The Open Door Read online

  How had he left the room that day, he wondered later? He had no idea. How had he managed to listen to Mahmud’s chattering, and then how had he found his way back to his apartment? He couldn’t imagine. Had he walked or flown?

  Lying in bed, he felt Layla’s presence. In his heart, in his blood, in his body—she was everywhere. But he felt tormented, too, by sensations that somehow, in their unfathomable nature, interfered with his happiness as they thwarted his desire. Lying in bed, his thoughts turned back to Layla, or rather to Layla’s body. Here he was, thinking about her again in this filthy, disgraceful way, as if she were no more than . . . than a woman encountered in the street. As the agonizing sensations that flooded his body floated slowly to the surface, their outlines became clearer. Isam understood that he was in a painful and consuming dilemma. He could marry Layla—but when? It would be years, long years—after graduation, and after a year’s internship, and perhaps not until long after that, once he could stand on his own feet financially. And what about those many long years? His desire, indistinguishable from the yearning one might feel for a mere woman glimpsed on the street, would wrong Layla. His longings would be an outrage against Mahmud and his aunt, too, and against his own mother and sister. For years and years, he would be dishonoring all of the moral values and standards he knew.

  For the principles he had been taught—and in which he believed—decreed that two types of women existed in the world. There was the sort in the street, the sort that sparked desire, and then there were mothers, sisters, wives. Any woman for whom he felt desire must be cheap, something to be had that lost its value as that desire vanished. Such a female was prey to be hunted, a thing that a man would pursue and triumph over, taking his booty as happened in any war and parading his pride before others. A man did not feel desire for his aunt’s daughter, not even for the sister of a friend, not if one was a proper, polite person. Desire was to do with the body, and bodies were soiled. Nothing, in fact, could be filthier or lower.

  Isam’s sleep that night was troubled. He tossed as if his bed were an angry sea, waking repeatedly, always to one dream. It tormented and pained him, stupid dream though it was, meaningless yet frightening. As he fled through dark lanes and alleys that appeared abandoned and ferocious, he knew some sort of danger threatened him. He did not understand its import but he was conscious that it was gaining on him steadily. He burst into a broad open space in which stood a group of women, and the sight told him that he was safe now. But he hurried on, cutting a path through the mass of women; once surrounded by them, he fell to the ground in exhaustion.

  He was able to look around, and he found his clothing soaked in blood; he saw the eyes of a dead man chasing him, eyes slashing open his head and chest, ripping through his body as if they were sharp nails. The corpse turned, faced him, beckoned him over. It was Mahmud. The blood was his. Isam tried to back away, but the women held him so tightly he could not move. They were nodding at him, their faces suffused with anger, one just like the next, identical faces in fact, the face of . . . of . . . of his mother. With an effort he cleared a path through their midst and now he did back away. But they chased him, they matched his pace, step for step, faces crowding in, fingers trained on his face and chest, poking his body, sharp nails everywhere. Isam wheeled round to find himself on the edge of a deep precipice whose darkness yawned, as the women moved forward, closer and closer, step by step.

  Isam shrieked, and bolted up from his uneasy sleep.

  The next morning he had made a decision. He would avoid Layla completely. He would consign his feelings to the grave. It would be easier, he also decided, if he were to strengthen his relationship with Inayat, his classmate at the College of Medicine. At the moment that relationship went no further than finding a mutual pleasure in each other’s company, but he was quite sure that there were possibilities. He had often felt that her big, black eyes were sending him a message, promising certain things. She might go out with him if he were to ask. She might even allow him to kiss her. Inayat was pretty, he had to admit: her black hair that she let fall in locks across her forehead, her slim waist . . . in fact, she was undeniably one of the most gorgeous females in the College of Medicine. She had been pretty since high school days, prettiest among the Saniya School girls even then.

