The Open Door Read online

  The other students treated them like a clique and referred to them that way. “The shilla likes such-and-such.” “The shilla can’t stand that.” “The shilla is going to do something-or-other, but it won’t do that.” It was as if they were a single person, not three nearly full-grown girls each of whom had a distinctive personality and moved in a personal world whose features she could reveal and hide at will.

  Adila was the tallest among them. Big-boned, she had a large frame without being at all plump. Her skin was light, her eyes big, dark, and shadowed by silky black lashes. She had such a forceful personality that an observer would understand as much with a first glance. She voiced her opinions firmly and backed them with unassailable arguments; she let no one escape her skill at imitation, invariably drawing a great deal of laughter. Not a shade of the humor in human behavior or in any social situation ever escaped her; she would give it her attention, develop it, make it a source of great amusement within the shilla that might go on for years.

  She was highly realistic, too; Sanaa described her down-to-earth practicality by saying that Adila had only to touch the most awe-inspiring poem for it to be immediately transformed into an arithmetic problem. She had not wanted to join the philosophy department, but rather the department of “earning bread,” as she would say, but her unremarkable examination results left her no choice. Adila it was who always explicated what the set favored and frowned upon, what was suitable for the shilla and what was not; she it was who chose and rejected new acquaintances. She guarded the group’s good name, and made its life inside the college and outside one continuing peal of laughter.

  But Adila’s own laugh was not untouched by bitterness. Her practical bent derived from a necessity that circumstances had imposed. Under this hard, recalcitrant, sometimes aggressively hostile skin beat a heart that longed for affection no less than did the hearts of other girls, but Adila hid this verity with stubborn persistence. She would always say that love was how the leisure class wasted time, and she had no time to waste. She had to help her mother with the house; she must work hard so as to graduate quickly, to find a job and earn money to pay off her widowed mother’s debts, and to support her siblings, all of whom were younger. Life was no rosy dream, nor was it a romance. Life was an unvarnished fact: open mouths demanding nourishment, clothing, education; and a meager pension, seven pounds and no more, ever; and a father who had died suddenly after losing—on behalf of himself and their mother—all the assets they had had. That was not to mention a certain social position that one must try to maintain so that relatives and enemies would not be able to derive malicious pleasure from the situation.

  Sanaa was as different as could be; it was as if she and Adila stood at two opposing poles of existence. Sanaa loved poetry, music, literature, exquisite works of art—everything that had beauty. Not only did she monitor the shape and size of her body, she took great care with how she showed it off. She took time choosing her clothes, and she took care to make her appearance distinctive—the particular tying of her sash, the flower she might wear, a delicate scarf she knotted round her neck, leaving its ends to ripple on her shoulders in the breeze. She was never sparing with herself. She loved pretty little trinkets, a tiny golden fishnet change purse, a watch in the shape of an icon dangling from her neck, sweet parfum spreading from her handkerchief. Compared to Adila and Layla she was well-off, and so she could wrap herself in the beauty she loved, which she managed to preserve even after her financial situation changed. She was enamored of the power of imagination, too, and relied on it whenever reality did not satisfy her; she could live in an imaginary world for hours at a time. And she was positively in love with love.

  Before falling in love with Mahmud she had been enamored of Robert Taylor. Fourteen years old, she had taken a razor and carved the first letter of his name into her hand. She let the blood well from the cut so that the letter “R” would still be there when the wound dried. And whenever the scar began to disappear she cut herself again.

  Sanaa was more of a listener than a talker. Her small, pale face rarely reflected the vehemence of her reactions. People always assumed she was shy. In fact, she had a great deal of self-esteem. It was not arrogance but rather a quiet sureness that came from an unshakeable belief in the rightness of her actions. As she tended to give in without argument to Adila and Layla on small matters, they assumed she was easily led, mistaking this elasticity for weakness and failing to see that her flexibility came rather from the generosity of her firm desire to please those she loved. Observing this small, easily led girl with her superbly delicate features, who dwelt in her imagination, neither Adila nor Layla imagined that an unyielding will was encased in those tiny ribs, together with a totally practical bent no less serviceable than Adila’s. She knew precisely what she wanted and how to get there; and how to preserve whatever she acquired.

