Hatim could no longer contain himself and he got out of bed, turned on the light, and lit a cigarette, looking with his handsome face and the flimsy nightgown over his naked body somewhat like an angry woman. He blew out cigarette smoke, then suddenly cried, “Really, Abduh, I don’t know what to do with you. What can I do for you more than this? I love you and I’m concerned for you and I try always to make you happy — and instead of thanking me, you, you go and make life miserable for me like this.”
Abduh continued to lie on his back in silence staring at the ceiling with his arm under his head. Hatim finished his cigarette and poured himself a glass of whisky, which he tossed off in a single gulp. Then he went back and sat next to Abduh and said quietly, “Listen, my darling. Our Lord is big and He has true mercy, nothing to do with what the ignorant sheikhs in your village say. There are lots of people who pray and fast and steal and do harm. Those are the ones Our Lord punishes. But us, I’m sure that Our Lord will forgive us because we don’t do anyone any harm. We just love one another. Abduh, please, don’t make things miserable. Tonight’s your birthday and we’re supposed to be happy.”
On this Sunday evening Busayna had spent two weeks in her new job, during which Zaki el Dessouki had taken all the preparatory steps: he had put her in charge, first of all, of certain chores — making a new telephone list, paying the electricity bill, and sorting out some old papers; then he had started to talk to her about himself and how lonely he felt and how sometimes he regretted not being married; he had complained to her about his sister Dawlat and said that he was sad at the way she’d behaved with him; he had started asking her about her family and her younger brothers and sisters; and from time to time he would flirt with her, complimenting her on her smart dress and her hairdo, which showed the beauty of her face to advantage, looking for a long time at her body — all in all a lot like a skilled player of billiards who directs his shots with confidence and calculation. She would receive his signals with a complicit smile (the contrast between her large salary and her trivial duties was enough to make her expected role quite clear). The hinting back and forth had gone on for several days, until he had said to her once as she was preparing to leave, “I feel so comfortable with you, Busayna. I do hope we can stay together forever.”
“I’m at your service,” said Busayna without hesitation, to clear the way for him. Then he took her hand and asked, “If I asked you to do something, would you do it for me?”
“If I could, certainly.”
He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them, to confirm what he meant, and then whispered, “Tomorrow, come later in the day… so we won’t be disturbed.”
The next day, while Busayna was in the bathroom removing the unwanted hair from her body, polishing her heels with pumice, and putting moisturizer on her hands and face, she thought about what had happened and it occurred to her that bodily contact with an old man like Zaki el Dessouki would be a bit strange and peculiar. She recalled that sometimes, when she came close to him, she would smell, along with the penetrating smell of cigarettes that his clothes gave off, another smell, coarse and ancient, that reminded her of the one that used to fill her nostrils when she was small and would hide in her mother’s old wooden clothes chest. She thought too that she felt some affection for him because he was well mannered and treated her with a certain délicatesse, and that he was indeed to be pitied, living alone at his age without wife or children.
In the evening, she went to him in the office and found that he had sent Abaskharon away early and had sat down on his own to wait for her. In front of him, there were a bottle of whisky, a glass, and a container of ice. His eyes were a little red and the smell of alcohol filled the room. He rose to greet her, then sat down and emptied what was left in the glass into his mouth and said sadly, “Have you heard what happened?”
“No, what?”
“Dawlat is bringing a case to have me declared legally incompetent.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that she’s asked the court to prevent me from disposing of my property.”
“Oh no! Why?”
“So that she can inherit from me while I’m still alive.”
Zaki said this bitterly, pouring himself another glass. Busayna felt sorry for him.
“Brothers and sisters often get angry with one another, but they never stop caring for one another,” she said.
“That’s what you think. All Dawlat can think of is money.”
“Perhaps if you spoke to her, sir?”
Zaki shook his head, meaning “There’s no point” and to change the subject asked her, “What will you drink?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“You’ve never had a drink?”
“Never.”
“Just try one glass. It tastes bitter at first and then you feel good.”
“No thanks.”
“A pity. Drinking is very nice. Foreigners understand the importance of drinking more than we do.”
“I’ve noticed that you live just like a foreigner, sir.”
He smiled and gazed at her with love and tenderness, as though she were a precocious little girl. “Please, don’t call me ‘sir.’ I know I’m old, but you don’t have to keep reminding me. It’s true, I’ve spent my whole life with foreigners. I was educated in French schools and most of my friends were foreigners. I studied in France and lived there for years. I know Paris as well as I do Cairo.”
“They say Paris is beautiful.”
“Beautiful? The whole world’s to be found in Paris!”
“So why didn’t you go on living there?”
“That’s a long story.”
“Tell me. It’s not as though we’ve got any appointments to keep.”
She laughed to lighten his mood and he laughed too, for the first time. Then she moved closer and asked him affectionately, “Go on. Why didn’t you live in France?”
“There are lots of things I should have done with my life that I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. When I was your age, I used to think that I could do whatever I wanted. I used to make plans for my life and I was sure about everything. When I got older, I discovered that man controls almost nothing. Everything is fate.”
He felt himself getting melancholy so he sighed and asked her with a smile, “Would you like to travel?”
“Of course.”
“Where would you like to go?”
“Any place far away from this hole!”
“You hate Egypt?”
“Of course.”
“How can that be? Is there anyone who hates his own country?”
“I never got anything good from it to make me love it.”
She averted her face as she said this sentence. Zaki responded excitedly, “A person has to love his country because his country is his mother. Does anyone hate his mother?”
“That’s all songs and movies. Zaki Bey, people are suffering.”
“Being poor doesn’t mean you can’t be patriotic. Most of Egypt’s nationalist leaders were poor.”
“All that was in your day. Now people are really fed up.”
“Which people?”
“Everyone. For example, all the girls who were with me at commercial school wanted to get out of the country any way they could.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Of course.”
“If you can’t find good in your own country, you won’t find it anywhere else.”
The words slipped out from Zaki Bey, but he felt that they were ungracious so he smiled to lessen their impact on Busayna, who had stood up and was saying bitterly, “You don’t understand because you’re well-off. When you’ve stood for two hours at the bus stop or taken three different buses and had to go through hell every day just to get home, when your house has collapsed and the government has left you sitting with your children in a tent on the street, when the police officer has insulted you and beaten you just because you’re on a minibus at night, when you’ve spent the whole day going around the shops looking for work and there isn’t any, when you’re a fine sturdy young man with an education and all you have in your pockets is a pound, or sometimes nothing at all, then you’ll know why we hate Egypt.”