The Open Door Page 10

  “Important news.”

  Now Isam gazed at him fixedly. Mahmud put a trembling hand in his pocket and carefully withdrew a folded piece of white paper, opened it slowly, and lovingly passed his hand over the creases. He shifted it so that it lay in Isam’s line of sight. Isam stared at it as the spoon slipped from Layla’s grasp, clattering onto the edge of the plate. Isam shook his head as if unable to believe his eyes, grasped the page with both hands and brought it up to his eyes, and after a pause turned to Mahmud, stupefied. “What on earth is this?”

  Mahmud smiled confidently. “What do you think it is?”

  “It’s a schedule. A training schedule.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Whose is it?”

  Mahmud raised his head, eyes gleaming, and jabbed a trembling finger at his own chest. “Mine. My schedule.”

  “You signed up as a volunteer?”

  Mahmud nodded. “And I’ve already started training, too.”

  “Where?”

  “In the university training camp in al-Haram.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “Two weeks.”

  A knifelike panic sliced through Layla’s chest. He had already fixed everything—he had even set the date of departure. Mahmud would go; and he might . . . he might not return. Layla eased back her outstretched arm from the tabletop, gingerly, as if reluctant to let anyone see it move. Mahmud began to eat.

  “So what do you think?” he asked.

  “Weren’t you a little hasty? Wouldn’t it have been better to wait a bit until we see what develops there?”

  Mahmud stopped eating and clutched the table edge with both fists. He spoke without any hesitation, as if the answer to just such a question lay already prepared in his mind. “We’re the ones who will define what develops there, Isam—me, and you, and every Egyptian. Not anyone else.”

  Layla could not stop the shudder that passed through her like an electric shock; the sensation concentrated in her head so arrestingly that she thought her hair must be bristling. Her hand reached fumblingly across the table to touch Mahmud’s.

  “Congratulations, Mahmud. Congratulations.” Her voice was low, and she sounded as if she might choke.

  Isam looked grave as he slapped a slice of cheese onto a morsel of bread, arranging it to fit, then rearranging it. Mahmud was waiting, expecting more of a response, he knew. In earlier conversations, he had asserted that he, too, would go to the Canal. But he hadn’t known, had he, that Mahmud would be so precipitate! He had had no idea that Mahmud would even start his training and set a departure date! Surely one must wait and see, wait for events to unfold a bit first. At the moment, the whole business was akin to a suicide operation and it might bring ruin on the entire country.

  “But,” said Mahmud, “I’ll really miss Sitt Mama’s mulukhiya.”

  Layla seemed to be laughing and crying all at once. “We’ll send you the mulukhiya, Mahmud, mulukhiya on top of tirmis-beans, too!”

  The knife in Isam’s hand lay stock-still. The two of them were chattering as if no one else was in the room, as if he was not even there with them, sitting at the table beside his friend. And Layla—her eyes were on Mahmud. Not for a moment did they shift to look at him. Did she even know he was there? Perhaps she had expelled him from her range of vision. Dismissed him from her life. We are the ones who will define what develops there. You and me. Me . . . me.

  “I wish so much it were me,” Layla was saying. “I wish I could go with you, Mahmud.”

  Mahmud laughed. “Wait a bit, wait until all the men are finished off, then you ladies come.”

  The blood boiled in Isam’s veins. He was no less a man, no less inflamed by events, no less a nationalist or a patriot than Mahmud. It was Mahmud who had been so afraid in the 1946 demonstrations, while he had feared nothing at all. But anyway, he thought, this isn’t a question of who is a man, who is a patriot. It’s a question of who is being reasonable and who is acting rashly.

  Layla leaned forward over the table and whispered, with a glance round. “But the important thing is not to let Mama or Papa know. If they knew—”

  “I know,” broke in Mahmud. “I know they’ll give me a hard time.”

  Layla shook her head dubiously. “They won’t understand. They won’t be able to understand.” A strain of sarcasm crept into her voice. “They’ll say, ‘Be reasonable. Use your mind. Wait until you see what happens . . . .’”

