The Open Door Read online

  But it would not be easy to convince Isam of this. He could not get it into his head that from the very day on which every baby is born—boy or girl—the family has its plan already sketched out. And one has to follow through. If you do, you enjoy the love, affection, and accord of the family. But if you do not, thought Layla, if you contravene that design and violate the family’s principles, the family will strike you down, as her father had done when she joined that demonstration. The family would withhold its love, as her father had done to Mahmud when he went to the Canal Zone front. Indeed, the family might go so far as to kill its offspring, as had happened to Safaa.

  Isam protested and accused her of simply parroting Mahmud. He told her that he would prove this to be nonsense. He was so sure of his mother’s love for him; he was entirely confident that she would only want for him what he wanted for himself.

  Well, then, did his mother love Gamila, too, or was this love restricted to him? Of course she loved Gamila. Then why did she want for Gamila something that Gamila did not want for herself? Gamila had known whom she wanted to marry, but her mother had married her off to someone else. At that point Isam, thunderstruck, demanded to know whom this person was? It was their neighbor, Mamduh, who loved Gamila. And Gamila had had a liking for him. He had asked Gamila’s mother for her hand. No, he had not known, he’d had no idea! Why had his mother refused? Wasn’t Mamduh an excellent young fellow, and an accountant in a respected company to boot? Why, the future was wide open before him!

  Yes indeed, Mamduh was a fine young man, and his future looked promising. But he would never own a villa on the Pyramids Road, nor a Ford sedan. He would never be able to buy his wife a solitaire, or to pay the kind of dowry that Gamila’s bridegroom had paid—a bridegroom who couldn’t even make out a single written sentence if it were shoved under his nose!

  But how could it be? How could he have lacked the slightest inkling of this? Why had his mother concealed these things from him? Well, it was natural that he not know, and that his mother hide it all from him, for perhaps he would have interfered and spoiled the plan that was all drawn up for Gamila.

  No. It was not easy at all to persuade Isam of the necessity of waiting until he had graduated, and had developed some independence from his mother, if the matter demanded as much. He resisted; for if he were convinced of her reasoning it would demolish the only solution he had found to resolve the crisis he was trying so hard to surmount.

  But the signs that this solution would so likely fail were too many and too clear to ignore. He had to let himself be persuaded, and he did. And then that stubbornly menacing look returned to his eyes, where Layla constantly faced it. She saw it as well in her mother’s glances, those confused, embarrassed glances, and also in the mirror. In the mirror in her own room, as she was trying on her white dress, with her aunt making the final adjustments. And in the mirror at the beauty salon, as she had her hair done—that glass also reflected his determined and threatening gaze. And then, the same evening, in the mirror in Aunt Samira’s room, Layla saw that look again. It was the evening of Gamila’s engagement.

  She felt good that evening, in her white dress, as bright a white as the full moon that peered through the slits in the tent erected on the roof in preparation to celebrate the engagement’s announcement. She toyed with the folds of her dress, the delicate, massed pleats, as the servants removed plates from the tables and a band took its place on the platform to play.

  “Your dress is so pretty, Layla,” said Sanaa. “You know what you look like? An angel.”

  Adila touched her mouth delicately with a napkin. Sketching circles in the air with her hand, she gestured at the curves in Layla’s body. “All that, an angel? That’s pretty curvaceous for an angel.”

  Layla laughed as Sanaa protested. “But her face, really, isn’t her face just like an innocent baby!”

  Layla caught sight of her father on his way out, now that dinner was over. He had informed her aunt that he would attend out of respect for her. But he could not under any circumstances stay through to the end of the party. He could not observe the forbidden things that God had prohibited.

  Gamila moved among the tables, greeting the guests. Her black-suited fiancé followed close behind, the large gold watch bouncing over his belly, suspended on a gold chain with the thickness of manacles. Gamila was stunning in her lacy gown, thick with panels like the leaves on a fecund tree, the tips worked in tiny white pearls that shone in the lights that twinkled from the roof of the tent. She was a gorgeous sight—her long, pale neck and abundant black hair, swirled along her temples and swept upward to show her small ears; her shining eyes like crystalline pools, just like her brother’s eyes.

