The Open Door Read online

  “It isn’t a question of zeal or energy, Master Mahmud,” Isam would say serenely to Mahmud. “You say, Can you tell me what the government is doing? Yes, sure I can—it’s resisting the King! It’s fighting the English!”

  Mahmud leaned back in his chair. “Right, it’s fighting them both. It would be, if it were truly the popular government that it claims to be.”

  “So, fight them with what?”

  “With us, with the people. With the army. The army is itching to get involved! Our army is all peasants, Egyptians, like me and you!”

  Then Layla would feel a prickling in her scalp, which would deepen and seem to run through her from head to toe. It was the same tremor that overwhelmed her whenever she listened to the radio and heard about one of Egypt’s past glories, and whenever she read a luminous chapter in her country’s history, and also whenever she learned of an injustice that had befallen Egypt’s people. It was the involuntary shiver of one whose dearest possession generates equal measures of pride and protective fear.

  “The people?” Isam would say. “The Egyptian people fight the British Empire? Brother, use that head of yours.” And Mahmud would lose the self-control he had been trying hard to maintain. He’d fling out whatever came into his mind first, with no trace of embarrassment, cursing the grandfathers of the British Empire, and the grandfathers of the grandfathers, and the King, and the government; he would hurl invective at the very idea of rationality and at those who use their heads, and he would end with a grand accusation directed at Isam for treachery and betrayal, for appeasing the colonialists. Things would get so bad that even his mother would speak up. “Mahmud, honey, don’t get so worked up! Why are you letting it get your goat? Who do you think you are—a prince or a minister?” At that, Mahmud would laugh, and so would Isam, and lunch would be over. Layla would go into her room, shut the door, and take a deep breath.

  Here in her room she found her own world, too, the realm into which she could withdraw whenever she wanted; her world, in which she stood alone, at a distance from everyone else in the house, even Mahmud. In that world she could live, with her dreams and her joys, her bruises and her longings for things she could not even define, desires that now and again she could feel cavorting through every speck of her being, dancing until she began to sense her body as an airy lightness. Scurrying to the window, yanking it wide open, she’d be certain that in this state of exuberant joy she could fly. Surely she could soar with those birds circling far above! But at other moments those indistinct longings planted themselves stolidly in the territory above her heart, accumulating layer upon layer to press heavily on her chest. She fancied them layers of mourning for something gone and something to come; but what? Layer upon layer, so many that they threatened to smother her, and she would run to her wardrobe, bury her open mouth in a heap of clothes, and scream with all the strength she had inside her. It seemed to her that her whole being was screaming, and when she stepped back from the wardrobe she was shaking all over. She threw herself across her bed and started to sob. All she wanted was to be left alone in her room, as far away as she could be from others. That was why she was constantly conciliating everyone around her. She wanted no voice invading her hidden world. If she were to show the slightest rebelliousness or excitability, her mother would scold her by the hour. Her father would yank her from bed to deliver a lesson in morals. No, she wanted no silly business from outside to distract her from this marvelous private world.

  Studying did not take up much of her time. She moved effortlessly from one grade to the next, and her family expected no more than that. So her time at home was mostly apportioned to her own reading and to daydreams, although now and again her mother pulled her roughly out into a reality that appeared barren and dull. It was so empty of poetry!

  She had to receive her mother’s visitors, for instance, and to engage them appealingly in conversation. By now she had ample training. She had learned how to smile politely; when and how to let a laugh emerge; when to sit down and when to leave the room. She knew how to assume the manner of an interested listener no matter how trivial the subject, when to nod her head, when to let her admiration or her astonishment show.

  She detested it. All of it, with all of her heart. She considered it a baneful curb on her freedom and a mortal danger to her human sympathies. So sometimes she did make mistakes, as happened the evening Samia Hanim visited.

  Layla’s mother came into her room. “Hurry now, up you get! Put on your clothes so you can come in and say hello to Samia Hanim.”

  This Samia Hanim was one of her mother’s relatives, from the well-off branch of the family. Layla hung her head.

