I Sweep the Sun Off Rooftops (17 page)

She flew in pursuit of the narrow, snaking streets, and understood from this height why someone had thought of building the city in this way: not to delight the eye, but deliberately to conceal its maze of streets, which belonged to the veiled women of the past, enabling them to stride from one doorstep to another and disappear through ordinary doors into big, roomy houses, while men stole glances at them from shop doorways.

Tears welled up in Samr’s eyes again and she had to
remind herself sternly that it was only a couple of days before she went back home. She would soon be living a normal life and this visit would become a memory. But how could she leave it all and go back to Europe? She knew she was letting her imagination run away with her: it would be impossible to live in this
city.
But she couldn’t tear herself away from it and was oblivious to the mounting impatience of Mustafa and his friend, who had ceased to respect her silence and begun chatting again, taking no notice of her vague, distracted air.

She didn’t move an inch until Mustafa raised his voice to remind her that he was still there, but she refused to feel embarrassed, or leave just because they wanted her to. She knew she’d regret it if she did: in the past she had agreed to let go of feelings that she had then never experienced again. Rather than agreeing to go, she suggested that Mustafa could leave her there if he was busy and pick her up later. She asked his friend if she could stay and he had no alternative but to nod his head, telling Mustafa with a glance toward her shopping that he would walk her back to her hotel. To her surprise, Mustafa agreed instantly, which made her think that her splendor must have faded in his eyes, then she told herself that he had a life too.

Immediately after Mustafa left, she managed to disengage herself from the city’s embrace as if she were leaving a child safe in bed.

She went down the stairs with Jalal into a small room with unremarkable mosaic tiles and a whitewashed floor, then ducked after him through a small window set in the wall. She suddenly wondered for a moment if she should be on her guard. She didn’t know this man and having to bend and twist her body to go after him made her uneasy, but when she stood up on the other side she drew in her breath in amazement.

Her life outside ceased to be real. Reality was here. The rose-colored stained-glass shapes in the ceiling cast a pink mist over the tall pillars in the center of the vast room, the geometrical patterns and the enameled friezes on the walls, the chandeliers, and the glass vessels displayed in wooden latticework cabinets. Samr sat down on a lone chair to absorb what was in front of her. The silence all around her enveloped her suddenly. The room was like a holy book that had never been opened. The small stained-glass shapes on the ceiling preserved the light of the past. Samr closed her eyes. Nothing disturbed the silence except the echoing of Jalal’s footsteps, which were soon absorbed, leaving only the rosy mist—the remains of the sunlight of past days, which had stolen through the stained glass and preferred to linger in this calm.

She wanted to live here forever and pictured herself as a woman from another age, emerging from her bath and beginning to prepare for the late afternoon, for sunset, for
the evening, in an era when each hour of the day was precious and had its own ceremonies. At some point time had come to a halt in this room and she partook of its stillness, gazing at the mosaic in a trance. Then she shifted in her chair, wishing vaguely that she had a glass of mint tea, and holding the amber perfume on her wrist up to her mouth and nose.

But the dry, unemotional behavior of Mustafa’s friend was spoiling the serenity of these moments, which were also dense with ambiguous feelings. He moved between a table in the corner, where he had spread out his blueprints, and another where he had put a thermos, a teapot and a bunch of mint. She tried to ignore his movements so that the place would remain outside space and time, and did not understand why his presence was becoming so intrusive. She wanted to be on good terms with him so that there was nothing to disrupt her sense of harmony. She asked him suddenly if she would be able to rent a house like the one they were in.

“Why?”

“So I could come here for a few months in the year.”

“Why?”

She felt embarrassed because she didn’t know the answer, but she could see herself reclining on a sofa in these spacious surroundings. She answered in a low voice, as if
she didn’t want him to hear her properly: “So that I can live with this beauty around me!”

“Is your man going to come with you?”

I don’t know, she thought. But she said, “My husband? I don’t think so.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. What price do you want to pay? What kind of house do you have in mind? With or without a
gharsa
?”

“Ghana?”

“Jardin.”

“A house with a garden.”

“We can go and have a look. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

Samr fidgeted uneasily, regretting that she had become so quickly embroiled, but this regret was soon buried under a surge of confidence. He began to show an interest in her for the first time, asking her if she liked the city, what job she did in Europe, what country she came from, whether Mustafa had taken her to this or that place, and he promised to bring her henna from his mother—genuine henna that his mother prepared herself—and said she must visit their house, because she’d like it, especially the garden. Then he began rolling a cigarette, assuring her that it was an ordinary one, but if she wanted to smoke hash … Samr laughed, and shook her head. He took a few drags on the cigarette, then let it dangle from his lips and started
beating his chest as if he were playing a drum, varying the rhythm by switching between the flat of his hand and his fist, and humming and whistling in time to the beat. Samr was afraid of the way she had started to feel—like a tender plant, its stem bending as it searched for water and sunshine—and she forced herself to stand up.

He looked at his watch and asked her if she wanted to go. Then he added hesitantly, “We can talk for a bit first if you like.”

But she started to move with slow, heavy steps. As he bent down to pick up the shopping, she thought he brushed her skirt with his hand. Then he did it again, and she was sure. He straightened up and stood facing her and leaned forward to kiss her. She didn’t move away or resist. He put a hand on her breast. Again she didn’t resist, but returned his kiss with passion. She opened her eyes and saw the mosaic walls, then closed them again, soaring through the darkness until her lips and his, and the light and color around her, and even the image of her husband and the group of young men all became part of a single sensation.

