroom and the study where the telephone was. Was he in the bathroom and could not hear the phone from behind the closed door? She looked up to the window and saw a branch of the eucalyptus tree playing against the pane. Trees, too, could play. The receiver was still pressed to her ear, the bell was still ringing loudly. Something occurred to her and she put the receiver down for a moment, then, lifting it, redialled the number, carefully ensuring that her finger followed the correct sequence. Immediately the dial stopped after the five turns the ringing pierced her ear like a missile. She pressed the receiver to her ear for a long time; long enough for someone to come out of the bathroom or awaken from sleep. Another idea occurred to her and she replaced the receiver for a moment, then lifted it and called the operator. She asked, was there a fault on the line? A moment later, a gentle voice replied:

‘The telephone is in order. It's ringing for you.'

The bell's brazen sound again filled her ear, sharp, loud and continuous. She hung up, leaned her head against the pillow and stared at the window.

Never before had she thought about her relationship with Farid; she had simply lived it. There was no room for both – either live it or think about it. Farid was always busy, spending hours with his books and papers, either writing or reading things, which he put away carefully in the drawer of his desk and locked with a key. He went out every evening and stayed
out late. Some nights he stayed away from home. She never asked him where he went, not wanting to take on the role of inquisitive wife, not wanting to take on the role of wife at all. She valued her freedom, her own room, her own bed, her own secrets, her own mistakes – they weren't really mistakes. Sometimes she loved to disappear and Farid did not know where she was. She delighted to hear words of admiration from a man's mouth, a delicious but never surprised delight, for she was sure something in her was worthy of admiration. But Farid was the centre of her life. Other days she swallowed like a dose of bitter medicine, then Tuesday would arrive in all its wondrous splendour. For on Tuesday she met Farid. Every Tuesday, at eight in the evening in that small restaurant when the weather was warm, or at his house on cold winter nights. How many winters had their relationship seen? She didn't know exactly, only that she had known Farid for a long, perhaps very long, time.