She took me into the hall, sat me down beside her, and served me tea. “I’m not pleased with you these days,” I remarked.
“I understand what’s grieving you,” she said, “but don’t make my suffering worse.” I avoided looking at her. “The time of deliverance is drawing closer and we’ll leave together.”
What an impostor she is! “This house can only be purged by fire,” I muttered.
“Isn’t it enough that my heart worships you!” Shall I dump the ashes of my burned-out heart? Shall I bury her? But my fantasies had so destroyed every response within me that I could only stand bewildered before her gaze. “Are you writing another play?” she asked.
“Yes. It will remind you of the play called The Drunken Woman,” I said, referring to the one that dealt with the dark world of fallen women.
“Oh no,” she said, “in your plays, son, you should let the light in your heart shine forth.”
At that moment Father came out of his room, and Tariq and Tahiya came down. I got up to go back to my room, but Tahiya wouldn’t let me pass. “Sit with us for a while, author,” she said gaily.
It was probably the first time she had paid any attention to me, so I sat down. Tariq laughed. “He’s going to be the author of a tragedy,” he remarked.
“He’s sick with the disease of virtue!” my father muttered.
Tahiya took a sip from her glass. “How beautiful,” she murmured, “that anyone could be virtuous in these days.”
“As you can see, his eyes are weak,” said Father, “so he can’t see what’s going on around him.”
“Leave him in his heaven,” replied Tahiya. “I’m also a lover of virtue.”
“Your virtue is the kind that puts everyone in a good humor,” said Tariq, chuckling.
“He has his mother’s good looks. He’s strong like his father. He should be a Don Juan,” said Tahiya, sipping her tea.
“Just look at his glasses!” scoffed Father. “His trouble is he can’t see.”
They went out, leaving me furious and full of rebellion. In my imagination I eagerly set about tearing down and rebuilding.
When Tahiya stood in my way, however, she had brushed against me and set a new dream in motion. She was no better than my mother. What made her seem so much less objectionable? Later, alone, I recalled her touch, and a new idea for a play sprang from the inferno inside me: it revolved around this old dwelling my grandfather had built by the sweat of his brow, and how it had become a whorehouse. This was the central conception. The only inkling I had that it might be a success was the trembling joy that permeated my being. Would such a plot serve as the basis of an effective play? Could there be a play without love?
A faint knock at my door. I answered it and found Tahiya dressed to go out. What had brought her here before teatime? With one remark—“Everyone’s asleep except you”—she walked in and stood in the middle of the room. Her eyes took in everything. “A bed. A desk,” she noted. “This is a home, not just a room. Have you got any sweets here?”
I apologized for having none.
Her ripe body spread an aura outward from the middle of my room, exuded allure. For the first time I noticed the translucence of her eyes, the color of honey.
“I guess I should leave, since you have nothing here except books.” But instead of turning to go, she said, “You’re probably wondering why I’m ready to leave so early. I’m going to my apartment in Sharia al-Gaysh. Do you know it? It’s one streetcar stop from Bab al-Shariya. Building 117.”
Her feminine fragrance had already intoxicated me. “Wait!” I exclaimed. “I’ll get you some sweets.”
“I’ll find what I want in the street. You’re very nice.”
For an instant, because of her presence, I forgot the struggle that had raged in my conscience. “You’re the one who is really nice,” I answered.
She gazed at me with a look that inspired dreams, then moved languidly toward the door. In spite of myself, I murmured, “Don’t leave. I mean, there’s no hurry.”
She gave me a winning smile, said, “Until we meet,” and went away, leaving behind her, in that tranquil room, a storm of the most delightful excitement. Why would she come without pretext, and why would she mention the number of her apartment so casually? How my deprived, obstinate, and naive heart throbbed. For the first time it had discovered a real woman to take an interest in, rather than Layla, Lubna, Mayya,*3 Ophelia, or Desdemona.
Over the next few days every furtive glance we exchanged was imbued with a new meaning that confirmed our fascination with each other. Heedless of those present, we would converse warmly. I asked myself, with puzzled persistency, whether I was being transported upward or pushed down to the depths.
—
In spite of the Amsheer*4 wind howling outside, the shouting and the ruckus reached me from the upper floor. I leaped up the stairs to investigate and saw Tariq slapping Tahiya’s face in the hall. Astonishment froze me in my tracks. She retreated into their room.
“Did we disturb you?” Tariq said coolly.
“Excuse me,” I spluttered, suppressing my agitation.
“Don’t be upset. This is part of our daily routine. Enjoy it.”
“This time I’m not going to come back!” said her trembling voice, raised almost to a shout, from inside the room.
Tariq went in, closing the door behind him, and I went back down, a new sadness plunging me deeper into despair. Why would a beautiful woman like Tahiya put up with a life of abuse from a man like Tariq? Does love give light only so as to reveal tragedy?
