"I was. created to be a student."
"Good answer…". Then, with a rising inflection of voice to show he was asking a question, Husayn continued: "You haven't told me the whole story of the Teachers College yet. What do you think of it after almost two months?"
"I hope it will be a serviceable introduction to the world I desire. I'm currently trying to learn the meaning of difficult words like 'literature,'
'philosophy,' and 'thought' from the English professors."
"This is the cultural discipline we want…."
Kamal answered apprehensively, "But it seems human culture is a stormy ocean. We need to know the limits. We must learn more clearly what we want. It's a problem…."
Husavn's interest was apparent in his handsome eyes. He said, "For me, there's no problem. I read French stories and plays, with some help from A'ida to understand the difficult passages. I also listen with her to selections from Western music, some of which she plays expertly on the piano. Recently I've been reading a book that summarizes Greek philosophy in an easy way. All I want is mental and physical forms of tourism, but you also wish to write. That forces you to learn boundaries and goals."
"The worst part is that I don't know exactly what I'm going to write about."
A'ida asked pleasantly, "Do you want to be an author?"
Swept by a tidal wave of happiness rarely experienced by human beings, Kamal answered, "Perhaps."
"Poetry or prose?" Then, leaning forward so she could observe him, she added, "Let me see if I can tell by looking at you."
"I've exhausted all the resources of poetry in my intimate exchanges with your dream vision," he reflected. "Poetry is your sacred tongue. I won't try to make a living from it. My tears have drained its wells during dark nights. How happy I am to have you look at me … and how wretched! I revive under your gaze like the earth, which burgeons with life when the sun shines down on it."
"A poet. Yes, you're a poet."
"Really? How do you know?"
She sat up straight, and a laugh like a whisper escaped from her. She replied, "Physiognomy is too instinctive a science to be explained."
"She's bluffing!" Husayn said, laughing.
She retorted, "Not at all. If you don't like the idea of being a poet then don't be one."
"Nature has made the female bee a queen," Kamal reflected. "The orchard is her palace. The flower's nectar is her drink. Honey is her product. And the reward earned by a person passing her throne is… a sting. But she denied Husayn's accusation."
She had another question for him: "Have you read any French stories?"
"Some by Michel Zevaco, in translation. You know I can't read French."
She said enthusiastically, "You won't be an author until you master French. Read Balzac, George Sand, Madame de Stael, and Pierre Loti. After that write your story."
Kamal said disapprovingly, "A story? That's a rather marginal art form. I aspire to do serious work."
Husayn said earnestly, "In Europe the story is considered a serious art form. Some writers there concentrate on it to the exclusion of all other types of writing. This is the way they've achieved the status of immortals. I'm not throwing praise around blindly. The French professor confirmed that."
Kamal shook his large head skeptically, and Husayn resumed speaking: "Be careful not to make Ai'da angry. She's a reader who delights in French stories. In fact, she's one of their heroines."
Kamal leaned over a little to observe her reaction to Husayn's comment, seizing this opportunity to fill his eyes with the gorgeous sight. Then he asked, "How did that happen?"
"She gets all caught up in the stories, and her head is crammed with an imaginary life. Once I saw her strutting in front of a mirror. When I asked her what she was doing, she said, 'Aphrodite used to walk like this along the beach at Alexandria.'"
Frowning and smiling at the same time, Ai'da said, "Don't believe him. He's more immersed in the world of the imagination than I am. But he's not satisfied until he accuses me of things that aren't true."
"Aphrodite?" Kamal wondered. "What's Aphrodite compared with my beloved? By the truth of your perfection, I'm sad to have you imaane yourself in any form but your own."
He commented sincerely, "You're not to blame. The heroes of al-Manfduti and Rider Haggard have made a big impression on ray imagination."
Husayn laughed delightedly and cried out, "How fitting it would be for all of us to be united in a single book. Why should we stay here on the ground, since we're so drawn to the world of the imagination? It's up to you. Bring this dream to reality. I'm not a writer and don't want to be, but you would be able to bring us together, if you so desired, in one book."
"A'ida in a book of which you would be the author…" Kamal marveled to himself. "Worship, mysticism, or insanity?"
"And me?" Budur's voice burst out suddenly in protest. The three others roared with laughter.
Husayn cautioned Kamaclass="underline" "Don't forget to reserve space for Budur."
Hugging the little girl affectionately, Kamal said, "You'll be on the first page."
Ai'da looked off to the horizon and asked, "What will you write about us?"
He did not know what to say. He hid his confusion with a feeble laugh, but Husayn replied for him: "Like all the other authors, he'll write a violent love story ending with death or suicide. They kick your heart around, but it's all a game to them."
"I hope only it's the hero who meets this end," Ai'da said with a laugh.
"The hero is unable to imagine his beloved perishing," Kamal thought. He asked, "Is it mandatory that it should end with death or suicide?"
"That's the normal ending for a passionate love story."
"When one is fleeing from pain," Kamal reflected, "or trying to hold on to happiness, death seems a valid goal."
Then he said ironically, "A very distressing business!"
"Haven't you learned that? It seems you haven't been in love yet."
"There comes a moment in the lives we lead," Kamal told himself, "when weeping serves the purpose of the anesthetic in a surgical operation."
Husayn continued: "To rne the important thing is that you save a place in your book for me, even if I'm out of the country."
Kamal gave him a long look and asked, "Are you still seduced by the notion of traveling?"
A serious note crept into Husayn Shaddad's voice as he said, "Every moment! I want to live. I want to be everywhere, far and wide, high and low. Then let death come, after that."
"What if it came before?" Kamal wondered. "Could that happen? What of the sorrow that's almost killing you? Have you forgotten Fahmy? A life isn't always judged by its length. Your life, Fahmy, was a brief moment, but it was complete. Otherwise, what's the use of virtue and immortality? But you're sad for another reason. It's hard for you to contemplate dispassionately separation from your friend who is so keen to travel. What will your world be like after he's left? What will become of you if his trip separates you from the mansion of your true love? How deceptive today's smiles are. She's at hand now. Her voice tickles your ear, and her perfume your nose. But can you stop the wheel of time? Will you spend the rest of your life circling round her mansion at a distance, like the fabled lunatic lovers of old?"
"If you want my opinion, you should postpone your travels until you've finished your studies."
Ai'da said eagerly, "That's what Papa has told him repeatedly."
"It's sound advice."
Husayn asked sarcastically, "Is it necessary for me to memorize civil and Roman law in order to savor the beauty of the world?"
Still addressing Kamal, A'ida said, "Father hasheaped scorn on Husayn's dreams. He hopes to see his son in the judiciary or working in finance like him."
"The judiciary, finance! I'm not going to join the judiciary. Even if I get my degree and seriously consider choosing a profession, my interest will be in the diplomatic corps. And as for money, do you want more? We're already unbearably rich."