  He was able to hold steadfastly to his decision for four entire days. But now here he was, sitting in the front hall, his eyes and ears—and all of him—spellbound by that door to the sitting room. He was supposed to have left the house by now; there was a tea reception at the college and he was to have met Inayat, as they had agreed. But he hadn’t gone. Although he had duly dressed for it, he found himself incapable of leaving. And here he was now, sitting in the same place, as if lashed to the sitting room door by magical ropes. He could not move; he had no desire to move. He waited in patience, as if created to do nothing but wait. Yes, he existed only to wait for her, until the moment when she would appear in the door, coming to him; the moment when she would look at him with her deep eyes, encase him in her gentle loveliness, and return to his heart and body that serenity he had never experienced until those bright eyes had looked at him in that particular way she had.

  He heard her voice. “Just a minute. I’ll pop in to say hello to my aunt and then we can go.” She came out of the room, Gamila close behind, and walked right by without a glance.

  “Hey, Isam, you mean you haven’t left yet?” asked his sister.

  “I have a slight headache,” he said shortly, not wishing to encourage anyone to prolong the discussion.

  “Well, come in here, then.” He followed Gamila into the corridor and toward his mother’s bedroom where, he saw, his mother was kissing Layla.

  “May you have the same luck soon, honey,” she was saying. She caught sight of her son. “My dear, you didn’t go out? What happened?”

  It was Gamila who answered, as she held out her hand, cupping the aspirin. “He has a bit of a headache. Here’s the aspirin, Isam. I’ll bring you some water.” She left the room.

  Isam strode to his mother’s chair. Layla, perched on the bed, was facing him. She seemed determined to avoid his unwavering stare. Isam’s mother took up a half-finished piece of Aubusson-style needlework. “What do you think of the design, Layla? For Gamila’s parlor?”

  Layla studied the colors. “It’s lovely, Aunt Samira, and the stitching is very fine. You’re amazing.” She got up to hand the piece back to her aunt, who grabbed her playfully, pulling her close for an affectionate kiss. When Layla raised her eyes they met Isam’s, but she quickly turned her head completely away.

  “Do you know, Isam,” said his mother, “do you know who Layla reminds me of? She makes me think of myself when I was her age, she looks exactly like I did.”

  Isam smiled. His eyes flickered shut but he returned to gazing steadily at Layla, who was looking at her aunt. Her eyes roved to study the elegantly furnished room.

  “That’s absurd, Aunt—how could I be as pretty as you? I’m not chic at all or clever either!”

  “Now, Layla! You resemble me more than Gamila does. You should have been my daughter, not my sister Saniya’s girl.” Gamila heard half of this conversation as she entered carrying a glass of water, which she handed to Isam as she broke in.

  “What are you talking about? I suppose you’re sitting around praising each other to the skies, hmmm?”

  Raising aspirin and glass to his mouth, Isam stopped in midair as Layla gave him a sad, questioning look—a reproof, he knew. He gulped the water down and turned to put the glass on a nearby table, deliberately keeping his back to them until he could get hold of himself.

  “Excuse me please, Aunt,” said Layla.

  “Why are you in such a hurry, my dear?”

  “I’m leaving with Sanaa and Adila.”

  Isam turned, a smile on his face. “So, Sanaa and Adila have an errand, but what about you? What do you have to do?”

  “You tell her, Isam!” said Gamila. Layla did not look a
t Isam; her eyes stopped on his necktie.

  “Never mind, Gamila. Another time.”

  When the elevator paused opposite Layla’s door, she tried to persuade Adila and Sanaa to come in, but Adila protested that it was late. Layla would not be deterred. “Just ten minutes, Adila, come on, please! I want to get your opinion about something.”

  “Then, go ahead and ask me right now.”

  “No-o-o—inside.”

  So the three friends sat down in a corner of the gilt-furnished sitting room. Layla made sure the door was closed and only then spoke. “Did Gamila tell you this morning about this engagement business?”

  “Is that your question? You really are a goose! Of course she told us. Otherwise why would we have come to see her? Didn’t we come to congratulate her?”

  “I mean, I want to know, why was it hidden from me? Why me, in particular?”

