The Open Door Page 27

  “Sidqi—Gamila’s brother? Of course not, they don’t resemble each other in the slightest.”

  “Maybe not in outward appearance, but their personalities are one.”

  “No, there’s no comparison. Gamila is a good girl, very simple and straightforward, but Sidqi—”

  Ramzi interrupted her. “You mean, Gamila’s personality is, well, like yours, for instance?”

  “Just about. We were raised together—it might as well have been one house.”

  Ramzi shook his head as he continued to gaze narrowly at Gamila.

  “No, she is altogether different. And you will never be like her.”

  Layla stared at him, with a confused, embarrassed little laugh.

  “What are you laughing at?” he asked.

  “Because you said that sentence in an odd way, as if you were angry that I’m not like Gamila.”

  Ramzi looked at her for a long moment, drawing on his cigarette.

  “If you were like her, I would not have thought to marry you.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with Gamila?”

  “I didn’t say that anything was wrong with her. Maybe she is the best young woman there is. But she is not the sort that would do for me. As a wife, I mean.”

  “Do you mean the way she dresses and makes herself up?”

  “No, something deeper than that. Her personality—it would never work with mine.”

  Layla hesitated a moment, then threw out the question that had been plaguing her. “And you want to marry me because my personality does work with yours?” She looked at him, waiting for his face to soften, for him to tell her that he loved her and always had.

  Not a muscle twitched in Ramzi’s face as he said simply and without a moment’s hesitation, “Of course. Because you are compliant and quiet, and you listen to me, and you do what

  I say.”

  Layla clung to whatever hope she had left. “And that’s all?” She seemed to stop breathing as she waited for his answer.

  “What else could there possibly be?”

  Layla lowered her head and stared at the blurred table surface. In a half-finished cup of tea she noticed a drowning fly, trying desperately but hopelessly to free itself. Instinctively her head jerked upward and she focused her undivided attention on Mahmud and Sanaa, as if she could pour her whole self into watching them. A sudden pain gripped her heart; it felt like a hand were squeezing it. As the pain intensified, so did her absorption in the pair; she took such pleasure in her pain, it seemed, that she sought to make it heavier. Her eyes wide, her head swiveled to watch now Sanaa, now Mahmud. Her brother’s lips had softened so that now they were hardly visible; Sanaa was blushing and turned her head away teasingly as Mahmud leaned across the table and whispered something. Sanaa bit her lower lip to keep herself from bursting into laughter. Mahmud’s gaze caressed Sanaa as if his eyes were the hands of a blind person. Sanaa’s eyelids dropped and she groped for Mahmud’s hand under the table. But he put both hands squarely on the table with a mischievous chuckle. Startled, Sanaa stared at him, unsure of his intent, but as Mahmud said something and motioned with one hand, her eyes sparkled. Her delicate lips pressed together, giving her a look of determined readiness, she put her hand on the table, and Mahmud took it in both of his—right there, in front of everyone, in broad daylight! It was as good as announcing to anyone who did not yet know that Sanaa and Mahmud were in love.

  Ramzi touched Layla’s arm. “What’s the matter? I said, what you are mooning over?”

  Layla gave him an odd look, as if she were just waking up from a dream, as if she had forgotten that he was beside her. But he was indeed there, in every atom of the air; very much there, as if in fact he was the only person present. Layla felt a cold shiver go through her body. “In the deep freeze . . . locked up.” That was what Sanaa had said. “Whoever marries him will be put in the deep freeze and locked up.” She leaned toward Ramzi, laughing, for all the world as if she were on the point of telling him a story to which she attached no importance, an amusing tale that no one of sound mind could take seriously.

  “Can you believe it? Sanaa and Mahmud are in love! Imagine that!”

  Now Ramzi became absorbed in watching the pair as Layla went on, her voice a series of staccato phrases as if she could no longer draw more than a shallow breath. “Child’s play! Isn’t it—just a game, child’s play. Children!” But her voice dwindled into a huskiness that seemed to promise a sob. Ramzi paid no heed; his attention was fixed wholly on Sanaa and Mahmud. Observing them seemed to afford him some sort of special pleasure.

