The Mirage (33 page)

One day I noticed that she seemed to want to talk about something that was on her mind. My heart began fluttering with anxiety and fear. However, I couldn’t ignore what I saw, and I preferred to meet the danger head-on rather than add something new to the litany of secret worries and obsessive thoughts that were already plaguing me.

“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

Looking anguished and hesitant, she made no reply.

More worried than ever, I said fearfully, “Tell me what it is, and don’t hide anything from me.”

Then with a frustrated sigh she said, “My mother.”

What she’d said struck terror in my heart. What was wrong with this woman, who refused to live and let live? How I detested her at that moment.

However, feigning nonchalance, I said, “What about her, Rabab?”

With her eyes glued to her feet she said softly, “She keeps asking me if there’s something ‘on the way.’ ”

Amazingly, I caught on right away to what she meant by the figure of speech. I understood by instinct, or perhaps by virtue of an unspoken fear.

Even so, I asked, “What do you mean, Rabab?”

Pointing to her stomach she whispered, “She means: is there anything new here!”

Unnerved, I looked down, grieved and not knowing what to say. What was the woman really asking about? Perhaps she wanted to know about other things indirectly.
Be that as it may, I felt unspeakably bitter toward her. I stole a glance over at Rabab and found her looking somber and pensive. Was she really upset about her mother’s question, or did she have some other motive for telling me about it? Had she come to share her mother’s concern and apprehension? And why would she hide behind her mother? Guile didn’t befit someone with her beauty and purity of heart! Besides, there was no need for her to beat around the bush. And thus it was that fear prevented me from appreciating the position that my poor girl found herself in. I was embarrassed to the point of exhaustion. However, I focused my attention on a single aim, namely, determining how much Madame Nazli knew of our secrets.

“What did you say to her?” I inquired.

“I told her the truth,” she said simply.

“The truth!” I cried fearfully, my heart convulsing sharply.

“What’s wrong?” she asked with a bewildered stare.

“Did you really tell her the truth?!” I shouted.

“Yes,” she stammered quickly. “I told her there wasn’t anything new!”

And with that, I heaved a sigh of relief! She’d been referring to a “truth” other than the one I’d had in mind. Yet I was still bothered.

“Rabab,” I said fervently, “is that all she said? Please don’t hide anything from me. You know how much you mean to me!”

I could see the innocence in her eyes as she said uneasily, “What are you wondering about, Kamil? I didn’t tell her a thing more than what I’ve told you. She asked me about the matter, and I had no choice but to answer her honestly. As you know, it’s something it wouldn’t do any good to lie
about. Do you think I was wrong? Or did you want me to pretend to be pregnant?”

Somewhat relieved, I said, “Of course not, sweetheart. You did the right thing by being honest.”

To myself, though, I was thinking: I’ll never know a moment’s rest as long as that woman is near me. O Lord! I’m keeping my worries all to myself, without a single friend or advisor to my name. I’ve had it with her mother, my mother, and myself! Then the old question came back to me: Is the thing we lack really necessary for married life? Does my beloved experience the same sorts of animal desires that drove me to take up my iniquitous habit? Is it conceivable that my pristine, chaste beloved would feel that same sort of untamed lust? The possibility was too abhorrent to imagine!

At last my vacation came to an end and I went back to the warehousing section at the ministry, where the employees gave me a warm welcome back. I didn’t have a single friend among them, but the nature of the occasion—namely, a newlywed husband’s return from his honeymoon—caused them to forget their usual reserve, and they approached me, some of them with congratulations and others with jokes, all of which I received with discomfort and embarrassment. They talked a lot, and one of them warned me against overdoing it. They got so involved in their conversation, in fact, that they forgot all about me. They got on the subject of the nature of man and nature of the woman and started citing examples, incidents, and anecdotes. My heart burdened and my soul in agony, I listened to them
covertly while pretending to examine the typewriter. How I wished one of them would cite a case like mine! However, “a case like mine” hadn’t even occurred to any of them. I listened till I thought my head would burst. Rabab was a woman. So, was what was true of other women—if the things I’d heard from the other employees were accurate—true of her also? Might she be getting bored with me? On the other hand, she seemed content. Never once had I seen her face but that it was aglow with happiness. Never once had she looked at me with anything but love and devotion, and surely her face wouldn’t lie. On the contrary, it was like an open book that couldn’t possibly conceal deceit or wrongdoing. They were lying! They were animals, and they saw other people as animals like themselves. However, I wasn’t fully reassured, and I wasn’t going to be reassured no matter how I tried to convince myself that things were all right. After all, the seed of doubt had been planted now.

When I was alone with my beloved that day, I looked pensively at her for a long time without saying a word.

Laughing, she said, “Do you miss your old habit of looking at me without talking?”

A pleasant gentle breeze wafted over my heart as I thought back to the old days when my heart was aflame, hope was alive, and the possibility of an ordeal like the one I was going through hadn’t so much as occurred to me. I drank in the memory with relish.

“Rabab,” I said apprehensively, “are you happy?”

She looked at me in surprise and said earnestly, “Very happy.”

Then, looking down diffidently I asked, “Do you love me?”