  “I don’t want to come in and see anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just because.”

  “Because why?”

  Layla tossed her head. “I don’t want to see her. I don’t like her. I haven’t liked her since the day of the sherbet.”

  She closed her eyes. She could envision Samia Hanim in her parlor, jumping up from the lacquered wood fauteil with its Aubusson upholstery as if disaster had just hit. She could see her mother’s hand out, suspended in the air, while the sufragi who served them, suddenly realizing his blunder, stepped swiftly back from her mother with his full tray of sherbets, swinging around to offer them to Zaynab Hanim first, the guest of importance. Layla shook her head hard, her eyes still shut. What an ordeal! But the worst of it was that her mother had not even been angry.

  “Everyone has their own slot in this world of ours,” she had said. “If everyone knew their place, then no one would suffer.”

  Layla had smeared her hand across her tears. “And this Zaynab Hanim,” she asked sarcastically. “What makes her better than you? Because she’s rich?”

  “Yes, because she’s rich,” her mother had said simply.

  Now, Layla opened her eyes to find her mother still standing over her. Without a word she got up to put on her clothes. And without a word she sat listening as the guest chattered to her mother. Conversation turned to a famous singer, a neighbor of Samia Hanim’s. Guess how much he owns? How much money, how many buildings? And then they moved to his voice. When that topic appeared to have been exhausted—for it was utterly clear that Layla’s mother understood nothing in the realm of love songs—Samia Hanim turned to Layla. “His voice just slays me, it’s unbelievable, don’t you think so, Layla?”

  “But he sounds like he’s crying when he sings,” said Layla. “Like he’s some woman.”

  It was not long before Samia Hanim rose to her feet, agitated. She was accustomed to listeners who hung wide-eyed on every word she uttered. She tossed her fur across her shoulders as she took her annoyed leave.

  “Your daughter is terribly spirited, Saniya Hanim.” She spit out the consonants and drew the word “spirited” out. Her mother closed the apartment door behind the guest and turned to Layla, her face severe.

  “How could you say those ridiculous things to Samia Hanim?”

  “I just said what came to mind, and that’s that!”

  “What came to mind? If everyone said whatever was on their mind the world would have gone up in flames long ago.”

  “Or whatever they feel—that’s what they should say.”

  “Whatever they feel! That’s for your own private self, not for saying in front of people.”

  “So people should just lie, you mean.”

  “That’s not lying—that’s being courteous. One has to make people feel good. Flatter them.”

  “Even when you don’t like them?”

  “Even when you don’t like them.”

  Tears flooded Layla’s eyes and her voice came out choked. “So people should just lie? They should just tell lies?”

  Her mother’s face grew gentler, and she put her hand softly on Layla’s shoulder. “I worry about you, Layla, and I feel sorry for you, too. You have no idea what the world is like. The world demands as much, and anyone who doesn’t go along with it—well, they’r
e the ones who suffer for it.”

  Layla’s eyelids dropped. Her mother withdrew her hand gently from her daughter’s shoulder. She went into her room, closed the door behind her, and went immediately to her window. She pressed longingly against the window frame. If only she could get out of this house! The anger welled up inside her body and lay motionless, its vastness caught in her throat, drying out her mouth and tongue. It was an anger that began undefined but soon came to concentrate on the figure of her mother, the sort of ire she used to feel as a child when her mother would hurl her down on her back, pin her to the floor, and open her mouth forcibly to pour in the castor oil. This time it was not her mouth that her mother had opened by force, but rather her eyes. Yes. Her mother had opened her eyes—but onto what?

  Onto the world, onto life. “You have no idea what the world is like,” her mother had said. She might as well have said, “You will have to learn how to lie and dissimulate, my dear.” Of course, those were not the words she had used, but she might as well have. And why not? It was all so simple. Very basic, very clear; and her mother had not batted an eyelid as she spoke. “Because the world demands it. Because life demands it.”