For two days she stayed away, but on the third she came back, her face glowing. My heart contracted and my grief grew greater still. I despised her conduct, but my love for her now was so obvious that it could not be ignored. It had probably come into being, taken root, and continued growing for a long time without my being aware. That day as they were leaving she stopped to straighten her stockings and let fall a small piece of folded paper before catching up with the others. I opened out the paper, my heart trembling with joy, and read the address and the time.
—
There were only two rooms, with a small entrance hall, but her flat was attractive, clean, and redolent of sweet incense. A round orange vase on the table in the hall held a bouquet of roses. She received me wearing a dark blue dress. Pointing to the flowers, she said, “To celebrate the day of our meeting.” Pent up desire drove me into her arms. We embraced for a long time, and if the choice had been mine, the encounter would have been finalized before we separated, while I was still tasting the delight of my first kiss. But she freed herself gently from my arms and led me into the blue sitting room, simple but tidy, where we sat down side by side on the large sofa. “It’s daring of us,” she breathed in a low voice, “but it is the right thing to do.”
“The right thing!” I repeated emphatically.
“We can’t possibly hide what’s between us any longer.”
“The right thing,” I said, determined to do away with childishness. “I have loved you for a long time.”
“Really! I’ve loved you, too. Can you believe that I am in love for the first time!” Incredulous, I said nothing. “You’ve seen for yourself,” she said earnestly, “and possibly heard more. It’s been groping around, not love.”
“A life unsuitable for someone like you,” I said sadly.
“A beggar can’t choose what’s suitable and what isn’t,” she said.
“Everything has got to change.”
“What do you mean?”
“We must begin a proper life.”
“I’ve never met anyone like you before,” she said with fervor. “They were all beasts.”
“All of them?” I protested.
“I don’t want to hide anything from you: Sirhan al-Hilaly, Salim al-Agrudy, and finally Tariq.” I was speechless, my thoughts turning to my mother. “If you’re the kind of person who can’t forget the past,” she went on, “there’s still time to change your mind.”
I took her hand in mine, possessed by a strong inner drive to meet the challenge. “The only thing that concerns me is true worth,” I assured her.
“My heart always told me that you were bigger than any of my petty fears.”
“I’m not a child.”
“But you’re still a student,” she said, smiling.
“That’s true; I still have a long stretch ahead of me.”
“I have a little bit saved up,” she said simply. “I can wait.”
But I had been captivated not only by love but also by longing to escape from that sullied, joyless house. I therefore decided to take a step that would irrevocably open a new path.
“On the contrary,” I said quietly, “we must get married right away.”
She blushed, looking all the more beautiful, but seemed too shaken to speak.
“That’s what we have to do,” I repeated.
“I want to change my way of life!” she said, full of sudden excitement. “I want to get away from the theater, too. But are you sure your father will still support you?”
“He certainly won’t do that.” I smiled sadly. “And I’m certainly not going to accept his filthy money.”
“How in the world are we going to get married then?”
“I’ll be finished with secondary school quite soon and I won’t be drafted, because of my eyesight. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t get a job. My talents depend on individual study, not on taking courses.”
“Will your earnings be enough?”
“My father has asked to be relieved of his work in the theater. He can live easily on what he earns from gambling and other sources and he’s been looking for someone to take his place as prompter. I’ll apply for the job. At least I’ll be in the theater, in the kind of world where I belong. And since you hold a lease on this flat, we won’t have the problem of finding somewhere to live.”
“Shall I go on working in the theater until our circumstances improve?”
“No!” I said sharply. “You must keep away from those men.”
“I have a little put by, as I said, but it won’t last until you can stand on your own feet.”
“We’ll just have to make do,” I said fervently, “until we achieve our goal.”
At that point we surrendered to passion and forgot everything for a while, not saying a word until she freed herself tenderly from my arms and whispered, “I have to get away from Tariq. I’m not going to see him again.”
“He’ll come here,” I said. The very mention of his name upset me.
“I won’t open the door to him.”
“I’ll tell him everything,” I declared.
“Abbas,” she said uneasily, “please don’t let things get out of hand.”
“I’m not afraid of facing him,” I boasted.
I returned to Bab al-Shariya a new being. For the first time I had seen her through the eyes of a lover saying goodbye, and she appeared even lovelier and more worthy of sympathy. I’ll be moving soon, I said to myself, out of the audience to play a role on the stage of life, out of the putrid atmosphere of the old house to breathe a purer and newer air.
I sat waiting in the empty hall until I saw Tariq coming downstairs. He greeted me and asked, “Hasn’t Tahiya arrived?”
“No,” I answered, jumping up to confront him.
“I didn’t run across her at the theater.”
“She’s not going to the theater.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s not coming here, and she’s not going to the theater.”
“Where did you discover all these secrets?”
“We’re going to be married.”
“What?!”
“We’ve agreed to get married.”
“You son of a…! Are you crazy? What did you say?”
“We decided to treat you honorably.”
He took me by surprise, hitting me hard enough to make me angry. I punched him back and nearly floored him. All of a sudden, there were my parents, rushing blindly toward me.
“It’s ludicrous!” Tariq yelled. “Mama’s boy is going to marry Tahiya!”
