God Dies by the Nile and Other Novels (27 page)

‘May the Lord help you, Fouada my daughter, to make a great discovery in chemistry!'

Her mother's parched lips parted in a feeble smile and she said:

‘How much I want that for you, my daughter.'

Feeling happy, Fouada selected a slice of tomato sprinkled with green pepper and said:

‘It seems that your prayer may be answered.'

Her mother's happy beam etched her wrinkles deeper:

‘Why? Have they given you a rise in the Ministry? Or a promotion?'

The Ministry! Why did she have to mention it? Couldn't she at least have waited until she'd finished eating? Fouada felt the pleasure of eating disappear and that chronic pain began to creep into her stomach accompanied by a dry nausea that would not move. Without replying, she got up to wash her hands but again heard her mother say:

‘Make me happy, daughter. Have you been promoted?'

Fouada returned from the bathroom and stood in front of her mother.

‘What's the use of a rise or promotion, Mama?' she said. ‘What's the use of the whole Ministry? You imagine the Ministry's something great, but it's only an old building on the verge of collapse. You imagine that when I leave here early every morning and come back every afternoon I've done some work at the Ministry, but you won't believe it if I tell you that I haven't done a thing, nothing at all, except write my name in the attendance register!'

Her mother stared at her with wide, jaundiced eyes and said sadly:

‘But why don't you do anything? They won't be pleased with you for that and you won't get promoted.'

Fouada swallowed hard and said:

‘Promotion! Promotion is given according to your birth certificate, according to the flexibility of your back!'

‘The flexibility of your back?' her mother said in surprise. ‘Are you in chemical research or in the sports department?'

Fouada laughed briefly, then put her fingers on her mother's mouth and said:

‘Don't say research, it's a sensitive word!'

‘Why?' her mother asked.

‘Nothing, I was just teasing. What I mean is that I'm going to set up a chemistry laboratory.'

Fouada sat down beside her mother and eagerly explained what it would mean for her to have her own laboratory. She would carry out analyses for people and make a lot of money. Apart from this, she would do chemical research there and might discover something important to change the world. After this enthusiastic introduction, Fouada had to broach the tedious matter of finance, of asking her mother for money. Her mother had been listening closely and happily to everything Fouada was saying until the hints of requests for money. She understood that unmistakable tone in Fouada's voice that ultimately meant she was asking for something.

Finally, she said:

‘That's very nice. All I can do is wish you every success, daughter.'

‘But wishes alone aren't enough, Mama,' Fouada said. ‘I can't open a laboratory on wishes. I need money to buy materials and equipment.'

Waving her veined hands, her mother said:

‘Money? And where should the money come from? You know the well's run dry.'

‘But you once said you had about a thousand pounds.'

All weakness vanished from her mother's voice as she replied:

‘A thousand? There's no longer a thousand. Have you forgotten we took some of it to whitewash the apartment and to modernize the furniture? Have you forgotten?'

‘Did you spend the whole thousand?' Fouada asked.

Tightening her lips, her mother said:

‘All that's left is enough for my funeral.'

‘Perish the thought, Mama' said Fouada.

In a frail voice and sighing feebly, her mother said:

‘It's not far away, daughter. Who knows what can happen tomorrow. I had a bad dream a few days ago.'

‘No… no… don't say such things,' exclaimed Fouada getting to her feet. ‘You'll live to be a hundred. You're only sixty-five now, so you've still got thirty-five years of life ahead of you. And not just an ordinary life, but a happy and easy one because your daughter Fouada will achieve miracles in these years and money will rain down on you from the sky!'

Swallowing hard, her mother said:

‘Why don't you save some money? I saved a thousand pounds from your father's pension, which is three pounds less than your wages. Where does all your money disappear?'

‘My money?' retorted Fouada. ‘My wages aren't even enough to buy one good dress!'