  And so after the sojourn in Ras al-Barr it was Sanaa who discovered that she could not live without Mahmud—some months before Mahmud was able to discern the same thing for himself. The relationship that had grown between them was unlike love as she had always imagined it: an emotion that would inevitably draw in its wake a burning agony, jealousy, doubt, sleeplessness—the sort of love she had gotten to know through novels and films. This, to the contrary, was a peaceable sensation, a sweet something that as it grew severed her from that all-encompassing imaginary world of hers, securing her instead to the earth. It gave her the unprecedented sense that now she walked on ground that was not only solid but also—and to her surprise—remarkably appealing. And she intended to stay there all her life.

  Back in Cairo, Sanaa could see Mahmud at home whenever she came to visit Layla. Sometimes she could even be alone with him, for occasionally, Layla deliberately left them together. But these fleeting encounters could not satiate Sanaa, and she suggested they meet somewhere else. Mahmud, his astonishment mirrored in his face, stammered something about her reputation and the imperative of preserving it. She fixed her narrow eyes on his.

  “Do you want to see me or not?”

  “Of course I want to.”

  “Then that’s that.” And Sanaa meant what she said. Having fallen in love with Mahmud, she found all else meaningless; it was as if she could see only from one perspective—Mahmud’s. His thoughts and notions became hers; she adopted his reactions and his projects. They began to meet regularly in the lobby of the Metropolitan Hotel. They had a preferred corner; in dim light they sat, Mahmud mostly talking while Sanaa listened and her eyes embraced his words. Day after day her presence in his life grew, until one day he realized that he could not do without her. She had known all along that such a day would arrive, but when it actually came, she discovered a novel emotion trembling inside, a love stronger and vaster than the earlier sensation, a love encompassing the yearnings of the martyr.

  “You know, Mahmud? I must do something to prove to you how much I love you—I want to die for you.”

  He took her hand tenderly. “I want you to live for me, Sanaa. Without you I am worth nothing.” And he meant it. He felt genuinely strong when she was with him; he found himself capable, excellent, and handsome; he marveled at the world around him, full as it was of love and fidelity, sacrifice and beauty. The uncomfortable ties that had bound him to the earth, his fear and doubt and confusion and worry, had suddenly come wonderfully unknotted. Now he could move freely; he could have soared into the air, were it physically possible! Sanaa, studying him, could see those bewildered eyes settling, beginning to shine with a smiling confidence. With her gaze she embraced his—his eyes, his dreams, the joy that flared in his heart, enfolding its wings about her, living with her, for her, in her. Sanaa was cocooned in a world she concealed from Adila, and of which Layla only knew a fragment. Layla had no idea that they were meeting outside the apartment, nor that they dreamt of a future that would hold the two of them in its singular embrace. Nor did she know that they had begun to discuss the finer points of that future. It would have been natural
for Sanaa to relate these details to Layla, but she did not. It was not for lack of trying, but the words always seemed to stop on her lips. Exactly why this was so she did not know; but she had an inkling that Layla would not be overjoyed at her happiness, would not react as she had, would not share her dreams and dream them together as the friends had always done. She perceived that something had separated Layla from her, had brought Layla closer to Adila than to her, contrary to how it had always been in the past.

  *

  Layla had always felt closer to Sanaa than to Adila; within the confines of their little clique the two of them formed a true unit, nourished by a correspondence in mood, in emotions and taste, in the ways they understood life. But Layla’s encounter with Isam had altered this. She had drawn away from Sanaa, pulled wholly toward Adila.

  “You know, Sanaa, Adila is the most intelligent one among us. If I had really listened to her, it never would have happened. She always used to say to me, ‘Don’t latch on so.’ Well, I hung on like a blockheaded sucker.”

