They raced out to the pyramids in his car. “The night’s cold,” she objected. He turned on the heater, but she kept on. “Why don’t we go to your home?”
“I have no home.”
He stopped the car in the darkness. A heavy bank of clouds covered the sky. “Not a star in sight,” he said happily.
He pressed her to his chest with desperate force. She whispered breathlessly, “The darkness is frightening.”
He silenced her with a kiss, then said, “Now is not the time for fear.”
How wonderful her touch was, yet in itself it meant nothing. To touch life’s secrets is all that matters. Their words were lost in sighs, the silent language of the night; a song of harmony seemed to herald a better life, and their intermingled breaths warmed a heart stricken with cold. The darkness was free of peering eyes. The heart could relax and rejoice triumphantly. He sighed with the fullness of pleasure, he sighed with relaxation, but then, dear God, he sighed with weariness and distress. He looked into the black night and wondered where ecstasy was. Where had Margaret gone?
He returned to the nest discontented. She faced him with rigid features, he smiled in greeting, and they remained standing for an uncomfortable minute. Then he flung himself on the couch, saying, “I’m sorry.”
“There is no need to invent excuses.” She walked back and forth across the room, and then sat in a chair near him.
“It’s been clear to me that you’ve needed a change.”
“Things aren’t that simple.”
Unable to control her anxiety, she said, “I’m not going to conduct a cross-examination. Just one simple question. Have we failed?”
He answered truthfully, but wearily. “No one can match you. I’m sure of that.”
She looked off into space. “Were you with a woman?”
He hesitated a moment before answering, “To tell you the truth, I’m not yet cured of the illness.”
She spoke sharply for the first time. “An illness whose only cure is a woman!” Then she resumed her calm tone. “All I can offer you is love, so if you refuse it, all will end.” She observed his silence with a kind of desperation, and then went on. “Fickle passions in the young can be cured; in wise men like you they can’t.”
His eyes wandered hopelessly around the room. “Am I insane?”
“Oddly enough, your personality doesn’t seem unstable.”
“But I’m accused of insanity because of my behavior.”
She burst out, “If you mean living with me, then go back to your wife.”
“I have no wife.”
“Then I’ll go. My situation’s easier than your wife’s since I can always get a job and a place to stay.”
Her words stung him, almost causing him to shout, “Go!” but instead he stretched out his legs and closed his eyes.
“So you were with a woman?”
He answered with annoyance, “You know.”
“Who?”
“A woman.”
“But who is she?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You knew her before knowing me?”
“We’d met casually.”
“Do you love her?”
“No.”
“Then why did you go out with her?”
He shrugged.
“Maybe you felt a sudden desire?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you always give in to your desire?”
“Not always.”
“When?”
He was getting vexed. “When I feel ill.”
“Are you a womanizer?”
“No.”
“Weren’t you in love with me?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“But no longer?”
“I love you, but the illness is starting again.”
She said impatiently, “I’ve been noticing a change in you for the last few days.”
“Since the illness set in.”
“The illness…the illness!” she shouted with exasperation, then asked, her expression distorted, “Are you going to meet her again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you enjoy torturing me?”
He blew out a breath. “A rest break, please.”
He took Margaret one cold, starry night to the rest house on the Desert Road, and on the way back she said tenderly, “Wouldn’t it be better to have a place of our own?”
“No…” he said vaguely, having decided there was no point in continuing with her.
Displeased with his answer, she said coldly, “I really don’t enjoy affairs in parked cars.”
He drove her back to the hotel without saying another word.
THIRTEEN
The ecstasy of love fades and the frenzy of sex is too ephemeral to have any effect. What can we do when we find no food to satisfy our hunger? You’ll be swept into the tornado and annihilated. There is no way to bring back stability after it has died.
A brunette dancer at the New Paris attracted him with her gaiety and lithe body, so he went after her. He saw Margaret on the stage, returned her smile, then invited the brunette to his table. To Margaret it must have seemed a clumsy ploy in the game of love, but in the storm he’d lost all sense of humor. The brunette left with him, enticed by money. It didn’t really make things better, but he thought his heart stirred slightly as she laughed. If his heart didn’t stir, it would die. Poetry, wine, love—none of them could call forth the elusive ecstasy.
Every night he picked up a woman, from one club or another, sometimes from the streets. At the Capri he sat with a dancer named Muna. Yazbeck rushed over to greet him, exhibiting obvious pleasure. It angered Omar, for he saw it as a kind of death notice of his frustrated hopes.
“My good man. Did…?”
Omar looked at him sternly and left with Muna. As he pressed her to him, he trembled with an unaccountable urge to kill her. He imagined himself ripping open her chest with a knife, and suddenly finding what he’d been looking for all along. Killing is the complement of creation, the completion of the silent, mysterious cycle.
“What’s wrong?” Muna whispered.
He awoke, startled. “Nothing, just the dark.”
“But there’s no one around.”