  It was very clear by now that Sanaa and Mahmud were deliberately goading those at the party into noticing them, broadcasting their determination to marry in a manner that brooked no doubt. Ramzi straightened up and asked distastefully, “There’s an official engagement?”

  Layla laughed—short, feverish laughs, as if he had told a good joke. She leaned over to him as though she would divulge a startling secret. She whispered, her eyes widening, “There’s love. Imagine?” She laughed—or sobbed—again, straightened in her chair, and went back to watching her brother and Sanaa as if those invisible threads pulled her gaze involuntarily toward them. But she could not focus her eyes. Ramzi’s voice reached her from far away as if he spoke from inside a glass-walled chamber.

  “There’s no such thing as love. It is just the word that a civilized person uses to tame his instincts. What you see in front of you is mere impulsiveness, like an animal pouncing to satiate his instinctual appetite.” It was a relief when that voice stopped. Now she could concentrate, could focus, as that pain squeezed her heart. Sanaa, her face rosy, whispered into Mahmud’s ear, and his eyes twinkled like chunks of turquoise.

  Layla nearly sprang to her feet in surprise when she felt two hands clapped on her shoulder. She came to her senses when she saw that it was Gamila, standing behind her, pressing slightly against the back of her chair.

  “What’s the matter, Layla? Are you just going to sit there like a gutless jellyfish? Aren’t you going to come and greet your guests?” As Gamila turned to face Ramzi she angled her head to one side. Her eyes flashed, her voice was sinuous, her tone coquettish, provoking. “So is Dr. Ramzi one of those men who do their best to frighten folks away?”

  Layla’s heart pounded as the words left Gamila’s lips. She worried that Ramzi might answer insolently or coldly, even after all the effort that Gamila had made for her sake. But to her wonder she saw Ramzi’s face go crimson. His confusion lasted only seconds, though, as he let out the smoke from his cigarette and then visibly relaxed in his seat. His eyes sparkled with a bold, challenging look and his face took on an animated brightness as he leaned toward Gamila and smiled. “And you? You don’t get frightened?”

  Gamila shook her head and tossed off a series of quick, tiny laughs, her whole body quivering. Dr. Ramzi’s eyes roved across that ripe, effervescent figure as if his hands cupped a precious glass of ice water after a long spell of thirst. He leaned back in his chair again; his eyes narrowed and his legs shook rhythmically as he spoke. “Never? Never?” His words came out thickly, heavily, as if something weighted them down. Gamila pushed her chest forward, pressed her palms to her thighs and said, her whole face shimmering, “I do not get frightened. I only frighten others, Dr. Ramzi.”

  Layla could see Ramzi’s eyes fixed avidly on the shadowy line between Gamila’s breasts, his lips rounded in a smile that she found disgusting, reminding her of the grimace of a predatory animal. The strains of the orchestra reached her ears in rapid, wild beats.

  Dr. Ramzi ran his tongue over his lips. “That’s what you think.” But his voice insinuated something else: “Just wait. You and I have a long way to go.” Gamila noticed his gaze trembling on her breasts; he could not sit quite still, she saw, and the thought exhilarated her. She straightened and laughed knowingly. “In any case, Layla’s enough—you can frighten her.” She turned and walked away, unmindful of what she had come over to do. Her body swayed mo
re than usual, her buttocks seemed to take on a life of their own, an impassioned, independent existence that nothing could tame or restrain.

  Gamila paused before the front door to her villa. Layla’s lips parted to call her, but no sound came out. Gamila’s hesitation did not last long. She disappeared inside, her bottom still in perpetual movement. Layla caught sight of the fly in the teacup, now limply afloat on the cold surface of the tea. She followed it with her eyes, her mind empty of thought and feeling, her body a vacuum.

  There was a murmur among the guests, a suppressed gust of noisy movement. A dancer ran lightly into the space made by the ring of tables, her body wrapped in a long red sash. The music picked up, growing more feverish; clapping rose and settled into a rhythmic embrace as wild shouts sounded from the audience. The dancer unrolled her red sash and began to whirl. Things lost their balance; the tables began to jump before Layla’s eyes, people and trees whirling; the wall that encircled everything seemed to buckle. She raised her hands to her head as if to ward off a looming blow.

