The Open Door Read online

  “You’re really on your toes today,” Layla said bitterly to Sanaa.

  Adila seemed to be thinking. “Frankly, it wouldn’t do.”

  “What wouldn’t do?” asked Layla.

  “Me marrying Dr. Ramzi. Either he would break my skull the first week or I’d break his. Because we’re so alike. Birds of a feather.”

  Sanaa laughed. “One ful bean split in two.”

  But Adila was still reflecting. “No . . . I definitely wouldn’t suit him. He wants someone soft and gentle, like Layla. That’s what he needs. And calm, and sweet.”

  “And obedient,” finished Sanaa. “And who puts up with a lot, and is as pliant as the ring on his hand, that he can move from finger to finger!”

  “So all I can get from you two is teasing?” said Layla, showing her annoyance. “Anyway, this is my problem, and I’m the one who will work it out.”

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  “I’ll say what I say. What matters is not getting trounced in class like that.”

  When Layla headed toward Dr. Ramzi’s office on the pretext of picking up her marked paper, she had worked out exactly what she wanted to say. But when he raised that waxen face from the desk, every last word she had prepared evaporated from her brain. She stepped forward until she was almost against the desk and said, the tone of her voice mingling dogged challenge with frailty, “My paper, please.”

  He opened a desk drawer slowly, staring at her all the while, and drew the paper out with no hesitation, as if he had been expecting her. He sailed it across the desk in front of her, still looking at her. She blushed as she picked it up and started to turn away, toward the door.

  “Wait.”

  She froze. She did not look at him.

  “Open the paper and look at the mark.”

  Very good. She was sure he knew it was a ‘very good’ but even so, he asked her, “What did you get?”

  “Very good.”

  “You might have gotten ‘excellent’—do you know why you did not?”

  She did not answer. His cold voice showed impatience as he said, “Answer me.”

  Still she did not answer, and his anger erupted. “Because you waste your time. Because you use the library for purposes other than for what it was intended.”

  Layla’s hand gripped the edge of the desk tightly. She wished she could slap him. But she was too afraid to move. She was silent, absolutely still, staring at the desk; a wave of profound loathing swept over her, tensing the muscles in her face. When Dr. Ramzi spoke again, his voice had regained its customary dead calmness.

  “You despise me, do you not?”

  She said nothing but this time she did raise her eyes, and fixed them on his. Ramzi’s eyes twitched, betraying a dim apprehensiveness. Had he, uncharacteristically, forgotten to prepare for something? Neglected a certain detail? Layla’s eyes hinted an arresting blend of revolt, bold readiness, and loathing, a strength he had never imagined thinkable for this meek, gentle child to harbor. The moment was a crucial one, Dr. Ramzi realized, a moment of crisis in his exchange with the person who faced him. He managed to overcome the shock, meeting her eyes again with all of the authority he could summon. Their eyes locked in a protracted, silent struggle; his icy gaze attacked, threatened, then feinted to become more gentle, subduing and taming her, deepening to match her depth, as if stripping her of the sources of her strength drop by drop. Layla felt the blood sucked from her body; she closed her eyes slowly. Smiling lightly, Dr. Ramzi said, “Why are you angry with me? Because I want you to follow the proper path? Because I want you to become the college’s finest young woman?” Layla’s eyes remained closed; she said nothing.

  “I want you to answer just one question. What you did—was that right or wrong?”

  She did not answer. He repeated his question in the same, deadly calm voice and was silent. The waiting filled every moment, every atom of air in the room, as if the whole world had paused, lying in wait for her to speak. Silent tears ran from her eyes, and her grip on the desk relaxed. He put out his hand on the desk and touched her fingers, speaking gently.

  “There’s no need to cry.”

