“Give me a chance. Let me be natural and I’ll do it.” He glanced at her uneasily. She whispered as she pushed him to stand behind the camera, “Go on, please.”
He dragged his feet like an unruly student kicked out by the teacher. Carol closed her eyes and began to recall her intimate moments with Graham, that burning pleasure that engulfed her when she was with him. Little by little she forgot her surroundings and got totally absorbed in the wonderful feeling that she was reliving. When she realized, somewhat vaguely and from a distance, that the lighting was getting more intense in front of her closed eyes, she ignored it and continued in her reverie until she came to as Fernando exclaimed while putting his hand on her bare shoulder, “Brava. A wonderful shot.”
Shooting took several sessions. Carol used the same method to arouse herself. The commercial was a great success. A few days later, Fernando invited her to dinner, and after two glasses of red wine added to the ever- present effect of marijuana, he started humming the old song “Oh, Carol,” then he said to her as his eyes gleamed with enthusiasm, “Where’ve you been all this time?”
“It’s all thanks to your talent.”
Fernando looked at her for a little while, as if reluctant to speak. Then he said with a childlike spontaneity that she liked, “The owner of the company would like to meet you.”
“Really?”
“Your guardian angel is working with extraordinary efficiency. This meeting might change your life. It’s Henry Davis, owner of Double X, one of the wealthiest people in America. Do you know that I’ve never met him? I’ve asked to meet him more than once, but they’ve always had all kinds of excuses.”
“In my case it’s different. You want to meet him but he refuses; he wants to meet me but I don’t know if I’ll say yes or no,” she said in jest, but he didn’t laugh.
He looked her in the eye and said in a serious tone, “I hope you appreciate my honesty. Someone else in my place would never have let you meet the company owner before signing an exclusive contract with you.”
“I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”
“You have to prove that. I’ll give you Henry Davis’s office number to schedule an appointment with him. In return, you will not sign a contract with him before getting back to me.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Chapter 32
“It’s Salah, Zeinab.”
His breathing was painful. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, as if it were someone else’s.
It was as though, after a thirty-year separation, he had suddenly seen her in the street and kept running after her until he caught up with her. How strange it all was. He could not believe that he was talking to her, as if he had not been absent for a whole lifetime, as if he had not longed for her a thousand times and cursed her a thousand times. His voice meant much more than his actual words: “It’s Salah, Zeinab.” His voice was really saying: Do you remember me? It’s Salah who loved you as no one has loved you. When I lost you, Zeinab, I lost my life. Thirty years I’ve lived, lost, away from you. I’ve tried and failed, Zeinab, and here I am coming back to you.
“Salah? I don’t believe it!”
Despite age, her voice had kept its old passion.
“Did I call you at a convenient time? I don’t want to take you from work.”
“I work for the Egyptian government, Salah. Working here just means showing up. We always have extra time.”
Oh, my God. Her wonderful laugh was still there. She said she couldn’t describe how happy she was to hear from him. She told him about her life: she was living alone after the death of her husband and the marriage of her only daughter. He avoided talking about her husband. He asked her about Egypt and she said in sorrow, “Egypt is living its worst days, Salah. As if everything we’ve struggled for, my colleagues and I, was just a mirage. We don’t have democracy; we have not been liberated from backwardness, ignorance, and corruption. Everything has changed for the worse. Reactionary ideas are spreading like the plague. Can you imagine that I am the only female Muslim in the department of planning, out of fifty employees, who is not wearing the veil?”
“How did Egypt change like that?”
“Repression, poverty, oppression, having no hope in the future, the absence of any national goal: Egyptians have given up on justice in this world, so they are waiting for it in the next. What’s widespread in Egypt right now is not true religiosity but a collective depression accompanied by religious symptoms. What makes matters worse is that millions of Egyptians have worked in Saudi Arabia for years and have come back with Wahhabi ideas. The regime has helped spread these ideas because they support it.”
“How?”
“Wahhabi Islam forbids rising against a Muslim ruler even if he oppresses the people. The thing that preoccupies Wahhabis most is covering a woman’s body.”
“Can Egyptians’ thinking fall so low?”
“Even lower. There are in Egypt now women who wear gloves so they won’t feel lust shaking men’s hands.”
“Isn’t Abdel Nasser responsible for all that?” She let out a laugh that touched a soft spot in his heart and said, “You want us to resume our quarrels about Abdel Nasser? I still believe that he is the greatest man who ruled Egypt. His worst mistake, however, was his failure to bring about democracy and the fact that he left us with military rule inherited by those less sincere and less efficient.”
She paused for a moment then sighed and said, “Thank God, despite my failure in the national sphere, God granted me success on the family front. My daughter is an engineer who is successful in her work and marriage and has given me two wonderful grandchildren. How about you?”
“I got a PhD and became a university professor.”
“Did you get married?”
“Yes, married and divorced.”
“And children?”
“No children.”
He felt that his answer gave her some comfort. They talked for about two hours, and from that night on his life changed. His nocturnal life was complete. His enchanted city that he kept secret because no one would believe him if he spoke about it came into being. He kept it to himself because people would think he was crazy. During the day he lived halfheartedly, but at nightfall he turned into another creature as if he were a mythical hero, his wings soaring back into the past: he put on his old clothes, watched a 1960s black-and-white movie and listened to songs of Umm Kulthum and Abd al-Halim Hafiz until it was morning in Cairo. He would call Zeinab and tell her truthfully and sincerely everything that he did, as if he were a child who had come back from school and run to the bosom of his mother, who kissed him, took off his clothes, and washed the dust of the road off his face and hands. One night they reminisced about the old days, and the memories brought about pure sweetness to both of them. He suddenly told her, “How about me inviting you to come to America?”
“Why?”
“Perhaps to begin a new life.”
She laughed and said, “You think like Americans, Salah. What new life? At our age we ask God for a good ending.”
“Sometimes I get angry at you.”
“Why?”
“Because you brought about our separation.”
“That’s ancient history.”
“I can’t help thinking about it.”
“What good would that do now?”
“Why did you leave me, Zeinab?”
