Adrift On The Nile Part 2

"Absolutely right! An eye for an eye!"

Mustafa indicated Ali. "Now's the time for the emergency husband!" he said to Saniya.

"Why can't it be my turn this time?" Anis demanded heatedly.

Ali humored him. "I've always been Saniya's standby, for a long time now--"

"And I--"

"You are our lord, and the jewel in our crown, and the master of our pleasures; and if you were ever to bother with love, you could have all you wanted and more. . . ."

"Liar."

Ali pointed to the water pipe. "Anyway, you've no time for love!"

"b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! Let me tell you the story of what happened with the Director General."

"But you have recounted every detail. Have you forgotten, master of pleasure?"

"d.a.m.n you all! Your lives will be over before you get the message!"

The water pipe circulated, favoring Saniya, who had not smoked since Ramadan. She's dark, nervous, likes to laugh, thought Anis. And she never forgets her children even in the intoxication of love and kif. She will go back to her husband in the end. But she will live with him one year and leave him the next, swearing always that it is his fault. Ragab brought her the first time, just as he had brought Layla, for he is the G.o.d of s.e.x, the provider of women for our boat. I knew an ancient forebear of his who walked the forests before one house was built on the face of the earth, who in the arms of women would bury his fears of animals and darkness and the unknown and death. Who had a radar in his eyes and a radio in his ears and a grenade for a fist. Who achieved extraordinary victories before expiring exhausted. And as for his great-grandson, Ragab . . .

The houseboat shook. Ragab al-Qadi's voice could be heard. He was talking to someone with him. "Watch your step, my dear," he was saying.

Their faces were filled with antic.i.p.ation. "Perhaps an actress from the studio," murmured Khalid.

Ragab appeared from behind the screen by the door. He was slender, dark, and fine-featured--and preceded by a teenage girl. She was also dark, with small regular features in a round, shallow-looking face. Ragab had clearly noticed his friends' surprise at her extreme youth. Smiling, he announced in a melodious voice: "This is Miss Sana al-Rashidi, a student at the Faculty of Arts."

4.

All eyes were fixed on the newcomer, who remained unperturbed and met their gazes with a bold smile.

Ragab put his arm around her waist and led her to sit beside him. "Rescue me, master of pleasures!" he said.

"In front of Mademoiselle?" Ahmad queried.

Ragab reproached him. "There's no need for pretense," he said. "Not with such a sincere admirer!"

He took a long, deep drag on the pipe, so that the charcoal on the tobacco glowed and sent up a dancing tongue of flame. He closed his eyes in gratification, and then opened them to say: "Let me introduce you to the friends who from this night on will be your family."

Then he realized for the first time that Saniya Kamil was there. He shook her hand warmly and guessed the reason for her coming, and she agreed, laughing, that he was right. He introduced her to Sana.

"Saniya Kamil, graduate of the Mere de Dieu College, wife and mother. A truly excellent woman, who in times of domestic distress returns to her old friends. A lady with great experience of womanhood, as single girl, wife, and mother--a fund of wisdom for the young girls on our houseboat."

Involuntary sounds of mirth. Sana smiled.

Saniya gave Ragab a cold, but not angry glance. Ragab turned to Layla.

"Miss Layla Zaydan, graduate of the American University, a translator at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. There is no one more beautiful or cultured than she, not in the whole history of female advancement in this country. Oh, by the way, her hair really is that golden color; it's not a wig, or dyed."

Then he turned his attention to Anis, absorbed in his work. "Anis Zaki, civil servant in the Ministry of Health, and the company's master of ceremonies and Minister for Pipe-Smoking Affairs. A man as cultured as your good self--this is his library--who has made the rounds of the Medicine, Science, and Law faculties, each time departing--like any good man unconcerned with appearances--with knowledge and not qualifications. He is from a respectable country family, but has lived alone in Cairo for a long time; he is quite a cosmopolitan now. Don't take his silence amiss--he seldom speaks, roaming as he does in another realm entirely."

Ahmad was the next to be introduced. "Ahmad Nasr, Director of Accounts at the Ministry of Social Affairs. A civil servant of note, expert in a great number of matters--selling, buying, and many other things of a practical and useful nature. He has a daughter your age, Sana, but he is an exceptional husband, worthy of attention. Imagine--he has been married for twenty years and has never once deceived his wife. Her company does not bore him; in fact, his attachment to married life grows stronger. He should be a case study at the next medical conference."