  In Adila’s cold reality Layla found consolation. Adila made life appear so simple—no complications, no fantasies, no pains. Life was just an arithmetic problem: all you had to do was to follow the basic rules and you would come up with the solution. And no one would disagree about what it was. The important thing was to follow the rules, step by step, precisely, rationally, cautiously, after forethought and without any impetuousness. Otherwise your vision could get clouded and the numbers would get mixed up. All would become entangled in everything else, and you would be burdened with a bewildering situation from which there was no way out.

  Moreover, the rules were all clearly laid out. And Adila knew them perfectly. Everyone knew them. If you knew them, then you knew the difference between right and wrong. If you followed them, you walked the right path, where you would find stability and assurance and peace of mind, not to mention respect and confidence that you were right. After all, it was not simply your own, personal sense of right, but that of others. All others—and that meant you were never alone or vulnerable. You did not have to face life alone and vulnerable. The others would always be there, supporting you at every step, offering backing and protection, as long as you followed the fundamental rules—their rules.

  On this firm, hard ground, next to Adila, Layla stood. On this solid foundation she stood, after her experience with Isam, and within the bounds of those rules. There she existed, fortifying herself against life, so fearful; and suppressing all the wellsprings of spontaneity and lively inquisitiveness that were in her nature. She faced life with a cold face and a colder heart, with chilled feelings, with a studied behavior the consequences of which she always knew in advance. She constructed a shell of emotional serenity from her certainty that she was acting correctly, that she was perfectly self-sufficient, and that no one could harm her or cause her pain. Then Husayn passed through her existence and a vibrant current touched her, setting off the sort of animated reactions that anyone who followed the rules and was clever at reckoning consequences would hardly dream of. Layla paused on the bank, observing life’s current as it pushed forward, and something in her heart rebelled. Something was willing her to join that current. Yet something in her mind pulled her back, enveloped her to imprison her on shore. And there she remained. But as that current deepened her feelings of solitude and isolation, her ties to Adila grew firm and taut, as if she drew from their bond the very ability to stand on her feet. She felt more and more distant from Sanaa.

  Adila stood on ground that Layla could touch, from which she could draw reassurance. Sanaa hovered in the sky, in an open space toward which Layla was afraid even to glance. In her mind, too, Husayn was linked to this amorphous space, for he lingered there waiting, waiting for her. But she could not do it; she did not want to voyage upward, to meet him where he waited. For that was a space where one lived in perpetual fever. You never knew exactly where you stood; you saw things not as they really were; you felt a strength you did not really possess, a beauty you could not really claim, and a happiness bigger than one person could sustain. For the thread that connected one to the sky was fragile; it might break suddenly, and you would tumble to earth and shatter.

  Embracing Adila’s view of life, Layla managed to conceal her feelings for Husayn even from herself. Layer upon layer of emotion, of warmth—those feelings settled so deeply inside that they were no longer visible, along with her compelling desire to embrace life. On the surface floated only the deception that was Layla’s existence.

  Entering by the monumental front gate, Layla glanced at the enormous university clock. The chime announced 9:45. She headed toward the main building of the Faculty of Letters, hesitating as she started up to the second floor. It would not be seemly for the lecturer to catch sight of her, for then he would know that she was in the college yet had not attended his lecture. On the other hand, how could he possibly be aware of her absence when such a crowd of students filled the lecture hall? Taking extra precaution, Layla stopped some meters away, waiting for Sanaa and Adila to come out.

  The door opened and a horde of students poured from the room. A small, dark-complexioned young woman with tiger-like eyes laughed. “Did you see Suzy—did you see what she did to herself?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention,” replied her classmate.

  “She uncovered half her chest, she’d drowned herself in perfume, and she was making eyes at the professor the whole time he was talking.”