  Isam looked fixedly at the door, wishing he could escape. No. There was no place for him here; the two of them were far, far away, and he was alone. He might as well be standing in a forlorn desert waste, he thought glumly.

  “You think that’s all they’ll say!” Mahmud was chuckling. “Tomorrow they’ll be spouting their proverbs and all those cherished words of wisdom they’ve got.”

  Layla nodded, suppressing her laughter. “Close the door from whence the wind comes . . . .”

  “And rest.”

  She and Mahmud began batting proverbs back and forth with histrionic enjoyment. “In caution there’s safety,” intoned Layla, her voice deep.

  “And in speed, regret.”

  “A little snooze and siesta—”

  “Are better than carousing.”

  “If a cur has one on you—”

  “Call him ‘Master.’”

  “The bird whose feathers you clip—”

  “Won’t be able to fly.” They collapsed into giggles like two six-year-olds. Layla dug out her handkerchief and swiped at a tear on her cheek. When her eyes met Isam’s she looked stunned, as if she had completely forgotten his presence at the table, and quickly turned her face away. No—she would not look at him, she would not beg. Love does not beg, she thought sternly. Love for Egypt does not demand that. If it does not come from the heart there is no point in it. No point at all. She wiped her eyes and addressed Mahmud.

  “Fine, then—but Papa?”

  “Papa will scowl, and frown, and wave his hands around, and he’ll say—” Layla finished Mahmud’s sentence for him, deepening her voice, her theatrical movements exuberant, her pronunciation hilariously clipped. “I know—‘This to-do will gen-er-ate only de-e-struction. De-e-estruction, that’s all. De-e-estruction and ru-u-in.’”

  Isam started laughing in spite of himself and then could not stop. He laughed so hard that he collapsed onto the tabletop. When he was able to straighten his wobbly head and his heaving chest, he discovered that a pleasurable stillness seemed to have engulfed him, giving him more confidence, too. He fixed his gaze on Mahmud and spoke calmly. “I wonder if it’s too late to travel with the same group you’re in?” This time he was careful to avoid Layla’s glances, though he could sense that she was looking at him. This was his decision, his alone. She had no part in it, and she must be made to understand that perfectly.

  As Isam left, Layla ran after him.

  “Where are you going?” asked Mahmud. She stammered, “Isam, uh, forgot his pen.” She ran after him out onto the stairs and called his name. Already halfway up the staircase, he turned to face her. “The pen! Your pen—you forgot it,” she said too loudly, her hand seesawing in a gesture he could not fathom. He felt for his pen; there it was, of course. Layla whispered.

  “The piece of paper.”

  Isam flipped his palm up inquiringly. Layla whispered again, fiercely. “The piece of paper in your agenda!” With a sudden smile of recognition, he nodded. How amazing that she had rushed out after him! He came down the stairs slowly, looking her in the eye all the while, and handed her his agenda. He started back up the stairs, step after step; she stayed where she was, waiting. He whirled around. He hurried down the stairs, reached out a hand, fumbling, and ran his palm along her cheek and through her hair, ruffling it. He went leaping up the stairs, out of breath, home.

  Chapter Six

  IT RUSHES FORTH, A CLEAR, bubbling spring. The bogs, though, have done their best to block its passage. Intent on sucking that lovely running water dry, they try to
absorb it into themselves, to consume it completely, to transform it with their sluggishness into a stagnant pond. The spring is still young, nevertheless, buoyant with life, excitable, and deep; and the bogs are ancient, sedimented over their many years of existence, crouching in quiet defiance across the land of Egypt. Confident that their stagnation speaks of calm strength, the dark-green surfaces glint under the sun’s rays.

  But beneath that glittering surface lies the swirled mud, ready to dam the spring’s flow. The bubbling, ebullient water slowly carves a bed from the resistant mud, losing some of its crystal swells to the voracious throat of the sodden earth, but pounding on, roiling, alive, molding its destination. Yet there, at the end of its way, sits a dam of solid rock.

