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  “Well, where is Ali Bey?” her mother would ask.

  Gamila would shrug. “If I bring him, what will he do? Sleep, like he did yesterday?”

  Layla held back her laughter as the image of Ali Bey came into her mind, a body draped over the sofa, more or less filling it, his head dropped onto his shoulder, his mouth open, his breathing successively louder and louder until he was snoring, the fat gold watch chain hanging massively down as far as his paunch.

  “No,” said Gamila’s mother. “It’s not right, Gamila. Aren’t we his relatives?” Gamila shrugged her words off. “By the way,” she said to Layla, “Isam apologizes for not being here. He’s coming by tomorrow to congratulate you.”

  Layla had been uneasy at Isam’s silence. She wanted to see him, to make sure that he bore no feelings of bitterness and to show him that she had none either, as if she wanted to clear all outstanding matters before she became officially engaged.

  *

  Isam came to their home with Sidqi. They had become inseparable companions. Seeing them together Layla smiled, recollecting Gamila’s engagement party. Isam had wanted to choke her merely because Sidqi had spoken to her. Isam noticed her smile and understood immediately. When a seat next to her was vacated he sat down and said, smiling, “What were you chortling about?”

  “So, you’ve become friends, you and Sidqi!”

  Isam laughed. “Do you remember?”

  “Like children playing, weren’t we?”

  Isam didn’t answer. Layla noticed Sidqi whispering something into Gamila’s ear. Her cousin blew cigarette smoke straight into his face and laughed, a series of curt, broken sounds. Isam raised his face to Layla and smiled, but shamefacedly this time. “You know, Layla, what I’m planning to do when I get married?”

  Layla looked at him questioningly.

  “The first daughter I have, I’m going to name Layla, after you.”

  Layla felt embarrassed. She was so inconsequential, so paltry. Isam, for whom she had felt so much contempt, seemed a better and more courageous person than she was. Isam had no wish to conceal or deny true feelings that had once filled his heart. Those feelings had gone, but he still preserved them in his heart as a beautiful thing of which he was proud. She, on the other hand, had been suppressing and denying emotions that had once filled her with happiness. Harshly, meanly, she had labeled them “childish play.”

  Whom was she trying to please by denying those sentiments? Herself? Ramzi? Layla could not continue her line of thought. Gamila interrupted it, clapping her hands. “Come on, will the men please leave. Women, we have work to do.”

  Isam stood up, but Sidqi did not move from his seat. Elegant, attractive, handsome, bold, he was attacking Gamila with his eyes, as she sat beside him. Before he would leave, Sidqi teased her. He just loved women’s work, he said. But Isam dragged him out by the hand, laughing.

  Gamila began to outline the details of the party she was planning to give for Layla. Their discussion came to center on what Layla would wear. When Layla mentioned the material she wanted, Gamila objected. It was the pattern that determined the material, she said firmly. In front of everyone, she announced that the party dress would be her gift to Layla on the occasion of her engagement.

  The next day, Gamila took Layla to her seamstress. “I want the best thing you have, madame,” she said.

  “Something spécial, madame?” smiled the seamstress, alluding to the high cost of the dress she would present for their inspection. Gamila said stubbornly, “I told you, the best.” She showed them a “model in gauze” that she described as a Christian Dior design. Layla and Gamila stood before it, stunned speechless. The seamstress spoke again, in French. “That is no pattern, ma cherie—that is a dream.”

  She was not stretching the truth. Layla had never seen anything prettier in her life, not even at the cinema. She could almost picture herself in this dress of white chiffon. No doubt it would make her loads prettier than she was now. Then, no doubt, Ramzi would think her pretty.

  But her face tensed. “Do you have anything else, madame?”

  “Are you crazy, Layla?” asked Gamila in astonishment. “Can there be anything more lovely than that?”

  “I want something with a higher neckline.”

  The seamstress shrugged disdainfully. “Non! A high-necked cocktail dress?”