  Her friend doubled over with laughter. “And our dear professor might as well not have been in the same room. Just as likely to be moved as a mountain would be.” Her companion pinched her warningly on the arm as the fast-moving wave of students parted in the middle and Dr. Fuad Ramzi appeared. He strode with measured slowness, followed by Suzy and her fragrance and then by a knot of students, male and female. Dr. Ramzi stalked on, his tall frame absolutely straight and rigid, his pale, sober face empty of all expression, his frosty eyes ahead, as if no students trailed him, as if none were attempting to engage him in discussion, as if he heard nothing of what they said. To Layla he looked like a solitary walker, as if he had slipped into a glass case that set him apart from everyone else. Dr. Ramzi approached the spot where Layla stood. His eyes moved round her and then came to stop on her. She could not understand how he could have seen her in the first place, when his eyes were fixed so steadily forward. But now those eyes measured her, weighing her, not with any desire or curiosity, but slowly and with disinterested calculation, as a person might eye a coin in his hand to make sure it was not forged. The eyes shifted away, and Layla let out her breath in relief. But Dr. Ramzi stopped right in front of her, his eyes straight ahead again as if he did not see her after all. “Where were you, Miss?”

  Layla’s face grew bright red. The students behind Dr. Ramzi peered at her in delighted curiosity, as if they were watching a mouse just fallen into a waiting trap. She tried to regain her poise and said weakly, “I arrived late.”

  “And then?”

  Layla realized that his question was meant to embarrass her into becoming a target of attack and censure. She said nothing.

  “Next time, get your timing straight. Anyone who wants to get educated has to be sure of his schedule.” The professor said all of this without looking at her. His chilly voice seemed to confirm to her and the others that it was all the same to him whether or not she got her schedule right, or perhaps whether or not she went up in flames. His valuable piece of advice was crowned by a chuckle from one of the students, and then the professor moved away, leaving Layla motionless, her forehead beaded with sweat. She looked round in vain for Adila and Sanaa; instead, her eyes met those of the student who had laughed—bold, wicked eyes, intensifying the sensation that she was truly alone. She left the corridor almost at a run.

  At the female students’ lounge she stopped, shoved the door open, and collapsed onto the nearest chair. She put down her book bag, keeping her diary on her lap, her head down, and peered covertly at
the room’s occupants. At the table in the center sat a student copying lecture notes. To her right sat a girl shining her shoes with a scrap of wool. Facing her was another, drinking tea with a spectacular show of disgust, as if she had just found a scorpion in the glass. Before the mirror stood her classmate Nawal—“the bee,” as the first-years in philosophy all called her—poking into place her needle-like eyebrows with the handle of a comb. Layla’s eyes met Nawal’s in the mirror, and Layla jerked her head away. Adila had ruled that Nawal’s name was mud in the college, and that to mix with her would sully their little set’s name; from that day Layla had avoided her, except to exchange brief greetings.

  Nawal moved the comb to her other eyebrow. “Good morning.”

  Layla returned the greeting but could not overcome her discomfort. Noticing, Nawal assumed it was directed at her and arched her eyebrows. She smiled lightly. “You have a letter on the board.”

  “A letter!” Layla was surprised and disconcerted. “For me?”

  Nawal’s smile broadened and her eyes narrowed, giving her a sly air. “A letter—there—” Her hand waved toward the message board and she turned back to face the mirror, smoothing her dress over her petite body, pulling the belt tighter around her startlingly small waist. Layla stood before the board. A foreign stamp: the letter was from Husayn. With a trembling hand she snatched the envelope, stuffed it into her diary, and hurried to the door. Nawal called after her, twisting and drawing out the syllables in her name with delicious mirth. “La-ay-laa!” Layla stopped cold in the doorway as if caught red-handed. She turned slowly, noticing that the glass of tea had paused at the lips of its drinker, while the young woman shining her shoe had sat back and swung one leg over the other, ready for the entertainment. Nawal, her hand now on her waist, in her eyes the same sly look, was speaking, “Your bag—you forgot your bag.”