The Open Door Page 20

  When she came out of the bathroom everyone was still asleep. But even if someone in the cabin had been awake, there was nothing out of the ordinary in this. Usually the first to awake, she would go for an early walk.

  She slipped off her nightgown and stood in her underclothes before the mirror, combing her short hair. She noticed that her skin had dried from the rigors of the sun, and found her bottle of lotion, which she had not bothered to use even once this summer. She leaned toward the mirror, rubbing the lotion into her face. Suddenly her hand stopped on her cheek. She went nearer to the glass and contemplated the face that gazed back at her: the gleaming night eyes of an untamed cat, the lips full and red, a face alight with a healthy glow, chest rising with a suddenly more vigorous heartbeat. She stepped back. Where was she going? What future were those gleaming eyes, that throbbing chest, rushing toward? Ruin? Her father always said so: she was heading to no good, he would frown.

  Layla put up her hand to wipe away the sweat that was breaking out on her forehead and tiptoed back to collapse onto the mattress. She might as well have had no experience, learned nothing, never suffered before from her impulsiveness! For here she was, slipping out behind her father’s back, behind Mahmud’s back, behind her mother’s, stepping outside of those rules to meet Husayn; stepping outside with her feet, with her will, to encounter more pain, more loss. Today she would be walking alongside Husayn. Before Husayn it had been Isam; tomorrow what man would it be? Any man who whispered honeyed words into her ears, as if she was a puppy that trotted after anyone who beckoned?

  But Husayn! Husayn was different, Husayn loved her. Yet—hadn’t Isam loved her, too?

  Love! Hadn’t she already suffered enough from the fantasy of it? And hadn’t she been happier in those days when she felt content to be by herself, when no one was able to cause her pain or hurt? Yet here she was heading into the flames of her own accord, as if she had not already tried it, as if she had learned nothing, suffered nothing.

  She leaned her head to one side, listening to footsteps in the cabin. Mahmud was awake, and Husayn was getting ready to leave. Layla hung her head and chewed on her lip. Let him go back to where he came from, and leave her be. She was not going to sacrifice herself for anyone, lose herself in anyone, abase herself for anyone. She would not put her neck between anyone’s hands. She would remain as she was, her own mistress, happy in herself, no one able to hurt her.

  As voices reached Layla, she began listening again. Mahmud was determined to accompany Husayn, and Husayn was trying to extract himself. She heard Husayn’s voice ring out triumphant, as he asserted a final ruling in the argument. “That’s what I want, Mahmud. I want to leave on this gorgeous morning by myself.” Layla’s eyes narrowed. He had won. He was sure that she was there, waiting for him. He had beckoned, and he was confident that she would follow. But she wouldn’t be there. She wouldn’t follow. She wouldn’t—a shiver ran through her. Husayn’s voice came, deep and low, warm, as he said, “I’ll miss you, Mahmud.”

  “You’ll write to me, of course, regularly.”

  “Of course.”

  She heard Mahmud’s spoon in his tea as silence descended on the two friends. “Husayn, you are more than a friend.” Mahmud’s voice was trembling. “It is you who gave me reassurance, who helped me to understand that everything is more or less okay.” Layla felt blood rushing into her head, and she jumped to her feet. She must . . . she must thank Husayn, she must say goodbye to him.

  Husayn got to his feet. “I’ll see you, Mahmud. Keep well.”

  Layla ran to the door of her room, and put her hand on the doorknob. But then she realized that she could not go out there. She could not put out her hand to Husayn. She was not ready. She was still in her underclothes.

  She heard Mahmud shouting from the veranda, putting all of himself into those few last words. “‘Bye, Husayn. Goodbye.” And behind her closed door, Layla’s hand tightened on the doorknob.

  Chapter Thirteen

  IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED Husayn’s departure, Layla felt nothing. It was as if her senses had been numbed. Whenever he came to mind she shrugged him out of her thoughts unconcernedly and went about whatever she was doing in the cabin, or picked up whatever book she was reading. She went about her life for two weeks, until there came a day when she was stretched out in a recliner on the veranda, reading the morning paper. Her brother stood at the wall gazing at the sea, extending as far as one could see. He stretched and turned to face her. “Lucky Husayn, he must be at sea by now.”