  Layla was silent. Gamila begged the seamstress, who refused stubbornly, and said in French, disparagingly, “I am an artiste, not a seamstress. I do not make high-necked cocktail dresses.”

  Gamila sat in her car, her body rigid, tears of anger glinting in her eyes. Layla patted her thigh gently. “I’m sorry, Gamila.”

  Gamila made no response. Layla leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Gamila turned to her and said furiously, “I just want to understand, that’s all. Why do you want to keep yourself all buttoned up? All your life you have worn things that are open.”

  “Because, well, because Ramzi doesn’t like them open.”

  “He can go to hell, my dear. So men think they have something to say about what women wear now, too?”

  “I can’t, Gamila.”

  Gamila leaned over to Layla and spoke slowly. “Indulge me, Layla. Look, I have more experience of the world than you do. When a woman goes down on her knees from day one, the man will just climb on top of her and ride her hard with his legs firmly on either side.”

  Layla felt a sharp pang in her heart. She realized suddenly that what Gamila was warning her against had already happened. But, whether or not it had, the dress had to be very modest. Otherwise, Ramzi would not accept it.

  Her aunt made a dress for her to wear for her engagement. It had a very high neckline.

  Layla stood before the mirror. Her aunt was putting the final tucks into place. “It’s gorgeous, sweetheart, absolutely gorgeous.” She stepped back. She narrowed her gaze as she studied the dress from a distance, and laughed abruptly.

  “Layla, do you know what your dress has turned out like?”

  Layla turned her head. “Like what, Aunt Gamila?”

  “Like Gamila’s wedding dress, except this one has a closed bodice and hers was low cut. Exactly, though—same cut, same lines, same material.”

  Layla’s eyes blurred. She saw Gamila standing on the roof, on the day of the Cairo fire, her back to the skies, still as a statue in her white dress, the masses of thick, acrid smoke surrounding her like a frame. Husayn’s voice echoed in her ears. “This is not the end, Layla. Believe me, this is not the end.” Layla turned to her aunt and said in a feeble voice, “Are we finished?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  LAYLA SAT IN THE CAR BETWEEN her father and her fiancé, on the way to Gamila’s home. Her father sat stiffly upright. Ramzi had shrunk into himself as if afraid that his body might touch hers. Layla felt a cold shiver brush her despite the July evening. She tried to think of something to say, to dispel the embarrassment that seemed to dominate all three of them. She turned toward Ramzi.

  “Is the dress nice?”

  Her father looked at her disapprovingly. Ramzi suppressed a smile, and spoke as if humoring a little girl. “It’s just fine.”

  Neither the smile nor the comment satisfied Layla, but she respected Ramzi’s circumspection, for no doubt it could be attributed to her father’s presence. Silence pressed on them again, and Layla began to toy with her engagement ring, staring at it. Just the day before, Ramzi had come with his mother to Layla’s home and had put the ring on her finger, along with a gold wedding ring. Layla had loved his mother the moment she saw her. She felt as if something brought her close to this woman and attracted her, as if they shared something. She kept looking at the woman’s face. There was a sweet prettiness there that the years had not erased, a gentle fragility. In her eyes shimmered a faint sadness that would suddenly vanish when she looked proudly at her son.

  Ramzi noticed Layla playing with the ring. He broke the heavy silence.

  “And do you like the ring?”

&nbs
p; She raised a smiling face to him. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”

  “What is valuable is always beautiful,” he said. Layla felt uneasy at this allusion to the price of the ring. Her father said, “Yes indeed, what is expensive holds its value.”

  Silence pressed down on them again until the car came to a stop in front of Gamila’s house. The door opened and a wave of heat swathed Layla.

  From among the waiting crowd, Mahmud pushed his way out and ran toward Layla. He had meant just to greet her but when he got close and took her hand in his, he pulled her to his chest and hugged her. Layla clung to him. He seemed very, very close, closer than at any time in the past. When the brother and sister moved apart, tears shone in her eyes. Her mother stood to one side, her lips trembling. Gamila shouted enthusiastically as she held Layla by both shoulders, “You look stupendous today, Layla! Fabulous!”

