certain that he was being driven by an overpowering force that he couldn’t resist. He headed directly for the corner and opened the closet and with both hands pulled out the old blue suitcase. He found it to be heavier than he had expected, so he paused for a moment to catch his breath, then pulled it again and placed it under the light. He bent down and began to undo the straps surrounding it. As soon as he opened it, his nostrils were filled with the overpowering smell of mothballs. He felt nauseated for about a minute, then he got a hold of himself and began to take out the contents of the suitcase: there were the clothes he had brought with him from Egypt, thirty years ago. He thought at the time they were elegant but discovered immediately that they were not suitable for America; wearing them he looked as if he had come from another planet or as if he were a character who had stepped out of a period play. He’d bought American clothes but he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of his Egyptian clothes. He packed them into this suitcase and hid them in the basement, as if he knew that one day he’d go back to them. He emptied the suitcase on the floor in front of him: elevator black patent leather shoes with pointed tips in the style of the 1960s, a gray English woolen suit that he used to wear at Qasr al-Aini hospital, a number of narrow neckties of the same time period. These were the clothes he was wearing the last time he met Zeinab: the white shirt with red pinstripes, the dark blue pants, and the black leather jacket he bought with her at the La Boursa Nova store on Suleiman Pasha Street in Cairo. Oh, God, why was he remembering everything so clearly? He extended his hand and felt the clothes. He was overcome by an overpowering, burning desire that made him pant and sweat profusely. He tried to resist that desire, but it swept over him like a hurricane. He stood where he was, took off his house robe then his pajamas, and stood in the middle of the basement in his underwear. It occurred to him that he had actually gone crazy. What was he doing? It was madness itself. Couldn’t he control that perverse desire? What would Chris say if she opened the door and saw him?
He said to himself: let her say what she wants to. There’s nothing for me to fear anymore. She’ll say I’ve gone crazy? So be it. Even if what I am doing is crazy, I’ll do it. It is time for me to do all I want to do. He began to put on his old clothes, one piece at a time. His body had filled out and they no longer fit him. He couldn’t fasten the belt on his belly; the shirt stuck to his body in a way that almost hurt. As for the jacket, he was able to insert his arms into the sleeves with difficulty but he couldn’t move them. Despite the strangeness of the situation a comfortable feeling came over him. He was filled with wonderful serenity and felt contained in dark, moist security, as if he were once again at his mother’s bosom. He looked at his reflection in the mirror in the corner of the basement and burst out laughing. He remembered the concave mirrors before which he had played in amusement parks as a child. Then a thought occurred to him and he went back quickly to the open suitcase, whose innards had spilled on the floor. He was moving with difficulty, limping as if his feet were injured due to the tight clothes. He squatted before the suitcase and reached for the inner pocket, and then he found it, exactly where he expected to, exactly as he had put it there thirty years ago. He brought it slowly out into the light — a broad green address book that he used to carry in his medical bag and which Zeinab often made fun of because of its large size. She would shout in childlike mirth, “This, dear, is not an address book. It is the Cairo telephone directory. When I have the time, I’ll explain to you the difference.”
He smiled when he remembered and opened the book gently. The pages had yellowed and the letters were slightly faded with age, but the names and numbers were still clear.
* * *
I stood dazzled, watching what was happening outside the closed window, wearing my robe on my naked body. The central heating was so high I felt hot. There were ice drops accumulating like beads of sweat on the window glass on the inside as a result of the difference between the cold outside and the warmth inside. I sipped my drink slowly and put my arms around Wendy, who was naked. We had just finished a spell of fantastic lovemaking that, together with the heat and the wine, made her face even more like a rose in full bloom. She whispered in my ear, “Do you like to watch the snow?”
“It’s fantastic.”
“Unfortunately it no longer excites me because I’ve seen it since I was a child.”
After a short while, Wendy prepared dinner. She turned off the lights then lit two candles in a candelabra she had brought with her. We began to eat in an enchanting atmosphere.
“This is Jewish chicken soup. Do you like it?” she said. “It’s delicious.” She looked at me, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. Her beautiful face changed expression sometimes in a mysterious way: it would cloud over and its muscles would contract, as if she had remembered something that gave her pain, as if she had inherited an ancient sorrow that remained hidden inside her then appeared suddenly, crossing her face then disappearing.
“Nagi, you’re an exceptional event in my life. I expected our relationship to be casual, just having a good time. I never imagined loving you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re an Arab.”
“What’s the problem there?”
“You’re the only Arab who doesn’t dream of exterminating the Jews,” she said, laughing. “That’s not true. The Arabs hate Israel not because it is a state for the Jews but because it stole Palestine and committed dozens of massacres against the Palestinians. If the Israelis were Hindus or Buddhists, it wouldn’t have changed anything for us. Our conflict with Israel is political and not religious.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Read the history. Jews lived under Arab rule for many centuries without problems or persecution. They even enjoyed the trust of the Arabs, as evidenced by the fact that, for a period of a thousand years, an Arab sultan’s personal physician was most likely to be a Jew. In the midst of the endless conspiracies and schemes surrounding the throne, the sultan trusted his Jewish private physician perhaps more than he did his wife and children. In Muslim Spain, Jews lived as citizens with full rights, and when Andalusia fell into the hands of the Christian Spaniards, they persecuted both Muslims and Jews. They gave them the choice between Christianity and death. Then they went as far as coming up with the Inquisition for the first time in history, to get rid of Jews and Muslims who had recently converted to Christianity. The priests would ask them theological questions, and when they failed to answer, they gave them the choice between being burned or drowned.”
Wendy closed her eyes in pain, so I said in an attempt to reintroduce some gaiety, “And thus, my dear, your ancestors and mine were persecuted together. It is quite possible that you and I are the descendants of a Muslim man and a Jewish woman who fell in love with each other in Andalusia.”
“You have a very fertile imagination.”
“It is the truth. I feel I have known you in another life, otherwise how would you explain our mutual attraction from the first moment?”
I bent over and kissed her hands, then a thought occurred to me. I got up quickly and looked for the Andalusian song tape until I found it. Before long Fairouz’s voice was all over the place. “Return, O thousand nights, the mist of perfume/Love slakes its thirst on the dew of dawn.” I said, “This is Andalusian music.”
“I don’t understand the words but the music speaks to my heart.”
I started translating for her as much as I could of the meaning. Everything around me was captivating: the snow, the warmth, the love, the candles, the wine, and the music, and my beloved Wendy. I was so transported with happiness I got up, held Wendy by her shoulders, and pulled her gently. I stood her in the middle of the room and said as I returned to my place, “This bed on which I am sitting is the throne of Andalusia. I am the prince. I am now sitting to run the affairs of the principality. When I clap once, you start dancing. You are the most talented and most beautiful dancer in Andalusia, therefore the prince has chosen you to dance for him alone.”
Wendy let out a shout of joy and stood ready with a mirthful expression on her face, as if she were a child yearning to start playing. Fairouz was singing to a dancing tune:
