Butterfly Wings: An Egyptian Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) (8 page)

“All my friends are students who live on the spending money they get from their parents.”

Ayman wanted to tell his brother about the new burst of hope he had been given by Hagga Hikmet. He knew that the subject of their mother was not of much interest to Abdel Samad once he had learned that she was dead. But he wanted to tell him that there was hope that she was still alive.

Abdel Samad opened Ayman’s phone and removed the battery. He turned it over in his hands, then put it back and closed the phone, which he put under his pillow. “Good night,” he said to Ayman.

11 Nariman’s Room

D
inner at the ambassador’s residence was as dull as Doha had anticipated. The ambassador’s wife greeted her in exaggerated fashion, which embarrassed Doha in front of the other guests. Then, in front of everyone, she repeated how Doha just had to come and stay at the embassy. She took her by the hand and led her around the various rooms and halls, saying, “It is a large house. We don’t just have rooms; we have thousands of them.”

The Egyptian embassy, with its luxuriant gardens, occupied a beautiful palace known as the Villa Savoia. It had belonged to the last king of Italy, Victor Emmanuel III, a member of the House of Savoy, who had been exiled to Egypt during the reign of King Farouk. When he returned to Italy after the Second World War, he decided to gift the palace to Egypt, and the government turned it into the Egyptian embassy.

The ambassador’s wife led Doha into a spacious bedroom furnished predominantly in pink. She said, “This is the room I’ve chosen for you.” Then she lowered her voice as if telling her a secret she did not want the other guests to hear, even
though they were not present. “It’s the room of the last queen of Egypt, Queen Nariman, who was sent to Italy as part of a special delegation to learn regal etiquette in preparation for her marriage to King Farouk. This was her room during her whole stay in Rome.”

Doha had been very impressed by the palace from the first time she had seen it many years before. It combined the authentic architecture of the Renaissance with a human scale. It was more like a large domestic residence than a sprawling palace that might cause its residents to feel overwhelmed. During this tour of inspection the ambassador’s wife kept up a tradition favored by ambassadors’ wives; she pointed out again and again that she had had a room repainted in such and such a color, that she had had such and such a piece of antique furniture restored, that she had had these old paintings taken out of the storeroom.

Doha acted impressed by it all, as though this were her first time in the palace. Then she thanked the ambassador’s wife for everything and made her apologies for everything, in the secret hope that the evening that had interrupted a few hours of the few days she would spend in Rome would come to an end.

Accompanied by the ambassador’s wife, Doha came down the grand staircase into the central hall where the guests were gathered. Ashraf al-Zayni appeared in front of her. He was talking to the ambassador and a group of guests. The ambassador immediately started introducing her to Dr. Ashraf and the others. He did this in a way that made it impossible for either Doha or Ashraf to hint at their previous acquaintance. “Allow me,” said the ambassador to Dr. Ashraf, “to introduce you to tonight’s guest of honor, Madame Doha al-Kenani, the wife of one of the most important leaders of the ruling party, by whom
I mean Medhat Bey al-Safti, of course.” A chorus of clear and mumbled greetings went up, causing Doha to blush in embarrassment. The ambassador continued saying to Doha, “Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni is taking part in a very important international conference being held this year in Palermo.”

She took his hand and said, “Pleased to meet you.”

After dinner Doha took the opportunity to go up to Dr. Ashraf. In a low voice she said to him, “I’ve found an inspiration for my designs that I think you’ll approve of.” He did not understand what she meant. “I’ve discovered that there’s a really wonderful indigenous Egyptian butterfly even more beautiful than the foreign butterflies that inspired me.” He smiled without comment and she continued, “It’s the Egyptian tiger butterfly, with its colorful markings in brown, orange, and yellow, which goes back to pharaonic times. I feel this Egyptian butterfly will change my life.” She was lost in thought for a few seconds, then said, “I really would have loved to show the audience in Milan clothes inspired by Egypt’s natural environment or history.”

To tease her, he said, “Like the pyramids, palm trees, and camels?”

She replied, “When I said that, I didn’t appreciate what you meant.”

“I didn’t mean anything. I was simply relaying what my Italian friends had said. Anyway, I shall see your clothes for myself two days from now in Milan. Then I’ll give you my honest opinion.”

Doha gasped and said, “How come?”

“Professor Giovanni’s son has invited me to the show and suggested that I be a guest at the Salon for two days. Seeing as we will have finished our discussions at the university, it seemed
like a good opportunity to spend a couple of days in Milan and see the fashions before traveling to Palermo.”

Doha felt extremely embarrassed. It was as if a stranger had announced he was coming into her bedroom. She did not want him to see the clothes she had brought with her from Cairo. Since she had bought the book, or perhaps since she had met Dr. Ashraf, she had started to feel there was nothing Egyptian about them. How could she stop it happening? How could she close the door and keep him out of her bedroom?

A few other guests came over to where she was standing with Dr. Ashraf. Conversation moved on to other things and Doha stepped away.

When she got back to her hotel that evening, she felt a mysterious happiness she could not account for. Even so, she also felt somewhat anxious at the prospect of Dr. Ashraf attending the Milan fashion show.

She tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep. She remembered that she had not been by the airline office. No matter. The things must have arrived. She switched the light on again and started flicking through the book she had bought in the morning. As she looked at the pictures of the various Egyptian butterflies, she immediately envisioned the designs she could produce that were inspired by each one of them.

As she fell asleep, Doha turned the book over onto her chest. She clutched it as though it were a man lying on top of her. Her mind went blank as she stared up at the ceiling. She stared into space as a gentle night breeze came in through the window, making her body shiver.