  Her eyes flew open. She stared at him, astonished, as if she had just beheld a freak of nature. Then his face was again hard and empty of expression, his hand gripped tightly on his desk—as if he did not see her, had not touched her hand just then, had not said just one gentle sentence. Layla turned to leave, wiping her tears. Her hand on the doorknob, she found the words in Husayn’s letter coming into her mind. “So let go, my love, run forward, fling the door open wide, and leave it open.”

  “One moment, please.” said Dr. Ramzi. “There is a small matter to which I want to draw your attention before you leave.” Layla faced him, staying near the door. He stood up, gazing down at her for a moment before speaking. “Many people call themselves intellectuals yet mock and belittle the principles and traditions that are ours. But you must realize that these fundamentals are what bind us to the land. Without them we would be like a tree without roots—the slightest breeze could sway it, and even knock it to the ground.”

  Layla stood absolutely still as she listened, and remained still after he had finished. She stared at him as if her eyes were pulled to him by invisible cords. She could not take her eyes away. She could not move; she could not walk to the door. He towered there in front of her, his head high, very pale, near yet remote, his striking face shrouded in a fog of ambiguity, gazing at her as if he were a god looking down upon her.

  A god? Yes, one of those gods belonging to the Greeks, one who never, ever weakened; who stood erect, believing himself always in the right, wanting her to be in the right. To be in his shadow. He never erred, never let down his guard, never relented, never softened. If he were to soften, perhaps . . . ? If stone were to soften! Her heart screamed out, “I beg you, I beg you, do not torment me. I will walk in your shadow. I will follow you. Just do not torment me.” Her eyes reflected how deep was her pain, her despair, how desperate her pleading. His face softened into a smile.

  “That’s all, Layla. You can go.” His voice was gentle.

  She realized he had called her by name for the first time. He had not said ‘Miss’ as he usually did. He had called her by her own name.

  Chapter Seventeen

  FROM THAT DAY, LAYLA’S ASSOCIATION with Dr. Ramzi acquired a newly personal tone. Meeting her by chance in the corridor, he would give her a special smile, one that he reserved for her, a smile that singled her out and made her feel superior to her classmates. At the end of the school year he loaned her some books from his personal library to read during the summer vacation. As she embarked on her third year at the university he began asking regularly to see her papers, initiating private discussions on their weaknesses and strengths. As firm as he was with her—in class and outside of the lecture hall, too—something glimmered beneath that stern surface to distinguish her from others, to make her feel that this must mean she was a cut above the rest.

  But it all took its toll. Forlorn, apart, drained of energy, Layla had sought the shade of an immense wall whose shadow could easily encompass her. To remain in that shadowed space could not be called a conscious decision; she merely leaned back against the wall to rest. She felt all right as long as she supported herself against the wall while it spread its shadow over her; the shadow itself seemed to lend her the massive solidity of the wall, to offer her its strength, to infuse her with its hardness. She clung to that wall, seeking its protection, wanting its strength. She reined in her own behavior—indeed, her very thoughts—so that they remained within the radius of Dr. Ramzi’s approval. What was right was whatever he thought right; wrong was whatever he considered wrong. And it was never difficult to distinguish one from the other. For what constituted wrong was very clear and well defined, and so was what was right. Black was black and white was white, and there were no intermediate shades. He knew the boundaries, and so did she; moreover, so did her mother, Adila, every
one.

  But Dr. Ramzi towered above them all, for his commitment to what was right did not parrot other people’s commitments but rather expressed his beliefs. And when he avoided what was wrong it was not because he feared the judgments of others but rather because of his superior strength, and because he was an extraordinary person, an intellectual. A true intellectual imposed stringent controls on his emotions, his likes and dislikes, his acts and his words. Such self-control prevented him from acting before thinking; hence he could not err. Such a system distinguished the civilized person from vulgar folk, whose impulsive embrace of the basest emotions led them inevitably into wrongdoing.

  Layla adopted Dr. Ramzi’s views and stayed within their confines. He noticed this development and was careful to show his support. After she had presented a research project in class, he commented, “The research was good, and you have almost succeeded in ridding yourself of the personal flaws that were preventing you from being objective. That is, from following scientific method. You still have a long road in front of you, but you are making progress.”