She was roused from her stupor each time he led her into a different movement. At first she would be nervous, then grow accustomed to it, and the rosy glow would return and she would close her eyes again and fly off into the dark.

She didn’t look at him when he got up, saying he would make some tea. Instead she thought about her husband. She
pictured him sitting with Mustafa and the rest of the group, chatting around the pool in the evenings, with his maps and the additional information about the city spread out all around him. She stirred restlessly and tried to calm herself by smoothing out the creases in her long skirt. Then she forgot about her husband as she watched Jalal pouring the tea, and he was like the finishing touch to the awe-inspiring surroundings.

She wondered desperately whether she would have the chance to see him alone again before she left, or whether she should stay on a few days after her husband, or come back in a month’s time.

He handed her the tea. She took the glass from him in complete silence, but smiled broadly at him and he returned the smile.

She thought about Mustafa and was on the point of begging him not to tell Mustafa and the rest of the group. This was not only in case her husband should hear about it, but for their sakes too. She didn’t want them to have a confused image of her. It was as if she wanted to protect them. He looked at his watch. She looked at hers, and said without conviction, “I ought to be getting back to the hotel.”

He jumped to his feet as if he had been waiting for her to say this, and took the glass of tea from her, although she hadn’t touched it.

He must be on edge, she thought. Afraid of Mustafa. And of my husband.

She hoped he would say something to her. She braced herself, but he was preoccupied with the keys.

She went in front of him downstairs and he took hold of her hand. This reassured her in a way, although she noticed she was no longer as desperate for his touch as she had been when she was sitting staring at him smoking and playing the drums on his chest. The moment they stepped outside, the mosaic walls and rosy mist disappeared and were replaced by the roar of the street. She stood a few paces away from him while he locked the door. She was back in the noise and chaos. She saw people rushing, dawdling, calling to one another, walking along in silence. She had come back to life again. She read a flashing neon sign, and noticed a man looking at her.

Jalal turned the key a couple of times in the lock, then bolted the door, and she caught herself staring at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. She tried with difficulty to connect this image of him with the man who had been inside the house with her. It was like trying to unite fire and water. The man standing in front of her had different eyes, a different physique, even a different voice, and she couldn’t believe that she had been lying with him a short time before. She found herself looking up at the windows
in case a different man was looking down at her, his hand raised in a farewell salute. Perhaps he was waiting for her now, while the youth in front of her was opening the gate for her to leave. When she turned back to him she half expected to find that he had been a figment of her imagination.

The crowds in the street made her apprehensive: she was afraid she might see Mustafa and the others, and her husband, and then wished she could see them. She wanted to disappear as she and Jalal made for the hotel, and was relieved that he wasn’t holding her hand. She felt as if she had weights attached to her feet, and summoned up the courage to tell him that she would write to him in a few months to let him know when she wanted to rent a house. He nodded agreeably and her anxiety grew: she had only said this to prompt him to leave. It wasn’t going to be easy to get rid of him. How could she explain to him that he had provided the finishing touch to the place, but she was never going to see him again? He was behaving awkwardly himself. Was he waiting for a chance to continue the relationship begun in the paradise house?

As they approached the bright lights of the hotel, she grew more fearful and he grew more embarrassed. When the hotel was clearly visible he stopped. She stopped beside him, the answers and excuses almost bursting out from between
her lips. But she was aware of him speaking to her in French for the first time: “Help me. I don’t have the money to go to university. There’s no money in this job.”

Samr was so completely taken aback that she couldn’t move, and was forced to remain looking into his eyes. It was as if a heavy bird had suddenly landed on her head and was constricting her neck movements, but she managed to hear him repeating in French: “Will you help me?”

Don’t use the jug
with a long spout to do your ablutions I Don’t wash your face with scented soap I Don’t admire the moon I Don’t bleach your sheets! You mustn’t raise your voice above a whisper, especially when there’s a man present, even if he’s in the next room! If you want to clear your throat or sigh, shut yourself in the bathroom! Don’t forget, three months and ten days, or preferably four months, you stay in the house, day and night. Even if you’re
unwell, don’t go out. But if you get worse, call me and I’ll go with you. Keep away from your flashy friends. Don’t eat nice food! Don’t smell flowers!

Shadia sat in her black clothes between two rows of women, some wailing, some silent, wishing she could be left alone for one moment. Her pale, haggard face picked up all the glances and unspoken words around her. The wailing women were relations of her husband, who had died following a car accident, and the silent ones were her relations and acquaintances of her family.

She wished she was still with him in the hospital. Although he had finally slipped through her fingers, those days had been beautiful compared with what she was going through now. She had him to herself in that room. For hours in the daytime and during the night she sat with him, watching him, unable to believe that their dialogue had become limited to the brief moment when he would move slightly and she would rise from where she had been sitting at his feet, massaging them, and touch his face. Then he would signal to her with his eyes, his forehead, his nose—it was hard to know which—and she would rest her cheek against his and feel the dampness of the saliva that trickled from the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he wanted to kiss her. He muttered words she didn’t understand, then focused his eyes on her as if he were giving her all he possessed.
Sometimes he showed her the tip of his tongue and she dropped a kiss on his mouth and brought her hair close to him. putting a lock of it in his palm and closing his fingers around it. rejoicing when she felt him pressing on it. She spent hours like this, motionless at his side, looking at the veins on his hand, at his fingers clutching her black hair. To her disappointment, he would always drift back into a deep sleep. But after a while she was thankful he slept—perhaps it would rest him and make him better. She would sit without moving until one of the nurses came in, and Shadia would be glad of her company. All the nurses admired her boldness and devotion.