'No more and no less?'
'No more and no less'.
'Not one more than another?'
'Not more of one thing than another'.
'Perhaps that’s what they call illicit sex'.
'One and the same thing'.
A laugh escaped from her. She said, 'You've got a deal… wait in the coffee shop of al-Sayyid Ali, where you've spent all these evenings. When I open the window, come to the house'.
He waited evening after evening after evening. One evening she went in the cart with the troupe. Another evening she went in a carriage with the chanteuse. Still another evening there was no sign of life in the house. Here he was waiting. His head was worn out from looking up at her window for so long. It was past midnight, the shops were closed, the road was deserted, and al-Ghuriya was enveloped in darkness. He found, as he often did, that the darkness and emptiness of the street acted as a strange stimulus for the desire latent in his body. He became more and more agitated.
Yet everything has an end, even waiting that seems endless. He made out a rattling noise coming from the direction of the window, which was lost in the darkness. This breathed a spirit of new hope into his senses just as the drone of an airplane inspires a person lost at the North Pole with hope that people are arriving to search for him in the snow. Light could be seen coming from the opening of the window. Then the musician’s silhouette was visible at the center of the opening.
He got up at once and left the coffee shop to cross the street to the performer’s house. He pushed against the door without knocking. It swung open as though it had been left unlatched on purpose. He made his way inside, where it was too dark for him to find the staircase. He stayed put in order not to bump into something or trip. A question that made him a little nervous leapt into his head. Did the performer know that Zanuba had invited him? Did she allow the girl to meet her lovers in this house? But he dismissed the thought disdainfully. No obstacle was going to make him abandon this adventure. In any case, there was no need to worry about the consequences of a lover’s being caught in a house that depended for its very existence on lovers.
He cut short these reflections when he saw a pale light coming from upstairs. Then he noticed it slowly advancing down the walls. He could make out that he was an arm’s length from the bottom step of the staircase. It was not long before he saw Zanuba approaching with a lamp in her hand. He went to her, drunk with desire. He pressed her forearm affectionately with gratitude and lust. She laughed softly. Despite the softness of her laugh, it showed she was not trying to be cautious. She asked mischievously, 'Did you have to wait long?'
He touched the hair at his temples and complained, 'My hair turned gray while I waited, may God forgive you'. Then he whispered, 'Is the lady here?'
She jestingly imitated his whisper: 'Yes… she’s alone with a fantastic man'.
'Won't she be angry if she learns I've come at this hour?'
She turned around, shrugging her shoulders in disdain. She started up the stairs saying, 'Is there a more appropriate hour for a lover like you to come?'
'So she won't see anything wrong with our meeting in her house?'
With a dancing motion of her head, she replied, 'Perhaps she would think it very wrong if we didn't meet'.
'Long live the lady!'
She resumed speaking, proudly this time, 'I'm not just her lute player. I'm her sister’s daughter. She’s not stingy with me… You can enter in peace'.
When they reached the foyer upstairs they could hear some delightful singing accompanied by lute and tambourine. Yasin listened a little and then asked, 'Are they alone or is it a party?'
She whispered in his ear, 'Alone and a party both. The sultana’s lover is a good-humored man who loves music. He wouldn't bear for even an hour of his soiree to pass without lute, tambourine, wine, laughter… and you know what else'.
She turned to open a door and entered, setting the lamp on a table bracketed to the wall. She stood in front of the mirror to examine her reflection carefully. Yasin forgot about Zubayda and her musical lover. He riveted his greedy eyes on Zanuba’s desirable body, which he was seeing for the first time stripped of the wrap. He fixed his eyes on her with force and concentration and moved them deliberately and delightedly from top to bottom and from bottom to top. Before he could act on any of the tens of wishes racing through his breast, Zanuba remarked, as though continuing the same conversation, 'He’s a man with no equal in his graciousness or sensitivity to music. As for his generosity, we could talk about that from today till tomorrow… that’s what lovers should be like… otherwise…'
He did not miss the implications of her reference to the generosity of the performer’s lover. He had accepted from the start that his new romance would cost him dearly, but her reference to it seemed in poor taste and offended him. Motivated by an instinct of self-defense, he found himself forced to say, 'Perhaps he’s a rich man'.
Responding to his maneuver, she said, 'Wealth is one thing, generosity is another. Many a wealthy man is stingy'.
He inquired, not because he wanted to know but merely to avoid silence, which he was afraid would seem to express disapproval, 'Who do you suppose this generous man is?'
Turning the knob to raise the wick on the lamp, she answered, 'He’s from our district. You must have heard of him… al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad'.
'Who!'
She turned toward him in astonishment to see what had frightened him. She found him in a rigid pose with his eyes bulging out. She asked him disapprovingly, 'What’s the matter with you?'
The name she had spoken had come upon him like a hammer falling violently on top of his head. The question had escaped from him unintentionally in a scream of alarm. For some moments he was bewildered and oblivious to his surroundings. When he saw Zanuba’s face again and its expression of astonishment and disapproval, he was afraid he would give himself away. He exerted his willpower to defend himself. To conceal his alarm, he resorted to some playacting. He clapped his hands together, as though he could not believe what had been said about the man, because he thought he was so respectable. He muttered incredulously, 'Al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad!.. With a store in al-Nahhasin?
She gave him a bitterly critical look for alarming her for no reason. She asked him scornfully, 'Yes, him… So what made you cry out for help like a virgin being deflowered?'
He laughed in a perfunctory way. Praising God secretly that he had not told her his full name the day they met, he replied with mock astonishment, 'Who would believe this of such a pious, respectable man?'
She looked at him with skepticism before asking him sarcastically, 'Is this what really alarmed you?… Nothing but that? Did you think he was a sinless saint?… What’s wrong with his doing this? Can a man attain perfection without having an affair?'
He said apologetically, 'You're right… there’s nothing in this world worth being astonished at'. He laughed nervously and continued: 'Imagine this dignified gentleman flirting with the sultana, drinking wine, and swaying to the music…'
In her same sarcastic tone she said, as though to continue his statement, 'And playing the tambourine better than a professional like Ayusha and telling one gem of a joke after another until everyone with him is dying of laughter. It’s not surprising, given all of this, that in his store he’s seen to be a fine example of sobriety and earnestness. You should be serious about serious things and playful when you play. There’s an hour for your Lord and an hour for your heart'.
He plays the tambourine better than a professional like Ayusha… He tells jokes that make his companions die from laughter… Who could this man be? His father?… Al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad? That stern, tyrannical, terrifying, God-fearing, reserved man who kills everyone around him with fright?
How could he believe what his ears had heard? How, how?… There must be some confusion between two men with similar names. There could be no relationship between his father and this tambourine-playing lover. But Zanuba had agreed he owned a store in al-Nahhasin. There was only one store in al-Nahhasin that bore this name and it was his father's. Lord, was what he had heard true or was he raving? He wanted dearly to learn the truth for himself, to see it with his own eyes. That desire gained control of him. This investigation appeared to him the most