Ragab continued, indicating Mustafa now. "Mustafa Rashid, the well-known lawyer. Successful advocate and philosopher as well, married to an inspector in the Ministry of Education. He searches earnestly for the Absolute, and no doubt he will succeed in finding it one of these nights. But beware of him, my dear, for he says that to this day he has not found the perfect ideal of womanhood. . . ."

Ragab then gave Ali a pat on the back. "Ali al-Sayyid, the famous art critic. Of course, you have read his work. I have the pleasure of informing you that he dreams of an ideal city, an imaginary one. As for the reality, he has two wives, and is also the close friend of Saniya Kamil, not to mention anything else . . ."

Lastly, Ragab indicated Khalid. "Khalid Azzuz, a member of the first rank of short-story writers. He owns an apartment block and a villa and a car, and several shares in the theory of art for art's sake, plus a son and daughter; and he also has a personal philosophy which I am not sure how to name--but certainly promiscuity is among its external traits. . . ."

He smiled at them all, revealing regular white teeth. "There remains only Amm Abduh," he murmured, "whose ghostly form we pa.s.sed in the garden on our way here. You will meet him in due course. Everyone in the street knows him."

Anis called Amm Abduh and asked him to change the water in the pipe. He took it away through the side door and returned it in a moment, and then went away again. Sana's eyes widened in amazement at the towering figure. Ragab said: "Luckily he's the soul of obedience. He could drown us any time he wanted."

_There is nothing to fear as long as the whale remains in the water. The hand of this underage girl is as small as Napoleon's, but her nails are red and as pointed as the prow of a racing skiff. Now that she is here, we have broken every rule in the book . . ._ Thus the darkness spoke.

Mustafa coughed. "And which of the arts does Mademoiselle specialize in?"

"History," she replied, her voice coy and girlish.

"Marvelous!" cried Anis.

Ragab rebuked him. "Not your gory type of history! Her history is concerned with nice things!"

"There are no nice things in history."

"What about the pa.s.sion of Antony and Cleopatra?"

"That was a gory pa.s.sion."

"But one not wholly confined to swords and asps."

Sana appeared uneasy. She looked toward the screened door and asked: "Aren't you afraid of the police?"

Mustafa smiled. "The arts police?"

After the laughter died down, she said: "Or being investigated?"

"Because we are afraid of the police and the army," Ali said, "and the English and the Americans, and the visible and the invisible, we have reached the point where we're not afraid of anything!"

"But the door is open!"

"Amm Abduh is outside, and he can be counted upon to turn away any intruders."

Ragab smiled. "Forget your worries, light of my eyes," he said to the girl. "The economic plan is keeping everyone busy. The authorities have enough to do already without bothering with the likes of us."

Mustafa Rashid offered her the pipe. "Try this kind of courage," he suggested.

But she declined gently. "One step at a time," Ragab said. "Bare hands came before s.p.a.ce technology. Roll her a joint."

In two minutes the cigarette was proffered. She took it rather cautiously, and fixed it between her lips. Ahmad looked at her sympathetically. He is afraid for his own daughter, thought Anis. And if my daughter had lived, she would be Sana's double.

But what is the point, whether you remain on this earth or depart? Or whether you live as long as the turtle? Since historical time is nothing compared to the time of the cosmos, Sana is really a contemporary of Eve. One day the Nile's waters will bring us something new, something which it would be better we did not name. The voice of the darkness spoke to him: _Well said._ And I believe that I may well hear, one night, the same voice command me to do some extraordinary thing--something to bewilder those who do not believe in miracles. The scientists have had their say on the stars, but what are the stars, in fact, but single worlds that chose solitude, worlds separated one from the other by thousands of light-years? Whatever or whoever you are, do something, for the Nothing has crushed us . . .

"So do you find time to study?" Ahmad asked Sana kindly.

Ragab replied for her. "Of course--but she's crazy about art as well."

The girl shook her finger at him. "Don't make me the entire subject of your conversation!"

"Perish the thought!"

"Do you want to be an actress?" Ahmad continued. When Sana smiled and did not demur, he continued: "But . . ."

Ragab interrupted him. "Quiet, you reactionary--and I don't use that disgusting term lightly." He took Sana's chin between finger and thumb and tilted her head toward him. Then he said, examining her carefully: "Let me study your face . . . beautiful, that fresh bloom harboring a hidden power. A sugared date with a hard kernel; the gaze of a young girl--which, when she frowns, radiates the subtlety of a woman! Which role would fit you? Perhaps the part of the girl in _The Mystery of the Lake_."

She was intrigued. "What part is that, exactly?"

"She is a bedouin girl who loves a wily fisherman--one of those men who make a game out of love. He scorns her at first, but she tames him eventually. By the end he is wrapped around her little finger."

