The Open Door Page 11

  The blood darkened in Umm Mahmud’s face as she turned to her sister. “I know—you always put the blame on Mahmud.”

  “Isam’s always been sensible. Your son is the one who’s been wild all his life.”

  Mahmud turned to Layla, behind him, and smiled. Isam stood up and walked slowly toward where his mother sat. He stood before her, his feet planted apart, his voice shaking with anger. “I’m not a child, and Mahmud has no control over my mind—do you understand?” He was fighting to control his voice, trying to modulate it. “And you had better understand, as well, that I am leaving tomorrow. Whatever you do.” His mother raised her face to him. He lost the battle to contain his voice; now he was almost screaming. “I’m going, I am going. Understand?”

  His mother jumped to her feet and threw herself onto him, clinging in a mad embrace. “I can’t . . . Isam, I can’t, I just—” Her mouth was contorted, her tongue moving, but as if she had lost the ability to pronounce words. Isam averted his face and gently tried to disengage himself from her arms, but they clung to him all the harder, bracelets made of steel. Roughly, he freed himself and backed away. Umm Isam dropped her head and hid her face in her hands. Gamila ran to her, embracing her from behind, crying. “Shame on you, Isam, for shame!” Her wailing was the only sound to disturb a long spell of silence.

  Isam’s mother raised her head but her hands still covered her face. Erect, she dropped her hands. Her face was transformed. Those soft features had hardened into a stern rigidity, the worried eyes had settled, unblinking, and the customary soft droop of her mouth had vanished into a razored line. She stared at Isam, as if sizing him up.

  “So that’s it, Isam?—your final decision?”

  He nodded without speaking. Isam’s mother disengaged herself from Gamila’s arms forcibly and rushed toward the window. For a moment, everyone in the room was too stunned by their terror to move, though Gamila’s shriek resounded through the apartment. Then Layla careened over to her aunt as the woman was clambering onto the window frame. Layla gripped her shoulders.

  “Leave me alone, all of you,” shouted her aunt. “Let me die by myself, I don’t want to live.”

  Isam had followed Layla. He pushed her to one side, yanked his mother down from the window and dragged her back into the room by her shoulders. He pulled her around to face him, bringing her face close to his, and narrowed his eyes on hers. After a few seconds she closed her eyes; the blood seemed to be pumping into her face again, and her muscles relaxed. She returned to the center of the room, her step light and her head high, her face tranquil. Gamila grasped her mother by the arm and said to Isam, “Come on, let’s go home.”

  Isam followed his mother and Gamila out the door.

  At eleven o’clock that night, Mahmud was packing his things when the maid brought him a folded note from Isam. After reading it he tossed it to Layla, who sat on the edge of his bed. “Have a look, ya sitti.”

  Layla read.

  My mother has been in a faint for three hours. I sent for the doctor but he has not yet arrived. Mahmud, what can I do? I cannot possibly leave my mother when she is in this state, and after all she has done for my sake and Gamila’s. It is not possible, Mahmud. You understand, don’t you? When she improves I’ll do my best to join you. Go in peace; my heart is with you—with all of you.

  Isam Hamdi.

  Mahmud flung a woolen undervest into his suitcase. “So what are we supposed to do with his heart? What good will that do us?”

  Layla wasn’t listening, and her eyes held a vacant look. Abruptly, she focused on Mahmud as he perched next to his suitcase. “Mahmud, do you think Aunt Samira is really and truly ill?”

  Mahmud stared at her dully for only a moment before he bolted from the bed, his pupils dilating. “No—can’t be! That’s crazy.”

  Layla hid her smile and nodded. Her narrowed eyes gave her a cunning look, as Mahmud came nearer. “Are you trying to say that she’s playacting?”

  Layla shrugged, and laughed bitterly. “Why wouldn’t she act? Did she do a poor job pretending to commit suicide?” Mahmud stopped brusquely, dumbfounded. Layla’s bell-like laugh came again. “Mahmud, do you have any inkling of what she did when I came up and tried to pull her back as she was throwing herself at the window?

  “What? Layla, what did she do?”

  Throwing back her head, Layla mimed what had happened, speaking in a faint voice as if talking only to herself. “She winked at me and pinched my hand.”