  What sort of life was this? A life that didn’t deserve to be lived, she thought. It was a foolish, trivial sort of life controlled by ridiculous, silly men and women like Samia Hanim and her sister, Dawlat Hanim. Now, she was another one. Dawlat Hanim. Layla felt a chill ooze through her body. She closed the window, pressed her forehead to the pane, and decided not to dwell on the subject of Dawlat Hanim. To keep herself from thinking, she began to dream.

  Mmm. But where would she meet him? At a dance party, that was it. She would be wearing a white dress just like the one Audrey Hepburn had worn in Sabrina, and when he saw her . . . , What a bunch of nonsense. She didn’t even know how to dance. Even if she did, it was absolutely clear that she would live and die without going to a single dance party. Fine. Let’s change the scenario. At the university? Never. Her father had raised objections even to the thought of Layla starting secondary school, and if it hadn’t been for Mahmud she would not have been able to go on with her studies. Let alone the university! During a visit, perhaps? Ugh, not so great, not very romantic at all, she thought. But there was no alternative, no other opportunity she would have. So it must happen during a visit. But where would her mother be at the time? She would be in the parlor with the lady of the house while she, Layla, would wander out into the garden. But she didn’t know anyone who had a garden except Samia Hanim and her sisters. No! She could not imagine such a scene unfolding with Sidqi, son of Samia Hanim. But why not? He was elegant. Dark. Tall. He looked a lot like Gregory Peck, in fact. But she did not like his voice, not at all. Or the way he looked at people. There was an artificially arrogant timbre to his voice. And his gaze practically shouted: “Look at me! I’m humble, I’m sweet, I’m democratic by nature.” When he had driven them home after their last visit to Samia Hanim, she had sat beside him stiffly, her eyes staring straight ahead, not daring to look his way. When her mother had thanked him, he had said in his pretentious voice while eyeing Layla with a look of amusement on his face, “Any trouble you cause me is a pleasure, tante.”

  She had wanted so much to slap him! No, indeed, the man she imagined, the man who would fall in love with her, the man she would love in turn, would be nothing at all like Sidqi. Nor would he be like her father; in fact, he would not be like any man she had ever met. He would be . . . she didn’t know what he would be like, but she knew very well that he would be unlike all the others. And what would he look like? Dark, tall, attractive, strong features, with big, black eyes, like . . . well, for example, like Sidqi, but only in looks. Only that.

  Sidqi . . . Sidqi. Hmm. Now, just suppose Sidqi were to fall in love with her. Yes, they would walk into the garden. The light of the moon would shimmer through the tree branches, throwing golden patches onto the garden path; the fragrance of narcissus would encase them. In an unsteady voice from which the usual arrogance had vanished he would say, “Layla . . . ,” as he gazed into her eyes. He would sound flustered; his voice would wobble. “Layla, there’s something I want to tell you but I don’t know where to start.” She would simply laugh and run ahead of him, and when he had almost caught up she would whirl her head round and flash him a look out of the corner of her eye.

  “What is it you want to say, Sidqi Bey?”

  “Please, Layla,” he would beg. “Please, stop this Bey business.”

  She would shrug lightly and bend over the basin of carnations. She would pick one—a red one—and bring it to her nose. Then she would scatter its petals, one by one, tossing them into the air.

  “Please, be serious. I love you, I love you, Layla.” Then he would take her into his arms and try to kiss her. It would be at this moment that she would shove him away and slap him, hard. The echo of her hand would sound through the whole garden as he put his hand to his cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” he would murmur. “Layla, I’m sorry, but I just can’t control myself.”

  Her laugh would be full of scorn. “So you think because I’m poor I’m an easy pick-up. You think people with no money have no honor, don’t you, Mister Sidqi.”

  No, no. She couldn’t say that. First, none of this happened in real life, it was just Yusuf Wahbi in the movies. Second, maybe she was capable of sounding that eloquent in her room, but she’d never be like that when other people were around. She was a coward, after all, with people. So let’s cut that part and go back to the slap and the apology.

  “I’m sorry,” he would murmur. “Layla, I’m sorry, but I just can’t control myself.”

