The Open Door Read online

  Husayn’s voice was choked with feeling. “But it’s different. I love her.”

  Sanaa faced him, her expression and voice sardonic. “And Isam loved her. And to this day he says he loves her.” She went toward the door.

  “Please, please see. The story is so different. Isam—“

  “You know what? Sometimes it seems to me that none of you can really love. That the ability to love and to make sacrifices is just not there when it comes to men.”

  “I beg you to stop making such generalizations! Now, look—you, first of all. Do you trust me? Me? Or not?” Sanaa gazed at the tall, broad man before her, pointing to himself determinedly as he awaited her answer, like a child waiting for his mother to reassure him that he was a good boy. Her face relaxed into a big smile.

  “The important thing is for Layla to trust you, right? Not me.”

  “But how? How can I make Layla trust me?”

  “If you love her enough you’ll figure it out.”

  Husayn’s face darkened. She was so silly! He wanted to tell Sanaa that if she were to live a hundred years she could never love anyone as much as he loved Layla. But Sanaa just smiled sweetly into his face and said gently, “Don’t give up, and don’t get tired of the whole thing. Just be patient.”

  Husayn took her advice. And then at a certain point it seemed to him that his attempts had almost worked; he was almost there. Layla would laugh at one of his jokes, his eyes would meet hers, and suddenly the old spark would flare for a second before she turned her face away and it faded. But whenever that spark appeared, he knew he would wait—all his life, if he had to—to see her eyes shine steadily again.

  But suddenly matters slipped from Husayn’s grasp with a bewildering rapidity. He had stopped by the scholarships administration office to ask for news of the overseas scholarship to which he had applied. The official who had responsibility for the program looked intently at him from behind piles of papers, his glasses slipping down his nose, and in a whispery rasp asked what he wanted. The old man took a long time searching slowly for the relevant scholarships file, and opened it with the same deliberate indolence. He turned the pages, one at a time, page after page, until he came to the report of the Higher Scholarships Committee. He stared at Husayn in silence, looking him over carefully, it seemed. Husayn was convinced that luck had betrayed him this time round. He had not been awarded the scholarship place. He let out his breath—and, startled, realized it was a sigh of relief.

  But the official, still taking his time about it, adjusted his glasses over his eyes and eventually informed Husayn that he had been selected as a recipient of the original scholarship to which he had applied. It was imperative that he quickly complete his papers so that he could be in time to start classes in the first term. The official grew quiet again, as if this speech had exhausted him. Again he stared silently at Husayn from behind the glasses that were once again slipping down his nose. Husayn tried hard to avoid that gaze; strange feelings swept over him. This old man, hunched like a cat, was stalking him, lowering a trap over him.

  As Husayn reached the street, Layla’s face came into his mind and his heart lurched, leaving an empty space in his chest. He took off at a run. He must see her. He must ascertain for himself that she was not just a mirage in his life but rather a tangible fact, a presence to which he could stretch out his hand, something he could embrace and never let slip away. Only then would he be able to tame that sea of thoughts raging through his head. Only then could he take the practical steps necessary to face this new set of circumstances.

  He rushed into the building just in time to see the elevator door opening. Layla stepped out, dressed for outdoors. She stood mutely before the elevator as Husayn came over to her and took her hand, holding it without saying a word. Layla’s face grew pink as she raised her eyes to him; his pleading gaze arrested her. She dropped her eyelids; something serious had happened, she could tell. Husayn seemed to be struggling, tired, at his wit’s end; she had never seen him like this before. “They’ve given me a scholarship—three years—Germany.”

  When she raised her face this time he saw a deep sadness in her eyes, as if she had just become aware of how deep was her own misery, how crushing her sense of loneliness and alienation. She did need him, he could see that, perhaps as much as he needed her, despite all the barriers she raised in his face. Tenderly he pressed her hand, and Layla realized that she had given herself away. She pulled her hand back violently.

  “Mahmud’s upstairs.” She walked toward the outside door.

  “Where are you going? Stay here.”