  “That handsome fellow must be in love with you, Layla,” said Adila, leaning toward her friend across the table. Layla turned toward her. She had been observing her mother, who sat hunched and small, next to Dawlat Hanim; she seemed almost lifeless, which was her usual state now that Mahmud had gone.

  “Who?”

  “Isam, Gamila’s brother. His eyes never leave you.”

  “You’re terrible!” said Layla, trying to suppress her smile. Adila’s long neck and large black eyes craned toward her.

  “Then what do you think it is? I pick these things up pretty easily, you know.”

  It was Sanaa, though, who was always fishing for the next love story. “Is it really true, Layla, is he in love with you? Now tell the truth, girl, on the Prophet’s honor!”

  Layla was silent. Seeing Sidqi, Samia Hanim’s son, she waved.

  “So you’re going to play it cool with us then? That guy isn’t just interested in you—he looks like he wants to eat you up!”

  Layla stood up, laughing. “I’ll be back in a minute, I’m going to speak to Mama, she’s been trying to wave me over forever.” She made her way amongst the tables, heading toward where her mother sat. Several guests smiled at her and she returned their smiles, noticing the looks of admiration that came her way. A woman she did not know grabbed her hand and pulled her over to give her a hug. “My stars, what a sweetheart you are! Whose your mama, remind me, dear?”

  She resumed her way with a light tread, hardly sensing the floor. The thin, white folds of her dress spread like the wings of a bird, parting, closing, and opening again.

  “Come here, sweetie pie,” called out Dawlat Hanim. “Come over and show me! Now, anyone who’s got on such a pretty dress—shouldn’t she show it off to folks?”

  Layla laughed, a series of little trills. She wished she could just go on laughing, for no particular reason.

  “Are you going to sit over there, plastered to your chair, all evening?” exclaimed her mother softly. “Move about a little, greet people—they’re all from the family.”

  Layla recognized immediately that Dawlat Hanim and her mother wanted to present her to the guests; perhaps sitting among all these people was a suitable husband-to-be. She did not feel at all irritated. She laughed again, a stream of bubbling little sounds, and began her rounds at Samia Hanim’s table. She had every intention of going on to all of the other tables, but a sudden desire propelled her in a different direction. She was like a kitten searching for warmth. She wanted someone to cuddle and tease her, to pat her on the shoulder, to rub her hair, to repeat that she was pretty. She headed toward Isam, standing near the tent opening that led to the stairs from the roof, speaking to one of the servers. Layla put out her hand. When she laid it on his shoulder he turned to face her. Her eyes were a gay, flippant gleam, and her lips were parted in a half-suppressed smile. She seemed to shimmer—where did it come from? The glimmer ran from her lips, from her face and body to Isam; it settled in the space between them, a gaze that remained incomplete, a touch that was not quite there, sentences that had no periods. The light cocooned them, a single image, apart from all around them.

  “Come, let’s go outside for a few minutes,” he murmured, his voice thick. He turned, Layla made as if to follow, and the perfect harmony of their
image was broken. Isam collided with his mother as she entered the tent, having filled her obligation to serve food to the waiters and drivers.

  “Isam! The dancer, she is absolutely insisting on sixteen pounds. Even though she and Ali Bey already agreed on ten. Go down and see what the problem is.”

  “Ali Bey can go down, sitti.” Isam could not keep the irritation out of his voice.

  “Please, just this once, love, for my sake. Tell her twelve. Because I said not a millieme more, and I don’t like to go back on what I’ve said.” She patted Layla on the shoulder and disappeared into the tent. Isam looked at Layla. “Come with me.”

  He knew that now she would not. The beam of light had gone from her face and body. She shrugged playfully, the teasing look still in her eyes. Isam stopped, his shoulder to hers, and whispered without looking at her. “Do you know what I’ll do if you don’t come with me?”

