‘Eid didn’t answer; at the mention of the word ‘love’ he flushed red and darted off to replenish the stock of fodder that lay in front of his livestock. Busying himself with armloads of maize plants, he pretended not to hear what Zaghloul had said.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked Zaghloul. ‘Why can’t a fellah fall in love?’
‘For us it only leads to trouble,’ said Zaghloul. ‘Love is for students and mowazzafeen and city people; they think about it all the time, just like they think of football. For us it’s different; it’s better not to think of it.’
‘Eid was back now, his eyes wide with curiosity. ‘How do you know, ya Zaghloul?’ he said. ‘Did it ever happen to you?’
‘Something happened to me once,’ Zaghloul said quietly, fixing his gaze upon his twirling spindle. ‘It began when I was a boy, about your age, fourteen or fifteen, and it went on for five whole years. She was a girl from the city, the daughter of a relative of ours who had a job in Alexandria. Her father would come down with all of them once every summer to visit his family in Nashawy. I had known her all my life, but that summer when we were fourteen, I saw her when she came to the village, and suddenly everything changed. We would talk sometimes, for we were relatives after all, and I would try to tell her things, but I could never find the words. You know, she and her family used to sleep in a house that was in the centre of the village, a long way from where we lived. But when she was in Nashawy, I was never able to sleep. I would steal out late at night and go silently across the village, and when I reached their house, I would put my ear to the crack in her door and listen to her breathing in her sleep; it was like my life was in her breath. And that was how I lived for five years, waiting for her to come to the village for a few days in the summer so that I could listen to the sound of her breath at night, kneeling by her door. And all the while my family kept trying to get me married, and every time I’d say no, no, not yet, and in my heart I would think of her and the day when she would come back again to Nashawy.’
‘Eid cocked his head to look into Zaghloul’s lowered face. ‘So what happened, ya Zaghloul?’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you try to marry her?’
‘My father wouldn’t hear of it,’ said Zaghloul. ‘I told him once, to his face I told him — I want to marry that girl and none other. But he said to me: “Get that idea out of your head; you’ll never marry her. We want a girl for you who can work in the fields and milk the cattle and sweep away the cow dung. She’s a city girl, that one, she doesn’t know how we live.” I wanted to tell him that I loved her, but I knew he would slap me if I did, so I kept my peace, and later that year he arranged for me to marry a girl from the village, one of his cousin’s daughters, and that was that, khalas.’
There was a tight, lopsided little smile on his shrunken face as he looked up and nodded at ‘Eid.
‘But I was lucky,’ he said. ‘At least I didn’t lose my reason like some men do. If you go through Nashawy and the next village and the village after that and you ask everyone how many mad people there are and what it was that drove them mad, you’ll see that there was one reason and one alone: it was love. That’s what happens, ya ‘Eid, that’s why you have to be careful and mind what you’re doing.’
‘Eid rubbed his chin, frowning reflectively. ‘But in the city,’ he said, ‘they all fall in love — in Cairo and Alexandria and Damanhour. You can see it on TV.’
‘Things are different there,’ said Zaghloul. ‘All kinds of things happen in cities: why, do you know they have places there where women will let their bodies be used, for just a few pounds?’
He nodded sagely as ‘Eid stared at him, in speechless astonishment. ‘Yes,’ he said, warming to his theme, ‘that’s right, there are houses in Alexandria where men pay five hundred pounds to spend a night with a woman — five hundred pounds, for one night!’
He paused to reflect, chewing on his lip, remembering perhaps that the sum he had just quoted was equal to the figure his harvest of cotton earned him in a year. ‘Of course,’ he added quickly, ‘that includes food and other things — turkey, whiskey and things like that.’
‘Eid, goggle-eyed in wonder, cried: ‘And do they all cost that much — five hundred pounds?’
‘No,’ said Zaghloul, ‘not all — some are as cheap as five pounds and some take just a pound and a half. But that’s just for a couple of hours, or even less.’
‘Where, ya Zaghloul?’ said ‘Eid, prodding him eagerly with his elbow. ‘Where can one find these houses? Tell me.’
Zaghloul shook his head vaguely. ‘My cousin worked in Alexandria,’ he said, ‘for a few months in the winter, and the men he worked with used to go to those places. He told me about them, but he never went himself — one can’t really.’
‘But where are those places, ya Zaghloul?’ cried ‘Eid. ‘Tell me — on which street? I’d like to go and see one of those places.’
Zaghloul smiled at him gently. ‘They’d make a fool of you, ya ‘Eid,’ he said. ‘They’d feel your face, like this, and ask for five pounds. They’d stroke your chest, like this, and ask for ten. They’d reach under your jallabeyya, like this, and ask for fifty, and before they were done, you’d lose everything your father possesses.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ said ‘Eid, ‘just tell me where those places are.’
They began to laugh, but soon their laughter died away, and they fell silent, squatting on their heels — tiny ‘Eid, too small for his age, and bandy-legged, prematurely wizened Zaghloul — they smiled and rubbed their groins and scratched their thighs as they sat there, day-dreaming about forbidden pleasures in faraway cities.
Presently ‘Eid said: ‘Why do they do it, those girls? Do their families make them?’
‘Yes,’ said Zaghloul. ‘That’s what happens; their families put them up to it. They take thirty pounds a month from the owner of the house and that’s that, khalas — they leave their daughters there and the owners are free to do what they like with them.’
‘Eid grinned and shot him a glance. And how much do you charge for your wife, ya Zaghloul?’ he said. ‘Fifteen pounds? I’ll pay it, will you let me?’
‘It’ll cost more than you can afford,’ Zaghloul said, smiling at him, unmoved.
Then, turning to me, he added: ‘Don’t take offence: we fellaheen, we love to joke; “our blood is light,” as people say.’
‘Oh the black day!’ cried ‘Eid, jumping to his feet, as though he could not contain himself any longer. ‘I’d really like to go to one of those places.’
He ran across to the trough, where the livestock were feeding, and put his arm around his nanny-goat. ‘Look how I love her,’ he shouted, planting a kiss on her face.
Later, on the way back to Nashawy, I came across Khamees, riding out to the fields on his donkey. He climbed off when he saw me, and after we had exchanged greetings and talked for a while, he asked casually: ‘Did you see ‘Eid on your way? Was he feeding the livestock, out by the water-wheel?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s just where I’m coming from.’
‘Was there anyone else there?’ he asked, watching me closely.
‘There was Zaghloul,’ I said. ‘We were all sitting there talking.’
‘No one else?’
‘A couple of girls dropped by,’ I said, ‘just for a minute or two.’
Khamees struck his forehead with a loud, despairing cry: ‘Oh the Protector, oh the Lord! That dog ‘Eid is going to bring my family to ruin. What were those girls doing? Go on, tell me.’
‘Nothing,’ I stammered, taken aback; it seemed wholly out of character for Khamees to be overcome by moral indignation. ‘Nothing at all, they just came by for a minute.