  Layla was astonished at the sudden change in his voice. The tone of despair had gone completely to be replaced not by his normal, everyday voice but rather by a tone of command, as if he were ordering her to wait. But when she turned to face him his features had relaxed into a captivating smile, one of those smiles that just could not be resisted. Even so, she did not return his smile. Welling up inside her was a fear of that confidence she glimpsed, of that smile that filled his face.

  “Come here, I want to talk to you about something.”

  The vague apprehension in Layla’s chest took a more lucid form. She was afraid: Husayn might say something to disturb the ordinary tenor of her life. He might say something that would strip away the repose she had acquired after the very hard effort she had put into convincing herself of her own self-sufficiency, her invulnerability; no individual could truly harm or wound her now, she felt. Her mind was working, but not very well. She must escape—but into the street? Husayn would merely follow her. To her room? If she locked the door, no one would be able to reach her; no one could cause her pain. In order to gain time, to prevent Husayn from speaking, she said, her eyes on the stairs, “Where?”

  “Upstairs,” he said simply, his face still one broad smile. “Or we could go out somewhere, anywhere.”

  “That’s impossible,” Layla said in confusion. “Husayn, I can’t.” She hurried to the steps and began to charge up them. Husayn, following her, pressed his hands on her shoulders to restrain her.

  “Just a couple of words, Layla. That’s all.” He caught sight of her face; the fear clearly etched there shook him to the core. “Don’t be afraid, Layla. I want you to trust me. Please.”

  Layla’s voice was thin and high, almost a sob. “Leave me alone, Husayn. Please, leave me alone.”

  “What if I’m incapable of leaving you alone?” His voice was perfectly calm and steady. “What if I love you?”

  Layla slipped from his grasp, and with two or three long strides was at the door to her apartment. She put her finger out to punch the doorbell, but Husayn’s hand gripped hers before she could ring it. His voice was a whisper, a strong and deep one, as he pressed on her hand. “I love you, Layla.”

  She jerked her head downward as if a blow she had anticipated had arrived. Husayn had confronted her with a fait accompli that she could not simply ignore. She must pull herself together to face it. She raised her face, cold and rigid, empty of all expression. Husayn let her hand drop.

  “You’re still attached to Isam, I guess,” he said bitterly. His eyes met hers; he turned his head away. He felt as if a knife had gone straight to his heart. She stood there, obviously defenseless, a wounded animal, bleeding; she could not hide the waves of astonishment, fear, humiliation, and loss that washed over her eyes. He wished he could retract his words. Layla, slumping against the door, held tightly to the doorknob, as if afraid she might fall. Husayn came nearer and put his hand on her shoulder, quivering all over with a desire to take her in his arms, to kiss her eyes. Layla felt his touch and straightened immediately, her body tense. She pushed his hand away fiercely. He saw an expression of such vehement loathing in her eyes that he unconsciously stepped back until he was pressed against the opposite wall.

  “I am not attached to anyone,” she said quietly. “And I will not become attached to anyone.”

  “You know what you need?” he said roughly. “You need so
meone to shake you hard until you wake up. Until you understand that the world has not ended. And that what happened was going to happen no matter what, because you chose badly.”

  Layla started pounding on the door. Husayn looked at her for a moment, then shrugged and pressed the bell. “But unfortunately I don’t have the time to wake you, since I will be traveling soon.” He turned and left her, realizing as he descended the stairs that he had taken a final decision on the subject of the scholarship.

  But Husayn was not at peace with that decision, he knew, for it meant erasing Layla from his reckoning. Yet events conspired to convince him that his decision was a sound one. Layla avoided meeting him whenever he stopped by her home. He considered seeking Sanaa’s help, but when he asked Mahmud for her whereabouts he learned that she had traveled with her family to the seaside resort of Ras al-Barr, where they would spend a good part of the summer. In fact, Mahmud told him, his own family would follow in a few days’ time.