  Ramzi was shaking his shoulders to the music. “What is it? What’s the matter, Layla?”

  Objects regained their positions; her senses began to right themselves. She felt a chilling fear as she heard a voice she recognized as Ramzi’s. “All of the noise and to-do must have tired you out. It really is tiresome.” Layla’s face tensed as she moved to brush a fly from her cheek. But somehow she did not dare to move her arm; it stayed limply at her side like a heavy metal rod until Mahmud seized her hand.

  Layla clung to that hand insistently and squeezed it so hard that Mahmud nearly yelled. “Layla! What, Layla? What is it?”

  “Take me inside.”

  “Why?” asked Ramzi.

  Layla’s voice was feebly apologetic. “Just for a little. Just a little.” The words echoed through her as Mahmud led her into the villa. Sanaa caught up with them in the hall, her face bright, and grabbed Layla around the waist.

  “Layla, congratulate me! This is the moment I’ve waited for all my life. Congratulate me!”

  Layla moved her lips, trying to smile, but looked as though she would cry. The image of Husayn rose before her, touching her arm as he spoke. “I’m waiting for you, darling.” She ran up the stairs as if closely pursued. Sanaa tried to follow, but Mahmud pulled her back. “Leave her alone, Sanaa. She’s a bit upset.”

  Layla opened the first door she came to on the second floor and flopped down on the first seat that presented itself to her eyes, panting. This was the bathroom that adjoined Gamila’s bedroom. She sat there, her chest heaving, trying to collect her thoughts. But there was a faint sound stopping up her ears, fracturing her nerves, breaking her attempt to concentrate. Looking around, she realized that it was the sound of water under pressure, welling up inside the faucet. She tried to ignore it. But the water made a raspy gurgle, like a death rattle, she thought, that irritated her and interrupted her attempt to think. Layla pulled herself together, went over to the basin and with difficulty opened the tap. The suppressed water surged out with frightening energy before it quieted to a calm trickle. Layla felt a quiet softness pervade her wracked and sore body. Her confusion of thoughts seemed almost physically to drain from her mind. Suddenly the whole situation was clear before her, a panorama in all its details: the curtain was yanked open, removed abruptly from before her eyes and her mind. She whispered in despair, “What am I going to do? O Lord, what can I possibly do?”

  She could hear strains of music from the garden, mingling in her senses with the aroma of jasmine. She caught sight of her face in the mirror. Corpse-like. She wiped her hand across it. She had her whole life before her, a whole life to devote to these thoughts. But for the moment she must conceal that deathly face from everyone. She must go down there, she must face Ramzi and all of those guests. She must face the future that she had chosen for herself. It was all very simple: a touch of face powder, a bit more rouge, and no one would know. No one would realize that beneath the makeup was the set, white face of a corpse.

  She went over to the door that led into Gamila’s bedroom, her step heavy under her sluggish body, as if she had been an invalid for months. She pushed the door open and went in.

  Gamila was stretched out on the chaise-longue, her eyelids drooping as if she were dozing. On the floor knelt Sidqi, his back to Layla, his torso over Gamila’s body, his face buried between her breasts, as if he, too, were asleep. Gamila saw Layla first, her eyes flashing open as the bathroom door swung closed with a little screech. Her eyes flared; she gave Sidqi’s shoulder a sharp slap to get him off, but his arms tightened around her. Her disgust now including him, she shoved his arms away with a muffled screech.

  “Get up!”

  Sidqi turned, still kneeling. Confusion and then embarrassment spread over his face when he saw Layla. He jumped up, a half-smile hovering on his lips, as if he had just come upon something terribly amusing but was keeping back his smile out of a barely-acknowledged respect for others. Gamila scurried to her dressing table, her back to Layla, while Sidqi stood in the middle of the room, running his hand through his hair. Gamila spoke with the same muffled anger. “Get out!”

  Sidqi shrugged and walked to the bedroom door, turned the key in the lock, and went out. It had not occurred to Gamila that, with the door locked, someone might enter through the bathroom. Gamila opened a wooden box on the table, took out a cigarette, and lit it with a shaking hand. She inhaled and turned to face Layla.