“Tahiya!” Mother cried. “What kind of lunacy is this? She’s ten years older than you!”
Tariq began to threaten us, so Mother told him to take his belongings and get out.
“I’ll stay here until Doomsday,” he shouted as he left.
For a while, no one spoke. Then Father muttered the words of an old song—“In love, you whom I mourned for”—tingeing them with scorn.
“Abbas,” Mother said, “This is just a rash infatuation.”
“No, it isn’t! It’s a new life.”
“What about your dreams, your future?”
“I will attain them in the most praiseworthy way possible.”
“What do you know about her?”
“She told me frankly about everything.”
“A child of the theater,” Father sneered, “who knows all the tricks. And you’re a strange boy! Your knowledge of your mother should have made you forswear the female species.”
At that my mother took me to my room. “She has a certain reputation and a history,” said Mother. “Don’t you understand what that means?”
I avoided looking at her, the old pain stabbing again. “Unfortunately you don’t understand what love is,” I retorted. “We’re going to start a new life.”
“No one can escape his past!”
Alas, she was unaware of what I knew about hers. “In spite of all that,” I asserted, “Tahiya is virtuous.”
I wish I could say the same about you, Mother.
No sooner had I completed secondary school than I went to see Sirhan al-Hilaly about taking over my father’s job. Tahiya and I got married at once, and I bade farewell to the old house and its inhabitants without any ceremony, just as if I were going off to school or to the library. Father didn’t utter a word of congratulation or wish us well. “What made you put so much effort into your schoolwork,” he said, “if all it amounts to is a prompter’s job?”
Mother, however, hugged me and burst into tears. “May the Lord help you and protect you from evil people,” she said. “Go in peace, and don’t forget to visit us.”
But I had no intention of ever coming back to hell. I was eager to lead a different life, to breathe pure air, and to forget the abyss I’d been mired in, the pain I’d suffered.
Tahiya was waiting for me and so was love. With her I found all the happiness that can arise from the union of two harmonious people. She was bewitching, whether talking or silent, serious or having fun, even cooking or cleaning. What my salary could not cover, she made up from her savings. The sense of peace I gained from her replaced all my earlier unrest, disorientation, grief, and suppressed anger. I would come home about three in the morning, wake up around ten, and after that there was ample time for both love and writing.
We pinned our hopes together on my expected success as a playwright. Until that success came, we were willing to live simply, even frugally, doubling our efforts, patience, and hopes because of the joy we shared. Tahiya proved her strength of will in a fitting way by not touching a drop of wine, thus breaking a long-standing habit. To save money, she even stopped smoking. She confessed that she would once have sunk to opium smoking if it hadn’t made her sick and given her a permanent aversion. She was such a proficient housewife that one time I remarked, “Your house is always clean and tidy, your food is delicious, and you have good manners. You shouldn’t have had to…”
“My father died and my mother married a bailiff,” she said, interrupting my train of thought. “She neglected me, and he mistreated me, so I had to run away.”
She didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask her to. I nevertheless imagined what had happened to make her one of Sirhan al-Hilaly’s actresses. And in spite of myself I recalled that my mother had worked in the same theater, likewise at his mercy. I was privately waging war, a campaign against all the kinds of enslavement to whi
ch people are exposed. Would the theater be enough of a base for this war? Would my concept of the old house, which had sunk so low as to become a brothel, be a sufficiently strong ally?
Tahiya’s gentleness and sweetness never failed; even in my happy childhood, my parents’ relationship had never been like that. She was an angel, the proof of which was her determination to cast aside the way of life that had tainted her sad past. And she truly loved me as was clear from her desire to have a child. I didn’t want that to happen, however, being afraid, with our limited income, that it would interfere with my life as an artist, which was dearer to me than anything else in the world, dearer even than love, though I hated to disappoint her, and my own ethics forbade me to give in to selfishness.
—
At exactly the time when the cost of living had soared beyond both our expectations and our means, and we found ourselves forced to think of different ways of surviving, Tahiya’s hope of being pregnant was fulfilled; and I was beset by a new anxiety, obliged now to take into account both the near and the distant future. Our state of affairs convinced me that there was no way out except to find another job, if that were possible.
I’d heard that American and European writers used typewriters instead of pens, so I’d learned to type. On my way to the theater I used to pass by a typing bureau called Faisal, and I applied there for a job. The owner immediately accepted me on his terms: I agreed to work from eight in the morning to two in the afternoon and to be paid by the piece.
Tahiya received the news with mixed feelings. “You’re going to go to bed at three in the morning, wake up at seven, at the latest, instead of ten, work from eight until two, then come home at three to get another two hours’ sleep, at most, between four and six. You won’t get any rest. You won’t have time for reading or writing.”
“What can I do?”
“Your father has lots of money.”
“I’m not going to accept one filthy millieme,” I said indignantly.
I refused to go on arguing. She was certainly an exceptional woman, but she was quite practical when it came to matters of living, preferring in the depths of her heart to ask my father for help rather than see me bury myself in work that would impinge on my time, my creativity, and my strength.