  Husayn hurriedly completed his papers, chose the books he would carry with him, and reviewed the program of study at the university where he would be enrolled. Meanwhile, his relationship with Samiha, his sister, grew stronger, closer than it had ever been since her marriage. He spent many evenings at her home, and they stayed up very late talking. He had told her about Layla, and she could tell that he was suffering, even if he refused to acknowledge as much to himself, let alone anyone else. One time, busily straightening a tablecloth to hide the awkwardness she felt, she asked him, “Would you like me to pay a visit to Layla, Husayn?”

  He shook his head without a word. Samiha looked at him inquiringly.

  “This is the way Layla wants it, Samiha. There is no point in trying to force her.”

  “You know what, Husayn? My heart feels that you are fated to have her. Her future is yours, too, once you are back from Germany.”

  Husayn laughed sarcastically. “Has your excellency gone into the fortunetelling business?” But his sister’s words, as naïve and illogical as they seemed, twisted the knife further. Her words roused feelings that had never been so clear, a sense that something, something bonded him to Layla, something stronger than either of them, a force that would bring the two of them together someday. This intuition helped him to endure the harshness of the present.

  But he returned home that night weighted down by feelings of wrongdoing. He had just come from the Sulayman home, having wanted to wish Layla farewell. She was to travel to Ras al-Barr the next day. During his visit she had avoided him, as she had ever since he had broached the subject of his feelings. He sat with Mahmud the entire time. But as he left Mahmud’s room for the front hall he came upon her, standing amidst a pile of baggage—some cases closed, others still open—talking with her mother. Husayn shook her mother’s hand and then turned to Layla, his eyes fixed on her face as he took her hand in both of his. Her eyes flickered around the room before she withdrew her hand and smiled her cautious smile as she said “goodbye.” She turned back to her mother. “Mama, by the way, the wool jackets—we forgot them.”

  Husayn stood there, unmoving, his gaze on Layla’s back. She sensed his eyes burning into her spine and turned slowly to face him. Her voice was an agitated whisper, as if she were passing on a secret. “Because it can get cold there, cold and dark at night.” Her lower lip trembled. A layer of tears pooled over her eyes.

  Chapter Twelve

  FOR A SPACE OF FIFTEEN days Layla’s tearful eyes chased Husayn. Each day’s passing brought him nearer to his day of departure for Germany, now set, and intensified his feeling that he was abandoning Layla at a time when she was most in need of his aid. Her eyes summoned him, clung to him, until one day he found himself sitting in the train heading for Ras al-Barr.

  He leaned his head back against the seat, feeling deeply peaceful, as if he had just emerged from a long struggle, finally released. He had offered his love to her; when she had rejected it, he had drawn back furiously, like a big baby, even though he knew that she was in a state that did not permit her to love him—or to love anyone. Perhaps if she were in a normal state she would have returned his love. Maybe she would love him after a time, if she could stand on her own feet and regain her confidence in herself and in life. Or perhaps she would never love him; perhaps she would fall in love with someone else. But none of this kept him from loving her. Nor, he admitted to himself, did it exempt him from his obligation to her. He must exploit all possible means to help her. He had fancied that he could help her only as a husband or beloved, but perhaps he could help her just as much if he were her friend. Just a friend, nothing more. He had to try all means possible, but . . . then her eyes would be there, remaining with him, summoning him, cleaving to him in despair, waking him from his sleep. He would not escape them, even if he put thousands of miles between them, yes, thousands of miles, thousands. Thousands. The train echoed the word. Thou-sands, thou-sands. Husayn got up to open the window. His eyes took in the fields, extending as far as he could see, as if he wanted to carve them into his mind with every detail intact. Here he had been raised, here he had grown into adolescence, in a village like that one over there. The fields amidst which he had grown up were a mirror image of the fields he saw beyond the window, with a saqiya turned by the water buffalo, its water irrigating the fields; a little irrigation canal; people like those he could see, working so hard, sweating, the sight of them so rough and hard concealing their overwhelming ability to love, to give, to sacrifice. Husayn felt a rush of compassion; he wished he could stop, could stroll, the breeze slapping his face amidst the green fields, could sniff the scent of the earth, could clap his hand against those rough, hard palms.