  She said nothing, but straightened up in her seat and let the newspaper fall from her hand. She got to her feet. She had lost the ability to stay in one place or to concentrate on one thing. “What has happened to you?” her mother would snap, while she fidgeted and tossed as if in a fever. About twice a minute she would straighten up in her seat, stand up, sit down, to stand up again. She would open a book then clap it shut in boredom a few moments later. She ate when it was not mealtime and drank without being thirsty, just to find something to do. She would go out for a walk, but hardly would she be outside before she would come in again. She would go down to the water and come out after moments. She always found an excuse for her behavior. This chair wasn’t comfortable; that book was stupid; the sun was too hot; the water was full

  of muck.

  “If the sea doesn’t please you,” Sanaa said, “let’s go tomorrow morning to al-Girbi.” Mahmud applauded the idea of trying out the popular beach on the Nile, and Layla assented.

  The sail cleaved the air and the boat pushed forward toward al-Girbi, on the Nile just before it met the waters of the sea. Sanaa listened attentively as Mahmud talked, her head supported on her hand, her eyes fixed on Mahmud. Layla did not make much attempt to follow their conversation. She was gazing at Nile Street as the boat slipped by: the cinema, on its façade a huge poster of a woman in décolleté with a silly smile on her face; hotel lobbies, one just like the next, and no one was visible around any of the tables; heaps of shoes, sandals, and slippers forlornly awaiting buyers; store windows gleaming in the sun’s rays, piled with Damietta’s famous pastries and sweets—harisa, basbusa, mashbak. They passed kiosks—Coca-cola, ful-beans, ta‘miya—and an advertisement saying, “Stop! Here you’ll find fish roe sandwiches.” It was all laid out, so carefully prepared, waiting. And no one stopped; no one bought; the woman on the poster went on smiling stupidly. At this time of morning the famous riverside suq was empty of people, even of merchants, deserted as if it were a city of ruins.

  Sanaa glided to the front of the boat, took off her robe, and stretched out on her back, her body on show. She covered her face. Layla studied her. Sanaa had positioned herself with premeditated care that described her every movement, as if she had pondered all the angles to ascertain how her small, fair, well-contoured body would appear to best advantage. Aware that her body was attractive, she loved and cared for it; she always rubbed it with oil before exposing it to the sun and with lotion after bathing. She measured her waist every day, and if it grew the slightest bit thicker she fussed, started exercising, and denied herself food until it had reverted to its former slimness. Sanaa did not try to hide this preoccupation of hers. Whenever Adila made fun of her, she just smiled self-assuredly and said, “Why do you want me to feel so shy about my body, Adila?” as if it was natural for one not to feel any shame or embarrassment where one’s body was concerned.

  Sanaa stretched and said without uncovering her face, “The weather is so nice today.” Layla looked at Mahmud, expecting to see his eyes on Sanaa’s body. But he was trailing his hands in the water and, a dreamy look in his eyes, gazing at a knot of fishing boats piled on the sand. Layla’s eyes followed his. They were ruins of boats, no longer fit for the water; on the desert sand they sat, alone, unused, crippled, cut off from the water. Mahmud gave a sigh of contentment as he took in the sight of the boats, storing it in his memory. Their white coatings of paint, he mused, gleamed in the rays of the sun like huge, beautiful, white b
irds, perched on the shore to rest, so as to resume their flight soon enough.

  “Did you see those boats?” he asked Sanaa. She uncovered her face and sat up to examine the boats, gently, as if patting them fondly with her gaze. Then the beach at al-Girbi was there before them, rolling out beneath their eyes, crowded with people. Some swam in the river and others were sitting around scattered tables beneath huge umbrellas.

  “We’re here,” said Sanaa, delight dancing in her eyes.