She thought about the coldness of her marriage. There was no warmth of attachment between her and her husband. From the first night of their marriage, their sex life had been a failure.
Medhat had been embarrassed and she was too. He dithered a long time before beginning what he had to do. Doha had read that a wife should help her husband on their wedding night and not be a passive body, placid and frigid, that left everything to him. She wanted to help him. She plucked up courage and stretched out her hand to touch him in the hope that she would help him become aroused. But as soon as she touched him, a goopy fluid splattered her hand and stained her clothes, which she had still not fully removed.

Medhat flew into a rage and told her harshly that she should not have done what she did; that she had ruined everything. She apologized, saying that she did not know what she should have done; that she had only being trying to help him.

That night, which she never managed to erase from her memory, left her with painful, guilty feelings about what her hand had unintentionally caused.

A few days went by without him touching her, as if he was punishing her for what she had done. She clammed up and was unable to broach the subject with him or anyone else. The following week, Medhat decided to try again. She handed herself over to him and ventured no movement. But the same thing happened; it was all over before it had even begun. He accused her of being frigid and said that her sexual passivity made him finish quickly in spite of himself. She did not understand what he meant, but did not discuss it with him because she did not know what to say. A thick wall of silence about sex arose between them.

He finally took her virginity after more than ten days of marriage. She did not know that that day he had taken some sedative drugs to help him last longer. The time did extend to minutes, which at last enabled him to penetrate her. But as soon as he was inside, just like before, it was all over.

These attempts were repeated during their honeymoon tour in Europe, which she longed to be over, until she became fed up with sex entirely. It was a hateful physical operation in which emotions played no part. The wall that had gone up between them grew thicker and higher with every new attempt. On every occasion he left her at the peak of arousal, and she would only climax afterward when washing in the bathroom on her own.

The honeymoon caused her anguish. It was possibly the worst time in her life. She felt she was the reason for the failure of her marriage. Should her mother have told her what she had to do? Was having no experience her mistake? She tried many times to talk to her mother and complain to her, or at least ask her how she could correct her mistake. But at the last moment, she could not do it. Her mother would not understand, or rather she would understand but not deem it important.

Time went by, and one day she read in a women’s magazine a long piece about premature ejaculation. She realized she was not alone and that quite a lot of men suffered from the same problem. Some would not seek treatment, for that meant an admission of impotence. They were not impotent, though the condition could lead to impotence.

In this way she found out that she had nothing to do with her husband’s problem. She hated him so much that she thought more than once about getting divorced, but her courage failed her. Divorce was something unacceptable to her family and to his. Besides, she would never have the courage to tell her family the reason for the divorce, and her family believed that avoiding a divorce was far more important than any reason she might have.

She really did hate Medhat. How could he have gone through with a marriage when he knew he was not up to his conjugal responsibilities? Plus, why did he always make her feel
like the guilty one? How was she supposed to know that her husband suffered from premature ejaculation? It seemed as if there was an element of chance to marriage. A wife would only find out how lucky she was after the wedding. Prior to it, was there any way for a woman or her family to know the sexual prowess of a prospective husband?

Thoughts such as these preoccupied her for a long period, but she did not dare broach the subject with anyone, and she had no means to end the situation. She was officially married, but in reality she was an unmarried woman, or a divorcee, or a widow, and had to suffer in silence. A divorcee could remarry, like an unmarried woman or a widow, but Doha had to carry on as she was.

She thought several times about talking to her brother. He was all the family she had left since their parents had died. Also, she would be comfortable talking to him, despite not having discussed such a subject with him before.

In time, Doha started to get used to married life. She kept herself busy studying fashion design, in the hope that this would provide meaning and direction to a life without marriage, without children, without meaning.

Her hatred for Medhat al-Safti turned into something worse—indifference. He was both there and not there. Like a caterpillar, she spun a chrysalis of fashion around herself but there was no hope of her one day emerging from the chrysalis as a butterfly with wings to soar.

12 Black and White

A
bdel Samad managed to find a night job as a bouncer at a place on Pyramids Road. His friends who were regulars there had suggested it. He had noted down the address and gone to find it. It was a seedy-looking place right at the end of Pyramids Road. Above the entrance hung a sign bearing the name “Black and White Café,” and a picture of two small dogs, one black and one white, just like the label on bottles of whiskey. The café must have been named after the whiskey, although Abdel Samad discovered later that the café did not serve whiskey. It had not even applied for a liquor license. This was a very particular kind of café, one that made its money in another way, unfamiliar to Abdel Samad. A way he had never imagined existed.

Inside the café, Abdel Samad stood out of the way as he waited to meet the manager who might hire him. He watched the youthful male clientele sitting quite at ease with young women. Some of the guys had their hands inside the tops of the girls sitting with them. To begin with, he thought they must be couples who had come to the place together to be able to canoodle as they pleased. But then he realized that all the girls
worked as hostesses at the café and that the guys came on their own. He vaguely remembered what his friends had told him about their adventures here, but had not paid much attention at the time.

The café only served juices and sodas to the guys, who paid ten or twenty pounds for one. The hostesses, wearing skimpy, revealing clothing, sat with the young men and let them grope them. A girl would take hold of a guy’s hand and place it on her breast or inside her clothing so he could touch her as he wished. Equally, the girls would put their hands between the customers’ legs and feel their cocks, either through their clothing or from the inside. This would continue until the guy’s desire was satisfied—inside the café. It was like a brothel, just one where no one took all their clothes off. If the vice squad or the tourist police should make an entrance, everyone would quickly adjust their clothing, and the police would find nothing more unusual than patrons having drinks around the tables.

This devilish idea perfectly expressed the genius of the Egyptian mind, which can subvert any rule that restricts freedom and get its way despite any obstacle. Abdel Samad was impressed by it. He felt the place was safer than the neighboring nightclubs, which saw lots of fights and arrests—something he was not ready to risk in the run-up to his departure.