  But the train raced across the land, its rhythmic chant driving into his ear the word thousands . . . thou-sands . . . Yes, he would go thousands of miles from these fields, far from the homeland. In foreign lands he would live by himself, would work alone, would eat alone, would sleep alone. His day would be filled with a lonely aching, and his night, an ache for the homeland. If she had been going with him . . . . If she were to be with him . . . . Husayn’s chest flared with a wave of anger. Why couldn’t she stand on her own two feet like everyone else? Why couldn’t she return the slap of whoever had slapped her, pick herself up, and go on her way? Why had it been so easy to shatter her, as if she were made of . . . of . . . .

  Sitting on the train, Husayn tried to find something with which to compare Layla. Glass. Crystal. Yes, that was it, crystal—beautiful and so easy to shatter. And crystal was hard, too, like her. It reflected light but produced none. If you put it in the light it would glitter, but if you put it in a dark place it would give off no glow. The light sat not in her heart but rather on the outer surface. No confidence came from within her; she had always taken it from others. That was why Isam had been able to crush her, to make her hate herself, and therefore hate others.

  She was good-looking, intelligent, outstanding in every way, yet she could not stand on her own feet. She always had to lean on someone or something. First it had been her brother, the hero of her childhood. Through his eyes she had seen the world; she had thought it vast, beautiful, boundless, replete with love and sacrifice, with loyalty, truth, sincerity, and beauty. Then Isam had shown her another side of life, one she had not known, an unsightly, exposed side, and the earth beneath her feet had turned to infinitely yielding sand. So she gazed yearningly, despairingly, at her brother, trying to see mirrored in his eyes the life he had sketched for her; but he had closed his eyes, afraid she would see in them what he had seen. It was as if Mahmud had seen only betrayal, had never seen . . . Husayn noticed the palm trees that heralded the approach of Damietta city’s train station: standing in line, thickly clustered, row after row, towering, victorious, heavy with fruit, clusters of red dates gleaming in the sun’s rays . . . as if Mahmud had never seen any beauty at all. It was as if Mahmud had seen none of it: heroes who stood up to their enemies—towering, victorious—before they died, standing tall and proud to the end; or t
he deep joy shining from the eyes of that youth as he raised his head for the last time to witness the fire as it broke out in one of the British camps; or Usta Madbuli crawling forward, already wounded, already inside a British camp, burning down the petrol stores with a hand grenade—and burning along with it. It was as if Mahmud had not heard Madbuli’s yell—Down with imperialism!—ringing out in the silence of the night, shooting tremors into the hearts of everybody there, making the earthquake, setting the fires of revolution.

  The train shuddered and came to a full stop in the Damietta station. Husayn crushed his cigarette butt under his shoe, picked up his suitcase, and climbed down onto the platform.

  The car left the main agricultural road and plunged toward Ras al-Barr. A breeze saturated with water vapor slapped Husayn’s face gently, calming his anxiety. He felt an overpowering sympathy for Layla. Who was he to cast blame on others for their weakness? Who was he to issue judgment on their behavior and deeds? He had almost cried like a child as he saw Cairo burn; he had nearly broken down in sobs when he saw the end of the battle for the Canal, and only faith had saved him. His was a faith in the people; feeling their emotions, never sensing himself isolated from them, he had not himself weakened.

  Mahmud, though, had withdrawn from all of that. So had Layla, isolating herself, a captive to her individual concerns, alone and scraping the scabs from her wounds. The whole world had become concentrated into one small “me,” and Layla’s only concern now was to protect herself from the aggression of the outside world. She had leaned on her mother, on the rules—the fundamentals—with which she had grown up, on the traditions of those around her. And so she had seen life through her mother’s eyes: it was a restricted existence with no reach beyond the four walls within which she lived. It was a frightening apparition against which you were supposed to fortify herself, making extreme efforts to avoid rather than embrace it. You armed yourself with the old rules: speak with care and forethought, act with caution, react only after deliberation so that you do not inflict fatigue or pain upon yourself. You might never know great happiness but at least you would never suffer intense pain. The walls were there to surround you, to protect you from the fierce beast that crouched in wait outside . . . from life!