  The bogs lie in sure wait, chiding the stream. There is nothing to be gained by pushing on, young friend, no use in rushing ahead. The stagnant stillness of those glinting patches speaks for itself: quietude is partner to good judgment. The brackish surface glistens; the bogs wink beneath the rays of the sun.

  Mahmud and Isam announced their decision to the two families the evening before they were to travel. Each one had to face his own family before he could face the enemy. The manner in which their news was received differed according to the style in which each family conducted itself, but it was a divergence more apparent than real. For in essence their styles were one, infinitely multipliable depending on the needs of the moment: an appeal to reason and careful deliberation; a stern invitation to avoid foolishness or any manner of hasty behavior; and finally a bid to end such impetuous action, such a snap decision—now by threat, now through appeal to a man’s emotions.

  In the home of Muhammad Effendi Sulayman the two families came together in a bloc to face the peril. On the settee sat the two sisters, Saniya Hanim and Samira Hanim, indistinguishable for their equally wan demeanors. On a chair to their right perched Sulayman Effendi, and to their left sat Gamila. Facing them on the opposite settee were Isam and Mahmud, and hovering behind them in the space between settee and window stood Layla.

  The news had shaken the two sisters, so fearful of losing their only sons. Paralyzed to the core by her dread, Samira Hanim could not dispel the tormenting fever that gnawed at her head. How? How could Isam have deceived her? He had never concealed anything from her; then how had he hidden this news so completely for so many days? Samira Hanim felt exactly like a beloved and loving wife who, with the sudden discovery of her husband’s infidelity, is benumbed by the shock. Stripped of her usual skill—of her array of weapons—she could not but resort to her sister, who had immediately placed the entire burden on the shoulders of her husband. For Sulayman Effendi was smarter and wiser, Saniya thought in relief, more able to resolve such a situation, the like of which her family had never witnessed.

  Sulayman Effendi crossed one leg over the other with great deliberation. He told Mahmud and Isam that he would make no attempt to force them to withdraw their decision. They must have the first and last word in that. He wanted simply to discuss the matter. To talk about it as one man to other men. Calmly, reflectively. With intelligence and wisdom. He was no less patriotic than were they, after all; but he had the benefit of more years and greater wisdom; he had a broader understanding of the way things truly were. He did not rush blindly after his emotions as they did, but rather contemplated them with his rational intelligence. And his mind told him that the government was not seriously committed to its position. The army, for example—it had not taken part in the battle. And there were turncoat elements throughout the Palace administration, throughout the parties, and within the government itself. Spies—Egyptian spies—saturated the Canal Zone. Provisions were smuggled to the British troops in full view of the government, and since this had become a focus of public discussion, the government could not possibly be unaware of it. What did they think any amount of courage and heroism could accomplish when weighed against such factors? What could a handful of volunteer fighters possibly achieve, facing a British army lavishly stocked with the latest thing in armaments?

  No, indeed. It was a situation that made him despair. It would bring ruin, he declared, ruin alone, on the country. If there were any hope, he would have been the first to encourage them to go. In fact he would have joined them in person, if he were accepted into the commandos’ ranks. But there was no point in rushing into this. There was no rationale for such impetuous behavior.

  For their part, Isam and Mahmud were mesmerized by the serene voice, the unruffled, composed features, and the judicious logic of Sulayman Effendi. They dove trustingly into the discussion—man to man—each taking up one of Sulayman Effendi’s arguments and rebutting it in turn. The popular wave of volunteer activity was more than sufficient to force the government to take decisive measures; if it did not, it would surely fall. The same crest of popular action was enough to reduce the King to silence and wipe out the treasonous elements. Moreover, the struggle would not long remain limited to a handful of guerillas. Little by little it would spread, growing until it comprised the army and the people, all of them. Army officers had threatened to resign—yes, they really had. They would join the commandos, they said, if the army did not join battle.