  The boatman picked out a relatively quiet spot, tied up the boat, and laid a board across to land. But Sanaa, now on her feet, jumped straight from the boat into the water. “Come on,” said Mahmud to Layla. Without waiting for an answer he dove into the waves. Layla put her hand up to ward off the spray. Sanaa appeared, reaching up a hand to grasp the side of the boat. “Come on, Layla, hurry up, the water is great.”

  “Not now. I’m cold. Maybe in a bit.”

  Mahmud joined Sanaa, holding onto the boat too so that it tipped toward them. Layla shrieked. “Mahmud—what are you doing? Watch out,” she said crossly. Mahmud gave his shoulders a shake, turned, and began to swim away. Sanaa caught up with him. They were swimming very gently, as if they were afraid to slap the water that encased them together in a delicious peacefulness; they seemed to be resting more than swimming.

  “I could swim like this all the way to tomorrow,” said Mahmud. Sanaa laughed.

  “How did you know? I had just the same thought.” A current seemed to flow between them, connecting them, now that they had become better acquainted, left to themselves in Ras al-Barr. It was a calm, pleasant current, making its way unhurriedly from one to the other, strengthening as the days passed. There was a sense of repose to it, of belonging and mutual need; it seemed a protective shade, surrounding and enveloping the two of them. There was nothing fiery about it, nothing to instigate sleeplessness, no agonizingly overpowering emotion. Whenever Mahmud peeked at Sanaa’s small face—her delicate lips compressed in such resolve, the tip of her little nose perked upward in pride, her small eyes, steady in their assurance—a feeling came over him that he had after struggle reached safe shore. Sanaa, contemplating his lustrous green—and often unsettled—eyes, the abashed smile on his lips, the pride that showed in the turn of his dignified, bronze-hued face, would long simply to take him quietly in her arms, rub his hair, rock him and tease him until those uneasy eyes grew peaceful and sure, until the uncertain smile broadened into a grand laugh.

  Layla observed the two of them as they moved off. Something bound them together, she could see, and distanced her to a place where she was isolated, lost, adrift. She tried to call out to them, but the call froze on her lips; she closed her eyes and huddled there, in the boat, as if she anticipated the approach of a dreaded event. To the surface floated a consciousness of how lonely she really was. She had been able to suppress that feeling throughout the past weeks, but now it refused to stay hidden; it tyrannized her.

  She kept her eyes closed as if afraid to open them—afraid she would see only an unending desert. A shower of spray hit her face; she opened her eyes to a face dancing with the joy of life, a childish face teasing her. Angrily, she seized an oar and brought it down over the figure, but he dipped under the water to escape, waving as he slipped away, a laugh ringing out over the water, reinforcing her sense of loneliness and isolation. The sight of people teeming on the beach made it even worse: those children racing each other through the water, their eyes intensely serious as if their futures hung entirely on this race; that woman, not at all shy, who rested her head on her man’s lap and relaxed into sleep, in complete security as if sleeping in her own bedroom, as if the eyes of passersby were not devouring her. And there was the girl over there, spilling out an endless succession of giggles, as if she had entirely and happily lost control of herself, or as if her young male companions were actually tickling her. Layla came to as a soft-sided object struck her on the side of the head, and she saw a rubber ball flying back into the water. The boy who had teased her was catching it, around him a whole retinue of young swimmers, whispering and laughing at her, as if they knew instinctively that something or other separated her from all the other human beings who filled the beach. Layla’s blood boiled.

  “Hey rayyis!” But the boatman, sitting at the other end of the boat, paid no attention, in his eyes a naïve delight as if he were sharing in the vacationers’ games. Layla spoke again, her voice harder. “Hey—“ He turned to her, a look of surprise on his face.

  “Put the plank down and get out.”

  “And the boat?”

  “I’ll take it out.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes, by myself,” said Layla sharply.