  Adila jutted her long neck forward and gave the armrest a series of quick taps. Her wide, jet-black eyes studied Layla knowingly. “That’s your question? Okay, ya sitti, I’ll explain it all to you. Gamila knew that if she said something to you directly, you’d have sat there philosophizing, going on and on as you always do. The proverb, you know, says, ‘Close the door from whence the wind comes and rest.’”

  Layla laughed with a shrug. “What do I have to do with it? Why would I go on about it? As long as he pleases her, fine, congratulations to her!”

  “What don’t you like about him, Layla? Now tell me, what is it?” asked Sanaa.

  Layla was silent. Adila stood up, clamped her hands on her hips, and bent forward toward Layla as if to interrogate her. “Is his pocket empty?”

  Layla smiled. “It’s very full!”

  “Does he have a car?”

  “Ford.”

  “And the villa?”

  “The Pyramids Road.”

  Adila flicked her hand toward the ceiling in offhand despair. “Oh please, Layla! All of that and you still don’t want her to take him? You’ve always let the best things pass you by.”

  Layla smiled. “Sanaa,” she asked, “why are you so quiet? Help me out, why don’t you!”

  Sanaa’s delicate lips were turned down in a pout, and she poked her small nose into the air as she queried Adila. “Does she love him?”

  Adila put her hand to her head in a theatrical movement that said the question was making her dizzy. “Stop it!” She glared at Sanaa. “This is a marriage, stupid, not a novel.”

  Layla laughed so hard that tears glinted in her eyes. Sanaa pressed her lips together, trying to conceal her smile, and widened her eyes in feigned astonishment. “So how can she marry him, then?”

  Adila knew her friends well. “Get up, you pitiful creature! Come on, let’s go.”

  Sanaa didn’t move. “On the Prophet’s honor, Adila, how will she go through with this?”

  Adila flipped her palm up in a gesture of futility. “You really want to make me say something impudent, don’t you? How will she go through with it? Like people do—like your mother when she married your dad.”

  Sanaa’s hand copied Adila’s as she shrugged. “Without any love, with no feelings, no desire, no—”

  Adila sat down again as she interrupted Sanaa. “Okay, okay, that’s enough, you don’t have to go through the whole litany—don’t we know them all off by heart?”

  “It’s no joke, Adila,” said Layla. “Are you just like your mother? Do you think exactly the way she does? Your mother married without love because she could not do anything else. She wasn’t in a position to choose. And anyway, if she had chosen, she wouldn’t have been able to marry the man she chose. Our mothers were the harem—things possessed by their fathers, who passed them on to husbands. But us?—we don’t have any excuses. Education—we’ve gotten that, and we understand everything, and we are the ones who have to decide our own futures. Even animals choose their mates!”

  Sanaa gave Layla a loud, enthusiastic slap on the back. “Ya bitt ya gamda! What a girl! That’s what I like to hear!”

  “So who said Gamila didn’t choose?” asked Adila coldly.

  They could not miss the distress in Layla’s expressive eyes. “No, Adila, no. Gamila didn’t choose. It was Gamila’s mother who decided, and the folks around her, and all their tired old ideas. And—”

  Sanaa chimed in. “—And the goods on the lovely man. Son of a good family, a real plum, seemly and solid and reeking with money, no relatives alive to come sniffing around, doesn’t get potted, doesn’t smoke.”

  “Don’t be so stupid!” said Adila. “You’ve got to realize that people aren’t all alike. Gamila has an idea about what marriage is and she’s trying to make it come true. Gamila wants the car, she wants that Frigidaire, and the solitaire, and—”

  Now Sanaa finished for her. “And the customer who pays the most, right?”

  “Gamila wants all these things, yes,” interjected Layla. “Because people have told her they’re important, they’ve taught her that a person’s value is in the things he owns, that you’re not respectable unless you’re rich.”

  “That’s not all, though,” protested Sanaa. “There’s more to it, you know. Didn’t Gamila want to marry someone else?”

  “Someone else who?” asked Adila.

  Adila didn’t know anything about Gamila and Mamduh, Layla realized, and it was not a subject that she wanted to broach. “That was just a bunch of talk.”