He raced the car at such a speed that she grasped his arm and threatened to scream. Later, as he was undressing, he felt that the end was coming—the answer to his search—insanity or death. Warda sat on the bed. “I’m going away,” she said.
He answered gently, “I feel responsible for you.”
“I don’t want anything.” After a moment’s silence, she spoke again. “What’s sad is that I’ve really loved you.”
He said wearily, “But you’re not patient with me.”
“My patience is at an end.”
He felt such revulsion toward her in his soul that he didn’t comment.
Finding no trace of her when he returned the next night, he smiled in relief and lay down in his suit on the divan to enjoy the silent, empty flat. Every night he brought a new woman to it.
Mustapha laughed and said, “Hail to the greatest Don Juan on the African continent.”
Omar smiled lamely as Mustapha continued. “It’s no secret anymore. Several of my colleagues have spoken about you. The news has also reached your cronies at the club. They wonder what’s the story behind your rejuvenation.”
He said with distaste, “Honestly, I hate women.”
“That’s obvious!” Then he continued more seriously. “Empty your heart of what’s troubling you so you can settle down, once and for all.”
In the spring it was a relief to sit outdoors in the nightclub gardens, rather than in the closed halls. But the agitation remained, and he was exhausted by his dreams. Occasionally he found solace in reading, especially the poems of India and Persia.
His nighttime adventures took him once more to the Capri. As he sat under the trellis, sipping his drink and receiving the spring breeze, Warda appeared again on the stage. He felt no em
otion, surprise, agitation, or pleasure. In autumn it had started. Ecstasy, love, then aversion; when will the grieved heart smash these vicious cycles? When will it break through the barrier of no return? She sees him, then continues dancing, while Yazbeck steals worried glances. He felt no determination. But after the show, noticing Warda not far from him, he invited her to his table. She approached with a smile, as though nothing had happened. He ordered the usual—the drink which had earned him renown in the clubs—and said with sincerity, “I’m really sorry, Warda.”
Smiling enigmatically, she said, “You shouldn’t regret what has passed.” Then gaily: “And the experience of love is precious even if it brings suffering.”
He said, biting his lip, “I’m not well.”
She whispered, “Then let’s pray to God for your recovery.”
He felt the glances of the other women who’d gone with him, night after night. As Warda smiled, he muttered, “I didn’t desire them.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I knew them all, without exception, but there was never any desire.”
“Then why?”
“Hoping the divine moment would unlock the answer.”
She said resentfully, “How cruel you were. You men don’t believe in love unless we disbelieve in it.”
“Perhaps, but that’s not my problem.”
The scent of orange blossoms drifting from the dark fields suggested secret worlds of delight. Feeling suddenly light and unfettered, he asked her fervently, “Tell me, Warda, why do you live?”
She shrugged her shoulders and finished her drink, but when he repeated the question, he was so clearly in earnest that she replied, “Does that question have any meaning?”
“It doesn’t hurt to ask it once in a while.”
“I live, that’s all.”
“I’m waiting for a better answer.”
She thought a moment, then said, “I love to dance, and to be admired, and I hope to find true love.”
“To you, then, life means love.”
“Why not?”
“After loving once, weren’t you disillusioned?”
She said with annoyance, “That may be true of others.”
“And as for you?”
“No.”
“How many times have you loved?”
“I told you once…”
He interrupted her. “What you told me once doesn’t matter; let’s discuss things openly now.”
“Your violent nature is getting the better of you.”
“Don’t you want to talk?”
“I’ve said all that I…”
He sighed, then continued feverishly. “And God, what do you think of Him?”
She looked at him distrustfully, but he entreated, “Please answer me, Warda.”
“I believe in Him.”
“With certainty?”
“Of course.”
“How does such certainty arise?”
“It exists, that’s all.”
“Do you think about Him often?”
Her laugh was a bit forced. “When in need or adversity.”
“And other than that?”
She said sharply, “You love to torture others, don’t you?”
He stayed in the club till 3 A.M. and then raced out in the car to the Pyramids Road. Going out alone that night, he reflected, was an interesting development. He parked the car along the side of the deserted road and got out. The darkness, unrelieved by ground lights, was peculiarly dense, unlike any night he could remember. The earth and space itself seemed to have disappeared and he was lost in blackness. Raising his head to the gigantic dome overhead, he was assaulted by thousands of stars, alone, in clusters, and in constellations. A gentle breeze blew, dry and refreshing, harmonizing the parts of the universe. The desert sands, clothed in darkness, hid the whispers, as numberless as the grains, of past generations—their hopes, their suffering, and all their last questions. There’s no pain without a cause, something told him, and somewhere this enchanted, ephemeral moment will endure. Here I am, beseeching the silence to utter, for if that happened, all would change. If only the sands would loosen their hidden powers, and liberate me from this oppressive impotence. What prevents me from shouting, knowing that no echo will reverberate? He leaned against the car and gazed for a long time at the horizon. Slowly it changed as the darkness relented and a line appeared, diffusing a strange luminosity like a fragrance or a secret. Then it grew more pronounced, sending forth waves of light and splendor. His heart danced with an intoxicated joy, and his fears and miseries were swept away. His eyes seemed drawn out of their very sockets by the marvelous light, but he kept his head raised with unyielding determination. A delirious, entrancing happiness overwhelmed him, a dance of joy which embraced all earth’s creatures. All his limbs were alive, all his senses intoxicated. Doubts, fears, and hardships were buried. He was shadowed by a strange, heavy certitude, one of peace and contentment, and a sense of confidence, never felt before, that he would achieve what he wanted. But he was raised above all desire, the earth fell beneath him like a handful of dust, and he wanted nothing. I don’t ask for health, peace, security, glory, or old age. Let the end come now, for this is my best moment.
