Zaynab would settle down in the life for which she was destined the way his father’s wife had. Then he would embark on a series of daring escapades like his father's. He would come home at the end of the night to a calm house and a compliant wife. In that manner and that alone, marriage appeared bearable. Indeed, it would be desirable, with qualities he would otherwise miss out on.
'What more does any woman want than a home of her own and sexual gratification? Nothing! Women are just another kind of domestic animal, and must be treated like one. Yes, other pets are not allowed to intrude into our private lives. They stay home until we're free to play with them. For me, being a husband who is faithful to his marriage would be death. One sight, one sound, one taste incessantly repeated and repeated until there’s no difference between motion and inertia. Sound and silence become twins… No, certainly not, that’s not why I got married… If she’s said to have a fair complexion, then does that mean I have no desires for a brown-skinned woman or a black? If she’s said to be pleasingly plump, what consolation will I have for skinny women or huge ones? If she’s refined, from a noble and distinguished family, should I neglect the good qualities of girls whose fathers push carts around in the streets?… Forward… forward'.
51
Al-Sayyid Ahmad was bent over his ledgers when he heard a pair of high-heeled shoes tapping across the threshold of the store. He naturally raised his eyes with interest and saw a woman whose hefty body was enveloped in a wrap. A white forehead and eyes decorated with kohl could be seen above her veil. He smiled to welcome a person for whom he had been waiting a long time, for he had immediately recognized Maryam’s mother, or the widow of the late Mr. Ridwan, as she had recently become known. Jamil al-Hamzawi was busy with some customers, and so the proprietor invited her to sit near his desk. The woman strutted toward him. As she sat down on the small chair her flesh flowed over the sides. She wished him a good morning.
Although her greeting and his welcome followed the customary pattern repeated whenever a woman customer worth honoring came into the store, the atmosphere in the corner near the desk was charged with electricity that was anything but innocent. Among its manifestations were the modest lowering of her eyelids, visible on either side of the bridge connecting her veil to her scarf, and the glance of his eyes, which were lying in wait above his huge nose. The electricity was hidden and silent but needed only a touch to make it shine, glow, and burst into flame.
He seemed to have been expecting this visit, which was an answer to whispered hopes and suppressed dreams. The death of Mr. Muhammad Ridwan had made him anticipate it, arousing his desires the way the death of winter excites youthful hopes in creatures. With his neighbor’s passing, al-Sayyid Ahmad’s chivalrous scruples had vanished. He reminded himself that the deceased man had merely been a neighbor, never a friend, and that he was now dead. Today he could recognize the woman’s beauty, which he had previously tried to ignore to help preserve his honor. He could express this recognition and allow it a measure of enjoyment and life.
His affection for Zubayda was starting to go bad, like a fruit at the end of its season. In contrast to the last time, now the woman found him an uninhibited male and uncommitted lover. The unwelcome idea that this might be an innocent visit crossed his mind, only to be banished on the evidence of the tender and exquisitely provocative hints she had let drop at their last encounter. The fact that she was making an unnecessary call on him proved that his doubts were unfounded. An old hand at this game, he finally decided to try his luck. Smiling, he told her tenderly, 'What a fine idea!'
Somewhat uneasily she replied, 'May God honor you. I was just returning home when I passed by the store and it occurred to me to do my shopping for the month myself'.
He considered her excuse but refused to believe it. That it had seemed a good idea to do her shopping for the month was not convincing. There had to be some other motive, especially since she would know instinctively that a second visit after the overtures of the past one would be apt to excite his suspicions and inevitably appear provocative. Her haste to apologize also increased his confidence. He commented, 'It’s an excellent opportunity for me to greet and serve you'.
She thanked him briefly, but he did not give her his full attention. He was busy thinking about what to say next. Perhaps he ought to mention her late husband and ask God’s mercy on him, but he abstained for fear it would destroy the mood. Then he wondered whether he should go on the offensive or encourage her advances? Either method had its pleasures, but he could not forget that for her to come alone to see him was a giant step on her part that deserved a warm reception from him. He added to his previous greeting: 'Indeed it’s an excellent opportunity to see you'.
Her eyelids and eyebrows moved in a way that revealed modesty or discomfort, or both at once, but most of all that she understood the hidden meanings behind his flattery. Yet he viewed her embarrassment more as a reaction to her own feelings, which had moved her to visit him, than to his statement. He felt certain his hunch was correct and proceeded to repeat his words tenderly: 'Yes, an excellent opportunity to see you'.
At that, she replied in a tone with a bite of concealed criticism, 'I doubt that you consider seeing me an 'excellent opportunity.''
Her criticism pleased and delighted him, but he protested, 'Whoever said that some forms of doubt are sinful was right'.
She shook her head to tell him that such talk proved nothing. Then she said, 'It’s not merely a doubt. I'm certain of it. You're a man who doesn't lack understanding. Even if you suspect otherwise, I'm that way too… So it wouldn't be right for either of us to try to deceive the other'.
He felt scornful and bitter that a woman would say such things only two months after the death of her husband but thought up an excuse for her, something he would not have considered doing in other circumstances, and told himself, 'Her patience during his long illness has to be considered on her behalf'. Spurning this uninvited feeling, he told her with feigned regret, 'You're angry with me?… That’s an evil fate I don't deserve'.
She said somewhat impetuously, perhaps because the restrictions of time and place did not allow much playful repartee, 'I told myself when I was on the way here, 'You shouldn't go.' So now I have only myself to blame'.
'Why so angry, lady? I ask myself what crime I've committed'.
She asked provocatively, 'What would you do if you greeted someone and he didn't return your greeting?'
He realized immediately that she was referring to her display of affection on her previous visit, which he had met with silence, but he pretended not to understand the reference. Imitating her allusive style, he said, 'Perhaps he wasn't able to hear the greeting for one reason or another'.
'His hearing’s excellent and so are his other senses'.
His mouth opened in an uncontrollable and self-satisfied smile. Like a sinner starting to confess, he said, 'Perhaps he was too bashful or pious to return the greeting'.
With a candor that pleased and stirred him, she replied, 'As for bashfulness, he’s not at all bashful, and how could a serious person accept the remainder of the excuse?'
A laugh escaped from him, but he cut it short and glanced at Jamil al-Hamzawi, who seemed engrossed in the business of assisting some customers. Then al-Sayyid Ahmad said, 'I would prefer not to rehash the complications troubling me at the time. All the same, I shan't despair so long as regret, repentance, and forgiveness remain'.
She asked skeptically, 'Who says there’s regret?'
In an ardent tone that he had perfected over the years, he replied, 'With God as my witness, I have been consumed by regret'.
'And repentance?'
Boring deep into her with a flaming look, he said, 'The greeting is returned ten times over'.
She asked flirtatiously, 'How do you know there’s forgiveness?'
He answered suavely, 'Isn't forgiveness one of the qualities of noble people?' Then he continued with delirious intoxication: 'Forgiveness is frequently the secret word granting entry into paradise'. Gazing at the sweet smile he detected in her eyes, he concluded, 'The paradise I refer to is located at the intersection of Palace Walk and al-Nahhasin. Fortunately, the door opens onto a side alley far from prying eyes and there’s no watchman'.