  Silence held them for a while. It was Layla who spoke up, first, her voice gloomy. “You know the story of Safaa? I can’t get it out of my head. It just convinces me all the more that no girl these days can possibly live the way her mother did.”

  “The whole mentality has changed,” said Sanaa. “There’s no doubt about that. For our mothers, marriage was a fate written on their foreheads from the day they were born. No one could change it in the slightest or escape it. You had to accept it as it was. For us the situation is so different, because the harem mentality has changed. Today’s girl doesn’t accept what her mother took as a given.”

  “Okay, Your Excellency the Grand Mufti of Islam, now get up and let’s go,” said Adila. “Come on, because its nearly eight o’clock, and your mother will be waiting for you with a cane in her hand.”

  Laughing, Sanaa got to her feet. Adila stood in the middle of the room and declaimed in a tone of heavy sarcasm, “Wallahi, we’re the ones in a real bind! At the very least our mothers knew exactly what their circumstances were. But we’re lost. We don’t understand—are we the harem or not? We don’t know whether love is haram, prohibited by our religion, or permitted, halal. Our families say it’s haram while the state radio day and night sings love love love, and books tell a girl, ‘Go on, you’re free and independent,’ and if a girl believes that she’s got a disaster on her hands and her reputation will go to hell—now honestly, is that any kind of situation to be in? Really and truly, now, aren’t we pathetic souls?”

  Layla closed her eyes. Her lower lip trembled, and on the edge of the chair her finger sketched hard lines that intersected and clashed.

  “Hurry up, let’s get going,” said Adila. “I think you’ve both philosophized enough for today.”

  Sanaa laughed again. “And you just sat quietly the whole time and didn’t do any grand debating?”

  Adila shrugged, smiling. “I mean to say, I don’t have the stomach for it. You’ve been back-and-forthing about things that are already decided for us anyway.”

  Layla stood up to wish them goodbye. She stayed on her feet until they disappeared from view down the stairs. She closed the front door slowly and headed for her room, but paused in front of her door. No. No . . . she really didn’t want to shut herself in alone. So she turned back and went into the sitting room where her mother, hunched over the sewing machine, worked on a nightgown for her daughter.

  Her mother lifted her eyes from the cloth. “They’ve left?”

  “Yes, they’re gone.”

  She noticed the lines on her mother’s face soften
immediately, and smiled inwardly. Her mother was never at ease until all of the guests were gone, no matter whom they were. Layla sat down beside her and reached for a book on the nearby end table. She riffled through it until she found the page where she had stopped earlier in the day. As she read, the sewing machine caught her ears, the steady drone punctuated by an intermittent staccato.

  Chapter Five

  THE DOORBELL RANG. NABAWIYA RAN to the door. As the maid opened it, they heard footsteps in the hall and Layla’s mother raised her eyes uneasily. But her tense features loosened immediately, for Isam stood hesitantly on the threshold, an embarrassed smile on his face.

  “Come on in, Isam,” said Layla’s mother.

  “Um—Mahmud isn’t back yet?”

  “He’ll be here any time. Come in.”

  Isam sat down opposite Layla and her mother. Layla hid her face in the book and pretended to read.

  “Congratulations. May you be as lucky as Gamila,” said her mother, and went back to work. They were all silent, interrupted only by the sound of the sewing machine. Isam fixed his eyes on Layla. She kept her eyes on her book.

  “What are you reading?”

  Layla pushed the book away from her face. “A book by Salama Musa,” she said, a bit sourly.

  He gave her his familiar half-smile. “Why Salama Musa in particular?”

  “I found it in Mahmud’s library.”

  “If you want to read old books there are the books of . . . ” Isam mentioned a writer.

  “I’ve read him. But Salama Musa’s better.”

  He leaned forward in his chair, speaking to her from across the room.

  “Better in what way?”

  “Salama Musa says exactly what he wants to say, right away, but the other one beats around the bush, and says I don’t know what all before he gets around to making his point.” Layla stared straight at Isam and his face reddened as he rubbed his chin and then smiled.