  “My dear,” said her aunt. “God protect you. A bride like no other, you are!”

  Isam shook her hand, smiling his shy smile. “Really, it’s enough to make one decide it’s time to get married.”

  Ali Bey was there to shake her hand, too. His stomach quivering, he said, Ma sha’ allah, sitt hanim! Wonderful, sitt hanim, absolutely wonderful, God be praised!”

  Dr. Ramzi stood apart, waiting for the little demonstration to end. Then everyone turned to him, shaking his hand, congratulating him. Layla walked over to her mother, leaned down, and kissed her, tears welling up in her eyes once again. The music began. Ramzi seized Layla’s arm and strode into the garden. Layla felt uncomfortable as she began to move among the tables scattered across the garden and already filled with people, but her embarrassment soon passed. The men stood up to wish her well as she went by; she sensed their eyes gently studying her face, as if those eyes were patting her quietly on the cheek. A woman let out a warble of celebration and opened the way for other voices, a woman’s—“O my soul, she’s as pretty as a new moon”—and then a man’s—“Just like a peach, a pretty little peach.” Layla straightened her back and raised her head, blushing. Her small mouth was rounded, and her eyes fluttered with a lovely gleam. She felt so pretty; she felt loved and desired. She felt intoxicated.

  When she drew near the head table she took off her gloves, tilting her head a trifle, coquettishly. She put out a hand to cut the huge cake. The tea party had begun.

  As the knife plunged into the cake, Layla remembered suddenly that Ramzi was beside her. She threw him a glance, laughing, and offered him a piece of cake, with a mischievous expression on her face. Tonight. Tonight . . . He would say something lovely to her. Yes, tonight. Something that would move her and would draw them together, above the crowd of guests, bearing them upward to circle together, alone. Tonight, she was so pretty in her white dress! And he looked handsome in his dark blue suit. Tonight was their night, which they would always remember, when they were alone together in their home. He would muse about it to her, and she to him.

  Tonight he would reach his hand under the table, and take hers. He would whisper something in her ear. Something that would make the blood run hot in her veins. Tonight he would gaze at her, as if his eyes were touching her, were caressing her, were drawing her to him. Then he would pull away, painfully, when he realized that to look was not enough; it would not satiate his desire, his longing to surround her, all of her, with himself.

  Tonight, the words would stop on his tongue, broken, incomplete, unable to convey the love this illustrious man held for her, somewhere deep inside.

  She tilted her head and spoke lightly, trying to move Ramzi toward the moment she awaited.

  “You never did say whether you like my dress or not.”

  “I did say.”

  Layla pursed her mouth, still chewing on a bite of cake.

  “So, you do like it?”

  He smiled. “I know what you want me to say. But I think that sort of thing has been said enough tonight. It will go to your head.”

  “What do I want you to say?” she said flirtatiously, her eyes sparkling.

  He laughed. “That you’re pretty.”

  Layla’s face went crimson, and she lowered her head in embarrassment.

  “You mean, I really am pretty today?” she whispered. Her heart fluttered as she waited for a reply.

  “Is there any doubt?” But his words had a note of disdain that made her uneasy. Her grip tightened on the table edge as if she needed its support. She shook her head like a stubborn child. “Anyway, I must be pretty, to you anyway, or else you would not have decided to marry me.”

  “In any case, I do not choose my wife for vulgar reasons.” The fork dropped from Layla’s hand and clattered into the plate. He added, “Outer appearances really do not interest me very much. What concerns me is rectitude.”

  Layla pushed her plate away. Her face tightened, and her eyes circled round the garden. She noticed that Gamila had arranged everything exactly as it had been on the night of her wedding. The tables placed across the garden, on either side of the walk. The colored lights glinting among the trees, the orchestra in the same spot, near the entrance to the garden. The same faces gazed at her; the head table, as before, sat near the main entrance to the villa. There was only one difference. She was sitting at the head table, instead of Gamila. And Ramzi was sitting where Ali Bey had sat.