The delirium had left him panting, his body twisted crazily toward the horizon. He took a deep breath, as if trying to regain his strength after a stiff race, and felt a creeping sensation from afar, from the depths of his being, pulling him earthward. He tried to fight it, or delay it, but in vain. It was as deep-rooted as fate, as sly as a fox, as ironic as death. He revived with a sigh to the waves of sadness and the laughing lights.
He returned to the car and drove off. Looking at the road dispiritedly, he said, as if addressing someone else, “This is ecstasy.” He paused before continuing. “Certainly, without argumentation or logic.” Then in a more forceful voice: “Breaths of the unknown, whispers of the secret.” Accelerating the car, he asked, “Isn’t it worth giving up everything for its sake?”
FOURTEEN
The ringing of the telephone in the empty nest awakened him. He picked up the receiver and heard Mustapha’s voice. “Where were you all night?” When he didn’t answer, the voice went on. “Zeinab has gone to the hospital.”
There was a moment of incomprehension before he recalled that he was a husband, and a father with more of fatherhood in store. In the waiting room he found Buthayna, Mustapha, and Aliyyat, his wife, a staid, strong-willed matron in her forties, on the short side, plump, and with a round face and features. When it was Buthayna’s turn to greet him, she held out her hand with lowered eyes, to hide her agitation.
“She’s in the delivery room,” Mustapha said, “and everything is going normally.”
As he was about to enter, Aliyyat detained him. “I was just with her, and I’m going in again right now.”
“Shouldn’t I go in too?”
Mustapha said, “It’s better to avoid any sudden excitement.”
It was only a short while before Aliyyat returned and with a beaming face announced to Omar, “Congratulations. You’ve got your crown prince and Zeinab is being taken to her room.”
He sat down beside Buthayna, looking at her tenderly, and placed his hand on hers without a word. In her shyness she let it rest there for a while, then gently withdrew it.
Mustapha followed these motions, and said, “Fortunately hospitals are places where feuds are buried.”
Hiding his disappointment at the withdrawal of her hand, he asked, “When did she get here?”
“Around midnight.”
While he and Warda, animated by champagne, were having their discussion.
“And you don’t go to school?”
“Of course not, she came with her mother.”
“Thank you, Aliyyat, thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, leaving for Zeinab’s room.
“By dawn, she was very tired,” Mustapha remarked.
Ah, dawn in the desert and the glimps
e of a perfect, eternal ecstasy. But where is it? Mustapha excused himself to go catch some sleep. The two of them, he and Buthayna, remained waiting. Sensitive to the awkwardness of the situation, he said in a conciliatory tone, “You haven’t slept, Buthayna?”
She shook her head, looking at the beige carpet in the hall.
“Don’t you want to talk to me?”
Fearful of a showdown, she asked, “What can I say?”
“Anything. Whatever is on your mind. I’m your father and your friend. Our relationship cannot be severed.”
She remained silent, obviously touched.
“Don’t we agree about that?”
She nodded, and her lips moved in assent.
“You’re angry, which is understandable. But whatever the problem is, it doesn’t affect you directly. Your alienation from me is unbearable. I’ve invited you to visit me repeatedly. Why have you never come?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Did anyone prevent you?”
“No, but I was so sad.”
“Was your sadness greater than our love?”
She said bitterly, “You never once came to see us.”
“That wasn’t possible. But you should have come when I repeated the invitation so often. Your refusal only made matters worse.”
She tried to steel herself against the tears that were threatening. “Grief prevented me.”
“That’s too bad. Passivity is a trait I don’t like, and I needed you after I’d left.” Then he smiled to ease the tension of the situation, and said, “Enough. There’s no time for reprimands now.” He patted her shoulder and asked, “How’s the poetry?”
She smiled freely for the first time.
He said enthusiastically, “You know we may be closer to each other today than we’ve ever been before.”
“What do you mean?”
“It seems we’re both drawn to the same source.”
She turned her green eyes to him, seeking clarification.
“I’ve been reading poetry again and have been trying my hand at it.”
“Really?”
“Abortive attempts.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the dust is too thick to be shaken off at once. Maybe the crisis resists poetry.”