  “What?” She was looking into the distance.

  “I’ll kiss you right in front of all these people.”

  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “If you’re clever enough.”

  Isam turned to face her, his eyes fixed on the deep shadow between her breasts, visible at the neckline of her dress. Layla blushed.

  “Isam, don’t look at me like that. Everybody can see us.”

  He gave his head a shake. “You look beautiful today, very beautiful, my love.” He turned and almost ran out of the tent.

  As Layla strode toward Adila and Sana, Sidqi stopped her.

  “What? Not even a bonsoir? Fine, so we don’t even know each other, is that it?”

  Layla shook Sidqi’s hand, smiling in embarrassment. She noticed the playful admiration in his eyes.

  “Will you allow me to say something to you?” he asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  “You are overpowering today.”

  Layla laughed and her face went rosy. She angled her head. “Overpowering? Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, fatale. And that’s haram, too.”

  Layla gave him a sidelong glance, letting a restrained smile show, and walked away.

  “Now who’s that one?” asked Adila.

  “That’s Sidqi—Sidqi al-Maghrabi, Samia Hanim’s son.”

  “Wow, he sure is a dish,” said Sanaa. “He looks just like Gregory Peck. Why don’t you marry him, Layla?”

  “He wouldn’t marry her,” declared Adila.

  Layla bristled. “As if I want to marry him?”

  “What, is Layla such a bad choice?” asked Sanaa. “It’s obvious he thinks she’s pretty wonderful.”

  Layla laughed. “That’s right, Sanaa, and mules get pregnant, too.”

  “Even if he has fallen for her,” said Adila. “Fine, he goes with her for awhile, no problem, but marry her? No. There is something called a class system, remember?”

  Layla looked at her in amazed admiration. “You really know what you’re talking about, Adila. Listen, one time he said to me—”

  “Shh!” said Sanaa. Layla sensed a man’s hands coming to rest on her bare shoulders. She stopped talking, her body rigid. She turned her head. Sidqi’s eyes were staring brazenly and confidently into hers.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends? Or is this table a monopoly for all the beauty at the party?”

  Layla introduced him to Adila and Sanaa. Sanaa extended her hand with a mechanical movement that compensated for what she was feeling, while Adila’s hand rested firmly on the table as she nodded curtly. Layla felt discomfited with Sidqi’s hands still pressing her shoulders; she felt that all eyes must be on her, and she saw Isam standing at the tent opening, a dangerous look in his eyes.

  “Do sit down, Sidqi Bey,” she said awkwardly. Sidqi was pulling out an empty chair when Isam stopped in front of Layla and said in an angry voice, without looking at either of her friends, “My aunt wants you.”

  Adila winked at Sanaa. Layla got up and Isam followed her. Sidqi said something that caused Adila and Sanaa to laugh. Layla walked toward her mother’s table as the strains of music were muted in noisy zagharid, the ululations of the women. The dancer burst running from the tent opening, a red chiffon wrap floating on her body. The guests stood up as she entered, and Isam seized the chance to take Layla’s hand and drag her outside the tent.

  “What’s happened, Isam?” asked Layla, leaning against the wall that encircled the roof, out of breath.

  “What is there between you and that boy over there?”

  “What boy?”

  Isam shook his head violently. “The guy who was pinching you on the shoulder! I didn’t think you could be so cheap.”

  Layla shut her eyes tightly and her face convulsed, as if she had just been slapped.

  “Say something,” Isam said ferociously. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  Layla opened her eyes. “You’re incredibly impertinent and bad-mannered.” She turned to head inside the tent, but Isam yanked her back.

  “Am I the bad-mannered one, or are you? You must have encouraged him. You must have!”

  Layla turned to face him, her hand still in his grasp. She spoke quietly.

  “Yes, that’s right, I encouraged him. And I love him, too. What more do you want to hear?”

  Isam could say nothing, and his grip suddenly loosened. She seized her chance, snatched her hand away, and ran inside.