  Mahmud looked bewildered. Layla just laughed. “See—exactly as if she were telling me, ‘Don’t worry, it’s just playacting.’”

  Mahmud slapped his palms together and Layla saw in her mind an image of her mother, seated in the front room. “My sister Samira is very clever. She knows exactly how to keep her children tucked under her wing.”

  Dawn. Their mother sat in the front hall, facing the door, silent, grayish, stiff. Across from her sat Layla. Mahmud was bent over his suitcase, trying to close it. A light knock sounded on the door. Mahmud straightened and went to answer. It was Isam, in his bathrobe. Mahmud relaxed visibly, looking pleased to see him. The presence of Isam—of anyone outside their little family—would make the ordeal of saying goodbye easier to handle, simpler and quicker to say.

  His mother’s eyes rolled. “Isam isn’t going?” Her voice was flat and lifeless. Isam’s was apologetic. “What can I do, aunt? Mama is ill, very ill.”

  Mahmud’s mother broke down crying, trying to suppress her sobs to keep their echo from reaching their father, who had shut himself into his room. Layla stood up and went over to her mother, patting her shoulder softly as she spoke. “It’s all right, Mama—anyway, it’s not like Isam was going to be keeping guard over him.”

  “But why him?” wailed her mother faintly. “Why him, going all on his own?” Mahmud let out an exasperated sigh, and it was Layla who answered her mother, avoiding Isam’s eyes. “When Aunt Samira gets better, Isam will go.” From her mother’s gesture it was clear that she did not believe Layla, but she subsided again into silence, only shaking her head now and then. Isam looked at her, startled, having just realized that she had not inquired about his mother—her own sister—even though he had declared that she was very sick.

  With Isam’s help, Mahmud finally managed to close his suitcase. He stood up, already grasping the handle. This paleness suited Mahmud’s face, Layla could not help thinking; and, wearing his military uniform, he already looked more dignified. But in fact what showed on Mahmud’s face was confusion; the case thudded to the floor as he ambled over to his mother awkwardly and kissed her on the forehead. He turned to leave but then went back to her and seized both her hands, bringing them to his mouth and kissing them with warmth. Her tears ran unchecked as he straightened and went over to Layla. He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her, and then hurried to the door, suitcase in hand. Layla ran after him onto the stairs. He turned round to face her and shook his head.

  “Layla, no. I don’t want you, of all people, to start crying.”

  She wiped tears off her face with her sleeve. “I’m not crying, Mahmud. I’m not crying.”

  “Do you understand, Layla? You do, don’t you? You know why I’m going?”

  Layla nodded, her face clearer, her eyes glistening.

  “Knowing there’s someone who understands, someone dear to me, will make me feel a lot better.”

  Layla smiled. “I understand, Mahmud, and tomorrow, all of them will. Goodbye, and be careful.”

  Mahmud set his bag down, hugged Layla, gave her a kiss, and started down the stairs a second time.

  “We’ll be waiting for you!” shouted Layla after him. “We’re waiting for you to come back, Mahmud.”

  She heard Isam’s voice somewhere behind her. “Goodbye. So long, Mahmud.”

  Without looking back, Mahmud raised his hand in a wave that embraced them both. Isam stepped back to let Layla pass in front of him, and started to follow her into the apartment. Once inside, Layla turn
ed to face him; he was still outside the door. She put her hand on the door to shut it, as if preventing him from coming in.

  “I’d like to come in and see Aunt Saniya.”

  Layla shook her head wordlessly. She saw Isam’s face change.

  “Not right now, Isam. Not now. Go on upstairs to your mother.” She closed the door, Isam still standing there in front of it. She stood there for a moment, her face against the door, listening to Isam’s steps receding slowly, up the stairs. He had disappointed her, failed her. Failed her?—how could that be? But he had. There was no doubt about it.

  Her mother’s wail rose, a hammer pounding inside her head, threatening to destroy her with its incessant knocking, and leaving her utterly incapable of thought.

