The Mirage (29 page)

Gabr Bey Sayyid was one of those men who only leave home given some urgent necessity. Hence, if he wasn’t at the ministry or on an inspection tour in the countryside, he would be at home with his wife and children. From the first day we met, he struck me as a gracious, likable man. Nor did I fail to notice—despite the fact that I wasn’t the most observant of people—that he was a dutiful, submissive husband and that his wife was the one who ruled the roost. However, this did nothing to undermine his status, and in fact, he may have enjoyed more of his children’s affection than did the mother herself.

Gabr Bey wasn’t without a certain penchant for boasting despite his having passed the half-century mark. This was easily observable if you heard him speaking about his work, his position, and his dealings with peers and subordinates, or making reference to his inspection tours and the things he had observed. He was quite critical of young engineers who had received their educations in England and Germany. He would say that engineering studies were the same in Egypt as they were in Europe and that one could only become well versed in the field through practical experience, which was something young people didn’t understand. During those days he was worried about his position at the ministry. He would complain constantly about the political persecution he was suffering, which, as he saw it, was due to his connection with the former minister of labor, who belonged to the Wafd Party. Once he even went so far as to declare that he was thinking of applying for retirement and getting involved in political activity. However, he didn’t have the chance to expound
on his point of view, since his wife objected with a decisiveness that left no room for discussion. All in all, I was ambivalent in my feelings toward him. On one hand, I felt dwarfed by him given the insignificance of my position in the government and my limited education. On the other hand, I felt proud to be related by marriage to a man of such stature, prestige, and professional expertise.

Unlike her husband, Madame Nazli was rather short of stature and exceedingly plump. She was nearly fifty years old, but she was still quite attractive, a fact that indicated, no doubt, how beautiful she’d been in her youth. And in spite of her obesity, she was in a state of constant motion, so vigilant and tireless was she in caring for her household, her children, and her husband. Once her husband complained to me of her extreme concern—a concern that bordered on obsession and exhaustion—for arranging and cleaning the house and overseeing the servant and the cook. However, his complaint wasn’t without a hint of admiration and approval.

Madame Nazli struck me as being charming and unaffected, and she laughed when she thought back on the days I’d spent peering silently up at the balcony and the window. She compared my shyness to the lack of respect shown by other young men, then commented, “Rabab is lucky to have you, and you’re lucky to have Rabab, since she, also, isn’t like other girls these days.”

And it was true. There was nothing and no one like my sweetheart. She was vivacity, intelligence, and beauty all wrapped into one, and with every passing day I grew more attached to her, more enamored of her, and more filled with admiration for her. How sweet her voice was, how graceful her gestures, and how lovely her seriousness and
poise. And besides all this, she was the epitome of ideal womanhood. She would look at me with devotion, affection, and candor without any need for some feigned levity or studied affectation. I’d never had the chance to be alone with her since our engagement was announced, though I longed badly to do so. I wanted to be able to take in the sight of her radiant face far from others’ watchful eyes. At the same time, it was a bit daunting to think of this hoped-for solitude given the difficulty I was likely to suffer in such a situation when it came to expressing myself, and the resultant awkwardness and distress. Hence, I contented myself with what had been allotted to me within the family circle, where I was happy and safe, satisfied for the time being with the occasional fleeting glance or brief chat, and with the bliss that filled my heart and soul simply from being in her presence. Contrary to what I’d feared, her way of speaking to me was genial and spontaneous, without a trace of the condescension, philosophizing, pretentiousness, or pedantry that one might find in someone with her education.

It was agreed that the wedding would take place during the summer vacation, and they spared no effort in preparing her trousseau. Madame Nazli suggested that they move to a larger flat so that I could live with them. However, I was put off by the proposal, which reminded me of my mother. When I explained that I wouldn’t be able to do so because I couldn’t abandon my mother, Madame Nazli said, “Your mother is a good and thoughtful woman. However, she doesn’t seem to enjoy other people’s company!”

I understood what she meant. As a matter of fact, my mother had only visited my fiancée’s house once since our engagement, and then only under duress.

With no little chagrin I said, “My mother’s gotten used to being alone, and she’s never really enjoyed visits.”

I had told them parts of my life story, leaving gaps when it came to things that weren’t pleasant to remember.

I can’t deny that Madame Nazli’s observation bothered me, since it reminded me of things I was afraid of, and I entreated God earnestly to spare me the evils of discord both then and in the days to come.

Once when I was sitting with my sweetheart and her mother, I got up the courage to mention the days when I’d been keeping my eye out for Rabab without saying a word, and I expressed my amazement that things had come to this happy conclusion, a conclusion I could hardly have dreamed of.

Laughing, my beloved said, “Even so, you’d hardly taken a single step before everything fell into place in the twinkling of an eye!”

Madame Nazli added, “For so long we wondered what this young man wanted! I used to warn Rabab that you might be one of those fellows who stalk girls in the street. At one point we concluded that you must be busy making inquiries about us the way prospective suitors do. Then when you kept on hesitating, I took offense, and I wondered what it was that you hadn’t liked about us.”

Pained and flustered, I said, “Actually, I didn’t do anything at all. I didn’t even know your names until the last minute!”

In terms of money, I had what to me seemed like a veritable fortune, and I showered my beloved with gifts. I sought out my sister Radiya for advice in such matters while keeping them a secret from my mother. She gave me the sincerest of counsel and guided me in discerning what
“duty” required, especially during special seasons like Eid al-Fitr and Eid al-Adha, and thanks to her wise input, I became a model fiancé.