  Sashaying directly in front of Ali Bey, Gamila’s fiancé, the swaying dancer had thrown herself onto his lap. He tried haplessly to shift his body back so that no part of him would touch her. Gamila was smiling and tugging at her mother’s hand, and laughter rose from all sides of the tent.

  Adila waved, but Layla ignored her and went to where her mother sat, hunched and alone. She sat down opposite, tapping her fingers on the table nervously.

  “What’s the matter?” asked her mother.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing—what do you mean? Your color is completely gone—looks like a bird snatched those pink cheeks away.”

  Layla went on striking at the table without feeling anything.

  “I have a headache.”

  Isam entered the tent. Layla shoved her hand down to her side, stood up, and walked straight over to where Sidqi, Adila, and Sanaa were sitting. Isam hurried forward and intercepted her halfway. He whispered into her ear. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go back to where you were.”

  Layla’s face darkened. She tossed her head and kept walking.

  “What happened, Layla?” asked Adila. “We’ve been trying to get your atttention for ages. We’re ready to go.”

  “Now leave Layla alone,” said Sidqi slyly. “Seems she is a very busy lady.”

  Layla wished she could slap his face. She sat down between Adila and Sanaa. “It’s early.”

  “No, ya sitti, it isn’t early at all. We’ll just barely get home in time. Let’s just go and say goodbye to Tante Samira and Gamila, and then leave.”

  “Really, we have stayed awfully late,” chimed in Sanaa.

  “Please allow me to accompany you,” said Sidqi. “Wallahi, that would be a great honor, indeed.”

  Sanaa smiled. “You are so kind, Sidqi Bey,” said Adila. “But there is really no need. We live just around the corner.”

  She stood up and Sanaa immediately followed suit. They shook Sidqi’s hand and Layla led them over to where her aunt stood next to Gamila. Sanaa and Adila both kissed Gamila and shook her fiancé’s hand in turn.

  “What do you think of the bride, girls?” asked Samira Hanim.

  “Marvelous, Tante! Just incredible! What a dress!” This was Sanaa.

  “And what’s inside the dress,” added Adila. “And the whole party, everything, so beautiful. May you see the wedding soon, in sha’ Allah.”

  “And may you see one soon, too, my dear.”

  Sanaa gazed at Gamila’s fiancé for a moment, her small, aristocratic nose high. She addressed him coolly, almost reproachfully. “Gamila is a bride who deserves
the most loving care.”

  Gamila laughed very loudly. Samira Hanim embraced Sanaa.

  “Did we suggest anything but, madame?” exclaimed Ali Bey. “By my head and eye, whatever you say, madame, your wish is my command.”

  Adila leaned close to Layla so that she could whisper. “What a creep.”

  Handing Layla the ring of keys to the apartment, Samira Hanim said, “While you are here, my dear, bring your aunt the fur jacket from the wardrobe. I am so-o-o cold! Obviously your aunt has gotten old—she just can’t take the cold any longer.”

  Ali Bey twisted his moustache and gave her a big smile. “Well, I do hope you recover, sitt hanim, I do hope so!”

  “He’s repulsive!” said Adila, putting on her coat.

  “A real lout,” agreed Sanaa. Layla twisted an imaginary moustache and danced about.

  “May you see the same, both of you, madame, madame, ya sitt hanim, may you have the same fine luck.”

  She waved as their laughter rose from the descending elevator and headed to the apartment to retrieve her aunt’s jacket. She tore it from the hanger, draped it over her shoulders, and shut the wardrobe. She stood looking at herself in the mirror, stepping back as she gathered the fur to her chest with her fingers. But her hands froze over her breasts as, in the mirror, she saw Isam at the door, a monstrous look in his eyes. Realizing that Layla had seen him, Isam came into the room and shut the door behind him. He folded his arms across his chest. Layla turned to face him slowly. Feigning calm, she said, “My aunt is cold and wants her jacket.” He didn’t answer, or move. There was a frightful stillness in his face, a murderous one, she could not help thinking.