She’d been sitting a handspan away from me, and when
she heard my question, she moved over toward me till we were touching, looked up at me with a blush and murmured, “Yes, I do!”

I put my arm around her waist and kissed her lips and her cheeks. Then I took her lovely, petite hand in mine and began kissing her fingertips one at a time with tenderness and ardor. By what I had said, I’d actually been trying to prepare the way to talk about what I’d been keeping to myself with such grievous consequences. But when I was about to speak, I lost my nerve, and my tongue too. I wanted to tell her what was bothering me and confess to her that the problem I was facing in relation to her was a strange, passing thing that I didn’t understand. I wanted to tell her that I hadn’t been this way, and in fact, still wasn’t this way when I found myself alone, and I wanted to ask her for counsel and help. These were the kinds of things I’d wanted to say. However, my determination gave out on me and I retreated in helplessness, conceding defeat as usual. Then I started justifying my retreat to myself, saying: It might offend her or make her angry for me to reveal such secrets. In fact, it might ruin her happiness forever!

When we went to bed that night, I was tempted to try again, but I hesitated. In fact, I hesitated for so long that fear got the better of me and I gave up on the idea. As much as I loved her, I’d begun to fear her body. As I pondered my life in the silence and darkness of the night, it seemed strange and disjointed, and the thought left me in such anguish that the only outlet I could find was tears. So I had a long cry.

T
hen it occurred to me to consult a doctor. The thought came unexpectedly. In fact, it may have been mere coincidence. I hadn’t considered consulting a doctor before due to my exceeding shyness on one hand, and on the other, my belief that a doctor wouldn’t be able to treat a condition like mine. However, one day as I was on my way to the ministry, my eye fell upon a large sign fixed to a balcony on Qasr al-Aini Street. The words “Dr. Amin Rida, Specialist in Reproductive Disorders, University of Dublin” were written on it in large script. I hadn’t seen the sign before, and suddenly I had the urge to consult a physician. Even so, I didn’t succumb to the idea without hesitation. The thought aroused my shame and fear, which nearly convinced me to change my mind. But this time, my longing for deliverance was more powerful than my shame, and I made up my mind to go that evening.

When I arrived at the clinic, the doctor was busy examining a patient, so I sat down to wait. The waiting room
was empty, which was a tremendous relief to me, though it caused me to think less highly of the doctor. I wasn’t kept waiting long, and a few minutes later I was invited into the examination room, which was impressive and pleasing to the eye: fully equipped, and fitted out with instruments so awesome that my confidence in the doctor was restored. He was sitting directly to the right of the entrance at a large desk covered with books and notebooks. A young man who couldn’t have been more than thirty years old, he was tall and slender with kinky hair, a dark complexion, delicate but distinct features, and intense eyes that gleamed from behind an elegant pair of spectacles. One noticeable thing about him was a bushy, coal-black mustache that covered his mouth and lent him a dignified appearance that caused him to look more mature than his years. I greeted him, and he returned my greeting rather tersely. As he did so, he shot me a questioning glance that struck me as condescending and arrogant. He seemed to possess a self-confidence that bordered on conceit, and I didn’t like him. Overall, his appearance was a disappointment to me, since I’d expected to find a distinguished-looking elderly man with a friendly smile on his face, like a certain doctor my mother had once taken me to many years earlier. Consequently, I felt offended, and wished I hadn’t led myself into this trap.

“Have a seat,” he said calmly.

I complied with his request, eyeing him apprehensively. He began looking at me as though he were waiting for me to speak first. However, my thoughts were scattered and my throat was dry, so I sat there without saying a word.

“Yes?” he said inquiringly.

I mustered the strength to speak, but all I said was, “I’ve come for an examination.”

“What exactly are you suffering from?” he asked, sounding a bit puzzled.

It was only after a prolonged agony that I managed to say, “I’m a married man.…”

Then I stopped. Or, rather, my tongue was tied. However, I found my silence burdensome, and since the doctor’s intense eyes were urging me to speak, I confessed everything. At first the words came out confused and faltering. Then, encouraged by the earnest, staid expression on his face, I started pouring out my story without a break. I felt I’d cast a heavy burden off my shoulders, and as though henceforth, he was the one responsible for my recovery from the malady that had been afflicting me.

“How long have you been married?” he asked me.

“About a month and a half,” I replied.

“And when did you start suffering this condition?”

“From the first night,” I said bitterly.

“Did you suffer this same condition before you married?”

“I hadn’t had any previous experiences with women.”

Then he asked me about “the other.” I hesitated momentarily, then answered him honestly. He asked me about some details, and again, I gave him a frank reply. Nor did I conceal from him the frightening excess to which I’d gone in my secret habit.

“Have you engaged in your habit since marrying?”

I was impressed with him for asking this particular question, which I saw as evidence of a special perceptiveness.

“Yes, I have,” I said.

“So,” he said thoughtfully, “it’s as if your response only changes when you’re with your wife.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling bewildered and sorrowful.

After a long silence, he said, “Now I’m going to ask you
some explicit questions, and I ask you to answer them honestly. Do you love your wife?”

“Very much.”

“Does she have any sort of perversion, or natural frigidity?”