The relationship between my mother and me remained very good, to all appearances, at least, and I took care to include her in the task of making preparations for our new life so that she would appear to be giving it her blessing. So, for example, I assigned her to look for a new flat for us to live in, and her choice fell on a building on Qasr al-Aini Street three tram stops away from my beloved’s house. She neither said nor did anything that would have upset me. However, she seemed like someone who feels helpless and who’s been relegated against her will to life’s periphery. In fact, she withdrew within herself so completely that I was at a loss to know what to do about it. It broke my heart, yet there was nothing in all of existence that could have dammed the stream of happiness that was flooding my being day and night. And if the truth be told, those were the happiest days of my life.

O
ne day after the family had made preparations for the wedding, Madame Nazli said, “Rabab is the first of our children to marry, so her wedding celebration has to be an especially festive one.”

When I heard what she was saying, I was terrified. However, I no longer had any choice but to face the critical issue that I’d avoided for so long out of fear and cowardice.

“Do you really think it’s necessary to celebrate the marriage with a party?” I asked nervously.

She shot me a disapproving look as though she were taken aback by my question.

“Of course!” she said.

“Singing girls, a wedding procession, dancing, and all the rest?” I muttered in dismay.

“It has to be a lavish, unforgettable, evening.”

Gripped with fear, I looked up at her like someone begging for mercy.

“I couldn’t bear to be escorted in some sort of solemn procession in front of a crowd of guests!” I said hopelessly. “It’s more than I could take.”

Looking bewildered and irritated, she said, “I don’t understand a thing! Are you really that shy?”

With the fervor of someone defending his very life, I said imploringly, “I can’t, I can’t! Believe me, Madame, I’d rather die than have to walk in a public procession surrounded by guests and singing girls!”

“This is incredible,” she said. “You’ll be the first man who’s ever wanted to run away from his own wedding!”

“Maybe,” I said sorrowfully, my forehead and cheeks burning with humiliation. “But there’s nothing that can be done about it. I beg you in God’s name to have mercy on me!”

“So what are we supposed to do?” she asked reproachfully.

“We can write up the contract with just family members present,” I said earnestly. “And then I take the bride home with me!”

“How could you call that a wedding celebration?”

If the issue had had to do with something other than my timidity, I would have given in without a fight. After all, I’m quick to go along with other people’s wishes no matter what kind of sacrifice is involved—unless, that is, I’m defending my very life, in which case I turn into someone who’ll fight to the death. Drawing strength from my fear and despair, I begged, I pleaded, and I insisted until, shaking her head in amazement, the woman gave up trying to convince me. Given the fact that up to that point I’d been the proverbially generous suitor, I had no reason to fear that they’d think I was trying to avoid the expenses
involved in a wedding party. However, Gabr Bey Sayyid informed me after this that he’d decided to invite a group of his closest friends and that he was going to host a sumptuous dinner banquet for everyone. Not long after this he told me that a friend of his was an amateur singer and musician who’d volunteered to provide entertainment that evening for the limited circle he was planning to invite.

As if to make the news easier on me, he said, “This way a senior employee will be providing the entertainment for your wedding!”

“I really, truly regret that I can’t comply with your wishes to put on a huge, impressive wedding party,” I said dismally, “but I just couldn’t bear to be part of a public procession.”

Shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, he said with a smile, “I don’t like to upset you, so have it your way.”

The bride’s trousseau was taken to the new flat, a special room was prepared for my mother, and we moved from Manyal to our new abode a week before the wedding day. The bridal suite, preparation of which was overseen personally by my sister Radiya, left me speechless. I began making the rounds of the rooms in a state of blissful delight. When I came to the bedroom, I went in after some hesitation, and then only with the greatest circumspection and awe. What a sight! It was enough to take one’s breath away! I began looking all around me, half awake and half dreaming: A bed that looked as though it were made of gold, silk covers the color of pink roses, and a polished, sparkling mirror. The furniture seemed to pulsate with life, its beautiful colors reminiscent of blushing cheeks and glistening eyes, and its drawn curtains emanated soft, melodic whispers that made one’s heart race.

On the morning of the solemn day I wondered to myself: When will I take my bride home with me, leaving all the people and hubbub behind? If only tradition dictated that the man wait for his bride at home, without having to go through all this agony! It looked as though it was going to be a trying day, the sort of day people like me weren’t cut out for, and not for a moment was I free of a sense of fear and dread. The first half of the day was spent getting me ready, and my brother Medhat took me to a famed barber who sent me away looking fit to kill.

When my sister saw me she said mischievously, “You’re better looking than your bride! Don’t you think so, Mama?”

My mother began to say something, then sealed her lips without uttering a word, and I kept wondering what it was she’d been planning to say. I put on the black tuxedo in spite of the hot weather. Then shortly before mid-afternoon I went to the bride’s house accompanied by my mother, my brother, my sister and her husband, my uncle and some of his daughters, as well as my maternal aunt and her family. As we approached the entrance to the building I saw that the ground had been spread with bright-colored sand and that large light bulbs were hanging from brightly colored poles. Filled with distress, I said to myself: This isn’t what we’d agreed on! When we went up the stairs I insisted on walking in the rear with my arm in Medhat’s. No sooner had the first of us stepped into the flat than we were received with a storm of shrill ululations. I squeezed my brother’s arm, wishing I could disappear.
But where could I go? I lowered my eyes and walked—or, rather, was dragged by Medhat—to the reception room without seeing a single thing around me, though I could sense with my ears and nose that the house was packed with well-wishers.