  Gamila leaned over Layla and Ramzi. “What do you think of it all? Is everything to your liking?”

  Layla made a reference to the elegance of everything and said weakly, “All this for me? For me, Gamila?” as if she deemed such luxurious surroundings too elegant for her. Gamila laughed. “My goodness, my dear, how many Laylas do we have?”

  She straightened up and spoke, laughing provokingly. “And for Dr. Ramzi, too. I pray to God he’s pleased. We know that he does not like parties and all that nonsense, but what can we do? He has to humor us, doesn’t he?”

  The strain of sarcasm in her voice did not escape Dr. Ramzi. He gave Gamila an irritated look. She withstood it, only partly suppressing her smile. His displeasure melted in a smile. “Whatever the case, we thank you.” Gamila made as if to leave them, then stopped, as if she had just remembered something. Waving her hand across the garden, she said to Layla, “Did you notice, Layla? I made everything to look the way it did the day I got married. Exactly.”

  Layla gazed round, gravely. Turning to go, Gamila added, “Exactly, Layla.”

  Layla’s face grew still more somber. “Truly, it is exactly like the day of your wedding.” But Gamila did not hear her. She had turned her back, heading for the tablefuls of invited guests. As she walked away in her close-fitting dress, Ramzi’s eyes focused on her back. She was wearing a black dress that, as it rigorously held in the ebullient fullness of her body, left bare much of her back. The clean waistline showed off her small waist, and at her buttocks the dress seemed to pause, interrupted, as if sculpted there as she dressed. The skirt precisely, barely, covered her slender but very round thighs. His eyes went from bottom to top, where the black dress parted to reveal her shoulders, round as the tops of apples, and then a long, marble neck. Then Ramzi was submerged in blackness again, the deep black of her hair, now cut carefully into a short round cap.

  Layla observed Gamila as her cousin drew near the table where Sidqi, Isam, and Shushette sat. Sidqi was sitting at ease, playing with a gold chain in his hand, but his face was not as relaxed as his posture suggested. He was giving his full and wary attention to Gamila as she approached him.

  Occupied with Sidqi’s sister, Isam did not sense his own sister’s approach. He was giving Shushette his bashful look, smiling his half smile, trying—in vain, it seemed—to reach her. She sat absently, submerged in the smoke from her cigarette. She was very thin, and the only beauty in her face was in her eyes, large and dreamy as they gazed into the distance, toward where the smoke wafted. Isam kept trying: the poor fellow was attempting to fulfill the role of gallant rake he had set for himself. She was right there, beside him, but she seemed very far away indee
d, as if imprisoned in the rings of smoke that her cigarette produced.

  Gamila, Layla saw, was bending over Sidqi, offering him a piece of cake. He straightened up in his chair and whispered something in her ear. She shook her head. Gamila was saying no, and now she was returning to the table at which her husband sat, paunch and all; now she readied herself to circulate among the other tables. Layla moved her gaze to the table where her mother sat. Mama looked anxious; her shoulders seemed to hang as she raised her eyes cautiously, even fearfully, as if she wanted to have a look at something but was apprehensive lest her fears be confirmed. But what could her mother fear? Was she afraid that her daughter was not happy? No, she was not looking in Layla’s direction. She was looking to the right, toward Mahmud and Sanaa.

  Sanaa was sitting with Mahmud, the two of them alone. What audacity! Sanaa, her face pink, was whispering something into Mahmud’s ear, and Mahmud’s eyes sparkled like twin chunks of turquoise. Layla leaned forward, as if magic threads pulled her eyes in the direction of Sanaa and Mahmud.

  Ramzi touched Layla’s arm. She realized that Sidqi stood just behind her, offering his congratulations. As Sidqi walked away, toward the villa, and then stepped through its front door, Ramzi watched.

  “Gamila’s brother?”

  A sarcastic laugh burst from Layla, as if she had been waiting for just such an outlet for her irritation.