  One day after the lecture Adila took Sanaa aside. “So now do you believe me? Look—he’s always lending her books, he congratulates her right in the lecture, and everything’s just A-okay—see, didn’t I tell you he’s sweet on her?”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?” said Sanaa sarcastically. “God’s up above, and he’s just one step below as far as she’s concerned.

  “You’re jealous,” teased Adila, trying to provoke her friend.

  “Ya shaykha, don’t make me sick. Are you happy about the straitjacket she’s in? I can’t speak to that fellow, she says. I can’t do this, that posture is not proper. And the long-sleeved dresses, the principles, the tree with its roots, the beast and superman! Now really, tell me the truth—are you pleased with all this nonsense?”

  “Tell you the truth? She’s overdone it a bit.”

  “A bit? It’s sickening.”

  Sanaa did think Layla’s transformation was lamentable. Her friend had become unbearable: self-absorbed, judgmental and self-righteous, rigid, dry, emotionless, as if she had lost her powers of sympathy. Her horizons had narrowed terribly; she only saw as far as the palm of her hand, as if she were literally near-sighted. And then what she noticed excited only disgust and disdain, for she seemed able only to see others’ lapses. Everything that came from her mouth was a stern reproach, issued confidently and insolently as if she personally balanced a set of infallible scales. Anyone who took her words seriously might just as well go off and commit suicide! Roots had shaken loose, dissolution was upon every household, corrupt moral behavior had engulfed the entire country, and the intellectuals—those demigods—must stand firm against them. And of course there were no intellectuals except Dr. Ramzi and, by extension, her.

  Sanaa was very troubled by it. What had happened? What had changed this young woman from whose face—from whose whole being—affection had once shone? How had she become so filled with rancor, bitterness, rigidity, petrified ideas? Who could ever have believed that she was the sister of Mahmud, whose eyes radiated love for people and for life? Sanaa knew full well that soon she and Layla must come to blows. Mahmud had graduated and was about to complete his internship year. The two of them were waiting only on the announcement of his appointment to a hospital to make their own announcement to the two families. She and Mahmud were not going to let anyone stand in the way of their marriage. Only a month now, and she would surely face Layla head-on. Sanaa dreaded this even more than the inevitable clash with her father and mother. It would be very hard to confront Layla openly, to face a quarrel that would end a friendship that was once the most precious thing in her life. But what could she do? With her newfound rigidity, her cold inflexibility, there was not a chance that Layla would understand.

  In fact, something happened to bring Layla and Sanaa together, almost returning to their bond the strength it had had in the past.

  The blackboard at the college entrance announced that the door was now open for female students who might want to volunteer for the National Guard. The announcement remained posted for a week, to be replaced by an invitation to all female college members to meet in lecture hall 71 with the detachment commander of the National Guard.

  At the appointed time the glass door of the lecture hall swung without pause, filling the room with hundreds of young women. Some students had come to register their names on the rolls of the National Guard, others were propelled by curiosity, and one group seemed to have come simply to present a collection of the latest fashions. Sitting between Layla and Sanaa, waiting for the officer to arrive, Adila complained, “See, in the time we’ve been waiting I could have gone and washed my hair and—” She broke off as the officer entered the lecture hall and stood facing them—three hundred young women. The room was silent for a moment while all eyes examined the young officer as he began to speak, his voice barely audible and his face going scarlet with embarrassment. The whispering soon picked up, resuming interrupted stories. A girl who looked almost Chinese positioned one leg over the other and declared to all in the vicinity that she had accepted the hand of that young man who had been courting her just to stop his pestering. A plump young woman complained to her classmate that her hair had dried out all of a sudden so that it now felt like straw; the classmate advised her to take a steambath, adding oil to the water. The officer’s hand went up to his shirtcollar in confusion, and a little knot of young women at the back of the hall chanted to a regular beat, “We can’t hear! We can’t hear!” The officer slapped his hand down on the table and yelled sternly, “Quiet!”