  He would take her hand, pleading for forgiveness, but his hand would go on, to her arm, up her arm, to her shoulder, and then to her chest, her waist . . . his hand would appraise her, just exactly as Dawlat Hanim’s hand had done.

  Dawlat Hanim. There she was again.

  Layla moved away from the window and paced the room, face hidden behind her hands. It had measured her, that palm, from top to bottom, exactly as if she were a water buffalo up for sale. That woman! Though she had endured tribulations that would shatter a stone, nothing seemed to have made a difference. She was the same as ever—not only her elongated frame and formidable personality, but also her stunning ability to take over everyone within her reach, and then to mold their lives according to her own designs. Not a thing had changed—except her clothes, of course, for now she wore black.

  As a child, whenever Layla moved into Dawlat Hanim’s circle of vision, the woman would drag her into the strongest available patch of light and study her features closely. With a slap to Layla’s thigh, she’d exclaim, “Still a pretty one, you little wretch!” The rest of her words were always meant for the adults clustered around her. “See, Layla’s got something attractive about her face, and whenever I see her I have to make sure that it’s still there.”

  She had never gotten angry with the woman, not in those days. Nor had she gotten upset when Dawlat Hanim had said to her, on a day long ago, “Goodness, Layla! Your hair is a scandal, my dear. A little girl like you with such long hair?” The tears had pooled in Layla’s eyes when she saw the locks of soft black hair on the floor. But laughter overcame her tears when, the haircut done, Dawlat Hanim said to her, “That’s better, now your face shows, you’re very pretty now, you little wretch.”

  No, she had not even gotten angry then. After all, she had loved Dawlat Hanim. When she had come into their sitting room on that day, she had flung herself onto the woman’s chest. She had not seen Dawlat Hanim since it had happened.

  Sitting on the bed now, Layla found her legs jittering uncontrollably. If only she had not gone into the sitting room that day! But she had wanted to; that time, her mother had not forced her. She had rushed forward of her own accord, wholeheartedly. Layla let the events unfold in her mind’s eye, one scene after another, examining each stage as if she took pleasure in self-inflicted pain. Although a whole week had passed since
the encounter, it was alive in her imagination down to the tiniest detail.

  “Well, my goodness, now, Layla! You’ve become a real bride—how lovely you are!” Dawlat Hanim had exclaimed. Layla had felt genuinely happy, and had asked for news of Dawlat Hanim’s daughter. “How’s Sanaa, and—“ On the point of uttering Safaa’s name—she was so used to coupling it with Sanaa’s—she suddenly realized what she had been about to say.

  “Wallahi, actually Sanaa is in Alexandria with her husband. Just this morning she called me! She was saying—” Dawlat Hanim turned to Layla’s mother suddenly. “And by the way, Saniya, what on earth did you do to that groom I fetched for your sister’s girl, Gamila? The fellow asked for me yesterday, called me on the telephone . . . .”

  Her mother bowed her head. “What can we do? Seems luck isn’t on our side, Dawlat Hanim.”

  “Luck isn’t on your side—what do you mean? The fellow’s right there, he’s ready and willing—so the rejection must have come from your side.”

  Her mother’s tone was contrite. “Truthfully, I don’t know what to say, Dawlat Hanim. Samira, my sister, really tried with the girl, tried and tried, but it was no use. A hundred times we must have said to her, ‘Honey, the only thing that can shame a man is his pocket.’”

  “Enough nonsense. Tomorrow he’ll find one far better!” Dawlat Hanim shifted her glance, and her eyes fell on Layla. “Tell you what, Saniya—take him for Layla.”

  She saw a look of astonishment on her mother’s face, replaced quickly by an apologetic smile. “The girl’s still little—too young to start thinking about marriage, Dawlat Hanim. She’s only seventeen.”

  “Too young! No one’s ever too young. Stand up, Layla.”

  Sitting on her bed, remembering, Layla swiped her hand in an arc across her face. “Enough,” she moaned, her voice audible though she was speaking only to herself. But the scene had imprinted itself on her gaze and refused to vanish; that voice rang in her ears.