  She sat in the exact center of the boat, her body rigid, and tightened her grip on the oars. She began to strike the water, slap after slap, swiftly, powerfully, with everything in her, as if she were in a race—and as if fleeing a danger that pursued her. She went further and further, into the deepest stretch of the river, as far as she could get from any sign of humanity. There she stopped, catching her breath, drops of perspiration shining across her face. She turned to look about her. Water, nothing else; water surrounding her on all sides, imprisoning her, choking her breathing as if she had ingested it straight into her lungs. Her grip on the oars loosened. Where was she going? Where might she flee? From whom was she escaping? If she was fleeing from people, she was as lonely by herself as in the company of others. The loneliness was inside, in her very soul, in her depths. It was in her blood: like cancer it ran, growing, swelling. Layla put her head on her hands as she kept hold of the oars. Husayn was the cause. Yes, he was responsible for all of this. Before she had known him she had been self-sufficient, secure, and confident; and she had been happy that way. She had implored him to leave her alone, to get out of her path; but he had not stepped back. And now he had gone, and had left this loneliness for her, a loneliness that gnawed at her body, a sense that something precious had been lost to her, something she could not replace. Husayn had said that she had lost the shine in her eyes, the brightness in her face. But in fact she had lost more than that, far more. She had lost affection, affection for people, and security and stability. Nothing was left to her but lonelenss, and feelings of terrible loss.

  If he had not gone away; if he had stayed by her side . . . Layla shook her head in despair. What was the use? She was alone when he was with her, too, even when he was expressing his love. Only once had she felt truly close, truly together: when, his hand running lightly along her arm, he had said, “I’m just waiting for you, waiting for you, darling.” But even that sense of intimate harmony had been short-lived, seeming now a mere dream. Fear had gotten the better of it. She had been afraid of Mahmud, of Husayn, of the whole world; and that had woken her up.

  Layla woke from her reverie to see the oar sliding out of her right hand and over the frame of the boat. Suddenly an extraordinary strength shot through her, a totally unaccustomed energy she never would have dreamt to possess, a toughness that made her challenge the Nile as if it were a rival, as if they were two equally muscular forces engaged in struggle. In a trice she pulled the left oar hard with her fist as she leaned her body heavily to the right to grab the other. The boat dipped sharply with her sudden movement and the water rose to meet the rim while she tried to raise the oar. The river’s surface was now even with the side of the boat. Layla straightened up, the right oar firmly in her grip. She let her breath out and slumped over. Only then did she sense a massive shiver of fear seize her body.

  She swung the boat round in the direction of the beach. She rowed slowly, rhythmically, as the current pushed her forward. Her gaze wandered along the distant horizon as she considered this latest of incidents. Where had that ability to handle the situation come from? How had she acted with such determination, such muscle and swiftness, without hesitating at all? Where had it come from? She shook her head wonderingly, almost unable to believe that she had faced her encounter with
the Nile so courageously. Usually, she reflected, she became confused when faced with the simplest matter and lost the power to think or act; usually, she covered her face in her hands and submitted to her fate. So how had she been able to act when a crisis faced her—and to act precisely as she should have? With utter speed, precision, and force? As if the person acting was not her but someone else. Another person! Another, stronger person seemed to reside deep inside her.

  “What happened, Layla?” asked Mahmud. “We were really worried about you.” He and Sanaa had swum toward her when they noticed her heading the boat toward shore. Layla shook her head as if awaking from a dream when she saw a look of accusation replacing the anxiety in Mahmud’s eyes.

  In the boat as they headed back to Ras al-Barr, Mahmud’s face was rigid. “You just can’t stop doing stupid things, can you? You always do exactly the wrong thing! You could have drowned, out by yourself like that.” Layla felt a shiver go through her body and turned her face away. “I really might have drowned,” she said in a whisper, as if to herself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ALL THREE OF THEM—Layla, Sanaa, and Adila—enrolled in the Department of Philosophy, Faculty of Letters, Cairo University. From the start they comprised a little clique; hardly ever were they apart at the college. They mixed with the other students, of course, women and men, but within limits that were well understood by all, so that they remained always a clearly defined little group. If a student wanted to approach one of them, he must approach them all; if one among the three made him uncomfortable, he would have to avoid them all. If he wanted to talk to one of them, he must have his say in front of the whole clique or not at all. For there were no secrets among the individuals of that little set, and if one girl were to be invited to a party or group activity without the others, she would not attend.