  This time nothing broke the silence but the sound of breathing. Realizing that he finally had the upper hand, the officer was able to raise his voice. He stepped forward into the aisle that divided the sections of seats, speaking in an everyday, conversational manner—no formal oratory, no flowery expressions. His speech flowed from feelings unfamiliar to these young women, sentiments about the value of women, the true equality being given to them for the first time, since they were now being given the right to defend the nation. Tears stood in many eyes; others widened in amazement, as if the door to a strange world had opened before them.

  And some eyes moved upward, bored, to look at the clock in the lecture hall. But the silence triumphed, broken only by excited breathing. As Layla sat listening, scenes from her life passed before her: herself as a little girl, jumping in rhythm and raising and lowering her right hand, and chanting as the demonstrators were doing, “Weapons, weapons, we want weapons.” Her image as a young teenager, on the shoulders of other demonstrators, women this time, calling out in a voice that was not her own but was the voice of thousands. These memories seemed so distant to her, as if they had happened to someone else.

  Sanaa took a pen from her bag and wrote on a bit of paper, “I’m going to volunteer.”

  Layla’s lips formed a sardonic smile that faded as she watched Sanaa, leaning over the paper, lips pressed together and eyes shining. Sanaa drew line after line beneath her words, lines heavy enough to rip the paper. A tremor ran through Layla’s body and collected in her head.

  Standing before the officer to have her name recorded as a volunteer in the National Guard, she was still unsure. As the officer waited for her to say something, all she could do was to sketch lines with her hand along the table edge. Finally she spoke. “Layla Sulayman. Philosophy, third year.” She ran, her cheeks flushed, to catch up with Sanaa.

  At first it seemed an entertaining game: the long lines they formed, the military movements, the army’s phrases and slogans; the lieutenant with his commands and prohibitions; the early morning breeze slapping against their faces and ruffling their hair. And the collective spirit, again, as if the detachment was a clique of friends organizing a plot, exactly as it had been in secondary school. Layla enjoyed every minute of the training; she began to regain the feeling she had lost at the university, that feeling of being part of a whole. But when the lieutenant ord
ered her to raise her head, she began to feel remote, alienated. Every time she tried to lift her head, only her shoulders came up. It would require an enormous effort, she thought forlornly, to achieve what the others seemed to do so easily and naturally, as if they had been born with their heads straight and high. The lieutenant never failed to remark on it; she tried, but every time, she failed. She would be on the point of giving the whole thing up, but then she would come back.

  “I can’t. I just can’t do it, Sanaa.”

  “It’s only because you’ve gotten used to walking with your head bowed.”

  “So what can I do?”

  “Raise your head and relax your body. Tell yourself whenever you are walking, ‘I am pretty. I am intelligent.’”

  Layla laughed.

  “I’m not kidding, Layla. Anyone has to feel a certain amount of pride inside. Pride in yourself.”

  Layla smiled wanly. She tried again, and this time she succeeded. Everyone around her noticed that her posture was straighter and her walk steadier. But then Layla faced a new difficulty. The lieutenant said she was holding the rifle as if it were a broom. This comment stirred up a great deal of clever joking. But Layla put an end to that when they started target practice. She astonished all of them, including the lieutenant.

  After the first shot, her body, which had been completely rigid, relaxed. Her whole being had felt as if it were concentrated in her eyes, and with a steady hand she had pulled the trigger. She had hit the bull’s eye. She took aim, fired, and hit, time after time, day after day.

  The feelings that had abandoned her flooded back. She was capable and strong after all. It was not the words of encouragement and approval; it was the realization that she had worked her will, and that she could always do it again. She could desire something and then she could succeed in achieving it. Moreover, there was no time-lag between the desire and the act, which made the achievement all the more powerful.