So filled was her mind with the apprehension and joy of seeing Teymour again that, until the very last second, she did not see the obviously troubled man crossing the road deep in thought who was about to collide with her bicycle’s front wheel. She braked just in time to avoid running him over, placed one foot on the ground, and was about to curse him when she saw that he was none other than her brother Rezk.
“So, this is how you crush the people!” said Rezk smiling as if he were delighted by this encounter.
“I’m sorry,” said Felfel. “I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s all right.” Then, noticing Felfel’s carefully chosen attire, he said:
“My word! You’re dressed like a princess. Where are you rushing?”
“Nowhere in particular,” the young girl answered; his question, and the mocking tone with which he showed his curiosity, unsettled her.
“Don’t lie; I know everything.” Rezk was still smiling and a glimmer of affection shone in his eyes, as if to give his words a sweet meaning of complicity.
“What do you know?”
“Oh, nothing,” answered Rezk, patting her on the shoulder. “And don’t you worry about a thing. I was only teasing you. Go on, get out of here and have fun.”
Just as he was about to leave the young girl, he sensed someone watching them from across the street. He turned his head ever so slightly and was suddenly submerged by a wave of indignation that left him breathless. Hatred — a hatred that had the intensity of excruciating pain — made his limbs tense, clouded his eyes with tears, and covered his features with a livid mask. The man standing next to an orange seller’s cart intently ogling Felfel’s bare legs was the very man eating away at Rezk’s insides. The gaze seeping from under his eyelids and expressing the most blatant lewdness belonged to the despised foe so long the object of his enmity; in rare moments of respite Rezk managed to forget him, the way one forgets one has an incurable illness. With the elegance of a provincial satyr, Chawki was leaning with one hand on his cane while with his other he was lasciviously twisting the end of his mustache. His lips were curled in a greedy pout and he looked as if he were debating with himself about the quality of the oranges, which the orange-seller was shamelessly comparing in a soft singsong to the breasts of prepubescent girls. But this transparent charade had not escaped Rezk, who shot a look at Chawki that stung like the point of a very sharp knife. Chawki felt the danger behind that look and seemed to make a quick decision; he glanced disdainfully at the oranges, then swaggered away, pounding the iron tip of his cane on the ground.
Felfel had not noticed Chawki’s presence. She thought that the sudden distress she saw on her brother’s face was an indication of some searing physical pain. She asked with emotion and tenderness:
“What’s wrong? Do you feel ill?”
Rezk tried to control his anger so as not to alarm the young girl. He had never told Felfel about the contemptible incident that had occurred years ago and had caused his unflagging hatred for his father’s tormenter. It was a secret he kept jealously to himself. Not a soul in this city was aware of this most awful, debilitating illness tearing at his flesh. He laughed a tiny, sardonic laugh, as if he were making fun of an inconsequential, fleeting pain.
“It’s nothing,” he said, with a quick, gentle caress to his sister’s cheek. “Well, I’ll be on my way. I’ll see you at home later.”
For a brief moment Felfel watched him cross the street with pity in her eyes; she felt remorse for having let him leave in this pained state. She had a fanatical and fierce love for her brother, strengthened by the complicity of an impoverished existence that led them to share the least morsel of bread, the slightest tidbit that fell from the sky. He was the sweetest, most understanding human being she knew, someone in whom she could confide wholeheartedly and to whom she had given all her adulation until Teymour had appeared on the café terrace, filling her with breathtaking hope.
As she shot out onto the wide deserted square, she saw him in the distance, standing in front of the statue with that magnificent casualness that somehow reflected his extreme scorn of the world, and her heart grew weak with worry. She attempted to pedal even more quickly, as forcefully as she could, as if she feared seeing him suddenly vanish, carried off by the breeze.
Having arrived in front of the young man, she braked sharply and looked at him with childish glee, as if she were filled with wonder at finding him still standing there, waiting for her.
“Climb on quick,” she said breathlessly, pointing to the rear luggage rack.
Teymour smiled at her, incredulous; he was undecided about the girl’s invitation. He was hesitant to let himself be pulled along by her; it seemed as indecent as letting himself be carried by an old man. This was not the first time her behavior had surprised him but he decided that the situation was too amusing to turn down her offer. Laughing at himself, he straddled the luggage rack and, gently grasping the young girl’s slender hips, he tried to lighten her load by tensing his limbs, knowing all the while it was futile. Felfel began to pedal again, but more slowly now; one felt that this extra burden weighed on the impetuous movements of her legs, reducing her usual virtuosity to nil. She rode through the square, passed close to the metal bridge, then turned sharply to the right, taking the road that ran above the river. Having appeared for a brief instant, the sun tucked itself behind a cloud and the air, imbued with the scent of the sea, suddenly took on a chill. Teymour, busy trying to keep his balance, hadn’t yet exchanged a single word with his companion. Although the few pedestrians strolling along the road didn’t seem the type to develop critical opinions, he was ashamed of his hardly glorious position and tried at first to hide his face behind his driver’s back. Soon, however, he relaxed and allowed himself to be carried along in all tranquility; he had just rediscovered his old enthusiasm for this device with its light and supple machine-work that had been the joy of his teenage years.