  Sulayman Effendi’s voice assumed a new timbre, the honeyed tone vanishing as portents of anger reshaped his features. Mahmud and Isam now detected that they had been deceived. The discussion had not been an innocent or disinterested one as had been claimed, but rather was a veiled attempt to prevent them from traveling. And so Sulayman Effendi was obliged to come out in the open. He shifted the discussion to the purely personal aspects of the issue; there was a new edge to his voice. Only Mahmud answered him now.

  “Why the two of you?”

  “Why not us?”

  “Why my son? Why precisely mine, not the children of other people?”

  “What if everyone forbade his children to go and so no one went at all?”

  “And your studies?”

  “They can wait.”

  “Of course—what do you care? Your father works to the bone and sweats and perseveres so that your Excellency can become a full human being—”

  “There are many things more important than education.”

  “And what are they?”

  “What is the point of becoming educated if one remains a slave?”

  “Here’s your father, alive and well and getting on just fine, and your grandfather before him—are they slaves?”

  Mahmud lost his self-control, and his voice was as cutting as his father’s. “Yes, of course—of course they were slaves. Every soul who fails to struggle and fight in order to liberate himself from imperialism is a slave.”

  His father’s face flushed blood-red. He rose to his feet and began flinging epithets at Mahmud—he was a good-for-nothing, he was an insolent cur, he was badly brought up. Then his tone turned to sarcasm.

  “Your honor thinks of himself as a hero—right?”

  “I’m not a hero, I’m a man. A man who is defending his freedom.”

  “You’re no man. You’re a child—a child they’ve fooled.”

  “Nobody has fooled me.”

  “You’re a sacrificial lamb, just a dumb beast to be slaughtered by the government, so it can convince people it’s a nationalist, patriotic government.”

  “I don’t care what the government’s aim is. What concerns me is my own goal, and the people’s.”

  “The people! Will you be serving the people when you fall there, on the first day? When you fall down dead?” His father was barely able to hold back tears, and a wail rose from the vicinity of Saniya Hanim and Samira Hanim. Mahmud averted his face so that no one would make out how deeply this affected him, and fixed his eyes on a distant, mythical horizon as he spoke.

  “I know that. I know, and I’m prepared for that possibility.”

  Layla turned to stare out of the window. Her father, maddened by his rage, was screaming. “Of course it doesn’t concern you. What does concern you? You will die a hero, and your
mother and father will be destroyed, and so will your sister.” Mahmud’s face went ashen and a layer of tears welled up over his eyes. His voice dropped to a tone of entreaty. “Please, I beg you, please try to understand. I beg you, Papa, try to understand that I have to go, I can’t not go.”

  His father shook his head, too overwhelmed by his despair to speak, and stalked to the door. There he turned around, his face stiff and still. “If you do go, then you are no longer my son and I do not know you. You may not cross the threshold of this house again.” His lips trembled. “If, that is, you return at all.” And he went rapidly to his room.

  *

  Umm Mahmud walked over to her son. She stood for a moment, silent, leaning toward him, her hands planted on the round table that separated the two of them.

  “Use your brain, for my sake. For the sake of your poor mother.” Mahmud’s face went hard and still as he looked the other way. She turned to Isam in supplication.

  “You’ve always been sensible, Isam, dear. Make him see sense, son.”

  Isam brushed his hand across his face. His own mother was fixing him with her gaze, her face deathly pale. Her mind was spinning. Impossible—it was simply not possible that Isam would go. Anyone, everyone, but not Isam, her son, her beloved, her man. She could not live without him—not for a day, nor a single hour. What could she do? How could she stop him?

  Umm Mahmud was pressing Isam again. “Why aren’t you answering, Isam? Talk, son.”

  He would not look at her. “What am I supposed to say, Aunt?”

  Her arms dropped limply to her sides. “Make that madman see sense.” To judge by her voice, Mahmud’s mother no longer had much hope in anything; perhaps she said the sentence merely because it had formed in her mind.

  Samira Hanim laughed bitterly. “So is there any sense left in Isam? I think Mahmud has sent it all flying out of him. Mahmud brings such blessings.”