Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

“Certainly.”

“How would you feel,” she looked at me mischievously, “if next time I were to put on a headscarf and wear a galabiyya with a wrap around it with Egyptian slippers?”

“Then,” I said without a second thought, “you’d be the most beautiful local girl in Egypt.”

She smiled and made no comment. I felt a little embarrassed at having been so forward.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Sorry for what?”

“For what I said just now.”

“Oh, you innocent poet!” she said in English, laughing out loud. “You seem to know a lot more about poetry than you do about women. There isn’t one on the planet who would be angry at being complimented by a man.”

We had entered a completely new realm. The girl sitting opposite me now, with her eyes shut, savoring the aroma of the tea, was different from the one I had seen previously. I was having a sense of déjà vu, as if she were someone I had known in the distant past, someone who belonged to me or was somehow connected with me. Mitsy looked at me as if she could guess what I was thinking.

“I like talking with you,” she said in English.

“Why are you using English with me?”

“Can you just forget that you are a teacher!”

“But I am a teacher.”

She gave me a “don’t be stupid” look, and we spent over two hours in the Husseini district and then took a taxi back. I planned to drop her off in Zamalek first and then take the taxi on to Sayyida Zeinab.

“Why are you protecting me like some Eastern woman?” she asked.

“Does it annoy you?”

“On the contrary,” she enthused. “I dream of being the slave girl of some oriental potentate and living with three hundred other slave girls. And we all dance for the sultan, each hoping to be the one he spends his night with.”

She waved her arms around as if dancing. I looked at the driver’s astonished face in the rearview mirror.

“You really are a great actress,” I said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because at the drop of a hat you can take on any character you want.”

Before she got out of the taxi, she leaned in so close that I could feel her breath on my face.

“I’ll tell you a secret. My idea to go and explore parts of Cairo was not just so that I could mingle with Egyptians but also because I wanted to spend some time with you.”

I was a little confused. For a moment I thought the natural thing to do would be to hold my arms out and hug her. We shook hands as she got out, and I asked the driver to take me to al-Sadd Street. I tried to do some studying, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Mitsy. I went over what had happened between us. I felt like I had walked through a minefield, because I had managed to keep control of myself and made sure to keep a certain physical distance between us. Although we had chatted away and laughed, I had kept myself on the straight and narrow. Even though I forgot myself from time to time, I had managed to keep our relations proper and formal.

If you spend time in the dark and then suddenly come out into the sunlight, it takes a while to adjust. That is how I felt about Mitsy. She was too dazzling for me to cope with. Finding her so wildly attractive, I knew I had to keep away. Had she been less pretty, I might have dared to try to woo her, but what hope could an oaf have to get the attention of a princess? Even if the guards made way for him, the gap between them was something that he would never be able to bridge.

After our trip to the Husseini district, I found myself slipping into a danger zone without a middle course: our friendship could flourish or flounder, we could have a romantic relationship or I could lose her forever. Was I ready for an adventure like that? I kept asking myself that question, but deep down inside me, I knew that all my calculations were useless, mere mental exercises. It was Mitsy’s choice to drag me into the deep end, whether I wanted to or not, and it would be she alone who would determine the tempo, depth and course of things.

At our next lesson, I made a point of being rather formal, imagining her easy familiarity the time before might have been an exception and wanting to allow her the chance to pull back a little.

“Oh, just stop that, Kamel!” she cried out with a look of childish disbelief.

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t we friends now?”

“Of course.”

“Then why are you wearing an artificial smile again, and why are you using that monotonous tone of voice?”

She came so close beside me that her arm touched mine. I slid away a little, and she laughed, “Are you afraid of me?”

I was in a quandary, but she took pity on me and carried on talking in her usual way. We decided that our next Wednesday outing would be to Sayyida Zeinab.

“You live there,” she said with a smile. “Are you going to invite me home for a cup of tea? Then I could see your mother and complain about you!”

When she laughed, the dimples in her cheeks drove me mad. But I knew that trouble was waiting for me at home, and sure enough when I told my mother that Mitsy wanted to come and visit, her face turned ashen.

“The daughter of that Englishman Wright?”

“Yes, but she is completely different from her father.”

“What does she want from us?”

“I invited her to come and meet you.”

“I don’t want to meet her.”

“Oh, Mother, Mitsy is a lovely girl, and she adores Egypt.”

My eagerness only seemed to worry my mother more.

“Listen, Kamel,” she retorted. “We’ve got enough troubles of our own. We don’t need the daughter of that Englishman Wright along with all her nonsense.”

I tried a different tack. I leaned over and kissed my mother on the head, and then, with feeling in my voice, I told her, “Mother! You brought us up to be honorable people. You’ve always behaved properly with guests, and you’ve never shown me up. Mitsy is my guest, and I have invited her to our home.”

My mother said nothing but heaved an enormous sigh.

“All right, let’s drop the matter,” I said theatrically. “I won’t go on about it. Let’s forget the subject.”

“What do you mean?”

“All’s well that ends well. Mitsy wanted to come and meet you, but you would rather not. I’ll just tell her that you had to go somewhere and I’ll find some way to apologize.”

I stood there looking sad and resigned. After a few moments, as expected, my mother half-apologetically asked me, “When does she want to come and visit?”

“Wednesday morning.”

“All right. She can come, please God. Since you already promised her, it would be wrong to go back on your word.”

Then my mother started firing practical questions at me. Did Mitsy speak Arabic? Should we invite her for lunch or just tea with some snacks?

I hugged my mother and kissed her hands. I always knew how to exploit her good nature. Sometimes my conscience would prick me, but I still have to laugh when I think of the tricks I used to get around her.

At ten o’clock on the Wednesday morning, as we had agreed, I waited for Mitsy in front of the Sayyida Zeinab mosque and then took her on a walk around the district, including the Rimali Mill and Tram Street. Watching the street vendors, she asked me to explain their snatches of song as they hawked their wares. Then I took her to our apartment. She was quite a spectacle walking up the stairs. Her Royal Highness, the princess from the empire upon which the sun never sets, was coming from al-Sadd Street to visit her subjects, the wooden stairs creaking with her every step. I was about to reveal my vision to her, but I thought she might not approve. As planned, my mother was at home alone, looking her best, wearing a beautiful black dress with a new veil. Saleha had gone to school, and Mahmud was still asleep.