  Chapter Seven

  LAYLA BEGAN TO KEEP THE mailbox under tight surveillance—on her way to school, on her way home, as the usual mail delivery time approached, and also when it was not even close. Her life had come to center on that inconspicuous wooden box. For Mahmud’s letters never failed to send a tremor through her—a prolonged shiver of pride and affection.

  He wrote to her twice a week, and sometimes three times. As she read his letters she felt as if he were sitting across from her in his room, recounting everything. In her mind’s eye she could envision his eyes, widening now and then as if they were open onto a new world in which all was beautiful and stunningly impressive—people, events, new experiences, thoughts he had never before had, new friends.

  One friend in particular seemed to have bewitched her brother, for he wrote about this companion in every letter. It was as if Husayn Amir was the very piper who had led Mahmud into this enchanting new world with his flute. Now Mahmud strode there, reacting keenly to each new encounter, each fresh idea.

  “This morning, for the first time,” he wrote, “I detonated a bomb. The first fire bomb into a British camp. I just stood there, far enough away to be safe, watching the outcome of what I had done. When I saw the fire flare up inside the camp I felt like a lighted firebrand was filling my heart—or perhaps filling all of me.”

  In another letter he said: “I have grown up, Layla. I have truly grown up now. I don’t think I was even close to becoming an adult until after I came to the Canal Zone.”

  “I’m really living,” came in still another. “I am so alive, Layla—do you understand what I’m saying, my dear? I feel more alive every hour, touched by everything, every hour and minute of my life. When I was back in Cairo, I considered myself alive. But now, after my latest experience, I realize that I was mistaken. Stasis is death, not life. You ask me if I’m not afraid? Of course I was afraid, at first. Fear is what gives the struggle its savor. You go forward, feeling fear, for sure, but also sensing some strength grander than yourself, greater than your fear, a force that pushes you on and makes you do what you have to do. It keeps you steady and precise all of the time. And when it is all over you feel so refreshed, because you realize that you have prevailed over yourself, over your weakness as just one puny person. Time after time, a person is liberated from the selfishness that governs everything in our lives. You feel like you are one in a collective, that your life is significant as long as you are serving this collective, and that if you were to lose your life the world would not stop turning. To the contrary—others will continue the work you start, the work for the sake of which you might lose your life. And at that point one is freed of one’s fear, liberated from one’s concentration on ‘me.’”

  “Layla, I’m starting to go mad. I haven’t been able to find a single chance to work things out with you. What’s going on? Aren’t you going to explain anything to me?”

  They were standing in Cicurel, between the main door and the elevator, waiting for Gamila and her mother to finish paying at the caisse. It was the first day of the sale, and the swinging glass door did not pause once.

  Layla did not answer. Isam spoke again, this time in a whisper. “Layla, what is it? Don’t you love me?”

  A heavily made-up elderly lady came through the door. Layla focused her gaze on the glass as it swung behind the woman, the reflection of the neon breaking on it. “I believe you know perfectly well, Isam.”

  “I don’t know anything, and frankly, it is driving me mad. Are you angry because I didn’t go with Mahmud?”

  Layla studied Isam, loaded down with packages.

  “Why would I be angry at you? Did I try to force you to go?”

  “Well, then, why have you changed? Why do you act so differently toward me?”

  The elevator doors opened wide and a crowd spilled out, moving toward the door that led outside. Layla watched them. “I haven’t changed at all.”

  “Not true. You’re not your usual self.”

  Layla faced him. “What do you want me to do? Sing? Dance? When my brother is off fighting?” Her voice was rough.

  “You don’t love me,” said Isam dejectedly. “You don’t love me even the tiniest bit.”

  Layla opened her mouth to say something, but people thrust themselves between the two of them and the crush forced Isam to step back; it was all he could do to maintain his balance as he clutched the purchases that weighed him down. A man in a gray suit spoke to his wife, who was setting a hat with a large feather in it on her head. “They cheated us! That isn’t the real thing, that cloth—it’s just a cheap imitation.” Two women hugging their new belongings to themselves, expressions of triumph sketched on their faces, pushed him from his path.

  “It’s just a cheap imitation,” the gray-suited man muttered again, his voice swallowed in the welter of other voices.

