Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

“Listen, brother, she can finish her studies after she gets married. Lots of brides complete their baccalaureate at home.”

“If Saleha gets married, she won’t have time to study.”

“If that’s the case, then she’s stupid and not cut out for studying,” Said said.

I looked at him and made no comment. I wanted to point out that he was the one who could not get into university.

“Saleha,” Kamel said, “it feels uncomfortable talking about your future with you sitting there saying nothing.”

“I need to think it over,” I said.

“There you are, getting all hoity-toity. Who do you think you are?” barked Said.

“As a daughter of the Gaafar clan,” interjected my mother, “she can be as hoity-toity as she wants!”

“Well, Abd el-Barr could marry a hundred girls better than Saleha.”

“By God, if he were to search the whole world, he wouldn’t find anyone as good.”

“Shit. It’s the blind leading the blind here!”

“Watch your language, Said!”

I thought that Said was going to launch into another argument, but he got up, and as he left the room, he shouted, “Throw away the opportunity of a lifetime if you want. I’ll give you two days before I go and apologize to Abd el-Barr. For all I care, little Mademoiselle Saleha can go to hell.” He slammed the door behind him, leaving his words lingering in the air.

The next day I couldn’t concentrate at school. When I came home, I sat down to lunch with my mother. Kamel and Mahmud no longer ate lunch with us since they started working at the Automobile Club. Suddenly I blurted out, “Mother, I’ll marry Abd el-Barr.”

She sat saying nothing, as if trying to absorb the shock. Then she advised me to think it over very carefully, because marriage is not a game. I repeated my decision, and she looked at me and then got up and hugged me. I could feel tears on her face as I clung to her and kissed her forehead. That evening, Kamel came into my bedroom, and with the barest trace of a smile, he muttered, “Congratulations, Saleha.”

“I know you’re against it, Kamel.”

“I pray God it turns out for the best.”

“I know you want the best for me. But I promise you, I’ll finish my studies after I get married.”

“I wish you every success, please God.”

He then scuttled off, not wanting to talk about it anymore, having lost the battle. The next day, Said went and announced our official agreement to the marriage. Why had I agreed? No one pushed me into it. I was not sacrificing myself for the sake of our family’s future, as happens in the movies. Had I turned him down, no one would have forced me. Perhaps I felt that it was my mother’s wish that I marry him, even if she had not said so explicitly. Perhaps I was sure that I would be able to finish my studies. Perhaps because Abd el-Barr was actually quite attractive. Or perhaps because I wanted to be a bride, or perhaps it was for all those reasons. Abd el-Barr was so happy at the news that he showered us all with expensive gifts. Even Kamel, who was clearly opposed, received a beautiful Swiss watch. Abd el-Barr spent money like water, and I was dazzled by his generosity.

We set a date after the first anniversary of my father’s death. Abd el-Barr rented a large apartment in Sayyida Zeinab Square so that I could be close to my family and would not let us spend a piastre furnishing it, installing a splendid kitchen and buying beautiful furniture for the entrance hall, as well as elegant sets of furniture for the living rooms and the bedroom. The days passed quickly, and soon the moment was upon us. I cried copiously as I look leave of my school friends and teachers. My emotions were mixed and contradictory — the notion of being married made me downcast and happy at once. Sometimes, the thought of leaving the family home plunged me into heart-thumping anxiety, and at other times, I felt excited and optimistic at the thought of starting a new life with a home of my own; I would have children and give them the best upbringing and education possible. What more could any girl want?

I tried to imagine what would happen on the wedding night. All I knew about marital relations was what I had gleaned from the whispers of girls at school. What did a man do with his wife? Would it be painful? Did a woman need it as much as a man did? I had no answers until Aisha explained it all to me. To this day I laugh when I remember how it happened. Aisha was preparing my body for the wedding. She came into the bathroom with me every day for a week in order to carry out her program, step by step. My mother watched with a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment as Aisha worked her hands over my naked body. Whenever Aisha started using coarse expressions, my mother would shudder and find some pretext to leave the bathroom. Two days before the wedding, as I was taking my clothes off, Aisha suddenly put her hand between my thighs, and I recoiled, pushing her hand away.

“Listen, girl!” she laughed. “No need to be embarrassed, although you’re as coy as your mother! I’ve left the best bit for last.”

She sat me down and, humming a vulgar ditty, started removing my pubic hair. My mother came back in and observed the process with a serious look on her face. She tried not to look at me but asked Aisha, as if requesting to be told her duties, “Do you need anything, Aisha?”

“Your daughter,” she said, giving a crude laugh, “will soon be all smooth and peachy down there! What a lucky fellow he’s going to be!”

My mother made no comment. She sat there with dignity, trying to remain oblivious and not show her embarrassment.

“Oh, Umm Said,” Aisha blabbed on, “I think we need to explain a few things to your daughter before the wedding night.”

“Explain a few things?”

“Good Lord!” Aisha said, beating her hand on her chest. “You can’t let the girl go into it blind! Shouldn’t she know what to do with a husband on the wedding night?”

My mother nodded as if taking the point. Then she came over to me and mumbled, “Listen, Saleha. You need to know what happens between a husband and wife. Well…nowhere is off-limits.”

My skin was stinging where Aisha had waxed me. Like my mother, I was pretending not to be interested in order to hide my embarrassment. My mother continued, avoiding eye contact, “It is a fact of life that God created woman to be a receptacle for man. Relations between a man and woman are based on affection and compassion.”

“Oh, Umm Said.” Aisha laughed out loud. “For goodness sake! You sound like you’re giving a sermon in the mosque! Listen, Saleha, my dear. Don’t listen to your mother! I’ll tell you exactly what you have to do with your husband.”

My mother seemed happy to have been relieved of this onerous task. She left us alone in the bathroom. Aisha had finished depilating me and was rubbing her hand over my body to check whether she’d missed a spot. Then she took on a serious expression.

“Do you know,” she asked me, “why the wedding night is called ‘the night of the entrance’ ”?

I said nothing.

“People call it ‘the night of the entrance’ because the man enters into the woman.”

Even now I laugh to recall Aisha’s explanation. She was a woman who could not be embarrassed. When she had given me her detailed explanation, she said, “Remember it, Saleha. Don’t ever forget it! Never be ashamed in front of your husband. Wear a skimpy nightdress for him. Dance for him. Behave like a tart in bed. As high and mighty as a man might be, he’ll turn to jelly at the thought of sex. If you can carry it off, Abd el-Barr will be putty in your hands.”

That is when I realized that Fayeqa’s ability to control Said was no coincidence. The strange thing is that though I was mortified, I was not offended by Aisha. She was just explaining facts of life, of which I knew nothing because they always took place behind closed doors. That was how men behaved with women, even my late father, may he rest in peace.