There was a long moment of silence. Fouada walked to the door of her room and stood at the doorway for a while looking at her mother swathed in woollen covers on the sofa. A funeral or a great discovery? Which of the two was more important or useful? She opened her mouth to make a final attempt.

‘So you won't give me anything?' Without looking up, her mother replied:

‘Do you want me to be buried without a coffin?'

Fouada went into her room and threw herself onto the bed. There was no hope left, nothing left, everything had vanished, everything was lost. The chemistry laboratory, research, Farid, the chemistry discovery. Nothing remained, nothing except her heavy, dejected body that ate and drank and urinated and slept and perspired. Of what use was it? Why was it the only thing that remained? Why it alone? Within that closed circle?

She stared at the white wall beside the wardrobe. There was something black on it, a square shape, a picture frame. It held the photograph of a girl in a long, white, bridal gown, holding a bouquet of flowers in her closed fingers, beside her a boy with a long face and black moustache. All her life, Fouada had seen this picture hanging in the living room but had never stood in front of it and examined it. Her mother had told her it was her wedding picture but she had only glanced at it from afar as if it were some girl other than her mother.

Only once had Fouada happened to stand in front of the picture and study it. That was a year or so after her father died. Her history teacher had hit her over the hands twenty times with a ruler, twice on each finger. Fouada had gone home and complained to her mother and she had slapped her face for neglecting history. Then she went to the dressmaker's, leaving Fouada alone in the house. She didn't know why she had stood in front of the picture that day, but she wandered about the house, staring at the walls as though in prison. For the first time she saw the picture. For the first time she saw her father's face. She studied his eyes for a long time and imagined that they resembled her own. And like a knife in her heart, she suddenly realized that she loved her father, that she wanted him, wanted him to look at her with those eyes and to hold her in his arms. She had buried her head in the pillow on the sofa and wept. She cried because when her father had died she hadn't cried, hadn't grieved. At that moment, she wished her father were alive so he could die again, so that she could cry to put her conscience to rest. She dried her eyes on the sofa cover, got up, took the picture off the hook, wiped the dust off the glass, and looked at it again. It was as if the dust had veiled her mother's eyes from her because they now appeared clear and wide and held a strange look she had never seen before, an ill-tempered, tyrannical look. Fouada lifted the picture to hang it back on the hook but then took it into her room, hammered in a nail beside the
wardrobe and hung it up. Then she forgot about it and hardly looked at it again.

Now Fouada closed her eyes to sleep, but felt something under her eyelids, something like tears, but burning. She rubbed her eyes, wiped them with the corner of the bed cover, laid her head on the pillow and pulled up the bedclothes to sleep. But the buzzing began in her ears, like the faint, endless ringing of a bell. Remembering something, she jumped out of bed and dialled the five numbers on the telephone. The bell rang, loud and clear. The third night and Farid was not at home. Where could he be?

At one of his relatives'? But she didn't know any of his relatives. At one of his friends'? She didn't know any of his friends. She knew only him. She didn't know him in that traditional way, didn't know what his father did nor how many acres he might inherit from him nor how much he earned each month nor his position at work nor details like tax statements and deductions and passport number and date of birth. She knew nothing like that, but did know him in flesh and blood – the shape of his eyes and that unique thing that appeared in them, something with a life of its own. She knew the shape of his fingers, the way his lips parted in a smile, could distinguish his voice from all others, his walk from amongst hundreds, knew the taste of his kiss in her mouth, the touch of his hand on her body and his smell. Yes she knew, could isolate that unusual and particular warm smell that preceded
him just before he arrived and stayed with her after he left, that remained on her clothes, hair and fingers, as if it were another person inseparable from her or as if it emanated from her and not from him.

But was this all the information she had about Farid? The shape of his fingers, the movement of his lips, the way he walked and his smell? Could she walk around searching for him everywhere, sniffing the air like a bloodhound? Why didn't she know more about him? Why didn't she know what his job was or where he worked? Why didn't she know where his family or relatives or friends lived? But he had never told her and she had never asked. Why should she? He didn't ask her. They had been colleagues in the college of science. That was how it had all begun.

