Malak used to see Busayna el Sayed twice a day, on her way to and from work. She had stirred his interest from the beginning because she was beautiful and her body arousing. At the same time another feeling that was difficult to put into words made him certain that the serious expression that she wore on her face was fragile and false and that she was not as virtuous as she tried to appear. When he had collected some information about her and knew everything that was going on, he started greeting her and asking her about the health of her mother the Hagga and whether the Shanan clothing store in which she worked was in need of a consignment of shirts (for which she would of course get her commission), and gradually he started talking to her about a variety of subjects — the weather, the neighbors, marriage. Busayna herself was both ill at ease with Malak and at the same time unable to keep him at a distance since she passed him every day and he was their neighbor and spoke to her politely, thus denying her the opportunity of rounding on him. All the same, she submitted to conversing with him at base because something searching and probing in his behavior toward her made her submit. No matter what topic he might be speaking to her about, the tone of his voice and his looks would get to her, as though he were saying, “Don’t come on so self-righteous. I’ve found out everything.” This unspoken message became so clear and strong that she started asking herself whether Talal could have revealed the secret of their relationship.
Malak got more and more familiar with her until one day he suddenly directed a slow, appraising look at her full bosom and luscious body and then asked brazenly, “How much does Talal Shanan pay you a month?”
Suddenly she felt furious and decided that this time she would put him in his place very firmly, but in the end she found herself answering, avoiding his eyes, “Two hundred and fifty pounds.”
Her voice came out with a strange-sounding rattle as though someone else were speaking and Malak laughed, came close to her, and said, advancing his attack, “You’re a stupid girl. That’s pennies. Listen, I can get you work for six hundred pounds a month. Don’t say anything now. Take your time to think about it — a day, two days, then come and see me.”
2
At Maxim’s, Zaki el Dessouki feels at home. No sooner has he crossed Suleiman Basha Square to the small passage opposite the Automobile Club, pushed open the small wooden door with the glass panes, and passed through the entranceway, than he feels as though a magic time machine has carried him back to the beautiful years of the 1950s. Everything at Maxim’s — from the brightly painted white walls hung with original works by great artists, the quiet lighting emanating from elegant wall lamps, the tables covered with gleaming white cloths on which plates, folded napkins, spoons, knives, and glasses of various sizes are set out in the French manner, and the way into the bathroom that is concealed from sight by a large blue folding screen to the small, chic bar at the far end to the left of which stands an ancient piano on which Christine, the restaurant’s owner, plays for her friends — bears the stamp of the elegant past in the same way as do old Rolls-Royces, ladies’ long white gloves, hats decorated with feathers, gramophones with horns and gold needles, and old black-and-white photos in wooden frames that we hang in the sitting room and forget about and which, when from time to time we do look at them, make us feel tender and melancholy. The owner of Maxim’s, Madame Christine Nicholas, is of Greek origin, born and raised in Egypt. She draws, plays the piano and violin excellently, and sings exquisitely. She has married a number of times and lived a gay and boisterous life. Her relationship with Zaki began in the 1950s with a passionate love that burned itself out and left behind a deep, unbudgeable friendship. Zaki will be preoccupied and go without seeing her for many months, but as soon as he feels oppressed or things are not going well for him, he goes to her and always finds her waiting for him. She listens attentively, gives him sincere advice, and commiserates like a mother.
Today, no sooner did she see him entering through the door of the bar than she let out a cry of joy and embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks. Then she took his hands, leaned back, and examined him for a short while with her blue eyes, saying, “You look worried, my friend.”
Zaki smiled sadly and almost said something but remained silent. Christine shook her head as though she understood, then invited him to sit at his favorite table next to the piano and ordered a bottle of rose and cold hors d’œuvres. Just as dried flowers retain something of their old fragrance, Christine still bore traces of her former beauty. Her body was neat and svelte, her hair dyed and swept back, and tasteful makeup gave her lined face a dignified, refined cast. When she laughed, her face would fluctuate between the tenderness and tolerance of a kindly grandmother and that old coquetry that would sometimes return in a momentary flash, then disappear. Christine tasted the wine as the traditions of the table require, then made a sign to the ancient Nubian waiter and he poured out two full glasses. As he sipped the wine, Zaki told her what had happened. She listened attentively, then said dismissively, pronouncing the French words in her own specially smooth and musical way, “Zaki, you’re exaggerating. It’s just an ordinary quarrel.”
“Dawlat threw me out.”
“Just an impulsive act born of too much anger. In a day or two, go and apologize to her. Dawlat has a short temper, but she’s good-hearted. And don’t forget, you did lose her valuable ring and any woman in the world will throw you out if you lose her jewelry.”
Christine said this light-heartedly, but Zaki remained gloomy and said sorrowfully, “Dawlat has been planning for a long time to throw me out of the apartment and the loss of the ring has given her the excuse. I offered to buy her a new ring, but she refused.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Dawlat wants to get her hands on the apartment for herself.”
“Why?”
“My dear friend. I’m not religious, as you know, and there are things I never give any thought to, such as the estate and the division of bequests.”
Christine looked at him questioningly and he went on to explain, pouring himself another glass, “I have never married and I have no children. When I die, my possessions will go to Dawlat and her children. She wants to secure everything for her children right now. Yesterday, during the quarrel, she said to me, ‘I will never let you squander our rights.’ Imagine! Just like that, in the clearest way possible! She considers everything I own to be her children’s by right, as though I were just the steward of my wealth. She wants to inherit from me before I die. Do you understand now?”
“No, Zaki.”
Christine, who seemed to have become a little inebriated, shouted the last words, and when Zaki tried to speak, she interrupted him heatedly, “Dawlat could never think that way!”
“After all these years, you’re still naive. Why are you amazed at evil? You think like a child. You think that the good people should be smiling and jolly and the bad ones have ugly faces with thick, matted eyebrows. Life’s a lot more complicated than that. There’s evil in the best of people and in those closest to us.”