The widow smiled and her eyes took on a dreamy look as Umm Hamida continued: 'His salary is not a penny less than ten pounds.'
Mrs. Afify hardly believed her and, sighing deeply, repeated, 'Ten pounds!'
'Oh, that's only a small part of what he gets,' Umm Hamida pointed out simply. 'A civil servant's salary is not all he makes. With a little cleverness he can make twice as much. And don't forget his cost-of-living allowance, marriage allowance, children's allowance…'
The widow gave a slightly nervous laugh and asked, 'My goodness, Umm Hamida, what have I got to do with children!'
'Our Lord can accomplish all things…'
'We must give Him praise and thanks for His goodness in any case.'
'By the way, he is thirty years of age.'
'Good gracious, I am ten years older than he!' exclaimed the widow, as though unable to believe her visitor.
Umm Hamida was not unaware that the widow was deliberately forgetting ten years of her life, but she merely said in a somewhat reproachful tone, 'You are still a young woman, Mrs. Afify! Anyhow, I told him you were in your forties and he was delighted to agree.'
'He was, really? What's his name?'
'Ahmad Effendi Talbat. He is the son of Hajji Talbat Issa, who owns a grocer's shop in Umm Ghalam. He comes from a fine family and he can trace his ancestors back to Lord Hussain himself.'
'A good family indeed. I, too, as you know, come from a noble stock.'
'Yes, I know, my dear. He is a man who associates only with the best people. If it weren't for that, he would have married long ago. Anyway, he doesn't approve of modern girls and says they have too little modesty. When I told him of your excellent qualities and your bashfulness and that you were a noble and wealthy lady, he was delighted and said that you were the perfect wife for him. However, he did ask for one thing, which was quite correct. He asked to see your photo.'
The widow fidgeted and her face blushed as she said, 'Why, I haven't had my picture taken in a long time.'
'Don't you have an old photo?'
She nodded toward a picture on the bookcase in the middle of the room. Umm Hamida leaned over and examined it carefully. The photo must have been more than six years old, taken at a time when Mrs. Afify still had some fullness and life in her. She looked at the picture then back at its subject. 'A very good likeness. Why, it might have been taken only yesterday.'
'May God reward you generously,' sighed Mrs. Afify.
Umm Hamida put the photograph, with its frame, into her pocket and lit the cigarette offered her.
'Well, we've had a nice long talk,' she said, exhaling the smoke slowly. 'You must certainly have an idea of what he expects.'
For the first time the widow now gazed at her with a look of apprehension and waited for her to continue. When she remained silent, Mrs. Saniya Afify smiled wanly and asked, 'And what do you think he expects?'
Did she really not know? Did she think he wanted to marry her for her youth and beauty? Umm Hamida was a little angry at the thought. She ignored the question and substituted her own instead. 'I take it you have no objection to preparing your own trousseau?'
Mrs. Afify immediately understood what she meant — the man did not want to pay for a dowry and expected her to provide it. Ever since she had set her mind on getting married she had realized that this was likely to be the case. Moreover, Umm Hamida had hinted at this before and the widow did not intend to oppose the idea.
'May God help us,' she said in a tone of humble resignation.
'Let us ask God for success and happiness,' said Umm Hamida, smiling.
When she got up to leave the two women embraced affectionately. Mrs. Afify accompanied her to the outer door of her flat and leaned on the banister as the matchmaker descended the stairs. Just before she disappeared from sight, Mrs. Afify called after her, 'Thank you very much indeed. Kiss Hamida for me.'
Then she returned again to her flat, her spirits soaring with new hope. She sat down and attempted to recall everything that Umm Hamida had said, sentence by sentence, word for word. Mrs. Afify was inclined to meanness but she would never allow this to stand in the way of her happiness. For a long time money had sweetened her loneliness; both what she kept in a bank and that which was carefully wrapped in neat bundles in her ivory casket. This money, however, would never compete with the fine man who was to become, with God's permission, her husband.
Would he be pleased with her photograph? she wondered. She flushed at the thought. She moved to the mirror, where she stood turning her head right and left, until she felt she had found her most attractive position; here she stopped and murmured to herself, 'May God veil me.'
Then she returned to the sofa, saying to herself, 'Money covers all blemishes.' Had not the matchmaker told her she was well off? And so she was! The fifties were not the years for despair and she still had a full ten years ahead of her. And many women of sixty could still be happy if only God were kind enough to keep them from illness. Why, marriage could certainly regenerate a faded figure, revitalize a listless body. She blinked suddenly and asked herself, 'What will everyone be saying tomorrow?' She knew the answer and was aware that Umm Hamida would be in the foreground of those gossips. They would be saying that Mrs. Afify had gone out of her mind. They would say she was old enough to be the mother of this man of thirty whom she was about to marry. She knew also they would delight in estimating what it had cost to repair the damage time had wrought on her. No doubt they would probably gossip about many other things which were too humiliating to imagine. Let them say what they liked. Had their evil tongues ever stopped slashing her all the time she was a widow? Mrs. Afify shrugged and sighed, 'Oh, God, save me from the evil eye!'
Suddenly she was struck by a comforting thought, which she immediately determined to act upon. That was to see Rabah, the old woman who lived at the Green Gate. She would ask for a good-luck charm and have her horoscope read. Now was the ideal time for both, she thought.
16
'What do I see? You are indeed a venerable man!'
Zaita made this pronouncement as he looked up into the face of an erect old man standing before him. To be sure, his cloak was in rags and his body emaciated, but it was as the cripple-maker had said, he had a most venerable appearance. His head was large, his hair white, and his face elongated. His eyes were peaceful and humble. His tall and distinguished bearing was that of a retired Army officer.
Zaita sat scanning him closely by the light of his dim lamp. He spoke again. 'But you really look like such a dignified man. Are you sure you want to become a beggar?'
'I am already a beggar, but not a successful one,' answered the man quietly.
Zaita cleared his throat and spat on the floor, wiping his lips with the hem of his black shirt before he spoke. 'You are too frail to bear any great pressure on your limbs. In fact, it's not advisable to perform an artificial deformity after the twenties. You seem to think that a crippled body is just as easy to make as a real one. As long as the bones remain soft, I can guarantee any beggar a permanent deformity, but you are an old man with not long to live. What do you want me to do for you?'
He sat thinking. Whenever Zaita thought deeply, his mouth opened wide and his tongue quivered and darted to and fro like the head of a snake. After a while he suddenly blinked his eyes and shouted, 'Dignity is the most precious type of deformity there is!'
'What do you mean, reverend sir?' asked the old man, somewhat perplexed.
Zaita's face clouded with anger as he shouted, 'Reverend sir! Have you ever heard me reciting at burials?'
His anger had surprised the old man and he spread out his palms in a gesture begging forgiveness. 'Oh no, God forbid… I was only trying to show my respect for you.'
Zaita spat twice and his voice took on a proud tone. 'The best doctors in Egypt can't do what I can. Did you