Hearing a sound nearby Fouada opened her eyes and saw her mother standing beside the bed. Her eyes seemed even wider and more jaundiced and her face more lined. She heard her say:

‘How much do you need to set up a laboratory?'

Fouada swallowed hard and said:

‘How much do you have left?'

‘Eight hundred pounds,' her mother replied.

‘How much can you give me?'

The mother was silent for a moment, then said:

‘One hundred.'

‘I need two hundred,' Fouada said. ‘I'll pay it back.'

She got out of bed saying:

‘I promise I'll pay it all back to you.' Her voice sad, the mother said:

‘When? You haven't repaid your old debt.'

Fouada smiled and said:

‘How can I repay it? You're asking me to repay you nine months' pregnancy, labour pains, the breast milk you fed me and nights awake beside the cradle! Can I ever repay you all that?'

‘God will repay me for it, but you must return the hundred pounds you took last year.'

‘Last year?' Fouada said distractedly.

‘Have you forgotten?' her mother asked.

Fouada remembered that day a year ago. She had been sitting on her bed just as now when suddenly the telephone rang. She lifted the receiver and heard Farid's voice. He was speaking unusually fast.

‘I'm speaking from home. Something urgent's come up. Can you get me some money?'

‘I've got ten pounds,' she replied.

‘I need a hundred,' he had said quickly.

‘When?' she asked.

‘Today or tomorrow at the latest.'

It was the first time Farid had asked her for anything, the first time anyone had asked her for anything. That day, she had been ill, with a splitting headache and couldn't move from bed, but suddenly her strength returned, she sat up and stared at the wall. It seemed to her that she was able to
get up and search for that hundred pounds. Quickly she got up and dressed, not knowing from where she would get the money, only that she must go out and look for it. In a daze she wandered the streets, ideas rushed through her head – from relying on God to stealing and killing. Finally, she thought of her mother and hurried back home.

To get money from her mother was not easy, and only after inventing a big lie, which made her think her daughter's life depended on those hundred pounds, did she succeed. Those were historic moments, the moments Fouada put the money into her bag and rushed over to Farid's house. When he opened the door, she was shaking and panting. She hurriedly opened her bag and put a hundred pounds on the desk without speaking, overflowing with happiness.

Yes, she was happy. Perhaps it was the happiest moment in her life, to be able to do something for Farid, to be able to do something for someone, something useful. Farid looked at her with brown, shining eyes in which she saw that strange thing she loved but did not understand.

‘Thank you, Fouada,' he said and put his arms around her. Instead of kissing her on the mouth, as he did every time they met in the house, he kissed her gently on her forehead and turned away quickly, saying:

‘I must go now.'

Fouada cried that night when she got home. Couldn't he have stayed with her five minutes longer? Was he too busy even to kiss her? What could be so important to him?

_________

^*
An ankle-length gown or robe which is cut to hang loosely; it is worn traditionally by both men and women, although the style, colours and cloth differ.

^†
A brimless cap resembling a fez.

PART TWO

She sat on an old chair in the living room. The landlord sat opposite her. Between them stood the shabby table, on it a tray with two small coffee cups. His face was large and fleshy, a face one mistrusts the first time one sees it, something in the movement of the lips or eyes or something inexplicable giving it the appearance of lying or of deceit. Maybe it was that continuous, involuntary darting of his prominent eyes or the light tremor of his lips when he opened them to voice his rapid, mumbled words. She did not know exactly.

But should she judge people by their looks? Didn't she possess a scientific mind? Should she judge people according to her feelings and impressions of them? Why didn't she stop this foolish habit?

She saw his thin upper lip quiver as he spoke, revealing large yellow teeth.

‘The rent of this apartment today is no less than thirty pounds a month,' he was saying.