"Could I really play that?"

"I am talking about an artistic instinct," Ragab replied. "One that producers and distributors alike believe in. Just a minute--pucker your lips. Show me how you kiss. Beware of being embarra.s.sed. Embarra.s.sment is the enemy of the art of acting. Now, in front of everyone, a real kiss, real in every sense of the word. A kiss after which the international situation must surely improve. . . ."

He put his long, strong arms around her, and their lips met with force and warmth, in a silence unbroken even by the gurgling of the pipe. Then Mustafa Rashid cried: "That was a glimpse of the Absolute I've been wearing myself out trying to find!"

"Maestro and maestra!" Khalid gushed. "My congratulations! Indeed, we must all congratulate ourselves; we must salute this splendid moment of civilization. Now we can say that Fascism has been completely routed! That Euclid's axioms have been demolished! Sana--no surnames from now on--please accept my sincere acclaim . . ."

Layla smiled. "For goodness' sake," she said, "let someone else speak."

"Jealousy is not an instinct, as the ignorant maintain," Khalid said ruefully. "It is the legacy of feudalism."

_I am not a wh.o.r.e._ d.a.m.nation! Oh, smell of the Nile, heavy with the scent of a dusty, exhausting journey. There is an ancient tree in Brazil that stood on the earth before the Pyramids existed. Am I alone among these drugged minds to laugh in the face of this unstoppable turn in history's tide? Am I alone when it whispers in my ear that forty knocks on the door will make the impossible come true? When will I play football with the planets? One day long ago I was forced into a b.l.o.o.d.y battle, and I alone am keeping the adversaries apart . . .

Outside, beyond the balcony, a bat sped past like a bullet. Anis contemplated the decorations on the bra.s.s tray, interlinking circles separated by gold and silver spangles, now veiled by ash and sc.r.a.ps of tobacco. For a while he dozed, insensible, where he sat, and when he opened his eyes he found that Mustafa Rashid and Ahmad Nasr had gone. The door of the room overlooking the garden was closed on Layla and Khalid; and Saniya and Ali were in the middle room. As for Ragab and Sana, they were standing out on the balcony, murmuring to each other. The only room left empty was his own, and more than likely his door as well would be shut in his face that night.

The lovers were talking.

"Certainly not!"

"'Certainly not'? That's not a very suitable reply, considering the age we live in."

"I should be studying with a girlfriend."

"Well, let it be study with a boyfriend."

Anis stretched out his leg and knocked against the water pipe. It toppled over, and the black spittle poured out and spread toward the threshold of the balcony.

There was no importance to anything. Even rest had no meaning. And Man had invented nothing more sincere than farce.

Then Amm Abduh's great height was blocking the light from the midge-surrounded lamp.

"Is it time?" the old man asked.

"Yes."

Amm Abduh began to collect the things and sweep up the sc.r.a.ps with great care. Then he looked at Anis. "When will you go to your room?"

"There is a new bride in there . . ."

"Ah!"

"Don't you like it?"

Amm Abduh laughed. "The street girls are nicer--and cheaper."

Anis roared with laughter. His voice rang out over the surface of the Nile. "You ignorant old man," he said. "Do you think these women are like those girls?"

"Have they got more legs, then?"

"Of course not, but they are respectable ladies!"

"Ah!"

"They don't sell themselves. They give and take, just like men."

"Ah!"

"Ah!" Anis mimicked.

"So will you sleep out on the balcony until the dew comes to wash your face?" Amm Abduh asked; and he saluted him as he left, announcing that he was going to give the call to the dawn prayer.

Anis looked at the stars. He began to count as many as he could. The counting exhausted him . . . and then a breeze came scented from the palace gardens. The Caliph Harun al-Rashid was sitting on a couch under an apricot tree, and the courtesans were dallying around him. You were pouring him some wine from a golden jug. The Caliph, the Commander of the Faithful, became finer and finer until he was more transparent than the wind. "Bring me what you have there!" he said to you.

But you had nothing with you, so you said that you were already dead. But then the servant girl plucked the strings of her lute and sang: _"I recall the days of love's fever, Bent o'er my heart for fear it will break Gone are love's evenings forever, Let the tears then fall from your eyes . . ."_ Harun al-Rashid was so transported that he tapped his hands and feet, and you said: Now is your chance, and slipped lightly away; but the giant guard saw you and came toward you; and you ran, and he ran after you, unsheathing his sword, and you screamed, calling for help to the Family of the Prophet; and he swore that they would put you in the prison of the palace . . .

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