Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

Standing behind the front door of his apartment, Said looked out through the peephole, his mouth dry and his breathing labored in anticipation. As they had agreed, at half-past midnight, Fayeqa would carry a basket with colored laundry up to the roof. She could get away with going up there at that hour by saying that the laundry bin was completely full and that coloreds could not be hung out to dry in the sun without fading. Said was out of sorts that evening. Just a little before his rendezvous with Fayeqa, an enormous argument had broken out between her parents. That meant that he would probably not see her. He was completely crestfallen. He had started the relationship just three months earlier, but she had become indispensable in his life, and he now felt like a child told he couldn’t go out to play. The moments Said spent with Fayeqa were his only escape from the daily stress. And so it came to be that he could not imagine life with her. At the end of every date, they would agree on the next one, and that prospect would preoccupy his thoughts. The argument tonight sounded so ferocious that he was sure she would not be able to elude her quarrelsome parents and reach the roof. “Why are you still waiting, Said?” he told himself. “Go to bed, and may God give you strength.”

There seemed no point standing by the door. He should go to bed, but he knew his emotions would never let him fall asleep. So he remained glued to that spot, and after a short while, something surprising happened. Ali Hamama stomped out, slamming his front door in the face of Aisha spewing curses. Total silence followed, and Said’s hopes sprang up anew. Had his sweetheart already gone to bed? How could she have fallen asleep with that racket going on? True, some people can sleep through anything. But even if she was awake, she would most likely be busy consoling her mother. Maybe she figured that he was no longer waiting anyway. These thoughts went swimming in his head as he stood planted by the door. But then, by God, a miracle happened. His heart almost stopped as he heard the door of Fayeqa’s flat opening. He looked through the peephole, and in the dim light of the bulb overhead, he saw her, in all her beauty, with her penciled eyebrows, her cheeks dabbed with blusher and red lipstick on her juicy lips. She closed the door of her flat gently behind her and started climbing the stairs. He shut his eyes in rapture at the sound of her footsteps. After a few moments that seemed like an eternity, he slipped out. He sprang up the stairs to the roof door. It was a dark night, but he could make out her shape as she hung the wash on the line. He rushed over and hugged her tightly, but she brushed him away. That little “don’t do that” drove him wild. She always tried to push him away, and he always managed to win her over, wrapping his strong arms around her and feeling the warmth of her full breasts against his body. She would whisper reproachfully, “Said! Are you mad? You’ll be the end of me.”

Those words, uttered so gently, only served to inflame him, and he would throw himself on top of her, kissing her all over, rubbing himself against her until he could control himself no longer. His volcano extinguished, he would lie there holding her for a while, chatting a little. They would exchange gentle kisses, which would get him so aroused that they would go through the whole performance a second time.

That night Fayeqa seemed different. She seemed a little strange and sullen. Her pushing him away had been unusually forceful. He kept his distance for a few moments trying to gather his thoughts. Then he put his hand on her and asked apprehensively, “What’s the matter?”

Fayeqa gave a big sigh, which worried Said even more, and he repeated the question. She answered meekly, “I’m frightened.”

“Frightened of what?”

“Frightened of God, because what we do is a sin.”

“God won’t punish us for being in love.”

“Would you like it if your sister, Saleha, fell in love with a man who did to her what you do to me?”

He did not answer, so she shouted angrily, “Of course you have no answer. That’s just like you — you worry about your sister’s honor, but you don’t give a hoot about mine.”

As she uttered that last sentence, she burst into tears, and Said could only stand there feeling miserable and not knowing what to do.

She moved away from him and said, “I’m going downstairs now.”

“Please don’t go,” he pleaded, stretching out his hand, but she pushed it away.

“I’m not coming up to the roof again, Said.”

“But, Fayeqa, I’m in love with you.”

“If you’re in love with me, then treat me properly.”

“I do treat you properly.”

“When you treat someone properly, you meet them in broad daylight.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean.”

“I told you, I’m going to ask your parents for your hand when the time is right.”

“Oh, stop it. Let me go. I’ll see you again when the time is right then.”

Said watched as she straightened her dress, smoothed her hair and went back the way she came. He walked behind her, in a trance, watching her as she went down the stairs. She stomped down as if to say that she did not want to be near him. Said felt as if he were falling into an abyss.

At the same moment that Fayeqa was going down the stairs back to their apartment, her father, Ali Hamama, was wandering aimlessly around the streets of Sayyida Zeinab, having fled from Aisha, still carrying under his arm the velvet box with the gold necklace that he had grabbed as he stormed out. What should he do now? Where should he go? Instinctively, his footsteps led him to al-Khalfawi teashop in Qalat al-Kabsh, which was open all night long. He felt he needed a little space to clear his mind. By God, his head felt like it was about to explode. He went into the tea shop, greeting the customers who variously muttered greetings in return. As soon as Ali Hamama took a seat in the far corner, the black serving boy, Abdu, with his two chipped front teeth and his squinty eye, came over. He set down a freshly rinsed water pipe, along with a tray of clay bowls stuffed with Ali’s favorite tobacco. Ali Hamama leaned back against the wall, stretched out his feet as if relaxing after a long trip, took a lump of hashish out of his pocket and said wearily, “Take this, Abdu, and make me two nice strong ones so I can forget everything.”

“I hope everything is fine, Hagg Ali.”

“The missus is giving me hell, Abdu.”

“Same with everyone, Hagg!”

Ali Hamama took the mouthpiece. Feeling so down in the dumps and in need of relief from the hashish, he took a long drag on it, making the charcoal glow. This gratified the squint-eyed Abdu so much that he let go of the mouthpiece, raised both hands above his head as if dancing and started chanting, “Praise to the Prophet! Praise to the Prophet.”

The best thing about Abdu was that he did not try to make small talk with the customers. When he noticed that Ali Hamama was deep in thought, he carried on tending to him without a word more. Gradually, the hashish worked its way into Ali Hamama’s head, and he could think clearly again. He went over the evening’s events in his mind and felt stunned. How could things with Aisha have deteriorated to such a degree? How dare she treat him like that? Thank God he had some hashish to calm his nerves and teach him wisdom. Had he been addicted to alcohol, his nerves would have shattered and he would have killed her with his own hands. By God, that’s what she deserved. What do this woman and her children think I am? That pampered and useless Fawzy wants a new suit. Of course he does. But he’s not going to get one. A new suit while he keeps failing at school? When he passes his final exams, what’ll it be then? A Cadillac?