  “Be my guest. Call me names, lecture me on virtue, on deception, on corrupt morals.” Layla said nothing. She looked at Gamila as if she did not really see her but was looking right through her. Gamila began pacing like a caged tiger: a few steps, wheel round, a few more steps. She stopped suddenly. “So go on, talk! Why don’t you say something? Or would it be improper? Not suitable for you to even talk to one like me?” She crossed her hands on her chest. “Right, I know! Someone like you, so respectable, the professor’s wife. The respectable professor who—” But Gamila could not go on. She burst out laughing, laughs empty of mirth, nervous little laughs in quick succession that threatened to choke her. She doubled over, a hand on her stomach to quell her laughing. But her laughs simply grew longer and sharper, and thinned into a wail, and then she was quiet. She stood up very straight, speaking with what sounded like a vicious joy. “That professor of yours, he’s just like a dog. He’ll salivate and let it drip onto any set of bones he finds.” She pulled her body taut as she came right up to Layla and jabbed a finger at the door. “You know, Sidqi there, who just went out? Sidqi’s more honorable than that professor of yours. At least he doesn’t act like he’s a god. At least he doesn’t try to hide what he really is.” Gamila raised the cigarette to her mouth and inhaled deeply. She gazed at the rings of smoke, one curling round to embrace the next, then continued in a whisper that came from deep in her throat. “What do you know about the world? What? What do you know about what a woman suffers when she lives with a man she despises? Did they teach you anything about this in the books you’ve read? Did they explain this to you?” Gamila’s voice collapsed as she spoke the final sentences and her eyes filled with tears. Her voice shook as she went on. “Do you know how a woman feels when she realizes that she’s become like an old rag? She’s all dried out—her body has dried out, and her heart, too, because no one looks at her with a glow in his eyes, no one says to her, ‘I love you.’” She paused, and then her voice rang out, shaky, hoarse, despairing. “What can I do? Tell me, what can I do?”

  Layla’s face twitched; she was trying to speak, but when her mouth shaped the letters no sound emerged. Gamila, smiling bitterly, spoke again. “Divorce—right? So simple?” She gestured with a shaking hand to the bed. “That bed, there, in front of you. I slept there for three days between life and death. I’d swallowed a bottle of aspirin. My mother said, ‘I don’t want any scandals.’ And she knew perfectly well what it meant for me to stay with a man who doesn’t love me. One I don’t love. But it didn’t make any
difference. She was absolutely determined.” Gamila was quiet again, and then began to laugh hysterically. “My mother! My own mother! ‘I don’t want any scandals.’ My mother. My mother doesn’t want any scandals!” She stopped laughing suddenly and her eyes narrowed. “And you? What about you, Miss Respectability, you and your principles—if you were in my place, what would you do? What would you do?” Gamila’s voice was high, full of challenge, and then it dropped lower and lower, and the threatening overlay disappeared, as if she were asking Layla an ordinary question. “What would you do?” It was as if she knew instinctively that Layla was in the same situation and would inevitably come to the same end. Layla felt her whole body shake with a loud scream. She rushed toward Gamila, seeing nothing, feeling her way as if blind, to collapse at her cousin’s feet.

  Some time later, Gamila and Layla crossed the threshold into the garden. Layla returned to her place, while Gamila plunged among the guests. No one noticed anything. Both had put on a great deal of makeup. But anyone who looked closely would have noticed something that makeup could not conceal: the sad, resigned expression in Gamila’s eyes, and the frightened, uneasy searching in Layla’s gaze. But no one did look closely. No one was that interested.

  A few days later, Layla received a letter from Husayn.

  Dear Layla,

  I received Mahmud’s letter informing me that your engagement to one of the professors has been announced. Yesterday I wrote an insane letter to you but then I tore it up. Do you believe me when I say that I still love you?

  Today I feel somewhat better, at least enough so to think properly. I write to congratulate you. In spite of everything, I am happy for your sake, my dear. I am happy because you were finally able to push that door open and to walk through it. He was able to do what I could not. He was able to free you and to return your self-confidence and your trust in others. Is that not so? I am sure that now you are walking on the open road, your eyes shining, your face bright—the radiance that almost caused me to shout in the elevator.