“Welcome,” she said. “You are Miss Nefisa, whom Mrs. Zeinab asked to come?”
“Yes, madam,” Nefisa shyly replied. “Are you the bride?”
The lady smilingly nodded yes and sat down.
“Mrs. Zeinab praises you highly,” she said. “You strike me as being a good dressmaker.”
A faint smile appeared on Nefisa’s face. Her lips opened without uttering a word, and she thought: Perhaps she told you that I was a skillful dressmaker. Well, is that praise or disparagement? I don’t know. I wonder if she told you about the situation of our family. I had a father like yours, and I was as much of a lady as you are. I had waited long for a bridegroom to come. But he never did and he never will.
The bride asked her tenderly, already knowing the answer, “Why are you in mourning?”
“My father died two months ago,” she answered sadly. “He was, may the mercy of God be upon him, an official in the Ministry of Education.”
“Mrs. Zeinab told us about it. My condolences.”
“Thank you. We come from Benha. My aunt lives there with her husband, who owns a ginning factory.”
At that moment a servant entered carrying a bundle, which she placed beside her mistress and departed. The bride untied the bundle, which contained a pile of silk cloths of different colors. Nefisa realized immediately that it was material to be made into underwear. Perhaps she had sent the dresses to another, more capable dressmaker. This made her feel relieved, because she was afraid of harming her professional reputation by putting it to such a difficult test. She was content to undertake what lay within her abilities in return for a fair price. She moved to the place where the bride sat, examined the cloth, and felt it with her hand.
“Congratulations,” she said. “How precious this silk is.”
A happy smile appeared on the bride’s lips. “Now,” she said, “we start by taking measurements. By the way, do you mind coming to work here in our house? We have all the things you need for your work. There are no children in the house to disturb you. Besides, you do not live far away. So it will be easy for you to come every day.”
“As you wish, madam,” Nefisa found herself obliged to reply.
The girl rose and stood before her, and Nefisa started to take her measurements. The smell of new silk filled her deprived nostrils, and when she touched the fabric, she experienced a strange feeling of both desire and pain as it glided between her fingers. Surrendering to her confidence in the skill of her hands gave her a sense of mastery and the hope of consolation, but hope very soon died and gave way to dark despair. She thought: A bride and silk. Am I really making these clothes for the bride? In fact, I am making this underwear for the bridegroom more than the bride! His fingertips will playfully touch its relaxed fringes, its softness. So I am taking part in the preparation of this marriage, and I shall also participate in so many marriages, without getting married myself, to be left to my burning dreams. What a beautiful and happy girl she is! Happiness almost radiates from her eyes. Today the silk is prepared, and tomorrow the lover is awaited. A waft of warm maternity blows on her from a rosy horizon. I have been dreaming of that for so long; and my father used to tell me that a sweet temper was more precious than beauty. Time passed between solicitude and hope until I reached the age of twenty-three. Why was I born ugly? Why wasn’t I created like my brothers? How handsome Hassanein and Hussein are! Even Hassan! I am as dead as my father. He lies dead in Bab el-Nasr, and I lie dead in Shubra.
Then the voice of the bride came to her. “Would you like to receive part of your fees in advance?”
“No need at all,” she hastened to reply.
She regretted this injudicious reply, which doubled her resentment and despondency. She heard the creak of approaching shoes and raised her head in the direction of the door to see a young man merrily enter the room. He quickly came to the bride, their hands clasped, and they exchanged a happy smile.
“Where is your mother?” he asked.
“In her room.”
He turned to Nefisa, and the girl introduced the young man.
“Hassan, my fiancé.”
Bending her head toward him, she said, “Miss Nefisa, the dressmaker.”
TWENTY
Nefisa was tired when she left the bride’s house, just before sunset. Nasr Allah was only a few steps from the house, so she wended her way through the passersby leisurely and relaxed. The cold air refreshed her, and she quickened her pace. Memories of what took place in the bride’s house rushed to her mind in a mixture of pain and pleasure. She was sitting on a sofa, and the couple was sitting on one opposite her. They sat close to each other, speaking sometimes audibly and sometimes so quietly that their voices became lovers’ whispers. How great was her desire, then, to raise her head from the sewing machine and have a look at them. But fear and shyness stopped her from meeting their eyes.
Once, when she raised her eyes, she saw their legs touching. So absorbing was that sight to her that she regained her awareness only when the bride slapped the bridegroom on the hand, saying to him half coyly, half threateningly, “Be careful!”
Nefisa was so absorbed in her fancies that she almost collided with the others who were walking in the street. A burning desire for love overcame her. Throughout her life she had not found a single heart with love and compassion for her. Her strained nerves found vent only in laughter, mocking herself, her brothers, and others. Thus she became known for her light-hearted laughter, although it concealed a profound bitterness. She could not avoid such feelings. In fact, her female instinct was the only part of her that was free from blemish; it was ripe and warm. A captive urge, imprisoned by her upbringing, by dignity and family, tortured her. But the scene she witnessed in the bride’s house was enough to shake her violently and cruelly. When she thought of Nasr Allah, a fresh, tantalizing hope revived in her breast. There she saw Amm Gaber Soliman’s grocery, which lay a short distance from her house. There also was Soliman Gaber Soliman, Gaber’s son and apprentice. Since her family had dismissed their servant, Nefisa frequently went to the grocery to buy what they needed. Thus began her acquaintance with the young man, and it became closer as time went on. She conjured up before her the image of the young man, tall and stout, rather dark, with an oval face and narrow eyes. She asked herself: Did he really show interest in her or did she imagine it? It seemed that he had smiled at her hesitantly many times. Perhaps he could not forget, despite their circumstances, that she was the daughter of the late Kamel Effendi. Although she wasn’t pretty, she still looked like a respectable girl, while Soliman was only the son of a simple grocer, and he was only an apprentice in his father’s shop. She was aware of all this, but she could not afford to reject any man, whoever he might be, who seemed interested in her. She couldn’t afford not to love anyone who loved her. All of a sudden, resentment and a kind of lukewarmness returned to her, and her old despair engulfed her. Her heart said: Don’t deceive yourself and allow false hope to make you lose your head. Be contented with despondency. It will give you relief, which is the sole consolation for a girl like you, without money, beauty, or a father.
But she knew that she would not listen to her heart or obey the voice of her fears. The closer she approached the blind alley where she lived, the greater became her surrender to hope and tenderness. She thought: God is omnipotent. Inasmuch as He ordains my sorrow, He can, be it His will, grant me hope and comfort. He is my sole hope and He will never let me down. I have not done anything wrong to deserve humiliation. Neither has our family. So this anguish is bound to be dispelled. But Soliman is an obscure person. Will Hassanein accept him? My brothers are all proud, and I do not think our poverty will diminish their pride. Hassan behaves like an outsider. Oh! To think of Hassan. I wish he could change his attitude and save us from our distress. My father’s pension and my work are not enough. And what has Hassan done? Nothing. None of them will accept Soliman, and nobody better than Soliman will ever come to me. How can I make sure that he is really interested in me? With her eyes fixed on Amm Gaber Soliman’s grocery store, she continued until she reached the alley. She thought of going to the grocery to buy something…anything. Without hesitation, she went to it. The old Amm Gaber Soliman was sitting at his small desk, busy working on his ledger, while his young son Soliman Gaber Soliman stood behind the counter at the entrance. As soon as the girl stood before him, the young man became aware of her; he looked at her with a jubilant face, and his narrow eyes brightened. His features betrayed foolishness, bestiality, and cowardice. The only part of his face that could be described as handsome was his short mustache. He spoke first. “Anything I can do for you, Miss Nefisa?”