  “What a buy! It’s the chance of a lifetime!” This was a woman in a black gown. “What about that woman in pink who wanted to snatch it from you!” another voice answered. The woman in black laughed. “I would have killed her.”

  “Just not the real thing, that cloth. Cheap imitation.” His wife was straightening the feathered hat on her head. “Shh, don’t make such a fuss,” she said. “I saw the label with my own eyes, it’s the real thing, from England.”

  “Oof, I felt like I was going to suffocate,” a young woman with a swan neck and arched eyebrows grumbled to another young woman who was with her. “This is no sale, dear, this is war! We’re the real guerillas in the struggle!”

  Her companion laughed. Layla jumped when her aunt came up suddenly from behind, clapped her hand on Layla’s shoulder, and spoke. “Fess up, Layla—don’t you think we did well with all of these bargains?”

  As his mother and Gamila finished their shopping, Isam did not drop his glance from Layla once. In fact, his eyes were fixed on her as if pulled that way by an invisible cord. Layla noticed the accusing look in his eyes, the mutely wounded expression. What had happened to Isam? Had he really gone mad? Where had all of that calm reason and self-possession gone? Didn’t he understand that his mother was with them, and so was Gamila?

  Samira flagged down a taxi for the trip home. She sat in back with Gamila, heaps of purchases between them. In the wide car’s front seat sat Layla and Isam. Isam shifted closer to Layla; now his thigh was pressed against hers. His breaths slapped her cheek, heavy and fast, and he put out his hand to hold hers gently. She tried to pull her hand from his grasp but his hold grew fiercer. She tried to draw her hand out slowly and his hold became stronger still. She bit back a yelp of pain. Tears came to Isam’s eyes and his grip loosened. He took a pen and pad of paper from his pocket. He scrawled some words and let the bit of paper fall into the pocket of her overcoat.

  He stood paying the fare. Layla said goodbye to her aunt and rushed in bewilderment into her family’s apartment. In the living room she read what Isam had written.

  “I beg you, my love, don’t leave me. I beg you not to leave me.”

  Her hand shook as she returned the paper to her pocket. Her hand was still shaking when she pressed it on the doorbell to Isam’s apartment.

  *

  Gamila opened the door.

  “Oh good, here’s Layla. C
ome in, ya sitti, come and help us solve this problem.” Layla followed Gamila to her mother’s room. On the bed sat Samira Hanim. Lengths of cloth were spread out before her, a spattered sea of bright and clashing colors. Hardly did Layla’s eyes settle on one hue before they were pulled to another. Her eyesight was overpowered.

  “I am so glad that you came up, my dear,” said her aunt. As Layla came nearer, Samira Hanim pointed to the patterns arranged along the edge of the bed.

  “Here is the cloth. There are the patterns. Now you decide what goes with what.”

  “I think the red lace does best for this draped dress,” said Gamila. “What do you think, Layla?” But Samira Hanim gave Layla no chance to speak. “No, Gamila. The red lace absolutely has to be sewn up into a simple gown. Drapee in lace? No, that needs chiffon. Or what do you say we do the drapee in that chiffon?”

  “What chiffon?”

  “That one—the color of a pistachio nut when you break it open.”

  Gamila scampered over to her mother, her mouth puckered. “Mama, you are so incredible! It’ll be out of this world!”

  Layla threw an anxious glance at the door. Gamila’s face fell, and she straightened, facing her mother and pointing. “But on one condition, Mama. Not for the engagement party.”

  “But it will be absolutely beautiful, sweetheart. Real chiffon—superb!”

  Gamila’s shoulders jerked upward. She looked as though she would burst into sobs, and indeed she sounded tearful. “No, Mama! How can you? I told you I want Gibere lace for the engagement!”

  “Honey, I’ll get the Gibere for you! But that’s for when we write the marriage contract, for that party, not the engagement.”

  The tears coursed down Gamila’s cheeks now. She could barely speak, her voice choked by sobs. “Fine, okay. Okay, Mama. I don’t want to get married anyway. That’s it.” She dragged herself to the door. Her mother got up and hurried after her, her arms wide open.

  “Honey! Why upset yourself so? Okay, then, I’ll get whatever you want. What color do you want the lace to be?”