"I'm an orphan, you know. There's only my aunt at Sidi al-Arbain."
"That's fine."
Then you kissed her under the crescent moon.
The wedding was so lovely that everyone talked about it for ever after. From Zayyat I got a wedding present of ten pounds. Ilish Sidra seemed absolutely overjoyed at it all as if it was his own wedding, playing the part of the faithful friend while he was really no friend at all. And the oddest thing of all is that you were taken in by him — you, clever old you, smart enough to scare the devil himself, you the hero and Ilish your willing slave, admiring, flattering, and doing everything to avoid upsetting you, happy to pick up the scraps of your labor, your smartness. You were sure you could have sent him and Nabawiyya off together alone, into the very deserts where our Lord Moses wandered, and that all the time he'd keep seeing you between himself and her and would never step out of line. How could she ever give up a lion and take to a dog? She's rotten to the core, rotten enough to deserve death and damnation. For sightless bullets not to stray, blindly missing their vile and evil targets, and hit innocent people, leaving others torn with remorse and rage and on the verge of insanity. Compelled to forget everything good in life, the way you used to play as a kid in the street, innocent first love, your wedding night, Sana's birth and seeing her little face, hearing her cry, carrying her in your arms for the first time.
All the smiles you never counted — how you wish you'd counted them. And how she looked — you wish it was one of the things you've forgotten — when she was frightened, that screaming of hers that shook the ground and made springs and breezes dry up. All the good feelings that ever were.
The shadows are lengthening now. It's getting dark in the room and outside the window. The silence of the graves is more intense, but you can't switch on the light. The flat must look the way it always has when Nur is out. Your eyes will get used to the dark, the way they did to prison and all those ugly faces. And you can't start drinking, either, in case you bump into something or shout out loud. The flat must stay as silent as the grave; even the dead mustn't know you're here. God alone can tell how long you'll have to stay here and how patient in this jail. Just as He alone could tell you'd kill Shaban Husayn and not Ilish Sidra.
Well, you'll have to go out sooner or later, to take a walk in the night, even if only to safe places. But let's postpone that until the police are worn out looking for you. And let's hope to God Shaban Husayn isn't buried in one of these graves here; this run-down quarter could hardly stand the strain of such a painful irony of fate. Just keep cool, keep patient, until Nur comes back. You must not ask when Nur will come back. You'll have to put up with the dark, the silence, and the loneliness — for as long as the world refuses to change its naughty ways.
Nur, poor girl, is caught in it too.
What, after all, is her love for you but a bad habit, getting stuck on someone who's already dead of pain and anger, is put off by her affection no less than by her ageing looks, who doesn't really know what to do with her except maybe drink with her, toasting as it were, defeat and grief, and pity her for her worthy but hopeless efforts. And in the end you can't even forget she's a woman. Like that slinking bitch, Nabawiyya, who'll be in mortal fear until the rope's safely installed around your neck or some rotten bullet is lodged in your heart. And the police will tell such lies that you'll be cut off forever from Sana.
She'll never even know the truth of your love for her, as if that, too, was just a bullet that went astray.
Sleep came over Said Mahran and he dozed off for a while on the sofa, unaware that he had been dreaming in his sleep until he woke, to find himself in complete darkness, still alone in Nur's flat in Sharia Najm al-Din where Ilish Sidra had not surprised him and had not fired a hail of bullets at him. He had no idea what time it was.
Suddenly he heard the rattle of a key in the lock and then the door being closed. A light in the hallway went on and filtered in above the door.
Nur came in smiling, carrying a big parcel.
She kissed him and said, "Let's have a feast!
I've brought home a restaurant, a delicatessen and a patisserie all in one!"
"You've been drinking?" he said as he kissed her.
"I have to; it's part of my job.
I'll take a bath, then come back. Here are the papers for you."
His eyes followed her as she left, then he buried himself in the newspapers, both morning and evening. There was nothing that was news to him, but there was clearly enormous interest in both the crime and its perpetrator, far more than he'd expected, especially in the Zahra, Rauf Ilwan's paper. It discussed at length his history as a burglar and the list of the exploits revealed at his trial, with stories about the great houses of the rich he had burglarized, comments on his character, his latent insanity, and an analysis of "the criminal boldness that finally led to bloodshed."
What enormous black headlines! Thousands upon thousands must be discussing his crimes at that moment, all amused at Nabawiyya's infidelity and laying bets as to what his fate would be. He was the very center of the news, the man of the hour, and the thought filled him with both apprehension and pride, conflicting emotions that were so intense they almost tore him apart. Meanwhile, so many other thoughts and ideas crowded in confusion into his mind, that a kind of intoxication seemed to engulf him. He felt sure he was about to do something truly extraordinary, even miraculous; and he wished he could somehow communicate with all the people outside, to tell them what was making him — there all alone in the silence — burst with emotion, to convince them that he'd win in the end, even if only after death.
He was quite alone, separate from everyone else.
They didn't even know, did not comprehend the language of silence and solitude. They didn't understand that they themselves were silent and alone sometimes, and that the mirrors dimly reflecting their own images were in fact deceptive, making them falsely imagine they were seeing people unknown to themselves.
His mind's eye focussed on the photograph of Sana, with a sense of wonder, and he was deeply moved. Then in his imagination he conjured up all their pictures — his own wild-looking self, Nabawiyya, looking like a whore — coming back to the picture of Sana. She was smiling.
Yes. Smiling. Because she could not see him and because she knew nothing. He scrutinized her intensely, overwhelmed by the sense that he'd failed, that the night out there through the window was sighing in some kind of sympathetic sadness, desperately wishing he could run away with her to some place known to no one else. He yearned to see her, if only as his last wish on earth before his execution.
He went over to the other sofa to pick up the scissors lying in a pile of pieces of fabric, then returned to snip the picture carefully out of the newspaper. By the time Nur emerged from the bathroom he felt calmer. When she called him, he went into the bedroom, wondering as he walked how she could have brought him all those news reports and know nothing of them herself.
She'd spent a lot of money. As he sat by her side on a sofa, facing the food-covered table, his mouth watered in craving and to show his pleasure he stroked her moist hair and murmured, "You know, there aren't many women like you."